A Fashionable Murder Read online

  Carollynn leaned forward and placed her hands on Josie’s knees. “How hideous! Of course you are.”

  “I think you may have known her,” Josie continued. “Her name is . . . her name was Pamela Peel.”

  “Pamela . . . Pamela’s dead? She was . . . you did say murdered, didn’t you?”

  Bingo! “Yes,” Josie replied as sedately as she could manage. “It was in all the papers and on television too,” she added.

  Carollynn sighed deeply. “I’ve been trying to purge all negative thoughts from my mind for a month. I find it an impossible task if I am exposed to the relentless negativity of the news media. I haven’t read a paper or watched television in weeks. What happened? Why do they think she was murdered? How was it done? Where did it happen? Has anyone been arrested?”

  “She was strangled. It couldn’t have been an accident. And she was found in . . .” Josie paused. Just how much did Carollynn need to know? “Found in an apartment she had decorated for . . . for a client.”

  Carollynn nodded slowly. “She would have liked that. Not being strangled of course—such a violent way to die. But Pamela would have liked spending her last few hours here on earth in a place of beauty that she herself created.”

  Josie couldn’t imagine anyone describing Sam’s apartment as a place of beauty, but she wasn’t here to argue. “I can’t believe someone would have killed her. Pamela was . . . well, she wasn’t someone you would expect to end up murdered.” That, she realized, was something you could say about pretty much everyone. On the other hand . . .

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Pamela was a . . .” Carollynn paused and Josie expected that the next words out of her mouth would be either Pisces or Gemini or another astrological sign. “She was a little self-centered. I can see how she could have passed through this world making enemies . . . almost without knowing she was doing it.”

  “Really?”

  “She wasn’t terribly popular with everyone here, I can tell you that.”

  “To be honest, this doesn’t seem like her sort of place. I mean, I always thought of Pamela as being more uptown,” Josie added, hoping she was making sense.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. When she first came here, I thought she was slumming. Rich lady with big career comes down to little hole-in-the-wall place to get a cheap manicure. Only she had wandered into the wrong place because we don’t do manicures. You can have your hands hennaed though.” She nodded at a poster on her office wall. It displayed a photograph of hands reaching out to each other. All of them feminine. All of them covered with ornate designs in some sort of blood red ink. It didn’t look like something Pamela would have had done.

  “But she came to you for nutritional advice, I thought. I mean, I seem to remember that someone told me she saw you for that reason.”

  “She was recommended to see me. She came here because Dawn came here to work. And Dawn recommended that she change her diet and come see me.”

  “Did . . . was she easy to work with? I mean, changing your diet can be very difficult.”

  “Changing your diet is changing your life. Changing your life is changing the world.”

  That seemed a bit extreme, but Josie reminded herself that she wasn’t here to argue. “Yes, of course. But was Pamela interested in changing her life?”

  “Pamela was interested in Pamela. She took my advice when she thought it would make her thinner or give her more energy. When I explained that what we eat has global impact, she was completely uninterested. She wanted to be thin.” Carollynn shrugged. “Anyone can be thin. I helped eliminate fat from her diet and gave her a few herbal supplements. She lost nine pounds. Big deal.”

  To Josie it was a very big deal and she had to remind herself that she was here for information, not for a diet. “It sounds as though you didn’t like her.”

  “Let’s just say she was not my type of person, but I don’t let my opinions affect my work. I’m a professional.”

  “No, of course not. But I can’t help wondering who would have killed Pamela. I wouldn’t think a decorator had lots of enemies.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. In this city people are nuts when it comes to their apartments. That’s why Pamela was so rich. People pay big money for someone to give them a lifestyle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, say you’re a rich Wall Street type. You have a lot of money, but not much personal life. You grew up in Jersey or the Midwest somewhere and you certainly don’t want your place to reveal that particular aspect of your life to the world. You’re too young and too busy to shop for things that mean something to you. So you think you’ll hire a decorator. But which decorator? There are some that specialize in fancy-pantsy faux English stuff—you know, lots of chintz, pillows, and bunches of little china pug dogs. And there are designers who are known for their modern stuff. But Henderson and Peel is known not for what they do, but for whom they do it.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “They work for rich people. Pamela Peel used to say they would do anything as long at they were well paid for doing it. Used to think it sounded a little like whoring myself. Not that I ever would have said that to her. Even as a joke. You know Pamela. She had a rotten temper.”

  “Yes.” Josie did remember that Sam had said he and Pamela had fought. Sam had always been remarkably easy-going. Pamela must have been the catalyst to their fights because it was impossible for Josie to imagine Sam flaring up without good reason. Then, because she had to say something, “Do you think that might have had anything to do with her murder?”

  “Good question. It’s really interesting that she was murdered, isn’t it? I wonder if it was, like, someone she was dating. The last time I saw her, she said something about an old flame beginning to rekindle.”

  “She said what?” The question came out as a squeal.

  Carollynn seemed shocked by Josie’s outburst. “She said something about an old flame beginning to rekindle.” She repeated her statement, and then she squinted her eyes and leaned closer to Josie. “Why? Does that mean something to you?”

  “Not really . . . I just . . . um, was thinking about who she used to date. You know, the men she’s mentioned to me in the past.” Josie hoped Carollynn took the hint.

  “Yeah, interesting thought. There was that politician. But he went back to his wife, right?”

  “That’s what I heard,” Josie lied. “And how about . . . ,” she started, praying that Carollynn enjoyed playing fill in the blank.

  “The psychiatrist! God, I always thought he was nuts. But he did take her to Paris for the weekend. And Pamela claimed that he was dying to marry her—as soon as he dumped his wife.”

  Josie nodded. So Pamela had dated married men. Didn’t that mean the wives might be logical suspects? This woman was a gold mine; if only she kept talking. “I guess his wife is probably thrilled now that Pamela is dead.”

  Carollynn shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I heard that she was having an affair herself. Apparently she and the doc were early proponents of what used to be called an open marriage.”

  “Oh. I guess Pamela didn’t know that.”

  “Maybe. But you know Pamela. She always believed she could get men to do anything for her.”

  “Do you think she could?”

  “You know, I think that thinking you can is what’s important. Men really seem to buy into that sort of confidence. I mean, Pamela was interesting looking, had a pretty nice figure when she stuck to her diet and exercise regime. But she wasn’t a great beauty now really, was she?”

  Josie remembered just in time that she was supposed to know Pamela Peel and she nodded her head vigorously. Unfortunately, the reference to diet jogged Carollynn’s recollection of why Josie claimed to have made this appointment in the first place.

  “But we have less than half an hour left of your appointment. The very first thing I need is a list of every food you ate at your last meal.”

  “Oh, that’s easy.
A Greek omelet and coffee. Oh, and orange juice. And hash browns.”

  “No. Not what was written on the menu. A list of foods. Now, what was in that omelet?”

  Josie answered her question as well as she could.

  “I don’t suppose you know what sort of oil was used to fry it in?”

  “I have no idea. It was done on a grill in a little corner coffee shop.”

  Carollynn shuddered. “Animal fat. It was probably fried in animal fat. You may not be aware of the recent studies that connect eating animal fat with loss of brain tissue.”

  “Oh, and I had bacon too,” Josie added, realizing she had just condemned herself in the eyes of this woman.

  Carollynn stood up and grabbed a book off the shelf behind her desk. “I see we have a lot of work before us. Why don’t you take this home and read it and make another appointment for next week? Perhaps you could work on changing your diet along the lines the author suggests for a day or two before your appointment.”

  Josie struggled out of the butterfly chair and grabbed the book. If she wasn’t going to learn any more about Pamela, she might as well leave. She sure didn’t want to have to start listing what she had eaten yesterday—if she had enough brain tissue left to remember.

  “You know who might have killed Pamela?” Carollynn said suddenly. “That lawyer. The one she was so hot for a few years ago. I think he left New York and moved to Montauk or something.”

  “Sounds like he’s out of the picture,” Josie said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

  “Yes, but he might have come back recently. Pamela had gone off her diet during the holidays—so many people do— but a few weeks ago she came back here for a guided fast. She said she had a reason to lose as much weight as possible as quickly as possible. That frequently means a man. And I know she was almost hysterically in love with that lawyer . . . what was his name?”

  Josie pretended not to know. “Was it something like Peter? Ah, Peter . . .” She didn’t continue. The only thing she could think of was Peter Rabbit.

  “No, it was Sam . . . Sam Richardson. I’m sure that was it. Sam Richardson. You know something? I’d call the police about it if I had any faith that they would listen to me. I offered my services to the local precinct and they completely ignored it.”

  “You thought the precinct needed a dietitian?”

  “Oh, no. I’m a psychic. You know, I’m getting the impression that maybe you didn’t know Pamela as well as I thought . . .”

  Josie didn’t hang around to hear more. She grabbed her purse and hurried out the door, leaving the diet book behind.

  The second floor of the New Age Way had been divided into a number of large studios. Drumming echoed up and down the hallway. Through an open doorway, she saw a class in Tai Chi going through its paces and she stopped to admire the slow, graceful movements.

  A woman in a purple leotard with a green shawl wound around her shoulders was leaning against the doorjamb watching as well. “I’ve always wanted to try that,” Josie said.

  “You should. There are beginner level classes here Tuesday night.”

  “I . . . I’m strong rather than graceful,” Josie said.

  “So branch out. Give your body a chance to express itself in a different manner.”

  Josie grinned. “You don’t happen to be Dawn, do you?”

  “Yes, and I assume you’re Josie.”

  “Yes.”

  “My studio is right down there. Would you like a cup of herbal tea or something to munch on? I think we have some sesame cookies—home baked—I can offer you.”

  “Sounds good!”

  “Excellent. Then we’ll stop in the kitchen. I sometimes find that clients who have been to see Carollynn before coming to me discover they’re extra hungry.”

  Josie grinned. “All that talk about food.”

  “The woman’s a fanatic. What can I tell you? And she’s not the only one around here, which is why I can’t offer you anything with caffeine.”

  “Herb tea would be just fine,” Josie said as they entered a small kitchen.

  “I usually junk it up with lots of honey,” Dawn explained, pulling two mugs off hooks hanging on the wall.

  “You’re in great shape,” Josie said enviously.

  “I teach step classes, aerobics, yoga, and kickboxing for six hours a day, five days a week. My problem is keeping the weight on, not taking it off,” Dawn explained, picking up a handful of cookies.

  “I’m jealous,” Josie admitted.

  “Don’t be. Someday I’ll quit all this. I’ll go back to school and get my degree and get fat, fat, fat. And I won’t be less happy than I am now. I’ve been doing this sort of thing for almost three years and the only thing I’ve learned is that thin people aren’t likely to be a whole lot happier than fat people.” She looked at Josie. “But people who are in good physical shape are happier. And you look like you work out.”

  “I don’t, but I’m a contractor. I build houses. That takes a lot of muscle,” Josie explained.

  “So why did you set up an appointment with me?”

  Josie took a deep breath and decided to tell the truth. “I’m looking for information about Pamela Peel. She was murdered, you know.”

  “I know. I read about it in the paper.”

  “I was told that she came here to work out with you.”

  “Yes . . . Why is a contractor interested in Pamela Peel? Did she stiff you?”

  “Uh, no. I’m . . . um, I know the man whose apartment her body was found in.”

  “Did he kill her?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then you’re investigating her murder? Like in a mystery novel?”

  “I’ve done it before,” Josie stated flatly.

  “Good for you. Let’s head into my studio. It’s more private there.”

  “You’re going to help me?”

  “I don’t know what I can tell you that might help. But I’ll do anything I can. It’s not that I’m so hot on justice. It’s just that you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There must be so many suspects. Pamela could be very irritating.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  DAWN’S STUDIO WAS lined with mirrors on one wall. The opposing wall was covered with six arched windows. The resulting reflection was stunning.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Dawn said. “I love working here.”

  “It’s a wonderful studio,” Josie agreed.

  “It is, but it’s the clients I like best. This place attracts people who want to change their lives. I don’t buy into all the spiritual stuff that’s taught here, but the people who are interested in that type of thing don’t believe the way to all happiness is in whittling an inch off your hips.”

  “Was Pamela interested in spiritual stuff?” Josie asked.

  “Pamela wasn’t interested in anything but Pamela,” Dawn answered, repeating Carollynn’s earlier statement. “She stalked down the halls, with her arms wrapped around her as though she was afraid of catching something from the walls—or the other students. I was rather surprised that she came here to be honest.”

  “But you had worked with her before.”

  “Oh, yes. I was her personal trainer for almost a year.”

  “I don’t know what a personal trainer is exactly. Did she come to your studio for . . . sort of private lessons?”

  “I went to her apartment and worked with her there.”

  “Really? Do a lot of people have personal trainers?”

  “Yes. It’s a business that sprang up in the late eighties when there was lots of money around. I quit college in the middle of my sophomore year and came to New York to be a star. Star of what I wasn’t sure, but I was determined. I ended up being an aerobics instructor at a big midtown athletic club like lots of determined but untalented and untrained young women.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “It was okay. Those places are all alike. To
ns of new members sign up in January and February. Most drop out in March. And by December the numbers working out are just about the club’s optimum capacity. Then New Year’s Eve rolls around and it all starts again.”

  “So you left.”

  Dawn nodded. “After three years of it, I’d had enough. And I was qualified to move on. So I found a job with a company that provides personal trainers and started going out to work in rich people’s homes.”

  “Only rich people?”

  “Mostly rich people. Not because it costs so terribly much to hire a personal trainer, but because you have to have lots of extra room in your apartment to spread out. In New York, extra rooms are as rare as spreading chestnut trees. Besides, the company I worked for was located on the Upper East Side, in the eighties. Lots of money up that way.”

  “When did Pamela hire you?”

  “Actually, she didn’t. Her partner at Henderson and Peel did. Shepard Henderson.”

  “Weird.”

  “Not really. He gave her two months of twice-a-week sessions for her birthday. She had hurt her back sliding off a ladder or something and he thought a personal trainer might help. I went to her home twice a week before work. And then, when her gift certificate ran out, she started paying herself.”

  “So you helped her back?” Josie had had more than a few back problems.

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much about her back. Maybe it was feeling better by the time I started working with her. But I do remember how thrilled she was to lose an inch and a half around her waist. She did it in record time. Say whatever you will against her, Pamela Peel was a very hard worker.”

  But Josie wasn’t interested in Pamela Peel’s work ethic at the moment. “What was her apartment like?”

  “Fabulous. Really, really fabulous. It was a big, prewar two bedroom right around the corner from the office. She had converted one of the bedrooms into a combination walk-in closet and exercise space. The entire thing was bigger than my place, including my kitchen and bathroom. And she had the most incredible bathroom, simple but expensive. Watery aqua walls, white and gray marble floors. Jacuzzi, a walk-in shower that half a dozen people could fit in, two big windows. There were always lots of candles around. My guess is that it was a very romantic, and sexy, spot.”