A Fashionable Murder Read online

  “What crowd?”

  “He’ll explain. You hurry right on up. You can depend on Harold to protect you.”

  Josie didn’t understand but she didn’t care. She was finally going to see Sam. She trotted into the elevator and pressed the correct button. And gasped as the doors closed.

  The elevator was paneled in walnut burl. And set in that burl were four pairs of mirrors. Josie was presented with eight images of herself. She looked around. She moved a bit to the left. And then a bit to the right. She moved forward and then back. She couldn’t believe it. She really looked wonderful. Mia had tamed her red hair into a shoulder-length bob. It was perky without being adolescent, mature without being matronly. She tilted to see the highlights on top. They really did look natural and even elegant. Josie smiled as the elevator stopped. The doors slid back. And she ran straight into Sam Richardson’s arms.

  “Sam!”

  “Josie! Thank God you got back before they arrived!” Sam’s quick release was completely unsatisfactory—as was his next action. Sure he had lost an ex-girlfriend, sure he was in that ignoble position of helping the police with their investigation, sure he had a lot on his mind. But how could he ignore her new look? And was it necessary to grab her arm and hustle her through the hallway and into his apartment without any explanation?

  “Sam? What’s going on?” she asked as he locked the door behind them.

  Sam slammed the last dead bolt in place and turned to her. “If anyone knocks, we ignore it. I know Harold thinks we can rely on him to keep the horde out of the building, but I’m not so sure.”

  Josie was completely mystified. “What horde?”

  “Reporters and photographers.”

  “Because of the murder?”

  “What else? Pamela wasn’t really rich and famous, but she worked for the rich and famous and that’s all the local press are interested in. God, I hope her murder isn’t picked up by the tabloids.”

  Josie ran her hand through her hair—with some difficulty due to Mia’s fondness for hair spray—and glanced around the room. Nothing seemed to have changed since she left a few hours ago. She looked at Sam. He’d changed. She wasn’t sure just how, but he had definitely changed. “We heard that you were arrested, but Jon told Betty that wasn’t true.”

  “No. Just brought in for questioning. Any arrest will come later.”

  Sam’s last sentence was spoken almost under his breath and Josie stared up at him. “Why would they arrest you?”

  “In the first place, I didn’t say they would, but you have to realize, Josie, that there are lots of reasons to look at me as the most likely suspect.” He sat down on a stool by the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area and folded his hands in his lap.

  “What reasons?” Josie asked quietly.

  “Well, her body was found in an apartment I own—”

  “But you don’t live here anymore. Maybe the person you were renting this place to killed her.”

  “The person I rented this place to hasn’t lived here for three months. He was transferred to Singapore in the late fall. And there’s no reason to assume he knew Pamela. Besides, I doubt if finding the body here is all the police are considering.”

  “What else?”

  Sam got up and walked to the window. “Well, remember we went together—were a couple—for over a year. There are a lot of people who knew the two of us and knew about our relationship.”

  “So what? You’ve had relationships with lots of women!” Certainly too many for Josie’s taste.

  “But Pamela was different.”

  This was something she certainly didn’t want to hear. “What do you mean?” Josie asked.

  “She . . . I . . . we used to argue a lot. Everyone knew it.”

  Josie didn’t know what to say. “That doesn’t sound like you” was all she came up with.

  “I know.” Still looking out the window (avoiding her eyes? Josie wondered), he continued his explanation. “Pamela and I weren’t good for each other. I mean, we didn’t bring out the best in each other.”

  “Which is why you argued,” Josie guessed, hoping to keep him talking.

  “I suppose. To tell the truth, I have no idea why we were always disagreeing. Hell, I have no idea why we got together in the first place.”

  “Love at first sight?” Josie almost whispered the words, half of her hoping Sam wouldn’t hear and the other half hoping Sam would hear and deny the truth of her suggestion. But Sam didn’t respond the way she wanted him to. He didn’t respond at all.

  Finally Josie couldn’t stand the silence. “So what if people knew you and Pamela Peel argued. She may not have gotten along with a lot of people. It’s not reason enough to arrest you for murder.”

  “There’s more . . .”

  “What? Sam, what is it that you’re not telling me?”

  Finally he turned from the window and looked at her. “Josie, I can’t tell you any more than this. Really, I can’t.”

  “But—”

  “You’re going to have to trust me. I . . . I can’t say any more about this.”

  Josie blinked and turned her back to the room. She couldn’t believe Sam was saying this to her. Her Sam didn’t say things like this. Other men did. Her girlfriends had husbands and boyfriends who said things like this. And when they told Josie about it, her response was always the same: Dump him. But not her Sam. He wasn’t like this. And she sure wasn’t going to dump him. She blinked back the tears beginning to spill out of her eyes. She had no idea what she was going to do. She looked around the apartment. She hated everything about it: the color, the uncomfortable furniture, and the way the large area had been broken up into small, awkward spaces. But most of all she hated the woman who had decorated it. And what that woman’s death was doing to her Sam. She took a deep breath and turned to him.

  Sam was staring out the window again, his back to her so she couldn’t see the expression on his face. Josie thought for one minute. She had to be sure about the decision she was about to make. Once made, it couldn’t be changed. “Sam.”

  He didn’t move and, for a moment, Josie wondered if he had heard her. Then, “Yes?”

  “Sam, I know you didn’t kill Pamela Peel and I wish you would tell me whatever it is that you’re not telling me.” She stopped, taking a deep breath before continuing. “But I trust you. So tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

  Finally he turned around and looked at her.

  “Thank you.” He took a deep breath and Josie realized he had been near tears. “This is a horrible situation and it may become even more horrible very shortly. I don’t know what people will say. I don’t know what you’re going to hear, whether it will be lies or truth. This is not going to be easy, you know.”

  “I know. And it doesn’t matter.”

  “Your faith in me is the only thing that will get me through this.”

  Josie moved across the room and flung herself into his arms. But even as she was finding the comfort she desired, she wondered where she was going to find the strength to get through this herself.

  EIGHT

  NEW YORK CITY has a restaurant on every block. There are even areas where the restaurants outnumber all other businesses. So an empty refrigerator isn’t a problem. But, in Sam and Josie’s case, getting to the restaurant without drawing unwanted attention from the journalists who had gathered outside of Mentelle Park Apartments was. At least that’s what Josie had assumed. Her assumption was wrong.

  “We’ll use the tradesmen’s entrance.”

  “The what?”

  “I’ll show you. Just let me call Harold and make sure the doors are unlocked.”

  Josie, who hadn’t been in the apartment long enough to remove her coat, waited silently while Sam called down to the doorman and pulled his Burberry from the stainless steel armoire by the front door. Watching him, Josie smiled sadly. Leave it to Sam to be neat even in a crisis.

  “You know, I should call Jon and
let him know where I’ll be before we leave.”

  “You have your cell phone, don’t you?” Josie reminded him.

  “Yes, but I don’t want anyone to overhear my conversation. This will just take a few minutes.”

  Sam’s phone call did take only a few minutes. But he spent them on the extension in the bedroom and to Josie it was an awfully long time to wait and wonder what was going on—and why he wasn’t sharing it with her. Well, she had other things to worry about. She rummaged in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. Time to check on Tyler. And, perhaps, she had better tell him about the murder before he heard about it on the news.

  “Tyler, this is your mother. Please give me a call when you have a moment free. Sam . . .” She paused, wishing she had had the sense to think of what she was going to say before dialing his number. “There are a lot of things going on here that you might want to know about. Love you, hon. I hope you’re having a good time. Hi to Tony and his father.” She pressed the button to hang up and wandered over to the spot by the window where Sam had stood. Looking down, she realized that the peaceful scene she had pondered last night had disappeared, that mayhem seemed to be the order of the day. She counted four television microwave vans, aerials up.

  Josie turned from the window and wandered around, once again examining the apartment. She had wondered sometimes why Sam had arrived on the island with so little in the way of personal belongings. Aside from clothing, some paintings, his computer, an incredible collection of books, and one comfortable chair, everything in his beach house was new. But this apartment didn’t seem to be missing anything. There were lamps on tables. Monochromatic photographs framed on the walls. There were even small appliances on the kitchen counters. Josie shrugged. Maybe all this was expected when an apartment was put up for rent in New York City. Certainly most houses on the island were rented furnished. On the other hand, these things had been chosen and purchased by Pamela Peel. If she had been the love of his life, wouldn’t Sam have brought some of it to the island to remind him of her? Josie ran her hand along the top of the gray suede-covered couch and wondered exactly who had ended their relationship. He had once told her that the decision was mutual, but were these things ever completely mutual? Wasn’t it likely that one person was more involved than the other? And wouldn’t that be important for her to know if . . .

  Josie paused for a second, hand clenching the leather, lips pursed. She took a deep breath and finished her thought: If she was going to investigate Pamela’s murder.

  When Sam reentered the room, only a few minutes later, there was no longer an if in that sentence. She was going to investigate. Period. She had to help Sam. And, she realized, she had to help herself; she needed to know the truth.

  “Ready to go?”

  “Yup. I’m starving.”

  She was rewarded by a brief smile on Sam’s face. “Some things never change.” He opened the door for her and she walked through it, turning toward the elevator.

  “No, this way.” Sam pointed her in the opposite direction. They went down the corridor and through an unmarked door. Here the wall-to-wall carpeting was replaced by ugly, worn linoleum and three large plastic recycling containers almost blocked their way. They continued on, passing a garbage chute, and walking through another unmarked door leading to another elevator. Sam pressed the down button and the doors slid open immediately. This elevator wasn’t paneled in expensive hardwood nor were there any mirrors. It was metal lined and the metal was liberally covered with dings and scratches. “This is the way the furniture travels in and out of the building,” Sam explained. “And, of course, tradesmen use this elevator too.”

  The elevator moved more slowly than the one routinely used by residents so Josie had a few minutes to consider the fact that, if she had located her business in New York City, she’d be traveling in this elevator with its damaged walls rather than in mirrored luxury.

  “This building is unusual in that it shares a basement with the building next door,” Sam explained.

  “So?”

  “So we’re going to go out through their basement and enter the street not from behind Mentelle Park but from the side of Tanbry Towers, our neighbor.”

  “You’re saying that the press won’t notice us.”

  “Not if we’re lucky. So what do you want for lunch?” Sam asked as they negotiated their exit toward the street again.

  “I don’t care. Whatever you want.”

  “There used to be a nice spot a few blocks over. La Belle Jardin. It’s a traditional French bistro.”

  “Sounds fine.”

  “Of course it may no longer be there. Restaurants come and go in this town.”

  But La Belle Jardin was exactly where Sam had left it and the maître d’, apparently thrilled to see an old customer, ushered them to the best seat in the house and then dashed off to get a complimentary bottle of wine.

  “That’s amazing,” Josie commented, looking around the charming bistro. It was decorated to resemble a French farmhouse, with massive bouquets of flowering branches standing on tables scattered about. Inside this cheerful room, it was possible to forget the slushy streets outside.

  “What is?”

  “You haven’t been here for how long? A couple of years?”

  “At least.”

  “And there are millions of people in the city; it’s actually possible that thousands come here to eat every year.”

  “So?”

  “He remembers you.”

  “Carl probably remembers many good customers. It’s part of his job. Besides, Carl and I share a passion for wine. In fact, I was sitting in this very spot when I made up my mind to retire and go into the wine business.”

  Josie smiled. “I’m glad you did.”

  Sam smiled back at her and picked up the menu.

  Josie did the same. But for once she wasn’t thinking about food. She was wondering how long Sam was going to avoid talking about the murder. It seemed she was going to be the one to raise the topic. “Sam, are the police . . .”

  “Josie, I’d really rather not talk about all that in a public place.”

  She looked around. It was true that the tables were close together, but there was no one on either side of them and the table itself was tiny. If they leaned toward each other, certainly no one would overhear their conversation. But she couldn’t force him to talk about it. “Okay. So what do you want to do this afternoon?”

  Sam put down his menu. “I think I should spend some time with Jon. We have things to go over. Just in case.”

  “Oh . . . well, then I guess I’ll go back to the apartment . . .”

  “Josie, you’re in New York City. There are stores, museums, and lots of things to do. I hate to think of you sitting in that hideous apartment waiting for me to come home. It isn’t like you.”

  “I guess not.” Josie picked up the large menu and hid behind it. Sam was wrong. This was like her. Not like the Josie Pigeon she had become. But like the Josie she had been when she was young and insecure. She’d worked hard to become self-sufficient and confident. Of course, sometimes she didn’t feel that way at all.

  “Why don’t you call my mother? She would love to show you around.”

  “What a great idea!”

  Sam looked up, obviously startled. “Really? I mean, Mother can be rather—”

  “Sam, your mother loves this city. Who would be a better person to show it to me?”

  “Well, Mother loves Saks, Bergdorf’s, Bloomingdale’s, and Barney’s, but—”

  “Perfect. I promised myself some new shoes. This way I can shop and see the city at the same time.”

  Sam still looked doubtful. “You know how Mother likes to . . . to share her opinions.”

  “Sam, we’ll be fine together. We get along at home, why not here?”

  “I guess. But there is one thing.”

  “What?”

  “She may not have heard about Pamela’s death. In fact, I’m sure she hasn’t heard.
She would have come over or at least have called if she knew.”

  “So? Do you think I should be the one to tell her? I mean, I don’t think I should spend the afternoon with her and not mention it. That would seem a little odd.”

  He didn’t answer right away. “I could call her . . .”

  To Josie, his answer didn’t sound overwhelmingly enthusiastic. “If you don’t mind me being the one to tell her, I don’t mind doing it.” Besides, their conversation was finally heading in what she considered the right direction.

  “She never admitted it, but I’m not sure she liked Pamela,” Sam said slowly. “So don’t be surprised if she isn’t terribly upset. But I don’t want her to start worrying about me.”

  “You mean about you being upset or about the possibility of the police thinking you killed her.” Josie found herself unwilling to say the dead woman’s name.

  Sam gave her a strange look. “Josie . . .”

  But the arrival of the wine interrupted their tête-à-tête. For once, Josie was glad Sam made such a big deal about tasting the vintage. It gave her some time to think and plan. Spending the afternoon with Carol was a golden opportunity. Especially if Carol thought her darling son was a murder suspect. Josie knew she would learn a lot. She just hoped she would learn enough to start in the right direction.

  “Josie.” Sam pointed to the full wineglass in front of her.

  She took a sip and smiled. “Delicious.” She knew it was the only response necessary as Sam could find more to discuss in one glass of wine than she could possibly imagine. And attempting to join in would be impossible. To her wine was either delicious or not worth drinking. She had explained this to Sam early in their relationship and she hadn’t been bothered with questions about finish, legs, or bouquet ever since. She listened to the conversation, smiled when she thought a smile was appropriate, and frowned when she forgot she was supposed to be enjoying herself. When their waiter appeared, she and Sam both ordered and then she excused herself and headed off to the ladies’ room.

  The door was still swinging closed as she pulled her cell phone from her purse and started to dial. Tyler first. Once again, he didn’t answer and Josie’s second message was almost identical to her first. Betty was the second person she called.