New Year's Eve Murder (10 page)

“And she scoops them all up. Every single one. When’s the last time she offered something to you?”

“It’s her prerogative. She’s the beauty editor.”

“In name only. You do all the work.”

“That’s nonsense,” protested Phyllis, brushing some mascara on Lucy’s lashes. “Nadine’s the idea person. I just do what she tells me.”

“Admit it,” snapped Fiona. “If she never came back you couldn’t tell the difference, except we’d all get more free stuff.”

“You just want the bottle of Penhaligon perfume,” said Phyllis.

“Can I take it?”

“Sure.” Phyllis giggled. “Just don’t tell Nadine.”

“Cross my heart,” said Fiona, spraying it on liberally.

Lucy was still trying to pin down the fragrance—predominantly floral, but with a hint of something exotic—when they went to the fashion department to try on their new outfits. Lucy had to admit Elise had chosen well: the fitted jacket showed off her figure, and the long, straight pants, with heels underneath, made her legs look longer. Elizabeth’s off-the-shoulder top showed off her pale skin beautifully, and the flowing black skirt and boots were a nice change from the jeans she usually wore, yet it still looked fun and casual. They were quite pleased with their made-over selves when they headed for the photo studio.

That satisfaction changed when they saw the other women, all similarly arrayed in varying shades of black. And now that she got a good look at everyone, Lucy realized Rudy had given them all remarkably similar hairdos.

“Oh my gawd,” laughed Cathy. “We look like members of the same coven!”

“You shouldn’t joke about the devil,” said Lurleen.

“That hairdresser was a devil, that’s for sure,” said Ginny, fingering the shaggy pageboy that was a mirror image of Lucy’s and Lurleen’s and Serena’s styles. “We all have Jennifer Aniston’s hairdo.”

“But not the rest of her,” said Serena, patting her plump bottom, which was now disguised in a black A-line skirt. A scoop-necked blouse with a fitted waist flattered her ample decolletage while vertical stripes slimmed her middle.

“Well, I like the way I look and once I’m back home, away from you guys, I won’t look like I was stamped out with a cookie cutter,” said Lucy, as Pablo and Nancy arrived.

They both seemed happy enough with the contest winners’ new looks as they wandered from group to group, discussing possible poses.

“Fabulous, fabulous chiaroscuro,” murmured Pablo, stroking Elizabeth’s shoulder. “I’m thinking Goya, Rembrandt. A play of light and dark, like a classical portrait in a museum. And we’ll have a group shot, you know that very big painting of the Spanish royal court?”

“The one with the dwarf?” asked Nancy.

“That’s the one,” said Pablo, lifting Cathy’s face by the chin and turning it from side to side. “But I don’t want the dwarf. Maybe a monkey.”

“You want a monkey?”

“Yes.” Pablo had decided. “I must have a monkey.”

“Where am I going to get a monkey? And what if it bites someone. There may be liability issues.”

Pablo stamped his foot and tossed his head. “This is what I have to deal with, all the time! How can I be creative when it’s always a problem? Just borrow one from the zoo! In Central Park, a few blocks from here, there are plenty of monkeys. I saw them myself.”

“Pablo, be reasonable,” begged Nancy. “The zoo isn’t going to lend us a monkey.”

“No?” He hung his head, pouting.

“If you get the pose right you won’t need a monkey.”

“You’re right! Pablo is a genius; I don’t need a monkey. The camera is my monkey.”

This announcement seemed to satisfy Nancy, but Lucy found it puzzling, as did the others.

“What does that mean? The camera is my monkey?” whispered Lurleen.

“He’s an artist,” said Lucy, with a shrug.

Before Lurleen could reply, the two women were pulled apart by Pablo’s assistant, who was arranging the women according to the photographer’s instructions, which he shouted down from his perch on a tall ladder. This familiar routine of being pushed and shoved around and ordered to hold uncomfortable poses for excruciatingly long periods of time was beginning to irritate her. She was also worried about Elizabeth and kept sneaking glances to make sure she was all right, relieved that she was one of the lucky few who’d been posed on a chair. They’d been at it for almost two hours, and Pablo was promising a break when Camilla blew into the studio and planted herself in front of the group, arms akimbo.

“What’s going on here?” she demanded.

“This is the after photo,” said Nancy, stepping forward. “We’re going for a classic look inspired by Goya.”

“Goya! Is that why they’re all dressed like crows?”

“Actually,” said Nancy, “the black looks great.”

“It looks like crap.”

Nancy shifted uneasily from one foot to another and looked skyward at Pablo, still perched on his ladder. “Pablo says…”

“I don’t care what Pablo says, I’m the editor here and I say this looks a lot more like
The Stepford Wives
than Goya, despite our little artiste’s pretensions, and I DON’T WANT STEPFORD! I want INDIVIDUALITY! I want our readers to think they can buy a new lipstick or get a new dress and it will transform them from ordinary to extraordinary.”

Lucy found this exchange fascinating. She had no idea that magazine editors actually uttered the phrases they plastered on the covers. Pablo, however, remained impassive, high above the turmoil below. “Listen,” he said, leaning down to speak to her, “this black was not my idea.”

“No?” Camilla’s back stiffened.

“No! Black is what I got, everyone in black, so I think: What can Pablo do with black? The answer is obvious. Goya. But,” he paused and held up a hand, “if it was up to me, I would put each of these lovely ladies in a different color and they would be like a garden of beautiful flowers.”

“So who decided to go with black?”

“You know perfectly well,” said Nancy, coolly. “Elise chose all the clothes.”

Camilla’s eyes flashed and there was a collective intake of breath as everyone waited, expecting an explosion. It never came. Instead, Camilla marched over to the intercom and calmly requested that Elise come to the photo studio.

As a reporter, Lucy had learned long ago that bad news travels fast. She figured the photographer’s assistant had dropped a word to a friend in the advertising department who had run into someone from the fashion department in the ladies’ room. That’s how it went, whether you were in a little town like Tinker’s Cove or a big city like New York. Still, it was disconcerting when Elise arrived in a flood of tears. Somehow Lucy hadn’t pictured her as the emotional type.

“Elise, dear,” said Camilla, her voice as sweet as sugar, “do you see anything wrong with this picture?”

“Ohmigod,” she wailed, wrapping her arms around Camilla and collapsing into her arms. “I can’t believe it.”

“Now, now.” Camilla was staggering under the larger woman’s weight. Fortunately, whether her grief made it impossible for her to support herself or because she realized that Camilla’s little bird body was about to snap, Elise slid to her knees, still keeping her arms wrapped around Camilla’s tiny waist. Camilla looked extremely put out at the situation. “It’s not as bad as that,” she snapped, trying to squirm out of Elise’s constricting grip. “We’ll just get them some different outfits.”

Elise lifted her tear-filled eyes to meet Camilla’s. “Haven’t you heard?”

Camilla’s eyes flashed, but she managed to retain control of her voice. “Heard what?”

“Nadine’s gone.” Elise continued her downward slide to the floor, pulling Camilla down with her. “Nadine’s dead.”

A
part from Faith and Lurleen, who immediately fell to their knees and began praying, nobody seemed to know how to react to the news. They all stood awkwardly, watching and waiting.

“Nobody dies from the flu,” declared Camilla, struggling to get back on her feet but hampered by her four-inch heels. “Who told you she’s dead?”

“Arnold’s secretary called,” blubbered Elise, as her substantial shoulders shook with sobs and she pounded her fists on the floor. “She said there were complications.”

Camilla glared at Nancy and Pablo, who were whispering together in a corner. “Help me up, you idiots!” she screamed.

The two rushed over to the entangled pair. Pablo helped Camilla up while Nancy attempted to console Elise, who was now flat on her stomach with her face buried in her hands.

Back on her pointy little Manolos, Camilla straightened her black-and-white tweed suit and ran her hands through her hair, returning it to its previous perfection. She pointed a crimson-tipped finger at Elise. “Get her up!” she barked to Nancy and Pablo.

Pablo and Nancy’s eyes met as they each took one of Elise’s elbows and gave the old heave-ho, succeeding only in raising her to her knees. With a second enormous effort they managed to get her somewhat upright.

“Bring her along. I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” Camilla declared, stomping out of the studio. Pablo and Nancy followed, struggling to support Elise who was now making pathetic mewing sounds and sniffling noisily.

Everyone seemed to expel a sigh of relief when they were gone, except for Faith and Lurleen, who were absorbed in their prayers.

“Well, I for one am glad this makeover is almost over and I can go home to sunny California,” said Serena, giving her daughter a supportive hug. “We don’t have flu in California, at least I don’t think we do.”

“Well, we have it in Omaha,” said Ginny, “but otherwise healthy people don’t die of it. Did she have some sort of condition like asthma? Some sort of immune deficiency?”

“She always seemed pretty healthy to me,” said Cathy. “She never missed any promotions at Neiman Marcus, that’s for sure. She’d fly two thousand miles for a free meal.”

“You ought to be ashamed,” declared Maria, eyes blazing. “It’s not a joke. The poor woman is dead, just like we all will be one day.” She crossed herself, as did Carmela.

“It sure makes you think,” said Cathy, shaking her head. “She had everything. She was married to a millionaire, she had a great job on a magazine, she had it all.”

“Were there any kids?” asked Tiffany.

“No. No kids,” said Cathy. “At least none that she ever mentioned.”

Realizing that her own child had been awfully quiet, Lucy anxiously searched the group for her. She wasn’t standing with the others in the anxious little knot they had formed but had retreated to the raised platform, where she was slumped over to one side and fast asleep.

Lucy immediately knew something was very wrong. Elizabeth was a light sleeper and the commotion in the studio would have kept her awake, even if she’d felt tired enough to stretch out on the stage. She also liked her comfort but hadn’t even slipped her purse under her head as a pillow. Lucy anxiously remembered how she’d had so much trouble staying awake earlier, and this time, when she felt Elizabeth’s forehead, Lucy discovered she was burning with fever. Lucy gave her a shake; her eyelashes fluttered but Lucy couldn’t rouse her.

“Is something the matter?” asked Maria. “Should I call an ambulance?”

Lucy shook Elizabeth harder, and her eyes opened.

“Wake up, honey. We need to get you to the doctor. Can you walk?”

“Sure.” Elizabeth sat up and Lucy slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her to her feet.

“Thanks, but I think we can manage with a taxi,” Lucy told Maria. “Where’s the nearest emergency room?”

It didn’t matter whether you were at New York Weill Cornell Medical Center or Tinker’s Cove Cottage Hospital, all emergency rooms were the same, thought Lucy. She was sitting on one of those standard plastic chairs in the corner of an examining room. Elizabeth was lying on the table, and they were waiting for the doctor. They’d been waiting for what seemed like a long time, and Lucy suspected they’d only been put in the examining room because Elizabeth couldn’t sit upright in the waiting room and kept slumping against the other patients. Now she was, once again, sound asleep and the hand with the bite was red and swollen. Lucy didn’t like the looks of it one bit.

The door opened and a young man in green hospital scrubs and thick black-rimmed glasses introduced himself as Doctor Altschuler. “What’s the problem?” he asked, lifting first one and then the other of Elizabeth’s eyelids. Then he slid the stethoscope beneath her sweater and pressed it against her chest, listening intently.

“She’s got a fever, she keeps falling asleep, and she’s got this nasty bite on her hand,” said Lucy. “She’s been kind of sluggish for a day or two and I thought she might be coming down with the flu, but we’ve been very busy, too, and I thought she just might be tired.”

“Busy doing what?” asked the doctor, examining Elizabeth’s hand.

“We won a magazine contest for a trip to New York and makeovers.”

“Where do you live?”

“Tinker’s Cove, Maine.”

“How long have you been in the city?”

“Since Sunday.”

“I assume Tinker’s Cove is pretty rural?”

“It’s a small town, maybe a couple of thousand people,” said Lucy, losing patience. She wanted him to magically make Elizabeth all better. “It’s not New York but we have all the modern conveniences.”

“Could she have come in contact with a spider?”

“A spider?” Lucy looked at Elizabeth’s hand, then at her face. She was a real sleeping beauty.

“In the cellar or something?” prodded the doctor.

“I did have some Christmas presents hidden in the cellar, and she went down to get them,” said Lucy, remembering Elizabeth’s excited expression as she emerged with the cross-country skis. “I’ve heard that we do have black widows, but I’ve never seen one.” Lucy grimaced. “I don’t know if I’d recognize one, to tell the truth.”

“This isn’t a black widow bite. I think it’s a brown recluse.”

Lucy had never heard of such a creature. “Brown recluse?”

“They’re called ‘recluse’ because they’re very shy.”

Something about the doctor’s intensity gave Lucy the idea he had once been a small boy who was very interested in bugs and had probably spent hours at the library learning all he could about them.

“But it’s winter,” protested Lucy. “Don’t they die in winter?”

“They creep into cellars, places like that, where there’s enough warmth for them to survive. If they’re disturbed, they sometimes bite.”

“Is it poisonous?”

“Oh yes.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “What’s going to happen to Elizabeth? Is there an antidote?”

“No antidote.” He shoved his eyeglasses back up his nose and peered reassuringly at her. “Don’t worry. They’re rarely fatal.”

“Rarely! That’s not good enough!”

“I’m very confident she’ll be fine. She’s young and healthy and she’ll recover quickly. Of course, we’ll keep her here in the hospital and start her on antibiotics as a precaution against secondary infection. We don’t have anything to counteract the effects of the bite, but we can treat the symptoms: control the fever, put her on a ventilator if she has trouble breathing, give her medication to control convulsions, that sort of thing.”

Lucy was horrified. “Convulsions?”

“Rare, but something we have to watch for.”

“Can I stay with her?”

“Absolutely, Mrs….” He paused to check the chart. “Mrs. Stone. But it’s not necessary. This is one of the world’s premier medical facilities. We have excellent nurses here and…” he checked the chart again, “Elizabeth will get the best of care. I suggest you go down to the cafeteria and get yourself something to eat while we transfer Elizabeth to intensive care.”

“Intensive care?”

“One of the nurses can give you directions,” he said, on his way out the door.

Shattered, Lucy sat back down in the chair and pulled her cell phone out of her purse with shaking hands.

Bill answered on the third ring. Lucy clung to his hearty voice like a lifeline.

“Elizabeth’s sick. Really sick. The doctor says it’s a brown recluse spider bite.”

“What?”

“In the cellar, maybe when she went down on Christmas Day to get the skis.”

“She got bit? How come she never said anything? Is it serious?”

“They’re putting her in intensive care.” Lucy had trouble with those last two words and started to cry.

“Take it easy, Lucy.” Bill’s voice was strong. “She’ll be fine.”

“I’m scared.”

“Of course you are. Let me talk to her.”

Lucy looked at Elizabeth, who was out like a light.

“She’s sleeping. That’s all she does.”

“Oh.” Bill paused, absorbing this information. “Well, it’s probably for the best.”

Lucy was distracted by the arrival of an orderly.

“They’re going to move her now. I better go.”

“Keep me posted,” said Bill.

Lucy couldn’t bring herself to leave Elizabeth and accompanied her on the trip to the intensive care unit. Elizabeth was unaware of the move and slept through it, not even flinching when an IV needle was inserted in her arm.

“You look like you need a break,” the nurse told Lucy, as she tucked a blanket around Elizabeth. “There’s a cafeteria in the basement.”

“I’m fine,” insisted Lucy.

“Go. Get something to eat. She’ll be here when you get back. I promise.”

“I couldn’t eat.”

The nurse looked at her steadily. “This could be a long haul. You need to keep your strength up. And some food will help with that headache.”

“I don’t have—” began Lucy, realizing that she did indeed have a headache. A real killer. “Okay.”

Lucy felt very small in the elevator, as if worry had somehow shrunk her. She also felt fragile and wished Bill were there to take her in his arms and let her rest her head on his broad chest. He wasn’t, though, and the nurse was right, she had to keep up her strength. Maybe eating would help with this hollow feeling, as if a strong breeze could blow her over.

She took a tray and shuffled through the line, taking a tuna sandwich, chips, and a cup of tea. She surprised herself by eating it all and went back for a piece of peach pie and more tea. No wonder she was hungry, she realized with a shock. According to the clock on the wall it was long past lunchtime. She’d already been in the hospital for hours, and it promised to be a long day. She was on her way to the lobby to see if there was a gift shop where she could buy something to read, something distracting, when she was surprised to recognize Lance coming toward her in the hallway.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, giving him a hug.

“I’m helping a professor of mine with a research project—this place is affiliated with Columbia, you know. What are you doing here?”

“Elizabeth is sick from a spider bite.”

Lance cocked his head, looking doubtful. “That’s crazy.”

“She’s in intensive care.”

His attitude suddenly vanished. “That’s terrible. Can I see her?”

“I’m not sure what the rules are,” said Lucy. “There’s no point right now. She’s sleeping.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow.” His eyebrows met over his classic Roman nose. “Do you know what kind of spider?”

“The doctor said a brown something or other.”

“A brown recluse?”

Lucy suspected Lance may have shared the doctor’s interest in bugs. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Sure, I’ve heard of it.” He looked surprised that she hadn’t. “But I’ll do some research and brush up on the facts. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“That would be great,” said Lucy, who felt completely at sea. “I’d really appreciate that.”

When she returned to the intensive care unit she found Elizabeth was still asleep, but when she pressed her lips to the girl’s forehead she discovered her fever had dropped. Reassured, Lucy settled down in a fake leather recliner and opened the latest edition of
Jolie
magazine, which she’d bought in the gift shop.

It was kind of funny, she thought, as she flipped through the pages of ads. Here she’d had this makeover thanks to
Jolie
, but she’d never actually read the magazine. It was Elizabeth who devoured each month’s issue and added it to the growing pile in her room. Lucy had never bothered to read it, assuming it was geared to younger women. She didn’t read magazines much, anyway, preferring novels and newspapers, and if this particular issue of
Jolie
was representative of the genre, she figured she’d made the right choice. She could hardly believe what she was reading, beginning with a feature article by Nadine defending the use of animals for testing cosmetics.

Lucy’s younger girls had spent the last few summers at Friends of Animals day camp so she knew this was a hot issue. Sara particularly enjoyed horrifying her mother with descriptions of rabbits subjected to eye make-up and piglets forced to eat lipstick ingredients. Trying to joke that at least the test animals would look good went over like a lead balloon. “It’s torture, Mom,” Sara informed her. “Remember, this is the stuff they’re testing. It’s not safe, like the stuff you buy.”