A Fashionable Murder Read online

  “Well, I know what she looked like—sort of.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking about you. Do you ever wear pink?”

  “Sometimes. A very pale pink . . . with my red hair,” Josie added, not explaining that the only pink article of clothing in her closet these days was a ragged sweatshirt Tyler had bought her years ago on a class trip to Great Adventure theme park. She rarely wore it in public since she felt it made her look like a gigantic blob of cotton candy.

  “I have an idea. I’ll be right back.”

  Their saleswoman dashed in as Carol dashed out, leaving Josie a bit breathless.

  “I have the other things your mother—”

  “She’s not my mother,” Josie protested. “She’s a friend.”

  “Well, I brought the things she asked for and a few other ideas I had.” She looked at Josie now standing in the middle of the small room in a bra and silk pants. “Are you sure a size eight . . .”

  “ . . . will never fit,” Josie finished for her. “Size twelve,” she said firmly. “And I don’t suppose you carry anything in denim?”

  “Why, we have lots of denim! Donna Karan did some wonderful things with it this season. And I think maybe Calvin . . . You said size twelve, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ll be right back.”

  Carol and the saleswoman collided in the doorway. Josie took advantage of the few moments it took for the two women to regroup and collect the clothing that had fallen to the floor to hide a jacket she knew she would never wear and two more pairs of hip-hugging pants. The only people who should wear hip-huggers were those without hips. She put all three items in her discarded pile and turned to greet Carol.

  “Look what I found, dear.” Carol held out a shocking-pink tunic, orange silk slacks, a couple of white T-shirts, and some sort of long, turquoise, beaded scarf. “Try these on.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I believe I was just going to tell you what I know of Pamela’s background.”

  Josie reached for the clothing and prepared to listen.

  “Pamela was always very secretive about her childhood. And I can’t remember ever meeting any of her family in all the time she dated Sammy. But—”

  “Isn’t that a little odd?” Josie asked, holding the tunic up to her chest.

  “Not really. I can’t say that I know many of Sammy’s friends’ parents unless they just happened to live in the city and we happened to run across one another socially. So I don’t think the lack of family means anything other than that she grew up someplace else.

  “And put on that shirt,” she ordered before continuing. “Anyway, dear Pamela was something of a snob and she used to drop comments about positively growing up on horseback, skiing in St. Moritz, the woes of private school dress codes. It was her way of letting us ordinary mortals understand that we were hobnobbing with the privileged. But, to tell the truth, I never believed that stuff.”

  Josie stuck her head through the top of her top, astonished. “You really didn’t like her!”

  “I admit I thought she was a snob. But don’t tell Sammy I said so. You know I make it a rule to never interfere in his private life.”

  Josie knew nothing of the kind, but she kept her mouth shut. This revelation thrilled her.

  “Anyway, Pamela may or may not have had a wealthy family. The truth is, it really doesn’t matter. In New York City, it’s what you can do that counts in most circles, not who your parents are. But Shepard Henderson’s family was quite wealthy and he and Pamela probably used his family’s connections to get their start in the decorating business. Henderson and Peel became well known almost immediately. And I can assure you that that sort of recognition—and publicity—is almost always gained through connections. I know she worked as a peon for one or two excellent firms before starting Henderson and Peel less than five years ago. One of their first jobs was for that awful Hollywood movie mogul—What was his name? Well, it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that he was so famous that the living room Henderson and Peel designed was on the cover of Architectural Digest. And their names and faces were prominently displayed in the six-page article about his new home. There’s been a long waiting list for their services ever since.” Carol wrinkled her forehead and ordered Josie to turn around.

  “The pants need hemming, but other than that, I think we’ve found our outfit.” Josie looked down. In a room lined with mirrors, she had been so interested in what Carol was saying that she hadn’t even bothered to check out her own reflection. Now she did. And for a moment, she forgot that there even was a woman named Pamela Peel. She looked wonderful—like someone else, of course—but wonderful.

  “Good, huh?”

  “Very good,” Josie answered. “I can hardly believe it. I almost look like a New Yorker!”

  “You look fabulous! And you didn’t think I could do it, did you?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Don’t answer that, dear. I don’t want to damage our relationship and I certainly don’t want you to lie. Now, the slacks come in taupe as well. So we’ll get them and another shirt or two will be fine. Now, a coat . . .”

  “Carol, I don’t need a coat,” Josie said firmly.

  “But what if he suggests you come to his office? You don’t want to ruin the image, do you? Besides, your parka has seen better days, you know.”

  Josie sighed. “Okay, a coat. But not on this floor. This is all designer clothing. I’ve had a chance to read the signs at the ends of the escalators. Saks does sell clothing without designer labels.”

  “I suppose we can look at those floors.”

  “We can and we will. Now tell me more about Pamela Peel and please show me what I’m supposed to do with this thing.” She held out the long, beaded scarf.

  “Oh, my dear, that dresses up the outfit for evening.” Carol grabbed the fabric and started to drape it around Josie’s shoulders. “You see, when you buy good clothing, it can be worn many different ways on many different occasions.”

  “That’s exactly the way I feel about my Levi’s jeans,” Josie commented, staring at herself in the mirror. The scarf looked wonderful too, casually draped around her shoulders. She knew it would stay in place about five minutes, and then she would fidget with it for a while, and then, finally, take it off. Pamela Peel, she suspected, was the type of woman who could wear this sort of thing all day long and be found sipping cocktails in the evening with each and every bead still decoratively in place.

  “Jeans are fine on the island, but this is New York. And we have to make a good impression tomorrow morning, remember.”

  Josie nodded. She wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about Carol’s plan, but she hadn’t come up with any other and she had to help Sam.

  “I was going to tell you about the last few times I’ve seen Pamela . . .”

  “Since Sam left the city?”

  “Yes. We did run into each other once in a while, of course. Usually I saw her and she didn’t see me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s hard to explain. She was always polite. She didn’t snub me, but she was cool. We exchanged greetings. I always suggested that we meet for lunch sometime. She agreed. And we didn’t. And I knew we weren’t going to when we talked about it. The whole performance was a polite formality. Or it was until two weeks ago.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, we chatted a while. I told her that Sammy might be coming to town. She told me about the condo she was decorating for an anchorman. Then she pulled out her Palm Pilot and insisted on setting a date.”

  “You two had lunch recently?”

  “No. The date she chose was today.”

  “Oh. Did she mention why she wanted to meet?”

  “No. But she seemed to think it was important. She wanted to meet as soon as possible. But I was away and then she was busy.” Carol shrugged. “It probably doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It probably does.
It’s a connection. She wanted to see you. She was killed and her body found in Sam’s apartment. It really could be important. Did she give you any reason for wanting to meet?”

  “Sort of. She said she . . . she wanted to hear more about how Sammy was doing. She said she’d been . . . that she had been missing him.”

  TWELVE

  THE NEXT MORNING, Josie had kissed Sam good-bye, telling him that she was meeting his mother for another shopping expedition and then heading straight to the address Carol had given her.

  Josie had worked on some fabulous homes, but nothing in her experience prepared her for Sissy Austin’s East Side duplex. Her first impression was that it was big. On closer examination she changed that assessment to huge. Five floors hand laid in chestnut parquet, each floor having at least three large rooms, had been decorated by someone with no interest in austerity. The rooms were hung, draped, filled, and just plain crowded with overstuffed furniture, curtains, rugs, bows, beads, tassels, and swags in a rainbow of colors. Wood had been painted to look like paper; paper had been painted to look like wood. Plaster columns had been painted to look like marble. Marble columns had been covered with gilt. It wasn’t Josie’s taste, but she admitted that it was all very impressive.

  But it had been decorated years ago, before Sissy got religion. Listening to Carol and Sissy chat as they walked Josie through the place, Josie couldn’t be sure whether Sissy had begun to practice Buddhism, transcendental meditation, or something less well known, but the result of her conversion was a newfound need to live what she described as “a simple life.” As far as Josie could tell, this simplicity involved dozens of brass bells, hundreds of crystals, artifacts from Tibet, and many, many yards of handwoven raw silk. Samples of these things were piled upon a French marquetry commode in the room Sissy had described as her library. There was a Mary Higgins Clark mystery open facedown on one of the room’s three velvet-covered couches. It was the only book in evidence.

  “I don’t see how I’m going to do this,” Josie muttered, a worried expression on her face. “Now, I tell Mr. Henderson . . .”

  “Shepard or Shep, not Mr. Henderson,” Carol corrected. “You are hiring him, remember.”

  “Okay. I tell Shep I’m interested in hiring Henderson and Peel to redo your entire place in a more, um—”

  “On a more spiritual plane,” Sissy explained. “Not feng shui—that’s so 1990s. I’m thinking green plants, maybe even orchids or those little Japanese trees, perhaps some of those big statues of religious figures . . . you know the type of thing.”

  “It really doesn’t matter what Josie asks for,” Carol reminded them both. “It’s not as though Henderson and Peel is going to get the job anyway. In fact, the vaguer you are, the better, Josie. Then Shep will have to spend time trying to figure out exactly what you’re talking about. And that’s what you need. You want to get some sort of impression of him as well as learn anything you can about Pamela and their relationship. You want him to spend as much time here as possible.”

  Josie glanced over at Sissy. She didn’t know how Carol had explained their task, but Sissy seemed completely comfortable with an unknown woman taking over her home for the sole purpose of deceiving one of the most famous decorators in the city. “Are you sure you can’t stay with me?” Josie asked Carol.

  “I’m afraid not.” Carol’s response was brisk. “Shep just might recognize me. We met a few times back when Sammy and Pamela were dating. My presence just might blow your cover.”

  Josie smiled. “Blow your cover” was not a phrase she associated with Carol. “So I’ll just introduce myself as Sissy and show him through the apartment. . . .”

  “Exactly,” Sissy jumped in. “I’ve let my staff go for the day so there won’t be anyone around to tell him you’re not who you claim to be.”

  “We should leave right away,” Carol reminded them. “We don’t want Shep to find us here. You’ll be fine, Josie. How many times have you been interviewed by prospective clients considering hiring Island Contracting?”

  “Lots, but in that situation, I’m the person trying to get the job, not the one doing the hiring,” Josie pointed out.

  “Think of this as role reversal and be as snobby as possible. Believe me, Shep Henderson will be surprised if you’re anything else.”

  “Oh, and the most important thing to remember is money,” Sissy said, getting up and moving toward the door.

  “Money?”

  “Yes, make sure he knows that you have it and intend to let him spend it. Nothing makes a decorator happier than spending lots and lots of other people’s money.”

  The peal of the doorbell, a duplicate of the chimes of Big Ben, made further instructions impossible.

  “We’ll leave by the service entrance. You go greet Shep Henderson,” Carol ordered.

  And, in a flurry of mink coats, Carol and Sissy hurried off, leaving Josie alone and nervous. She took a deep breath, rearranged the turquoise-trimmed scarf around her shoulders, and walked toward the duplex’s foyer.

  Hidden within the duplex’s baroque decorations lay a state-of-the-art security system, complete with cameras outside the building aimed at visitors standing on the brownstone doorstep. Josie checked the inside monitors, as she had been instructed, then opened the door to a man she assumed was Pamela Peel’s partner.

  “Mr. Henderson?” Realizing she had already failed to follow Carol’s directions, Josie wiped the smile off her face and tried to look prosperous and in charge. “Please come in.”

  “You are Mrs. Austin?” he asked, entering the foyer.

  Josie decided brevity was the best policy. “Yes. Why don’t we talk in the library . . . or would you rather look around first?” she added. When being interviewed for a job on the island, Josie always liked to chat a bit to give the client a chance to get to know her and her company before they discussed the job itself. She wondered how Shep Henderson worked.

  “Oh, that would be fine.” He looked down at her without smiling. In fact, he didn’t seem terribly interested in her or what she was claiming was her home.

  It wasn’t until they were seated that Josie suddenly realized she might be expected to offer coffee or tea. Having no idea where a coat closet might be located, she had been relieved when Shepard casually tossed his navy cashmere coat over the back of a sofa. “I . . . my staff is off today.” She struggled to excuse her lack of hostess skills. “I could make us some coffee if you’d like.” She crossed her fingers and hoped he refused. The kitchen she had been shown through had the best of everything including imported appliances. She had noticed a large Italian espresso machine, but she couldn’t begin to imagine how it worked.

  “Frankly, I’d rather have a drink.”

  “I . . . Oh . . .” Shep Henderson was staring over her shoulder and Josie, fingers crossed, turned around to discover an extensive bar that she hadn’t noticed before. She jumped to her feet. “What would you like?” she asked, glancing around. Dozens of bottles were on display.

  “A small brandy would be nice.”

  Josie walked toward the liquor—very slowly. A bottle of brandy was easily found. But where were the glasses? And how could she explain having to look for them? Surely even people with servants occasionally prepared their own cocktails. She reached out and opened the doors of a nearby ormolu cabinet. Champagne glasses and large goblets appropriate for old burgundies were there, but no snifters. She grimaced and opened another door, thinking furiously. She could always explain her confusion as the result of a new maid putting things away, she had decided, when, much to her relief, she found dozens of snifters in two sizes and a pile of pale gold linen cocktail napkins as well. Feeling like the excellent hostess she was not, she turned back to Shep Henderson with a full glass and napkin in hand. “Here you are.”

  “Won’t you join me?”

  “It’s a little early for me,” Josie said, sitting back down.

  “It’s usually early for me too—very much too early.” Shep Henders
on ran a hand through his hair in a gesture reminiscent of a young James Stewart and then continued. “But these are difficult times. As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, my colleague has died. She was murdered. It was in all the papers this morning.”

  “Pamela Peel.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry. It was good of you to keep your appointment under the circumstances.”

  “Everyone expects me to maintain Henderson and Peel’s high standards despite this dreadful event. My parents . . . Pamela herself . . . I felt I had no choice but to go on,” he ended rather abruptly. He raised his glass to his lips and drank.

  Josie took the time to examine Shep Henderson while he sipped his brandy. He wore an elegant black suit with a sparkling white shirt and a pinstriped white-on-black tie. His shoes were polished. A heavy gold Rolex hung loosely from one thin wrist. A handsome man in his early forties, he wore his pale gold hair in a conservative cut. The more she looked, the more he reminded her of Jimmy Stewart. “You and Pamela Peel must have been very close,” she said without thinking.

  Fortunately, he didn’t appear to find the comment odd. “We had been business partners for years. We worked together each and every day. We . . . we had to trust each other. And, of course, you know how rare that sort of relationship is in this city.” He looked up at her.

  “Of course.” Josie paused and then plunged in. “Exactly how long had you known each other?”

  “Oh, my. Forever. We met first in college years and years ago. But it wasn’t until we had both moved to the city and were working for other decorators that we ran into each other again. Neither of us liked our situation. I was slaving for a man who took my ideas, presented them as his own, and then refused to allow me to work on anything original. Pamela was being used as a front person by one of the most irritating decorators in the business. He was using her looks and personality to charm potential clients into hiring him but not allowing her to contribute anything creative. We were both afraid that would go on for years. And we were both desperate to have our own design firm. I was positive we would make a good team and by joining forces we’d make a fortune.” He smiled wistfully and ran his hands around his snifter.