A Fashionable Murder Read online

  “Hi, Betty, I . . . well, to tell the truth, he didn’t notice. No. Really. No, I didn’t touch it! Yes. Well, maybe he has more important things on his mind. . . . Betty, don’t worry about it, I like it. That’s what’s important. Listen, that’s not why I called. Sam and I are having lunch. In a French place over on Madison . . . La Belle Jardin . . . Betty, you’re not listening to me! He’s going to see Jon after lunch. Yes, they’re meeting. Yes . . . Why not? You’re sure? Well . . . okay. Did Jon say anything to you yet?” Josie sighed. “You’ll tell me when he does, won’t you? Yes, same here. Thanks, Betty. Bye.”

  Josie stared at her reflection in the mirror. Something was going on. Tyler wasn’t answering her calls. That was a worry. But she was even more worried about Sam. Of course, he hadn’t killed Pamela Peel. But there was something he wasn’t telling her.

  NINE

  SAM’S MOTHER APPEARED along with their dessert. Josie had talked Sam into ordering crêpes suzette. But Carol Birnbaum was sizzling at least as much as the buttery concoction they were consuming. She didn’t enter the restaurant as much as fly in, mink-covered arms spread wide, eyes dilated, in the middle of a sentence.

  “ . . . what you thought you were doing. Did you think I wouldn’t hear?”

  Sam jumped to his feet. “Mother—”

  “Mother? That’s all you have to say? I have to hear about Pamela’s murder from a woman I cannot stand? You can’t pick up the phone and let me know what’s going on?”

  “Mother—”

  “You call me up and ask me how I’m doing, what’s happening in my life as though nothing unusual is going on and never mention Pamela’s murder!” Carol glanced at a waiter hurrying toward their table. “Bring me crème brûlée and an espresso with artificial sweetener,” she ordered and he turned and dashed back toward the kitchen. “Josie, you poor thing, how are you? Just like Pamela to ruin your lovely week in New York City.”

  “Mother, I don’t think Pamela . . .”

  “What are we going to do about all this? I can’t imagine that you won’t be a suspect unless the real murderer is quickly discovered. I really believe—”

  “Mother, everything is just fine. It’s true that Josie discovered Pamela’s body in my apartment—”

  “In your, her body . . . Josie discovered . . . I didn’t know that. I just heard she had been killed.” A very attentive waiter had pulled a chair over from a neighboring table and Carol flopped down in it. “Tell me. Everything. From the beginning,” she demanded.

  “Mother . . . ”

  Josie decided she couldn’t let this go on any longer and interrupted Sam. “I couldn’t sleep and got up in the middle of the night and went into the living room. I was looking out the window, watching the traffic and people walking their dogs, and I remembered that Sam had told me there were—”

  “That there might be,” Sam corrected her. “I told you that there might be . . .”

  “. . . binoculars in the window seat,” Josie finished his sentence, glancing over at him. Why did he think that distinction was so important? “Anyway, I found Pamela Peel. Well, I found a dead woman and then, after I yelled and Sam came in, I found out that she was Pamela Peel. She was strangled.”

  “I called the police right away.” Sam picked up the story. “Luckily, I knew the detective who came out. He had been on a lot of cases I prosecuted back when I was working for the city. Anyway, he and his colleagues asked Josie a few questions, and the techs took their photos, collected fingerprints, DNA, whatever they could find, and then they removed . . .” Sam floundered for the first time since beginning his explanation, but he quickly regained his composure and continued. “They removed the body and then asked me if I would stop down at the station and answer a few questions later. I did. They did. And then Josie and I came here for lunch.”

  Josie knew large parts of the story had been omitted. From the expression on Carol’s face, she was fairly sure Carol knew too. So she was incredibly relieved when Carol turned to her and didn’t ask another question. “Your hair looks wonderful, dear.”

  Josie grinned—and not just with relief. “Thank you. Betty took me to Elizabeth Arden this morning.”

  “Who cut it?”

  “Mia.” Josie took a bite of her crêpe before continuing. “You know, Carol, I was wondering if you might help me look for shoes this afternoon.”

  Carol automatically lit up at the thought of her favorite activity. Then her smile faded and she looked over at her son. “Is Sammy going to accompany us?”

  “No, he . . .”

  “Good. Sammy didn’t like shopping when he was a little boy and, I’m afraid, he didn’t improve in that respect as he got older. We’ll do much better on our own.” The waiter placed her order before her and she picked up her spoon and tapped on the crackled caramel surface. “Now where should we start? Barney’s? Saks? Bloomingdale’s?”

  “Wherever you think,” Josie answered, knowing that it didn’t matter whether or not she could afford to shop in these places. She had no intention of buying anything.

  “My suggestion is to start at Saks.” Carol looked down at her tiny gold watch. “I hope we have enough time. Shoes can be very difficult. Just let me taste this custard. I really only want a taste. That usually satisfies me.”

  Josie, who was rarely satisfied until she had a clean plate before her, scarfed down the last of her food and hopped up. “That’s fine with me. Sam?”

  “Let’s meet back at the apartment for drinks around five,” he suggested. “I don’t know about whether you want to join us for dinner, Mother, but—”

  “Drinks will be fine. I have a date tonight.” His mother interrupted what promised to be an unenthusiastic invitation. “Now, don’t worry about us. Josie and I are going to have a wonderful time.” She put her arm around Josie’s shoulder and Josie discovered herself being led with surprising force toward the door. She grabbed her coat and was still slipping her arm into the sleeve when they arrived on the street. “Now tell me what the hell is going on. And don’t give me any more of that protecting mother stuff that Sam’s been shoveling my way.”

  “I’m afraid the police might think Sam killed Pamela Peel,” Josie blurted out.

  “Of course they do. She was found in his apartment, after all. Now what are we going to do about it?”

  Josie stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and turned to Carol. “I was thinking . . . well, to tell the truth, I was thinking of investigating on my own. Do you think I’m being foolish?”

  “No, I think you’re being smart,” Carol said. “Now we can walk and talk at the same time, so you can tell me everything.”

  “I don’t know everything. That’s the problem. Sam . . . well, Sam doesn’t seem to be entirely truthful with me,” Josie added reluctantly.

  Carol stopped so quickly that a deliveryman, who had been hurrying behind, crashed into them, dropping his boxes and cursing. “Ignore him,” she suggested, scowling over her shoulder. “We have much more important things to worry about. Now what exactly has been going on? Sammy’s an honest man so what you just said has me incredibly worried.”

  “He just told me that he was going to see Jon Jacobs after lunch, but I spoke with Betty—you know, Jon’s wife—and she told me that Jon is in court trying an important case all afternoon. So he lied about that and—”

  “Professionally? Sammy thinks he needs Jon to help him out professionally? Isn’t Jon a defense attorney specializing in criminal cases?”

  “Yes, and Jon was already at the police station when Sam was being questioned earlier.”

  Carol frowned and turned and walked into the wind, her head down so Josie couldn’t see her face. “This is very bad news. Start at the beginning and tell me everything. Absolutely everything. Even what Sam doesn’t want me to know.”

  “The problem is that Sam doesn’t want me to know some things either. Anyway, I got up last night. . . .”

  The tale, interrupted frequently by questions th
at Josie couldn’t answer, took them to within a block of Saks. “Perhaps we should stop in and offer up a prayer or two,” Josie suggested as they passed St. Patrick’s Cathedral. She was only half joking.

  “Sammy will be fine,” his mother stated flatly. “He has us working on the problem.”

  Josie smiled broadly for the first time since happening on Pamela’s body. She had never really been sure what, if anything, Carol thought about her. This vote of confidence was unexpected and deeply pleasing. But there wasn’t time to wallow in her feelings. Carol had achieved her objective. She pulled open one of the swinging doors and pushed Josie ahead of her into Saks Fifth Avenue. Josie blinked in the brightly lit warmth. Even the air smelled rich. She took a deep breath and sneezed.

  “Oh, my dear, I hope you’re not getting a cold. We have so much to do. Shoes are on the fourth floor. This way.”

  “I thought we were talking about the murder. Pame—”

  “Hush!” Carol pulled Josie to her side and hissed in her ear. “You can talk about murder all you want, just don’t mention that woman’s name! Who knows who might overhear us.”

  Josie looked around. “Why do you think anyone listening might be interested in her?”

  “Because this is her stomping ground. People who shop here might know her and almost certainly have heard of her. That’s why we’re here—besides looking for shoes for you.”

  “Oh, but I really don’t need shoes.”

  Carol looked down at Josie’s feet. “Josie, dear, you do need shoes. Badly. And, don’t worry; this is my field of expertise. I can shop in my sleep. We’ll talk and buy you something more . . .” She paused as if looking for the perfect word. “More suitable for walking up Fifth Avenue.”

  “But I—”

  “Now, the first thing we might investigate is what Pamela Peel was doing when she was killed. Tell me, what was she wearing?”

  “What was she wearing?” Josie couldn’t believe she hadn’t misheard the question.

  “Yes, what was she wearing? We might be able to figure out what she was planning on doing when she was killed by what she was wearing.”

  Josie supposed that made some sense. “Um . . . let me think. A dress. Short, but the sleeves were long. It was black,” she added, triumphantly sure of something.

  “What fabric?”

  “I have no idea.”

  They were wandering through the crowded aisles, Carol stopping occasionally to pick up a small object like a scarf only to put it back down on the counter, rejected, before moving on.

  Josie was trying to concentrate on Carol’s questions while watching the action. Was it possible that every woman in New York City was trying to improve her appearance? The back third of the large store’s main floor was dedicated to cosmetics and it was jammed. Makeup was being applied to customers who seemed to think nothing of discussing moles and wrinkles in front of a crowd of strangers. Thin, young women smilingly offered samples of exotic perfumes. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of creams were being sold by the ounce in containers that looked as though they had been fashioned from rock crystal. If Josie was overwhelmed, apparently Carol was right at home.

  “Oh, dear, if you could just wait a second. I’m almost out of my favorite eye cream and it seems to be on sale.”

  “Of course. I’ll just look around a bit.” Josie stared at the hundreds of products crowded together on glass countertops. She had no idea where to start. It wasn’t that she didn’t use creams or lotions. But she bought hers at a drugstore and, generally, used whatever had been on sale when she was shopping. And, to tell the truth, she found that to be confusing enough. It seemed as though every few months there was a new ingredient, which promised eternal youth, and Josie felt it would be foolish not to try it and almost always ended up buying more than she needed. But her splurges were limited by the store’s small selection. Here a woman could buy hundreds of products and spend thousands. . . .

  The reappearance of Carol, a large shopping bag dangling from one hand, cut into her musings. “Okay. I’m ready. Now have you been trying to remember more about P . . . about that outfit we were discussing?”

  But Josie was focused on the bag. It was huge. “I thought you were buying eye cream.”

  “Yes, dear, but the entire product line was on sale. And then they had this wonderful premium, a little travel bag. Not that I need a travel bag and the lipstick sample is always so dreadful, but . . .” Carol ended her explanation and looked at Josie. “You didn’t buy anything?”

  “No. I didn’t even look.”

  “Good heavens, you do have an amazing amount of self-discipline. Well, let’s head on up to shoes. Although perhaps we should stop on the second floor and look at dresses. Something there just might remind you of that dress we were discussing and it would be so helpful in our investigation if we could pin down what she was wearing.”

  “Carol, I really don’t think I can help you there. I recognize denim, of course. But frankly, I can’t tell the difference between silk and polyester without reading the label. I’ve even been wondering if maybe the dress was black. It could have been navy. . . .”

  “No, not navy. Not this time of year. Definitely not navy.”

  Josie couldn’t imagine why not, but Carol seemed so positive that she didn’t argue. She followed Carol to the escalators and stepped on, glancing back at the bustling floor as they rose. To Josie, Saks Fifth Avenue was a foreign country. How was she going to find anything to help Sam here?

  Carol insisted they sweep through the designer clothes on the second floor and Josie trotted behind without protest. At first glance, there appeared to be dozens of black dresses. By the time they had traversed the entire floor, she had upped her estimate to hundreds. And it wasn’t surprising. More than half the well-dressed shoppers were in black— dresses, shoes, suits, slacks, coats, boots, purses. Black was the dominant color. The only person in navy was a toddler, who was hanging on to his mother’s hand whining. He was the exception in another way as well: everyone else seemed to be having a sensational time.

  Josie wasn’t exactly happy, but at least she and Carol were on the same track. That is, they were on the same track until they walked into the shoe department. Once surrounded by so many shoes, Carol was energized. She was going to find new shoes for Josie and she wasn’t going to accept no thanks as an answer. Josie could not believe the prices. If there was a pair of shoes costing less than $150 she couldn’t find it. Most of the shoes were well over two hundred. After turning over a pair of simple black flats and discovering that they cost almost four hundred dollars, she stopped even bothering to look. She wasn’t going to buy shoes here. She would browse, be nice to Carol, and refuse to buy. That was all there was to it.

  Unfortunately, she should never have told either Carol or the salesman her shoe size. In minutes Josie was sitting in a small leather-covered chair surrounded by shoes of all types. They were all expensive. They were mainly uncomfortable. They were entirely inappropriate for the life Josie led. Besides, they were wasting time. They should be looking for the murderer. They should be investigating Pamela Peel’s life. They should . . . Josie suddenly stood up and pointed.

  “Those shoes over there. The ones with the silver flowers on the heel. Those are the shoes she was wearing!”

  TEN

  “ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY sure?”

  “Carol, I know I have no fashion sense. I can’t tell an Armani from a Donna What’s-her-name, but these are the shoes that Pamela Peel was wearing. I’m positive. They’re exactly the same. There’s a flower on the heel, and that’s not all,” she added before Carol could inform her that flowered high heels were all the rage this winter. “I noticed the little butterfly on the flower—it has rhinestone eyes. There can’t be a whole lot of shoes like these!”

  Carol picked up one of the shoes and examined it carefully. The black stiletto heel was elegant and expensive. “I think you’re probably right about that.” She looked up at the man who had been help
ing them. “Do you have any idea how long this shoe has been on display?”

  “I’m not positive. We carry that style in white as well as black—”

  “Is there anyone who knows exactly how long this shoe has been available to your customers?” Carol interrupted.

  “I could check with our buyer. . . .”

  “I’d appreciate that. And if you’re going into the back, could you bring out those Ferragamo slides? Size nine and a half.”

  “Excellent. And I’ll bring those shoes too. In a size . . . ?” He left it to them to fill in the blank.

  “Seven and a half,” Carol suggested.

  Josie was still busy examining the pumps. “They’re silk, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, and very elegant. I think we can assume that Pamela was killed when she was dressed to make a good impression.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Dear, the outfit that goes with these shoes isn’t something she would wear to lounge around the house, or to visit clients. Although it’s just possible she would have worn it for an evening at home. . . .”

  “An evening at home?”

  “Yes. Perhaps she was giving an intimate dinner for a few friends, or perhaps just some special man. She might have worn a dress and high heels. Although, of course, something like silk pajamas and sparkly slides might have been more appropriate if she wasn’t going to leave her apartment, but maybe it was a big party with lots of guests and she wanted to be prepared if they all decided to head out on the town afterward.”

  The return of their salesman put an end to Carol’s speculation. “These are for you,” he said, dropping a box at Carol’s feet. “And these are for you.”

  Josie was surprised to find her old shoes being pulled off her feet and the silk high-heeled pump with flower and butterfly being slipped on.

  “How do they feel?”