A Fashionable Murder (5 page)

“Josie.” Betty reached out and patted her friend’s arm. “You don’t have to explain. It’s not the apartment or the food or even Risa. It’s your independence. You’re worried about giving up your independence.”

“Am I being stupid? I worked so hard to get where I am. And once I’m Sam’s wife, it won’t be the same. I’ll be responsible for him. He’ll be responsible for me. It won’t be the same.”

“It may be better,” Betty said gently.

“I know. It probably will be better, but . . .”

Betty smiled. “You have to do what makes sense to you.”

“I know that too.” Josie brightened up. “And he might not even ask me. I’ve been here for less than a day and Sam seems sort of distracted. Most of what he talks about when we’re alone is the women in his past—”

“What?”

“Yeah. One Pamela Peel in particular. She’s a decorator.”

“Oh, I know who she is! Everyone on the Upper East Side knows who she is! She’s famous.”

“She’s just an interior decorator,” Josie said slowly. “Maybe we’re talking about a different person.”

“Pamela Peel is half of Henderson and Peel. They’re the hottest decorators around. Everyone wants them! They probably have a two- or three-year waiting list. And in this economy that’s a big deal!”

“And she’s beautiful and rich, right?”

“Well, she should be rich. She’s certainly successful. And adorable more than beautiful. She has this gamine look. A cap of shiny blond hair. Blue eyes. Gorgeous skin. And she’s thin and sort of athletic looking. I’ve heard that she reminds people of Tinkerbell. You know, Peter Pan’s fairy.”

“Sounds like a lot of the women I’ve passed on the street in the last twenty-four hours,” Josie said bitterly.

“Oh, but she’s not ordinary. Her photo is always popping up in the Styles section of the Sunday
New York Times
and there’s actually a big article about her in this week’s
New
York
magazine. Her photo is on the cover and everything!”

“You’re not making me feel better.”

“No, I guess not. I’ll stop talking about her.”

“I wish I could stop thinking about her. It’s just that as long as I’m in the city, I’m staying in an apartment she decorated, sleeping in a bed she picked out, and . . . Oh, I don’t know. I came to New York to be with Sam while he cleaned up his apartment before putting it on the market. I thought of this trip as a time for him to be disconnecting from his past. But it’s not working. Sam’s not leaving his past behind. In fact, I feel as though I’m somehow slipping into it.”

“Listen, you came to the city worried about Tyler. You have very legitimate concerns about what marriage to Sam might mean. And everything here is new to you. There’s a lot coming at you in a short time. Sam told Jon that he’d gotten tickets to that hot new Broadway show. Go have a long, relaxing dinner and then enjoy the show. You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep with the man you love.”

Josie snorted. “Well, maybe. But I’d feel a whole lot better if Sam and I weren’t sleeping in a bed that Pamela Peel picked out for the two of them.”

FIVE

BUT JOSIE WAS to learn that sleeping in a bed another woman had picked out is not the worst thing that can happen to a couple. Sleeping in an apartment with a dead woman in it topped that particular list.

The crime scene team had just left Sam’s apartment when Harold called to announce Betty’s presence.

“Send her up,” Sam ordered the doorman. He flicked off the intercom and turned to Josie. “I’m sure Betty will understand if you cancel your plans. The detective said they were finished here. You may as well go back to bed.”

“No way!” Josie protested, yawning. “I’m exhausted, but I can’t imagine sleeping now, can you?” She waited a while, but apparently Sam thought hers had been a rhetorical question. “Do you want to do something together? Why don’t we go for a walk?”

“No. There are people I should call . . .”

Betty arrived at their door before Sam finished his sentence. Not that Josie thought he was going to finish it; his attention had drifted off as he was speaking.

“You’re not even dressed!” Betty announced as though Josie might not be aware of the fact that she still had Sam’s robe wrapped around her.

“I know. We found a body last night.”

“You what?”

Josie glanced over at Sam. He had wandered over to the window and was staring down at the street. She looked back at Betty. “Come into the bedroom with me. We can talk there.”

Neither woman said anything until they were alone together.

Betty got right to the point. “Whose body?”

Josie didn’t answer immediately and when she did, she spoke slowly and deliberately, pronouncing each syllable clearly. “Pamela Peel.”

“Who the hell is . . .” A look of understanding washed over Betty’s face. “Oh my God! Sam’s old girlfriend. We were just talking about her yesterday. Henderson and Peel, right?”

“Well, now just Henderson, I guess.”

“Where did you find her?”

“In the space underneath the window seat . . . in the living room. She had been strangled. The cord was still around her neck.”

“For a curtain?”

Josie looked up at her friend, a perplexed expression on her face. “Why are you talking about curtains?”

“You said there was a cord around her neck. I thought a cord from a curtain. Since she was underneath the window, right?”

“I guess. I don’t know what sort of cord it was or where it was from. I just know that it was used to kill her.” Josie sat down on the bed and looked around the room. “She decorated this room.”

“Really? It’s not very attractive, is it?”

“It’s ugly,” Josie said flatly.

“The padded walls are particularly unappealing,” Betty said, walking over and patting them.

“Yeah, soundproof. On the other hand, maybe they were put up for practicality instead of decoration. Maybe Pamela Peel was particularly vocal in bed,” she added ruefully.

“Not anymore,” Betty reminded her.

“Yeah, I know,” Josie admitted. “I’m not being very nice about her, am I?”

“Well, she was just killed. . . .”

“I know. I think the policeman thought it was a bit strange to dislike someone I’d never even met.”

“And why does a policeman know anything about your feelings?”

“Betty, Pamela was murdered. Of course there were policemen here. And . . .” Josie paused before continuing. “And it was in the middle of the night when we found her body. I wasn’t thinking. When a seemingly sweet policewoman and her partner gave me a cup of hot tea in the kitchen and asked me how I felt about finding Ms. Peel’s body, I told them. Stupid, right?”

“Josie, murder is nothing new to you. You know better than to make yourself the primary suspect in a murder investigation.”

“I did tell them that I’d never met Pamela Peel,” Josie protested. “Oh hell, I just wasn’t thinking about much except Sam.”

“What about Sam?”

“He looked so miserable, so unhappy, so devastated . . .” She took a deep breath, pushed her hair back over her shoulders, and said the words she didn’t even want to hear. “So much like a man who had just discovered that someone he loved had died.”

“Oh, Josie.” Betty sat down on the bed next to her friend. “You know Sam loves you.”

“I do, but you know what else? I feel as though I’ve been competing with Pamela Peel for years. Sam is always mentioning her, along with the other women he dated. You know Sam.”

Betty nodded.

“But Sam’s mother once said something I’ve never been able to forget,” Josie continued. “She said that everyone they knew was shocked when he moved to the island. Apparently everyone thought he was going to marry Pamela Peel and settle down. Everyone including Carol,” Josie added.

“Sam’s mother is one of the most flamboyant women I’ve ever met. I can’t imagine her being fond of a woman who decorates an apartment to resemble a gray flannel suit.” Betty got up and began to rummage in an open suitcase that was lying on the steely dresser.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding you some clothing. You’ll feel better after you get dressed.”

“I suppose. I tried to talk Sam into going for a walk with me but he said something about making phone calls.”

“Then he doesn’t need you and you’ll feel much better after a haircut.” Betty put down the cotton sweater she had pulled out of the suitcase. “I wonder if we should schedule a facial too . . . or maybe a massage. They’re both really relaxing. What do you think?”

“Betty, you don’t think I’m going to go to the hairdresser now, do you?”

“Why not? You said Sam had things to do, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“And the police had finished here and they haven’t asked you to hang around either, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“So you really don’t have anything else pressing to do, do you? Unless you think saying things to the police that will force them to include you in their list of potential suspects is something you might pursue further. . . .”

“Of course not! I just don’t think getting my hair cut while Sam is obsessing about his long-lost love is a good idea.”

“Got a better one?”

A tiny smile slowly spread across Josie’s face, causing her to crinkle her freckle-covered nose. “Nope. But I do have to be absolutely sure Sam doesn’t need me.”

“Get dressed and we can ask him.”

“Okay, but I should wash my hair before we go.”

“Josie, in less than an hour someone is going to wash your hair for you.” Betty raised her hand to prevent Josie from answering. “Look, I know just how you feel. I always used to try to look my best before going too. These spas and salons can be intimidating. But, believe me, there is no reason to wash your hair. Or put on makeup, unless you really want to.”

“I have to admit I really don’t feel like getting all dressed up.”

“Then don’t. We’ll have a few highlights put in your hair. They’ll give you a robe to protect your clothing.” She tossed the sweater to Josie. “You can wear this.”

Josie felt there was just too much coming at her too quickly for her to deal with in her sleep-deprived state. “Do you really think I should leave Sam alone?” she asked, picking up the sweater from where it had fallen on the bed.

Sam himself answered that question for her, sticking his head in the door to make an announcement. “Josie, I’ve got to go out. I’ll be back by dinnertime.”

“I . . . you’re what? Where are you going? What about the police? What if they come back?”

“They’re done here. The team that showed up were old friends of mine back in the days when I was prosecuting for the city. They did a thorough investigation—but, perhaps, not as thorough as if they hadn’t known me. They have everything they need. I can’t imagine that they’ll be back.

“Anyway, I left keys for you on the coffee table. The silver one opens the apartment door. You and Betty have a great day exploring the city. I’ll see you tonight.” His head vanished and a few seconds later the front door slammed.

Josie ran from the bedroom with Betty close on her heels. They found themselves alone in the apartment.

“He’s gone!” Both women looked around as though expecting Sam to materialize in the corner or suddenly appear sitting on the couch. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Josie repeated, obviously bewildered.

“I thought you said he had some phone calls to make.”

“That’s what he told me. I never expected him to dash off like that.” Josie frowned. “I don’t know what to do.”

Betty took over. “Get your haircut. It’s the New York City woman’s response to crisis. Besides, what else do you have to do today? You don’t want to hang around here, do you?”

Josie glanced around the dreary interior, now liberally doused with fingerprint powder. “I sure don’t. Let’s go.”

Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door Spa and Salon on Fifth Avenue was well known all over the world. Probably millions of women had walked through the door and into the inner sanctum dedicated to beauty during the many decades it had been in existence. And certainly many of them had been less than chic when they arrived, but Josie, looking at the other women zipping in and out of the small street-level shop, couldn’t imagine that any of them could look any smarter than they already did.

“The elevator’s in the back.” Betty nudged her forward. “We’re going to the second floor.”

“Oh . . . okay.” Josie, who had been reaching out for a tiny bottle of pale green liquid, moved forward.

A thin young woman sporting an asymmetrical haircut bent her perfectly outlined lips into a half smile. “We have numerous displays of that product on the upper floors. You’ll be able to buy anything you want after you get your hair done,” she assured Josie.

Josie merely smiled back and hurried after Betty.

The elevator walls carried advertisements for the various spa services, but Josie was still trying to figure out what lava rocks had to do with beauty when they arrived at their floor.

“Back there.” Once again Betty pointed out the way and once again Josie followed, feeling like a kid on the first day of kindergarten. Three gorgeous blondes, giggling shrilly, brushed by them in the hallway. “I could have killed her,” one of them announced as she passed. Josie swung around and stared.

“Come on, we’re late. And they’re not talking about Pamela Peel,” Betty insisted, pulling on Josie’s sleeve.

“How do you know?”

“Josie, this is a huge city. What are the odds. . . ? Oh, thank you.” Betty interrupted herself to accept a shiny brown robe from the coatroom attendant. “She needs one too,” she added, nodding to Josie. The gray-haired attendant handed Josie a wooden hanger with her robe hanging from it. A red plastic disk with number seven stamped on its surface was tied to the hanger.

“Thank you,” Josie said, smiling vaguely and following Betty down another narrow hallway, this one lined with curtained booths like a department store dressing room.

“Take off your sweater and put this on,” Betty ordered.

Josie did as she was told, thinking about how her previous relationship with Betty had changed. In the past, Josie had always been in the dominant role: as older woman, as employer, as the one with the more stable lifestyle. Now Betty was in charge and Josie followed.