A Fashionable Murder Read online

  “I . . .”

  Betty spoke up before Josie could protest. “Excellent. And maybe three or four inches off.”

  “Three or four!”

  “Why don’t I start with the highlights and we can figure this out as we go along?” Mia suggested, raising her seductively calm voice above Josie’s protests. “I do see a lot of split ends. Certainly you want those removed?”

  “Excellent idea,” Betty agreed. “Now about those highlights: Do you think maybe more than one shade . . .”

  Josie looked in the mirror from her friend to her newly acquired hairdresser; they were speaking a language she didn’t understand.

  “Certainly, and we could add a glaze after the wash. It might tone down the color a bit as well as add some extra shine.”

  “But that wears off in time. I think of Josie as . . .”

  Josie relaxed, deciding there was no reason to think of herself—or for herself. She’d leave the decisions up to the pros. It was hair. Whatever was cut off would grow back. And there really wasn’t any way they could make the color more outrageous than her genes had previously determined. She sat back, watched the activity around her in the mirror-lined walls, and, surprisingly, began to relax. Pamela Peel was dead. There was nothing she could do about it. She would let the police worry about what had happened and take some time to enjoy herself, as Betty insisted.

  She had never seen or heard so many handheld hair dryers in use simultaneously. Josie started to calculate the total wattage, but gave up when she realized the numbers were too large to manipulate without pencil and paper. Besides, if she were going to count wattage, she would have to add in all those curling irons and those odd halo lighting things standing above the heads of some clients. She gave up, smiling nervously at the woman sitting across the aisle from her. Her smile was not returned—or even noticed. The client and her hairdresser were engrossed in conversation.

  “I told her it would never work. But did she listen to me? Of course not! I know he had an excellent career. I know he was respected all over the city. He’s good-looking . . . for a man his age; he’s fabulous looking, in fact. But he didn’t stick around, did he? And I told her that’s what was going to happen.”

  Josie smiled for the first time since sitting down in the chair. In a spa, salon, beauty parlor—no matter what it was called or where it was located—the subject of men always came up.

  “Now, of course, there’s nothing I can do to help her.” The conversation ended as the last spritz of hair spray glued the last curl in place. The women hugged, pecked at each other’s cheeks, and parted. Josie was fairly sure she’d seen a folded-up bill pass between client and hairdresser, but couldn’t be absolutely sure. Tipping! She and Betty hadn’t discussed tipping! On the other hand, she might not like the way she looked. . . .

  “Seems as though most everybody’s talking about the same thing today.” Josie’s hairdresser had disappeared with a comment about mixing something up, and the woman busily covering Betty’s gorgeous hair with beige sludge chatted as she worked.

  “Really?”

  Josie got the impression that Betty wasn’t terribly interested in talking. She was staring at her hair with a slight frown on her lips.

  “Of course. How often is it that one of your clients is murdered?”

  Betty chuckled. “Well, if you’re Josie . . .”

  “Now that’s not really true. . . .” Josie’s hairdresser returned and interrupted her protest. “What is that for?”

  Mia looked down at the tray she carried. Three little bowls containing three darker colors of sludge sat in the middle of it. “Just a little highlighting. If you’ve changed your mind, I can always . . .”

  Betty spoke up. “She hasn’t changed her mind.”

  “No, I haven’t,” Josie admitted. She hadn’t made it up either. In fact, she was beginning to wonder if she even had a mind. A few hours ago she had found a body. And here she was getting her hair done. Mia stood behind her, a gloppy paintbrush in one hand, a comb in the other; the smile on her face was beginning to look a bit forced. It was now or never. Josie took a deep breath. “Go ahead.”

  It took less than half an hour to cover the crown of Josie’s head with small squares of foil. Conversation swirled around her. Husbands were discussed as well as lovers. Children at prestigious prep schools and colleges. Children who weren’t living up to parental expectations. Shopping. Trips to exotic—and warm—parts of the globe. Designer clothing. The stock market. Jobs. Parties. Weddings. The prices of apartments. Condo boards. Once in a while someone actually mentioned hair. But Josie strained her ears, hoping for more news about the woman who had been murdered.

  When enough hair dryers had been stilled for her to make out more than a few words at a time, the name she did hear was even more familiar than Pamela Peel’s.

  “What I want to know is what Sam could possibly have been thinking!”

  Josie swung her seat around to see who had asked that question. Unfortunately, the small metal stand holding the various hair dyes, combs, and extra foil squares was in her way. As it crashed to the floor, hair dryers were switched off and people stopped what they had been doing and turned to stare. But it took just seconds for professionalism to reassert itself. Women who had been delivering coffee, tea, and tiny pastries to the customers dropped what they were doing, grabbed mops and brooms, and had the floor clean in minutes. The woman who had greeted Josie and Betty upon their arrival appeared on the scene to make sure no one had been hurt and ended up assuring Josie that there was no need to apologize. This type of thing, she claimed, happened all the time. Josie doubted it, but she appreciated the attempt to put her at ease. She was still apologizing profusely to everyone nearby when Mia, assuring her all was well, led her to the shampoo sinks on one side of the room.

  Betty was already there, seated in a reclining chair, her long legs propped up on a wide comfy footstool, a smile on her face as her scalp was massaged. Josie moved beside her, managing to bump into her friend’s arm on her way to her seat. “Sorry.”

  Betty opened one eye. “What happened? What was all that noise?”

  “I knocked over the bowls of bleach—”

  “Coloring. Not bleach,” Mia corrected. “We’re not using bleach on your hair.”

  “Whatever it was, it all hit the floor, thanks to my clumsiness.”

  “No, no! It was not your fault!” Mia protested. “This place is too full, too cramped. People are always knocking things over. Lean back.”

  Josie did as she was told and felt warm water run over her hair as Mia pulled the foil squares out and dropped them into the sink.

  “You’ll never guess what I heard!” Betty hissed above the sound of running water.

  “You’ll never guess what I heard!” Josie hissed back. “Would you believe that someone was talking about someone named Sam?”

  “Sam? There must be thousands of men named Sam in this city,” Betty reminded her. “I heard something about Pamela Peel. The woman getting her hair washed behind me—”

  “Are you two speaking of Pamela?” An elegant silver-haired woman peered through gold-rimmed glasses at them.

  “Well, yes, we were,” Betty admitted. “You see, my friend here—”

  “Oh, you are friends of dear Pamela.”

  “Not really. We are . . .” Josie paused, trying to describe their relationship with the dead woman. “She decorated a friend of mine’s apartment . . .”

  “You are clients of Pamela. Well, so many people are, aren’t they?”

  “That’s what we’ve heard,” Betty replied. “How do you know her?”

  “I’m her aunt. Well, her unofficial, unrelated aunt. We’ve been friends forever and she’s always introduced me as her aunt.”

  “Have you heard about . . . from Pamela recently?” Josie asked, as her head was released from the basin, her hair wrapped in a thick towel, and she was allowed to sit up.

  “No, dear Pamela is sometimes just a bit n
aughty. She doesn’t spend enough time with her family, I’m afraid. She’s horribly, horribly busy, of course. What with her work and her social commitments. You can read all about it in this week’s New York magazine, you know.”

  Josie glanced over at Betty. It was obvious that this woman had no idea her beloved niece was dead. “Well, we really didn’t know her,” Betty said hastily.

  “Perhaps you will have that opportunity in the future. Do you attend Junior League events? Or perhaps you’re involved in the Lighthouse for the Blind annual benefit sale?”

  “No. You see, I have a new baby,” Betty added.

  “And your nanny takes weekends off. How unfortunate. These young women have no idea what hard work is. When I was a child, my nanny was never ever allowed to interfere in the life of the family. When my parents wanted to go out, they went, always knowing that there was a reliable person at home to take care of my sister and me.”

  “As you say, things aren’t exactly like that these days,” Betty agreed.

  Josie wondered if this woman had been raised on a different planet or perhaps in a different—and wealthier—solar system. “Not everyone is fortunate enough to have someone else raising his or her children,” she said, remembering Tyler’s infancy. She had been forced to leave him to go to work during the day, but she had never had the luxury—or the desire—to leave him to socialize in the evenings.

  “And not everyone wants someone else to raise their children,” Betty added flatly.

  “No? Well, you young mothers always seem to feel you know what’s best. Time for my manicure.” Pamela Peel’s unofficial aunt, apparently deciding further conversation would be a complete waste of time, turned and walked away, waving ten perfectly oval and polished nails in their direction.

  “She needs a manicure?” Josie asked no one in particular.

  “She gets a manicure every week, whether she needs it or not,” Mia answered. “She’s one of our regulars.” She picked up a pair of scissors and began to snip at Josie’s damp hair.

  “Do you have many people like that?” Betty asked.

  Josie, noting that Betty was losing her hair a fraction of an inch at a time while Mia was lopping off her own curls in half-foot-long sweeps, didn’t pay much attention to the answer.

  “Oh, yes. Of course, Pamela Peel used to come here, but she followed her hairdresser.”

  “Pamela Peel? The decorator?” Josie asked to make sure they were talking about the same person.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you mean, she followed her hairdresser?” was Josie’s second question.

  “The person who did her hair left for greener pastures and Ms. Peel followed close behind,” Mia explained. “It happens all the time.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing now,” Betty’s hairdresser said, standing back to admire her own work.

  “Why?” Josie asked.

  “Maybe a bit more off on the left side” was Betty’s contribution to their conversation.

  “There’s a rumor going around that she’s dead,” Mia said quietly.

  “Murdered,” Betty’s hairdresser added.

  “We heard that too.” Betty spoke up when Josie didn’t respond.

  Josie, realizing Pamela Peel’s body had been discovered less than twenty blocks away, was amazed that the news had traveled so quickly. “How did you hear about it?” she asked, hoping Mia wouldn’t be surprised by the question.

  Apparently not. “Everyone was talking about it when I first arrived this morning. I don’t know exactly who heard about it first. I suppose it was on the radio or something. She is pretty famous. At least in this part of New York.”

  “And when I was getting some coffee earlier I overheard someone saying that her boyfriend was going to be arrested for her murder. . . .”

  “Her boyfriend?” Betty asked, sitting up straighter in her chair.

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Do you know his name?” Josie asked. “Could it have been Sam?”

  “I suppose so . . .”

  SEVEN

  JOSIE AND BETTY were back on Fifth Avenue before their hair spray had dried. “Where do we go? Where do you think Sam is?” Josie asked frantically, looking up and down the sidewalk.

  “I have no idea . . . Oh, excuse me.” Betty bumped into a man rushing by, cell phone to his ear. “Is your cell phone on? Why didn’t Sam call?”

  Josie rummaged in her purse. “I thought . . .” She was so upset that her hands were shaking, but she managed to press the correct buttons. “Two messages. There are two messages. Probably from Sam. Just wait one minute.” She pressed the buttons required to retrieve her messages and listened intently. “The first is from Tyler. He’s fine, may need more money . . .” Impatient, she pressed some more buttons and listened, a frown on her face.

  “What? What is it?”

  “He says not to worry. He got an advance on his salary.”

  “Why does Sam need a loan?”

  “It’s Tyler, not Sam. Both calls were from Tyler.” For the first time in her life, Josie ignored an opportunity to worry about her son. “Betty, where could Sam be? Who are you calling?”

  “The person we should have called first. My husband. He’s one of Sam’s best friends and he’s a defense attorney. Sam’s a smart man. If the police are going to arrest him, he would have called Jon first. . . . Damn!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Battery’s dead. Give me your phone.” It was in Betty’s hand before the words were out of her mouth. “Damn,” she repeated, staring at the keypad.

  “What’s wrong now? Why aren’t you dialing?”

  “I can’t remember his cell phone number. It’s on my auto dial at home and on my cell and I . . . wait, let me think for a second . . . Okay, got it, I think . . . at least . . .”

  Just when Josie had decided that she could no longer resist screaming, Betty got through.

  “Jon . . . Yes, hi . . . Yes, we heard . . . At Elizabeth Arden . . . Oh, well, that’s a huge relief. . . . Yes . . . Why not? Oh . . . well, okay, but I don’t think she’s going to be very happy about it. . . . Okay, we’ll wait at home. Love you. Bye.”

  “He’s seen Sam?”

  “He just left him at the police station and he says everything is okay.”

  “What? Why were they at the police station? Why did he leave him there?” Josie shrieked, backing into a woman carrying three large bags from Bergdorf Goodman. “I’m sorry!”

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re going? You could hurt someone!”

  “She said she was sorry!” Betty grabbed Josie’s arm and pulled her to the side of the sidewalk. “Listen, Josie, our information’s wrong; Jon says Sam wasn’t arrested. He was asked to come down to the police station and make an official statement. That’s what he did—after calling Jon. No smart lawyer is going to be questioned by the police without another lawyer present. Anyway, Jon stayed with him during the questioning and then left. Sam was waiting around for his statements to be typed up and then, after checking them over, he’ll leave. Let’s go back to my place. We can figure out what to do when we get there.” She raised her arm to flag a cab.

  “I think I should go back to Sam’s. I want to be there when he comes home.”

  “Josie . . .”

  “Betty, I’m going to go back to Sam’s apartment.” Josie had been Betty’s boss for almost a decade. She knew the tone of voice to use to get her point across.

  “But you’ll call me the second you hear anything,” Betty said.

  “Of course.”

  “And, Josie . . .”

  “What?”

  “Your hair looks wonderful.”

  “I just hope Sam gets to see it.” Josie’s answer was grim. She turned and walked up Fifth Avenue. Her mind was as chaotic as the midday traffic. At Fifty-fifth Street a taxi, swinging around the corner, almost ran over her toes. Josie scowled and continued on. The sign said Walk; she had the right of way. She stomped down th
e sidewalk, ignoring shopping bags that nicked her legs, brushing by women in full-length furs and men in immaculate trench coats, Burberry scarves wrapped around their necks, briefcases firmly tucked under their arms. She detoured around an elegant young couple in matching black leather staring at the display of diamonds in Cartier’s windows. The woman already sported a pretty large diamond—pierced onto her left eyebrow. A block later a group of noisy high school students had taken over the sidewalk; giggling, pushing, and shoving one another despite their teacher’s attempts to convince them to line up for a group photo beneath a sign indicating that they were at Fifty-seventh Street. Josie passed them all, pausing only when she came to FAO Schwarz.

  There was very little about New York City that she remembered from family vacations when she was growing up, but a visit to this store was printed on her mind. She had wanted—desperately wanted—a massive stuffed St. Bernard. Her parents, always practical, had refused to spend hundreds of dollars on such a thing and she had gone home with a red plastic pencil case; it had fallen apart the first day of the new school year. How long, she wondered, would that stuffed dog have lasted?

  She tripped on a chunk of uneven sidewalk and stopped wondering about the past. She would have fallen on her face if a young man hadn’t grabbed her, set her upright, and hurried on his way without giving her time to thank him for his good deed. Realizing there might not be a Good Samaritan waiting for her on every block, Josie marched on, paying more attention to what she was doing. She had to get to Sam’s apartment. Sam would be waiting at his apartment. Once she saw him, once she talked to him, everything would be okay. By the time she arrived at Mentelle Park Apartments, she was almost running. She pushed through the double doors into the lobby.

  The doorman, Harold, was on the phone and Josie hoped she would get by with just a wave, but he hung up as soon as he saw her. “Miss Pigeon. Your timing is perfect. Mr. Richardson will be relieved that you beat the crowd.”