A Fashionable Murder (27 page)

“You can say that again,” Josie said, leaning against the desk. “My company works down at the shore, primarily on individual family homes, and a lot of the time we work off-season on summerhouses so the residents aren’t directly bothered by our work. I can’t imagine working on a small apartment like Sam’s while someone is living there.”

“It’s not easy, I can tell you. Of course, there are people who manage to get their work done while they’re at their summer homes up in Connecticut or out on the Island, but lots live with the dirt, dust, and workmen for the entire job. Never know with some of those people whether they’re happy the job is done or just real glad to be alone again.”

Josie chuckled. “I can’t imagine Sam was happy to have the work going on while he lived here.”

“Well, he always worked long hours and ate out a lot anyway. And he was dating that dead woman then and he stayed with her a lot too, I’d imagine.” Harold looked down at the floor.

Josie was about to feel uncomfortable with this statement and then she considered that it might be significant. Was it possible that Pamela Peel had wanted it that way? Could she have given Sam the decorating job as a Christmas present hoping the angst of work would force him to move in with her, and possibly never move out?

“Although Mr. Richardson’s job wasn’t like most jobs,” Harold continued.

“What do you mean?”

“Ms. Peel was real insistent that Mr. Richardson not see the job until it was complete, I remember that.” He chuckled. “She had that work done in record time. Came in one day with a moving company that packed up his personal stuff and then took every damn piece of furniture out of the apartment. Got rid of it one, two, three. I always wondered what happened to the big old desk he had in the living room. Good-looking piece, made of real chestnut and inlaid like with a darker wood. It probably went off to Goodwill or the Salvation Army with everything else.”

“Did the job take a long time?” Josie asked, thinking that if Pamela had wanted an excuse to keep Sam at her place, she might have been able to arrange for the decorating to take longer than was usual.

“Nope. Shortest job on record that I remember. Day after the place was emptied, it was all gutted. The actual construction took only a few days. She had so many workmen in there that they were complaining about bumping into one another. Then the decorating began. Those walls took four days to paint, I remember that.”

“Are we talking about the gray walls that are there now?” Josie asked.

“Yup. There’s an undercoat, of course. Then two layers of some special flat paint from the Netherlands, I remember that. Thought to myself back then that going to the Netherlands for that particular color paint was a real waste of time. Could of gone over to the Brooklyn Navy Yard and bought a few cans of the stuff they used to use on battleships, same dull gray. Anyway, there are two different glazes on the top of that foreign paint. Didn’t turn out to be anything special is my own personal opinion, but you’re the only one I’m sharing it with. . . . Sorry, I’ll be right back. Someone’s ringing the buzzer to get in.”

Josie stared down at the names of the contractors, wondering if one of them might have worked for Henderson and Peel when they decorated Sam’s place. She had just decided to ask Harold about that when he returned, a big smile on his face.

“It’s the Hoges in Three-B. One or the other of them is always losing their key. This time they did it together. Gotta get the spare and hand it over.” And he unlocked what Josie had thought was a fuse box on the wall. Three or four dozen keys hung there, all named and labeled. Notes hung from some hooks as well as keys. Josie stared. Betty hadn’t known about this when she had checked on Mentelle Park’s security arrangements!

Harold was barely back in the room when Josie asked her next question. “Who has access to those keys?”

If Harold was surprised by her blunt question, it didn’t prevent him from answering. “I’ll tell you what I told the police detective who asked about access to the apartments the morning that Pamela Peel was discovered. There are three doormen. We have access to this room, which is usually kept locked, and we all three have a key that opens the key box and gives us access to those keys. We three are the only people who can let anyone into his place. Period.”

“So the police thought someone might have used a key from here to get into Sam’s place and put the body there,” Josie said.

“They thought it, but I told them I doubted it.”

“Why?”

“Look, Mentelle Park Apartments is not some fly-by-night developer’s dream. We’ve been here a long time and we’re gonna remain here a long time—by the grace of God— and it’s not just the tenants who don’t move. The employees hang around too. I’ve been working here for over twenty-five years. The night guy was here when I came. The morning man is our newest employee and he’ll have been with us for a dozen years come summer. We do hire cleaners—companies to do the windows, someone who cleans the lobby twice a week—but no one has access to this room, or to these keys. And those outside people are bonded and never left alone. Mentelle Park Apartments is as secure as you can get in this city.”

“What if I came here without Sam and told you I needed to get into his place?”

“I’d tell you the same thing I told that pretty young friend of yours. You don’t get in without a key. Everyone knows keys are not given out by any employees. Now, as I told the policeman, you never know what residents might do.”

“You mean who they might give keys to.”

“Yup. That’s exactly what I mean. They’re not supposed to, but some of them have keys made for their significant others and sometimes those others don’t stay significant for too long.”

Josie reached into her pocket, pulled out the keys Sam had given her, and examined them. “It says do not copy. The words are printed right into the key.”

“Yeah, and marijuana’s illegal, but anyone can walk a few blocks and get that and most other illegal drugs as well. If you can make money selling it in this city, you’ll find it sold somewhere. Might have to look, might not. But you’ll find someone to copy that key easy. Most door keys have that message printed on them. Suspect most people just ignore it.”

“What about Sam’s tenant? Is it possible that he had keys made for other people?”

“I suppose so, but, to tell you the truth, Mr. Richardson’s tenant was a real quiet guy. Worked long hours. Always came home alone as far as I knew. They checked with the night man, too, and I happen to know he said the same thing. Can’t imagine that any keys were left around by him. Guess you’ll have to look someplace else for the person who had a key to Mr. Richardson’s place.”

“I guess I will,” Josie agreed, standing up.

“Sorry I couldn’t help you more.”

“Actually, you helped a lot,” Josie said, leaving the office and heading back across the lobby to the elevator.

TWENTY-EIGHT

JOSIE HAD A lot to think about during the short elevator ride up to Sam’s floor. What Harold either didn’t know or had chosen not to tell her was that all these residents who were so actively remodeling had possibly—probably—given a key to someone who was working on their place. So there were two reasons for Pamela Peel to have been given a key to this apartment: love, her relationship with Sam; and money, the decorating job she had taken on.

The door opened on Sam’s floor and Sam himself was standing there.

“Josie! I woke up and you were gone! Are you okay? How’s your head?”

“I’m fine, Sam. I just went downstairs to . . . to see what the snow looked like.”

“Snow looks different here than everyplace else?”

“Sort of.” Josie wandered over to the window and peered out, putting her hands in her pockets and jingling Sam’s keys.

“I talked with Betty on the phone and she said . . .” Josie had an inspiration. “She said it was gorgeous out and did I want to join her for a walk in Central Park. She said she and Jon do it all the time in snowy weather.”

Sam smiled. “That’s a good idea. If you’re feeling up to it, why don’t we both go?”

“That is a good idea, but . . . I have to go to the bathroom first. I’ll be right back.” Josie hurried toward her goal, stopping in the bedroom only long enough to grab the portable phone off the bedside table. She locked the bathroom door behind her and dialed. If only Carol was in . . .

She was! Without bothering to explain why, she told Carol exactly what she needed her to do and hung up, returning to the living room with a big smile on her face. “Ready?”

“Sure, just let me get my boots and coat. Damn,” he added when the phone rang.

Josie reached out to pick up the receiver.

“Don’t answer that, hon. Let’s have a nice quiet walk in the park together. Who knows who might be on the other end of the line.”

“But . . . but it might be Tyler! He might have a problem. I have to answer it.” Josie picked up the receiver before he could protest further. “Hello? It’s for you, Sam. Your mother. She says it’s important,” she added.

Sam sighed and reached for the phone, putting his hand over the receiver so the caller couldn’t hear him. “I’ll try to make it short.”

Josie sincerely hoped he didn’t manage to keep that particular promise, and she moved toward the doorway, picking up her still wet boots and damp coat. She sat down on the hard, black metal bench Pamela had provided, and prepared to reenter the storm.

She was not at all surprised when Sam put his hand back over the receiver and told her that he couldn’t go out right now. She just kept struggling to put her foot into the soggy boot. “Josie, you’re not going to go without me, are you? You might get lost.”

“I only have to walk three blocks to the west. We’re going to meet at the corner on Fifth.” For a moment, she was distracted by the pleasure she felt at saying this. She was speaking just like a New Yorker! “They’ve probably already left home. If I don’t hurry, they’ll freeze to death. You know Betty won’t let Jon leave that corner until I arrive. She worries about me in the city almost as much as you do!”

Sam sighed. “Okay. I guess I have to do this. Under any other circumstances . . .”

“Don’t worry. I understand,” Josie assured him. “And I won’t be long. Betty said just a short walk.”

“Do you have my key? You’ll need it to get back in.”

“Yes. I’m fine. I’ll just walk in the park for a bit with Betty and Jon then come right back here. And I’ll stop at the deli on the corner and pick up something to eat,” she added.

“It may not be open,” Sam warned her.

“I’ll find something. This is the city that never sleeps, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’ll be fine, Sam. Really!” Without allowing him more time to protest, she left the apartment.

Harold was busy with an elderly lady whose Pomeranian apparently needed to go out to visit the closest tree. Josie smiled and waved as she passed, heading out the front door and into the stinging cold. Once outside, she headed away from Central Park and right into the blinding snow. Fortunately she wasn’t going far. Two blocks to the right, turn left and one and a half blocks more. She put her head down and walked, determined to make it to Pamela Peel’s apartment in record time despite the weather. She didn’t know how long Carol could keep Sam on the phone and she didn’t want him to start to worry.

Some of the streets had been plowed and she had to climb over drifts of snow to cross at corners. Other streets had drifts down the middle. Unlike an hour or so earlier, there were people outside to have fun. A couple of cross-country skiers had taken over a lane on Park Avenue and were sliding along together, scarves flying out behind them. Families were walking and laughing, the children as thrilled as children always are by the opportunity to make snowballs and smash them into the backs of their parents.

Josie paused for a moment in front of the apartment building Carol had indicated just the other day. Would anyone notice that she didn’t belong here? And what would happen if someone did? Well, she would just have to take her chances. She took a deep breath of the cold air and walked through the large entryway.

And discovered herself in an enchanting little park. The apartment building had been built around a center courtyard. There were large trees, shrubs, benches, and a frozen waterfall, all illuminated by thousands of tiny white lights. Children were building an igloo in a space that seemed to have been reserved for parking at other times. A uniformed guard stood by, watching three young men clear paths between the five doorways into the building. Josie smiled, waved her key chain in the air, and headed for the closest door. It wasn’t locked and she found herself alone in a small foyer. To her right and to her left, glassed-in walkways had been built so residents could move around the interior of their common yard without actually going outside. Pots of blooming azaleas scented the warm, moist air. Josie spied a large copper rectangle dotted with a few dozen buttons; she hurried toward it. It was part of an old-fashioned intercom system. Josie read it through quickly. Pamela Peel had lived in apartment 5S—#3. She hurried toward the elevator.

Pamela Peel’s apartment was easy to find and, Josie was relieved to discover, she had guessed right about the last key on the ring. It opened the door of 5S—#3. Once inside, Josie glanced at the walls, found the light switch, but waited until the door was firmly closed behind her to turn on the lights. With a flick of the wrist, she lit up Pamela Peel’s home. Mindful of the neighbors below, she slipped off her boots and moved on tiptoe, careful to make as little noise as possible.

This was the place she had seen in the magazine article. Only the brief glimpse she had spied in the pages had given no clue to the extent of what was here.

The apartment had been described as eclectic—a combination of all the things she loved, Pamela had said in the article. Her loves were incredibly indiscriminate. There were very modern pieces right next to what looked like antiques. A collection of Scandinavian glass was displayed on an ornate brass baker’s rack. Handmade quilts hung on the wall beside another hideous abstract, which looked a lot like the one Pamela Peel had painted for Sam—only this one bore the name of an artist so famous even Josie recognized his name. There were three couches—two upholstered in matching chintz, the other covered with leather. There were six chairs and more occasional tables than most people would ever have an occasion to use.