A Fashionable Murder (16 page)

“No, I guess not.”

“We should get going. Sammy will be at my place in less than fifteen minutes and I need to stop at the bakery on the way.”

“I thought we were just going to have cocktails at your place and then go on to a nearby restaurant.”

“We were, but I was thinking that perhaps we could stay home this evening. Sammy might even be convinced to chat about his life with Pamela if we can get him to relax.”

“Why do you think that’s more likely to happen at home in your apartment? Carol, you don’t want anyone to see your new hairdo!”

“Well, dear, you may not know your neighbors in the city, but, believe me, all you have to do is appear in public looking terrible for everyone you’ve met in the past ten years to show up.”

Carol Birnbaum lived on one of the top floors of a high-rise apartment house built during the building boom of the late eighties. She and Josie had stopped at a fabulous bakery on the way and Josie carried a shopping bag filled with a selection of bread and rolls, each one purported to be “Sammy’s favorite,” as they walked into the apartment. The foyer opened onto the living room and they could look out the wall of windows to a fabulous view of downtown New York City. The women paused for a moment to enjoy the sight, and then Carol reached out and switched on the lights.

“The kitchen is to your right,” Carol said.

But Josie wasn’t listening. She walked slowly into the living room, looking around. “Carol, this is gorgeous.”

And it was. The walls were painted a soft apricot. Two couches, upholstered in rich gold silk, had deeper jewel-toned silk pillows tossed on them. A jade green mantel surrounded a fireplace on the wall across from the windows. Large glass lamps stood on enameled end tables. And gold sconces with cream-colored candles shared the wall space with golden frames around large, colorful, modern water-colors. A big Samarkand carpet pulled all the elements together and walking across its cushioning nap was a pleasure after the hard sidewalks and streets outside.

“Thank you.” Carol was hanging her fur in the closet next to the front door so Josie couldn’t see her face, but she sounded rather strange.

“Carol! Henderson and Peel decorated this place, didn’t they?” Josie asked, suddenly understanding Carol’s uncharacteristic reticence.

“Yes. Well, Pamela did. Yes.” Carol sighed. “If only I’d gone with another decorating firm.” She sighed again. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll get out some munchies, pour some wine, and tell you all about it.”

The kitchen was as marvelous as the living room. The cabinets were black cherry, the countertops pink granite, the tile and paint on the walls a deep eggplant. The combination was unusual, but it worked. Josie made a mental note to remember this the next time Island Contracting was hired to remodel a kitchen. Three stools, their seats covered with plum silk, were tucked underneath the counter. Josie pulled one out, perched on it, and waited for Carol to explain.

“You may know that Sammy has dated a lot of women,” she started.

“Of course.” She didn’t like it, but she knew it.

Carol sighed. “But no one for very long. His girlfriend in college joined the Peace Corps the week they graduated. There was a woman in law school who I thought he might be serious about, but then she accepted a position with a law firm in San Francisco and he came back to New York. Here . . . well, playing the field is easy for a good-looking young professional in the city. There are thousands of single women looking for straight, successful men. Sammy just couldn’t seem to settle on one. And then he came over to see me one evening after a long day in court and met Pamela Peel.”

“Love at first sight?” Josie asked, hoping the answer was no.

“Yes.”

Oh well. “You must have been pleased,” Josie said, hoping she didn’t sound as shaky as she felt.

“I was thrilled. Pamela was exactly what I had been hoping for for Sammy—gorgeous, successful, intelligent, ready to settle down and have children—Do you think Sammy would like olives or artichokes marinated in herbs?”

“I . . .” Josie was too surprised by the change of topic to make an intelligent comment.

“We’ll have both,” Carol continued without waiting for an answer to her question. She emptied two plastic pint containers on a large black pottery platter and surrounded the resulting mounds with disks cut from a long baguette. “Sammy’s not eating enough to keep an ant alive.”

“Do you think he’s upset that Pamela’s dead?” Josie asked.

Carol’s head was in her refrigerator and she either didn’t hear or didn’t choose to answer Josie’s question. “There!” She reappeared with a large chunk of cheese. “This is Spanish. I can’t remember its name . . . starts with an M. Sammy will love it. What were you saying, dear?”

“I . . . nothing. You were telling me about Pamela and Sam’s relationship,” she reminded her.

“Well, now that I think of it, there’s not all that much to tell. They started dating, went everywhere together. They went on vacation together. Even rented a summer place out on the island . . . Long Island,” she explained in case Josie hadn’t picked up on the reference. “They did everything together except make plans for the future.”

“You mean they didn’t become engaged to be married,” Josie said quietly.

“Exactly. I never understood it. Even after she decorated his place, they said nothing publicly about the future. And then, suddenly, Sammy announced he was going to change careers. And a few months later he was gone and a photo of Pamela Peel on the arm of a very rich venture capitalist was on the society page of the Sunday
New York Times
.”

“You said . . . When you were talking about the night Sam took you and Pamela to the Rainbow Room, I got the impression that he wanted the three of you to be close,” Josie said.

“Close.” Carol stood in the middle of the kitchen, a bottle of Cabernet in one hand, a corkscrew in the other, as though mulling over the question. “We did a lot of things together. I couldn’t say I was close to Pamela. She . . . she never really let me share her life.” She put the wine on the counter and looked up at Josie with a smile. “She was nothing like you, dear. You’ve been so sweet and let me into your life. You know how I feel about you and Tyler. . . .”

Just when Carol might have gone on and given Josie a hint concerning what she thought her own future with Sam might be, a buzzer interrupted them. Carol’s face broke into a wide smile and Josie realized, for the first time, just how anxiously she had been awaiting her son’s appearance.

As Carol hurried off to open the door for Sam, Josie sat and reminded herself that finding the identity of the person who had killed Pamela was the important thing. Once there was no longer any danger that Sam would be arrested, she would worry about whether or not she had met him on the rebound and if they had a future together.

“Good God, Mother. What the hell did you do to your hair?”

Sam had arrived. Josie slid off the stool and went to greet him.

“I know. Dreadful, isn’t it? First thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to look for someone to undo the damage.” Carol followed her son into the kitchen, smiling happily. “We were thinking of takeout here tonight instead of going to a restaurant.”

“Whatever you want to do,” Sam answered. “If you want to go out, you could wear some sort of hat, couldn’t you?”

“I suppose, but there’s sushi, Chinese, Thai, Italian, Greek, and a good deli all less than a block away. Why don’t we just make a phone call or two and have dinner delivered?”

“Whatever you want,” Sam repeated, walking over and kissing the top of Josie’s head. “Did you have a good day?” he asked.

Josie leaned against him and allowed herself to be warmed by his concern. “Yes. I may just become addicted to this life of leisure.”

“Is that a bottle of California Cabernet I see?” Sam asked, releasing Josie without acknowledging her comment.

“We were waiting for you to open it,” Carol said.

“Well, wait no longer,” Sam said, picking up the bottle and corkscrew and getting to work.

Carol was busy fussing with their appetizers and Josie sat back and watched mother and son. They worked together well, moving around the small space without getting in each other’s way and she was soon sipping wine and selecting olives with her newly pink fingernails. “How was your day?” she asked Sam.

“Not bad. Oh, I met Jon for lunch and he gave me a message from Betty to you. She asked that you give her a call.”

“Why don’t you do that now, dear? You could use the phone next to my bed—if you want some privacy,” Carol added rather pointedly.

“That’s a good idea.” Josie picked up her wine goblet and stood up. “Where. . . ?”

“Right through the living room,” Carol answered the unasked question.

Carol’s bedroom was small and almost filled by her king-size bed. There was a phone sitting on the brass nightstand and Josie put her glass down carefully, picked up the receiver, and dialed Betty’s phone number. Betty answered almost immediately. Josie heard JJ crying in the background.

“Poor little guy has lots of gas tonight,” Betty explained. “But Jon’s with him. Which is just fine. He probably won’t be able to hear what I’m telling you over his son’s wailing.”

“Listen, Betty, I was going to call and I want to ask you a question before Sam comes in the room. Could you possibly make a few—well, maybe more than a few—phone calls tomorrow. It’s to help Sam,” she added.

“No problem. Just tell me who you want me to call and why.”

“We’re looking for people—contracting companies—that worked for Henderson and Peel. Carol thought that perhaps people who worked for Pamela could tell us something more about her. And I sure hope she’s right. We haven’t learned much except that she was a lousy tipper.”

“Even in New York, I don’t think that particular habit could get you killed,” Betty said. “But, listen, I’d be happy to do it. I’m looking for someone to refinish the floors in our place. There are some tiny splinters popping up in the hallway and I don’t want JJ to get hurt when he starts to crawl. I’ll call all the major upscale contractors, mention Henderson and Peel and see what I can find out. Is that what you’re looking for?”

“Perfect!” Josie picked up her wineglass and sipped. “Now tell me why you wanted me to call you.”

Five minutes later, Carol entered her bedroom and discovered Josie kneeling on the floor. “What are you doing?”

“I . . . I spilled my wine. I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t stain your rug.” She was rubbing the carpet with a pink towel that she had pulled off the rack in the bathroom.

“Why don’t I call Sammy to bring us a sponge and . . .”

“Don’t do that!” Josie insisted, grabbing Carol’s arm and pulling her down to the floor. “I talked to Betty. She says . . .” Josie took a deep breath and finished the sentence. “She says that Jon told her that Sam refused to tell the police if he’s seen Pamela Peel since he returned to the city.”

SEVENTEEN

THEY DECIDED NOT to tell Sam what Betty had told Josie. As Carol said, “After all, Sam’s a smart man, if he wants to tell us, he will. If he doesn’t want to tell us or talk about it, we can’t force him to. And, if we don’t tell him we know, we won’t have to tell him what we’re going to do.”

“What are we going to do?” Josie whispered, following Carol back into the living room.

“We’re going to try to get him to talk about Pamela. . . . No, you shouldn’t be the one to do it,” she added. “This is a job for an interfering mother. I’ll do it!”

Sam was stretched out on the sofa, glass in hand, when they reentered the living room. “How about Thai for dinner?” he suggested. “Is King of Siam still in business, Mother?”

“New owners. New name—something about a rainbow. Still wonderful, wonderful food,” she answered, sitting down on the other sofa and examining a tiny Lalique bowl sitting on her coffee table as though she’d never seen it before.

“Mother, are you okay?” Sam asked.

“Just a bit tired. Getting a really bad dye job takes it out of someone my age, you know. Josie, dear, there are a number of menus in the drawer underneath the wall phone in the kitchen. Would you mind getting them for us?”

“Sure!”

Josie had no trouble locating the drawer, which was stuffed with menus of many shapes and sizes. She laid them out on the counter and, finding three that appeared to feature Thai food, she returned to the living room with them in hand. Neither Sam nor his mother appeared to have moved. Josie handed Carol the menus and sat down.

“What do you want?” Carol asked.

“I don’t know anything at all about Thai food,” Josie said. “Is it like Chinese?”

“No.” Sam sat up and held out his hand to his mother. “Why don’t you let me order? I know the type of thing Josie likes. I’ll pick out a selection of dishes and we can share.”

“Wonderful! Just don’t forget how much I like Pad Thai,” Carol added, beaming at her clever son.

“Fine.” Sam stood up and headed toward the kitchen phone. “Would you like another glass of wine while I’m here?” he called over his shoulder.

“I’d love one,” Josie said.

“And have one yourself,” his mother suggested. “Remember you’re in the city now. It’s not as though you have to drive home tonight.”

Sam didn’t answer and Josie heard him dialing the phone. When the restaurant picked up and he seemed to be involved in a rather long conversation about the relative hotness of various dishes, Carol leaned over to her. “Let’s wait until he’s had another glass or two of wine and then I’m going to flat out ask him about Pamela Peel.”

“Okay, but I don’t see . . .”

“Here’s your wine, Josie.” Sam put the glass down on the coffee table in front of her. “Now why don’t you tell me what you and Mother have been whispering about ever since I arrived?”

Josie glanced over at Carol, panicked. “We . . .”

“We’ll tell you in our own good time,” Carol said. “Women like to have their little secrets, you know.”

If this type of coyness was as unlike his mother as it was Josie, Sam didn’t seem to feel the need to protest. “Fine.” He picked up his glass and drank it down. “Perhaps I should open another bottle.”