A Fashionable Murder (8 page)

“Tyler, this is your mother. Please give me a call when you have a moment free. Sam . . .” She paused, wishing she had had the sense to think of what she was going to say before dialing his number. “There are a lot of things going on here that you might want to know about. Love you, hon. I hope you’re having a good time. Hi to Tony and his father.” She pressed the button to hang up and wandered over to the spot by the window where Sam had stood. Looking down, she realized that the peaceful scene she had pondered last night had disappeared, that mayhem seemed to be the order of the day. She counted four television microwave vans, aerials up.

Josie turned from the window and wandered around, once again examining the apartment. She had wondered sometimes why Sam had arrived on the island with so little in the way of personal belongings. Aside from clothing, some paintings, his computer, an incredible collection of books, and one comfortable chair, everything in his beach house was new. But this apartment didn’t seem to be missing anything. There were lamps on tables. Monochromatic photographs framed on the walls. There were even small appliances on the kitchen counters. Josie shrugged. Maybe all this was expected when an apartment was put up for rent in New York City. Certainly most houses on the island were rented furnished. On the other hand, these things had been chosen and purchased by Pamela Peel. If she had been the love of his life, wouldn’t Sam have brought some of it to the island to remind him of her? Josie ran her hand along the top of the gray suede-covered couch and wondered exactly who had ended their relationship. He had once told her that the decision was mutual, but were these things ever completely mutual? Wasn’t it likely that one person was more involved than the other? And wouldn’t that be important for her to know if . . .

Josie paused for a second, hand clenching the leather, lips pursed. She took a deep breath and finished her thought: If she was going to investigate Pamela’s murder.

When Sam reentered the room, only a few minutes later, there was no longer an
if
in that sentence. She was going to investigate. Period. She had to help Sam. And, she realized, she had to help herself; she needed to know the truth.

“Ready to go?”

“Yup. I’m starving.”

She was rewarded by a brief smile on Sam’s face. “Some things never change.” He opened the door for her and she walked through it, turning toward the elevator.

“No, this way.” Sam pointed her in the opposite direction. They went down the corridor and through an unmarked door. Here the wall-to-wall carpeting was replaced by ugly, worn linoleum and three large plastic recycling containers almost blocked their way. They continued on, passing a garbage chute, and walking through another unmarked door leading to another elevator. Sam pressed the down button and the doors slid open immediately. This elevator wasn’t paneled in expensive hardwood nor were there any mirrors. It was metal lined and the metal was liberally covered with dings and scratches. “This is the way the furniture travels in and out of the building,” Sam explained. “And, of course, tradesmen use this elevator too.”

The elevator moved more slowly than the one routinely used by residents so Josie had a few minutes to consider the fact that, if she had located her business in New York City, she’d be traveling in this elevator with its damaged walls rather than in mirrored luxury.

“This building is unusual in that it shares a basement with the building next door,” Sam explained.

“So?”

“So we’re going to go out through their basement and enter the street not from behind Mentelle Park but from the side of Tanbry Towers, our neighbor.”

“You’re saying that the press won’t notice us.”

“Not if we’re lucky. So what do you want for lunch?” Sam asked as they negotiated their exit toward the street again.

“I don’t care. Whatever you want.”

“There used to be a nice spot a few blocks over. La Belle Jardin. It’s a traditional French bistro.”

“Sounds fine.”

“Of course it may no longer be there. Restaurants come and go in this town.”

But La Belle Jardin was exactly where Sam had left it and the maître d’, apparently thrilled to see an old customer, ushered them to the best seat in the house and then dashed off to get a complimentary bottle of wine.

“That’s amazing,” Josie commented, looking around the charming bistro. It was decorated to resemble a French farmhouse, with massive bouquets of flowering branches standing on tables scattered about. Inside this cheerful room, it was possible to forget the slushy streets outside.

“What is?”

“You haven’t been here for how long? A couple of years?”

“At least.”

“And there are millions of people in the city; it’s actually possible that thousands come here to eat every year.”

“So?”

“He remembers you.”

“Carl probably remembers many good customers. It’s part of his job. Besides, Carl and I share a passion for wine. In fact, I was sitting in this very spot when I made up my mind to retire and go into the wine business.”

Josie smiled. “I’m glad you did.”

Sam smiled back at her and picked up the menu.

Josie did the same. But for once she wasn’t thinking about food. She was wondering how long Sam was going to avoid talking about the murder. It seemed she was going to be the one to raise the topic. “Sam, are the police . . .”

“Josie, I’d really rather not talk about all that in a public place.”

She looked around. It was true that the tables were close together, but there was no one on either side of them and the table itself was tiny. If they leaned toward each other, certainly no one would overhear their conversation. But she couldn’t force him to talk about it. “Okay. So what do you want to do this afternoon?”

Sam put down his menu. “I think I should spend some time with Jon. We have things to go over. Just in case.”

“Oh . . . well, then I guess I’ll go back to the apartment . . .”

“Josie, you’re in New York City. There are stores, museums, and lots of things to do. I hate to think of you sitting in that hideous apartment waiting for me to come home. It isn’t like you.”

“I guess not.” Josie picked up the large menu and hid behind it. Sam was wrong. This was like her. Not like the Josie Pigeon she had become. But like the Josie she had been when she was young and insecure. She’d worked hard to become self-sufficient and confident. Of course, sometimes she didn’t feel that way at all.

“Why don’t you call my mother? She would love to show you around.”

“What a great idea!”

Sam looked up, obviously startled. “Really? I mean, Mother can be rather—”

“Sam, your mother loves this city. Who would be a better person to show it to me?”

“Well, Mother loves Saks, Bergdorf’s, Bloomingdale’s, and Barney’s, but—”

“Perfect. I promised myself some new shoes. This way I can shop and see the city at the same time.”

Sam still looked doubtful. “You know how Mother likes to . . . to share her opinions.”

“Sam, we’ll be fine together. We get along at home, why not here?”

“I guess. But there is one thing.”

“What?”

“She may not have heard about Pamela’s death. In fact, I’m sure she hasn’t heard. She would have come over or at least have called if she knew.”

“So? Do you think I should be the one to tell her? I mean, I don’t think I should spend the afternoon with her and not mention it. That would seem a little odd.”

He didn’t answer right away. “I could call her . . .”

To Josie, his answer didn’t sound overwhelmingly enthusiastic. “If you don’t mind me being the one to tell her, I don’t mind doing it.” Besides, their conversation was finally heading in what she considered the right direction.

“She never admitted it, but I’m not sure she liked Pamela,” Sam said slowly. “So don’t be surprised if she isn’t terribly upset. But I don’t want her to start worrying about me.”

“You mean about you being upset or about the possibility of the police thinking you killed her.” Josie found herself unwilling to say the dead woman’s name.

Sam gave her a strange look. “Josie . . .”

But the arrival of the wine interrupted their tête-à-tête. For once, Josie was glad Sam made such a big deal about tasting the vintage. It gave her some time to think and plan. Spending the afternoon with Carol was a golden opportunity. Especially if Carol thought her darling son was a murder suspect. Josie knew she would learn a lot. She just hoped she would learn enough to start in the right direction.

“Josie.” Sam pointed to the full wineglass in front of her.

She took a sip and smiled. “Delicious.” She knew it was the only response necessary as Sam could find more to discuss in one glass of wine than she could possibly imagine. And attempting to join in would be impossible. To her wine was either delicious or not worth drinking. She had explained this to Sam early in their relationship and she hadn’t been bothered with questions about finish, legs, or bouquet ever since. She listened to the conversation, smiled when she thought a smile was appropriate, and frowned when she forgot she was supposed to be enjoying herself. When their waiter appeared, she and Sam both ordered and then she excused herself and headed off to the ladies’ room.

The door was still swinging closed as she pulled her cell phone from her purse and started to dial. Tyler first. Once again, he didn’t answer and Josie’s second message was almost identical to her first. Betty was the second person she called.

“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?”