A Fashionable Murder Page 15

  “What do you mean? Thanks to me?”

  “Josie, you’re always complaining about clients who can’t, or won’t, make up their minds. I put Pamela in that exact same position and then I was critical of the decisions I forced her to make.”

  “So you don’t like the way she decorated your place?” Josie asked again.

  “Not really. But it’s not as though I lived there for very long. I probably would have made some changes if I hadn’t retired and moved away.”

  “I always feel uncomfortable when a client doesn’t like my work. And I would think it would be even more difficult if the work I was doing was for someone I knew,” Josie said, thinking she was being subtle.

  “Like the deck you designed for my house?” Sam asked, a twinkle in his deep blue eyes.

  Josie laughed. “Yeah, like that. And one day you’re going to discover that my design is superior to the one you came up with.”

  “Can I get you another drink?” Their waiter materialized by the side of the table.

  Sam raised his eyebrows at Josie.

  “I’ll have one if you will.” She wasn’t really interested in more alcohol, but she didn’t want this evening to end.

  “We’ll have two more. And perhaps something small to munch on.”

  “We have a bar menu.” The waiter pulled a stiff cardboard rectangle from his pocket and offered it to them with a smile.

  “What do you think?” Sam asked Josie, their heads together as they read through the list.

  Everything looked wonderful. “Whatever.”

  “We’ll have the Venetian tower,” Sam announced.

  “What’s that?” she asked when their waiter had gone off to the kitchen.

  “A fancy name for all sorts of little Italian munchies. They bring it out on a three-tier plate, hence the tower. They also have a Japanese selection called Tokyo Rose Tower. Or Mexican—Bandito Tower. I don’t know who names these things,” he added.

  She smiled at him.

  “Josie, you’re more interested in Pamela than in my apartment, aren’t you?”

  “I . . . I’m worried that you’re going to . . . to get involved in her murder. Oh, hell, Sam. I’m afraid you’re going to be arrested.”

  “I wish I could tell you there’s no possibility that will happen.”

  “You mean . . . ?” It was too horrible for Josie to even say out loud.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen, Josie. I am getting special attention. After all, I worked with the police in this city for decades. And there was no physical evidence to connect me with the murder, no DNA or fingerprints. But she was found in my apartment. And we weren’t getting along well right before I left New York. . . .”

  “Sam, that was years ago. You haven’t seen her in years!” She glanced across the table at Sam. “You haven’t, have you?”

  “I saw her the first morning I was in town. The day before you arrived. Probably forty-eight hours before she was killed, as it turned out.”

  NINETEEN

  THEY TALKED ALL night.

  At first, Josie, feeling betrayed by Sam’s admission that he had visited an old flame as soon as he found himself within range of her heat, had been less than her usual receptive self. Sam had already told her that he was coming to the city a day early to make sure that his place was ready for them. He’d mentioned getting in a few groceries, coffee beans and the like. He had not mentioned getting together with Pamela Peel. But Sam had explained that he had run into Pamela in the local deli when he was doing exactly what he had told Josie he was going to do.

  “She was as surprised to see me as I was to see her,” Sam said. “She suggested we go back to my place for a cup of coffee. I didn’t see any reason to refuse.”

  Josie had noted that apparently he had seen a good reason not to tell her about this meeting, but she didn’t comment on it.

  “We chatted for a bit, catching up on our lives . . .”

  Did you tell her about me? Josie was afraid she had spoken her thought aloud.

  “. . . then she said she was meeting someone about a new Henderson and Peel project and she left.”

  It wasn’t until later, telling Betty about the evening, that Josie realized that Sam had not told her what exactly he and Pamela had “chatted” about.

  “But it was a wonderful evening. We talked more and walked more and went back to Sam’s place . . . Well, it was wonderful,” Josie concluded.

  “And now back to reality?” Betty suggested.

  Josie groaned. “Yeah, I guess.” She swiveled in her seat and looked around. “I wonder what’s holding up Carol?” The three women were meeting in the local corner coffee shop to plan their day—and their investigation. Seated in one of the six booths that lined the wall across from the lunch counter, Josie and Betty were an oasis of calm in the midst of early morning mayhem. A line of customers wound through the room and out the open door, ordering and picking up bags of takeout. Everyone was talking loudly. The four men cooking behind the counter had given up trying to communicate in anything other than shouts. Newspapers were open and the air was filled with the scent of grease, which an ineffective, but loud, exhaust fan failed to eliminate.

  “Every time someone’s late it doesn’t mean that there’s a crisis,” Betty said gently. “Jon says he will call the second he knows anything. Sam may be the only suspect the police are looking at, but they’ll want physical evidence tying him to Pamela before they make an arrest. Jon seemed sure of that.”

  “What sort of physical evidence?”

  “I don’t know. DNA, I guess. And things like that,” Betty added vaguely. She picked up her heavy white mug of coffee and sipped the bitter brew. “Sorry, he may have told me, but I was up most of the night with JJ and I don’t remember exactly what he said.”

  “You gave him my cell phone number though.”

  “Yes. And he promised to call you the second he heard anything.”

  “Bad or good.”

  “Good or bad” was Betty’s reply.

  “I can’t bear thinking about Sam being arrested,” Josie said. “This isn’t like we’re back home on the island where we know the police and there’s only a few cells behind the community center. If Sam were arrested in New York City . . . well, who knows what would happen to him.”

  “Which is why we have to keep that from happening,” Carol Birnbaum said, plopping a huge orange suede tote bag down on the bench beside Josie and sliding in next to Betty. “I’ve been up half the night making lists. Josie, dear, there’s a copy of the Manhattan Yellow Pages in the bottom of my bag. If you’ll just get it out for us and turn to the pages I’ve marked . . . Oh, I’d like tea with skim milk and artificial sweetener and a bran muffin buttered and toasted . . . one with blueberries, if you have it.” She interrupted her directions long enough to place her order as a harried waitress passed by, her arms full of platters of eggs and pancakes.

  “Good luck,” Josie said. “We had to ask three times for coffee and who knows where our food order went.” She looked around the disorganized place and shook her head. “What’s in the Yellow Pages?”

  “Hairdressers, spas, manicurists. I wanted to be prepared if we decide we need alternative sources.” Her order was placed in front of her. “Thank you. Perhaps you might check on my friends’ orders?” she suggested to the waitress.

  “Yeah. I’ll find ’em.”

  “How does she do that?” Josie asked Betty, who shrugged and picked up the heavy book, flipping to the pages marked with bright pink Post-its. “Do we actually need all these names?”

  “I should hope not. But it never hurts to be prepared. Besides, we don’t need to worry about that. There’s a list in there. Read it and tell me what you think.”

  Josie did as she was directed, easily finding the sheet of writing paper embossed with a small gold fan and the words “Oriental Mandarin, Hong Kong.” She read it quickly and passed it on to Betty.

  “Motive. Opportunity. Access,”
Betty read. “I’ve read enough mystery novels to understand the first two, but access?”

  “That’s the key!” Carol said, becoming excited. “Sammy lives in a building with a doorman. No one could have gotten into that apartment without being carefully scrutinized.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Betty said. “We have a doorman on duty twenty-four hours a day too, but I know for a fact that one of those men actually helped some friends of his break into one of the penthouses last month. He was arrested.”

  “How long had he worked there?” Carol asked.

  “Just a few months.”

  “Well, see, you’re in a new building. But Mentelle Park is old and established. Harold and the other men have been there for years. They can be trusted. So access is the key here. Who had a key to Sammy’s place and who could have gotten into the building. Such a simple thing.”

  “I’m not so sure . . . ,” Josie began.

  “I know, but Betty can find out. A gorgeous young mother begging to be allowed to be let into a friend’s apartment where she left her baby’s favorite toy . . . well, can Harold resist that?”

  Betty put down the list. “You want me to see if I can gain admittance to Sam’s place?”

  “Exactly. And, if you can’t get in, we’ll know that the murderer is—must be—another resident.” Carol finished her point and sipped her coffee.

  Josie frowned. She didn’t agree, but as long as Betty was willing, what did they have to lose? The waitress put a large oval plate in front of her. Half of it was covered with a Greek omelet, bursting with feta cheese, onions, and spinach. Crispy hash browns were piled on the other half. Josie smiled and picked up her fork.

  “What is Sammy doing today?” Carol asked, and Josie lost her appetite.

  “Errands,” Josie answered, glancing at Betty through lowered eyelids. They both knew that Sam was with Jon, working on a possible defense for a case that had not even begun officially.

  “Poor dear,” Carol lamented. “He’s much better at paperwork than I am of course. But selling your condo is so much work. I’m sure he’ll be glad when it’s done.”

  “I’m sure he will be too.” Josie decided to eat. Betty was almost halfway through her waffle and was beginning to attack a small mound of bacon. Carol’s next words convinced her that she was making the right decision.

  “Now, while Betty is busy at Mentelle Park Apartments, Josie and I are going to head downtown. We have appointments at the New Age Way.”

  Betty looked up from her food. “The what?”

  “I think it’s some sort of spa-gymnasium-school-hippie sort of place. I’ve seen the name on flyers around town and in Time Out New York. They teach classes about getting in touch with your inner frog.”

  Josie looked up from her plate. “Carol, that can’t be right.”

  “Well, some silliness. That may have been a typo. Anyway, Pamela’s nutritionist and her personal trainer both work there. So I set up some appointments for Josie . . .”

  “Some appointments for me? What are you going to be doing?”

  “Getting rid of this horrible hair color, I hope. I’m going to try Pamela’s colorist. You never know about these downtown places though. I may just turn up at dinner tonight with a purple ’do.”

  Betty laughed. “You may, you know.”

  Josie was less interested in Carol’s hair than in what she was supposed to do during time spent with a nutritionist and personal trainer.

  “You’ll be fine, dear. Just make it up as you go.”

  “Remember, Josie, you’re not there to go on a diet or change your body. You’re there to find out about Pamela Peel.”

  Josie looked down at the plate she had just emptied in record time. “Good thing. I think I already flunked the diet part.”

  Downtown was nearly as different from midtown as Manhattan was different from Josie’s island. The first thing Josie noticed was that the sky seemed lower and the streets were narrower. Josie peered out the taxi’s windows as they made their way down Broadway.

  “It is different down here,” Carol said, noticing her interest. “Midtown is Ferragamos, Manolo Blahnik, and jewels from Harry Winston. Downtown is Doc Martens, Birkenstocks, and tattoos.” She looked over at Josie in her new Saks Fifth Avenue outfit and smiled. “I don’t think either of us is properly dressed.”

  But Josie, watching out the window, realized that the people walking on the street were looking more and more like people she normally hung out with. Of course, there had been people wearing blue jeans in Sam’s neighborhood, but those jeans had been freshly washed and pressed and, in some cases had hung around designer’s showrooms long enough to have fancy names embroidered upon them. Here jeans were patched or ripped; some were even dirty. Hair was longer here and, in many cases, less kempt. There were fewer minks, many sheepskins, and lots and lots of down-filled puffy nylon. Their cab made a turn and Josie recognized the arch at Washington Square.

  “Isn’t this SoHo?” she asked.

  “This is the Village. We still have a few more blocks to go.”

  Their driver shouted as a group of college students jaywalked in front of them, causing him to stamp on his brakes and curse in a language that, possibly fortunately, neither woman understood. As the streets became even narrower, and certainly more crowded, he pressed harder on the accelerator and Josie felt nothing but relief when they finally arrived at their destination.

  To enter New Age Way, they had to pass through doors emblazoned with Yin Yang symbols, leading Josie to expect a monastic, contemplative interior. A waterfall perhaps, and certainly one of those Zen gardens composed of a minimum of plants and a maximum of raked sand. Instead the first thing to greet visitors to New Age Way was a wall so covered with posters, notices, and announcements that it was impossible to see if a cork bulletin board or the like lay beneath. A few people, mostly at an age when one has turned one’s hairdo into a statement of identity, were flipping through the notices. Even more were standing around chatting. Cold air rushed through the door as people came and went. The place, as Carol whispered in her ear, was jumping.

  A beat-up old desk stood in one corner of the lobby and a young man looked up at them. He had string-embellished dreadlocks hanging down his back and the tattoos on his hands disappeared into the sleeves of his thick wool pullover. His earlobes were pierced as well as studded. And he had a warm, welcoming smile. “Can I help you, ladies?”

  “She has an appointment,” Carol announced.

  “Well, I have two appointments,” Josie corrected her.

  “I’m here to just look around,” Carol admitted. “I’m thinking of coming here for . . .” Her eye alighted on a poster advertising a new series of high colonics. “A massage of some sort,” she ended, sounding a bit faint.

  “Excellent idea. We have Swedish, deep muscle, craniosacral, reiki, and Shiatsu. My girlfriend does the Shiatsu and I can recommend it highly,” he pronounced, his smile getting even brighter. He turned to Josie. “And your appointments are for . . . ?”

  “She’s seeing Carollynn and Dawn this morning,” Carol answered.

  “Oh, going to take control of your physical self, are you?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” Josie lied grimly.

  “That’s the first step, isn’t it? Intent is a powerful thing. You’ll want to go to the end of the hallway and turn left when you reach the wall. Carollynn is the first door on your right. When you’re done with her, she’ll direct you to Dawn’s lair.”

  “Thank you.” Josie turned to Carol. “Where will we meet when I’m done here?”

  “There’s an excellent restaurant across the street,” Dreadlocks suggested.

  “Perfect. I’ll see you there. Enjoy your morning, dear. And good luck.” Carol moved toward the door, wrapping her mink around her and running smack into a teenager wearing a T-shirt proclaiming FUR IS MURDER. Carol smiled weakly and rushed out into the street.

  “Right down that hallway?” Josie asked,
pointing behind her.

  “That’s the one!”

  Josie had no trouble finding the nutritionist’s door. A large quilted rainbow hung outside, her name embroidered across the yellow stripe. A cardboard pocket had been attached below it and printed recipes spilled out onto the floor. Josie picked one up.

  Seaweed Soup, she read. And that was all she read; she crumpled the paper and stuffed it in her coat pocket. She was just getting rid of the evidence when the office door opened and a pale, thin woman with stringy hair stood before her. “You must be Josie Pigeon. I’m Carollynn. Come in. Let’s get started on changing your life.”

  TWENTY

  “CHOOSE YOUR SEAT.”

  Carollynn—she apparently didn’t feel the need to add a last name to the mix—pointed to three butterfly chairs set in a circle in the middle of the room. Josie picked the red one and sat down, immediately wishing she had removed her coat first as it bunched up around her. Carollynn chose the yellow chair and lowered herself into it slowly.

  “I always think it’s interesting what color first-time clients select,” Carollynn announced, a serious expression on her face. “Red can signify many things. Dominance. Sexuality. Anger. Which is it for you?”

  “Anger,” Josie answered immediately. She hated being treated like a child. Then she looked more closely at her new teacher. “Didn’t I see you yesterday? I was eating lunch with some friends in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel . . .”

  “Why would I be at a hotel? I live in the city.”

  “No, this was in the lounge there. It’s a place to eat . . .”

  “I told you, I wasn’t there. Now perhaps we should talk about you rather than about me. Why are you so angry?”

  Josie, preoccupied with the thought that Carollynn’s doppelgänger had been at the restaurant with her yesterday, was surprised by the question. “Angry? Oh, you mean the color of the chair.” Then she had a great idea. “A good friend of mine was murdered recently. I . . . I’m angry at the person who did it.”