New Year's Eve Murder (14 page)

It was no choice at all, really. She checked her cell phone battery and scribbled a note for Elizabeth, leaving it along with some toiletries and fresh pajamas. She wasn’t going far and Elizabeth could call if she needed her. She bent down and placed a quick kiss on her forehead, and then she was out the door.

L
ucy had attended plenty of funerals in Tinker’s Cove, but they were nothing like this, she thought as she approached the Frank E. Campbell funeral home on Madison Avenue. Temporary barricades had been set up to contain the inevitable celebrity watchers who had gathered to see exactly who was emerging from the line of limousines that was inching its way along the street. There was a smattering of applause when the mayor arrived and, ever the politician, shook a few hands before recalling he was there as a mourner. Assuming a serious expression he stepped under the maroon canopy and entered the gray stone building. Lucy followed, hot on his heels, but was stopped by a stocky young man in a black suit.

“May I see your invitation?”

Lucy opened her purse and began searching for an imaginary invitation.

“Oh, dear, I must have left it home.”

“I’m afraid I can’t admit anyone without an invitation.”

Lucy feigned a panicked expression. “Oh, please let me in. You see, I work at
Jolie
magazine and everyone’s been ordered to go and if I don’t show up, well, I’m afraid I’ll get in big trouble.”

The young man seemed doubtful about Lucy’s story but when Fiona trotted up to the door, calling Lucy by name and waving an invitation, he let them both in.

“Thanks,” said Lucy. “You arrived in the nick of.”

“No problem,” said Fiona, as they handed over their coats to the check room attendant. “He was kind of cute, in a ‘Six Feet Under’ sort of way.” She giggled. “Do you think he got to see Nadine naked?”

“Behave yourself,” said Lucy, forgetting for a moment that Fiona wasn’t her child. “This is a funeral.”

“Righto.” Fiona adopted a serious expression. “I’ll be good.”

Together they followed the stream of mourners proceeding down a plush carpeted hall to the memorial chapel. They could hear the soft strains of classical music and when they entered the chapel, which was filled with white-painted pews like a New England church, they found a string quartet was playing.

Nadine’s closed coffin was resting in the front of the room. Arnold was sitting in the first pew, in the seat closest to the coffin. He appeared to be weeping and was being consoled by Nancy Glass, who kept him supplied with fresh tissues. She couldn’t seem to keep her hands off him and was constantly patting his shoulder or holding his hand.

Hmm. Not so different from Tinker’s Cove, thought Lucy, taking a seat beside Fiona. They were in the back of the chapel, appropriate to their lowly status. The front rows, where name cards were affixed to the pews, were filling up fast with family, colleagues and celebrities. Lucy spotted Norah, looking very somber and sitting by herself. Anna Wintour from
Vogue
was there, along with Diane Sawyer and Barbara Walters, plus lots of people Lucy didn’t recognize but who seemed important—at least to themselves.

Camilla and Elise were the last to arrive. A role reversal had apparently taken place and today Camilla was the one overcome by grief, leaning heavily on her larger friend as they made their halting way down to their front-row seats. Both were clad in black: Camilla in a couture suit with a fitted jacket and a short skirt and Elise in one of the severe pantsuits she favored. This was a very different Camilla from the woman Lucy had seen at the magazine. She seemed unable to support herself and dabbed constantly at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. Lucy wondered if the realization of her loss had suddenly overtaken her, which she knew it sometimes did at a funeral, when it became impossible to deny the finality of the situation, or if she was simply putting on a show, which she knew people also did because they thought it was expected. Or, thought Lucy, maybe Camilla had finally realized the gravity of the situation now that the investigation had begun. Health officials would soon be closing the Jolie offices, if they hadn’t done so already, and the workers would be told to seek medical advice; police and FBI agents would be questioning everybody.

There was a considerable fuss as Camilla practically collapsed onto her seat and Elise fanned her with a program. A few rows behind them Lucy noticed accessories editor Deb Shertzer and Nadine’s assistant Phyllis, whispering together. She nudged Fiona and cast a questioning glance in their direction.

“No tears there,” said Fiona. “Phyllis has been promoted to replace Nadine.”

“Permanently?”

“That’s the word.”

Lucy was thinking that the promotion had taken place very quickly indeed when the rabbi, dressed in a black robe with velvet trim and a yarmulka, took the podium. “We are here today,” he began, “to celebrate the life of Nadine Nelson. Beloved wife of Arnold, dear friend to many, a tireless worker….”

“He didn’t know her very well,” whispered Fiona, and Lucy had to stifle a giggle.

The rabbi droned on for almost an hour, recounting one or two anecdotes about Nadine but relying heavily on generalities and religious abstractions for his eulogy. He was the only speaker; there were no heartfelt reminiscences from friends and family; no favorite songs, nothing to signify the loss of a unique and much loved individual. Lucy had trouble keeping her mind from wandering and was wondering if there would be refreshments, compulsory in Tinker’s Cove, when the string quartet finally played the final chords of Barber’s
Adagio
and the service drew to a close. A few people stood and made their way to the front of the room to pay their respects to Arnold, others lingered in their seats, a few dabbing at their eyes, others no doubt taking a few minutes to meditate on the transitory nature of life, or perhaps to plot the rest of their day.

“I have to speak to Camilla,” said Fiona, rising. “I want to make sure she knows I’m here.”

Lucy remained seated, watching as Norah paid her respects to Arnold. Others were falling into line, including many of the celebrities. Diane Sawyer was taking his hand when a series of flashes went off. It was Pablo, taking pictures.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” demanded Elise, confronting him.

“Yesterday Camilla told me she wanted funeral photos for the magazine,” said Pablo. “A tasteful round-up, that’s what she said.”

Elise looked at Camilla, who shook her head weakly.

“Liar!” she growled, grabbing for the camera.

“She’s the liar,” muttered Pablo, nodding towards Camilla and tightening his hold on the camera.

“How can you? At a time like this.”

Everyone was silent. A few high profile guests headed discreetly for the door, others stood awkwardly, watching the scene.

“It wasn’t my idea,” insisted Pablo, shaking his head.

“She was our best friend,” hissed Elise, hurrying back to Camilla, who had slipped on a pair of large sunglasses and was sniffling into a handkerchief. She gently led her out of the chapel, guarding her as ferociously as a pit bull.

“Best friend? I don’t think so,” muttered Pablo, stalking off.

Lucy was tempted to follow him and ask exactly what he meant, but she hesitated, aware that he was in quite a temper. The last thing she wanted was to create a second scene. So she sat, waiting for the crowd around Arnold to thin, and replayed the confrontation in her mind. She didn’t doubt for a minute that Camilla had assigned Pablo to take the photos; the magazine always devoted a page to celebrity appearances. Usually it was balls and fund raisers, but Lucy doubted Camilla would think a funeral was any less worthy of exploitation. After all, the level of taste at
Jolie
was remarkably low, if the issue she read was any indication. Anyone who would have homeless people model jewelry wouldn’t hesitate to capitalize on her best friend’s death. Lucy could picture it: “Norah Hemmings in Prada, Diane Sawyer in Mark Jacobs and Barbara Walters in Oscar de la Renta console each other at the funeral of
Jolie
beauty editor Nadine Nelson…in coffin.”

Enough, Lucy told herself. It was time to get moving. Only a few people were standing with Arnold and he was beginning to move towards the door. She’d have a quick word with him and then head for the hospital.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmured, approaching him and extending her hand. “My daughter and I enjoyed getting to know Nadine….”

Arnold, however, looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “You!” he snarled, glaring at her. “What are you doing here?”

Lucy’s jaw dropped. She certainly hadn’t expected this. “I came to express my sympathy,” she said, “and I was hoping to have a word with you. Your wife and my daughter are both victims of the same….”

“Not now,” he snapped, turning to one of the black-suited attendants. “Get her out of here.”

Lucy couldn’t believe his reaction. Even worse, two extremely fit young men in black suits were coming her way. “This isn’t necessary,” she protested. “Please, let me give you my number. I really think we ought to talk.”

“We have absolutely nothing to talk about,” said Arnold, giving the young men a nod.

Each one grasped her by an elbow and propelled her out of the room, down the hall and through the front door, where they deposited her unceremoniously outside.

“Hey, what about my coat?” she demanded, and one of the young men reappeared in the doorway. Smiling, he tossed it and it landed at her feet, on the gray all-weather carpet tastefully bordered with black.

L
ucy snatched the coat and brushed it off, trying to ignore the curious stares of the handful of gawkers still clustered on the sidewalk. It was horribly embarrassing but she put the best face on that she could as she shrugged into the green plaid coat. She wanted to get away quickly and was walking as fast as she could in her high-heeled makeover boots when she was approached by a woman she didn’t know.

Only a few days ago Lucy would have summed her up as a rather pleasant looking thirty-something professional but the makeover had sharpened her eyes. She immediately noticed the cheap haircut, the navy blue pants and trench coat, the imitation leather purse and the sensible, flat-heeled shoes. She also noticed the black vinyl wallet the woman was holding in her unmanicured hand which contained an FBI identification card.

“Do you mind if we talk for a minute,” she said, extending her right hand. “I’m FBI Agent Christine Crandall.”

Lucy took the proffered hand. It seemed unfair, somehow, that women in official jobs, like cops and firefighters and even plainclothes FBI agents, never looked quite as good as the men. It was almost as if someone, somewhere, was making sure the dress requirements indicated that these really weren’t suitable jobs for women. The mannish clothes that signaled authority didn’t flatter them, they needed to carry cumbersome purses and no matter how much they exercised they couldn’t get rid of those stubborn saddlebags. “Actually, couldn’t we do it some other time? I’m on my way to the hospital.”

“I’m afraid I really have to insist.” Agent Christine wasn’t taking no for an answer. “There’s a coffee shop a few doors down. Shall we go there?”

“I really can’t stay too long,” muttered Lucy, regretting her decision to leave Elizabeth alone at the hospital. “Coming to the funeral was a mistake.”

“I saw you get the bum’s rush,” said Christine, pulling open the coffee shop door and holding it for Lucy. “How come?”

“I’m not really sure,” said Lucy, taking a seat at an empty booth in the back. “It was by invitation only and I wasn’t actually invited, but I can’t believe that Arnold had the guest list in his head.” If anything, she suspected his reaction had been fueled by a guilty conscience.

“Where I come from you don’t need an invitation to attend a funeral. Most everybody in town goes and the family takes pride in attracting a crowd. It’s almost like a popularity contest—you don’t want to have just a handful of mourners, you want everybody to come.”

“That’s how it is in my town, too,” said Lucy, ignoring the menu which was encased in a sticky plastic sleeve bound with maroon cloth tape. “But I’m beginning to think Tinker’s Cove is on a different planet from New York.”

Christine laughed. “You could say the same for Chagrin Falls.”

Lucy thought it sounded like something from “Rocky and Bullwinkle” but kept that thought to herself. It sure was easy to talk to this FBI agent, though. She hadn’t expected her to be so friendly. “And where is Chagrin Falls?”

“Ohio.” Christine smiled at the waitress, who was standing with her order pad at the ready. “I’ll just have coffee.”

“Same for me,” said Lucy.

Once that was out of the way Lucy expected Christine to begin questioning her and she was eager to share her thoughts on the case. She was sure the FBI would want to know all about Nadine’s compact and her habit of commandeering all the product samples. She could also offer quite a bit of insight into the rivalries at the magazine, and then there was the fact that Arnold had made a pass at her at the gala which seemed to indicate he was something less than a devoted husband. And, of course, there was Camilla’s increasingly strange behavior.

“So how come you and your daughter are in New York?” asked Christine, setting a small tape recorder on the table between them. “You don’t mind if I record this, do you?”

The presence of the compact device set off alarm bells in Lucy’s head. Maybe all this friendliness was just a trick to get her to let down her guard. “Am I a suspect or something?”

The agent’s reply was quick as a whip. “Should you be?”

Lucy felt for a moment as if all the air had been sucked out of the shop. “Oh, no! Not at all.”

“Well, then you have nothing to worry about.”

“That’s what they told Monica Lewinsky,” said Lucy. “And Martha Stewart.” The waitress set the coffee on the table. “Maybe I should have a lawyer.”

Christine ripped a packet of sugar open and poured it into her cup, then peeled open a little plastic bucket of cream and poured it in, stirring smoothly. “That’s your right, of course, but I think you’re overreacting. Don’t you want to help us catch the person who did this to your daughter?”

Lucy lifted her mug and took a sip. “Of course I do. But, frankly, I don’t understand why you’re questioning me. Agents Hall and Wood were at the hospital last night and they made it very clear that they were only interested in talking to Elizabeth.”

“Really? They were there last night?”

Lucy was puzzled. “Didn’t you know? Don’t you guys talk to each other?”

Christine took a long, long sip of coffee. “Department policy,” she said, finally. “We don’t like our left hand to know what our right is doing. It corrupts the investigative process.”

It sounded reasonable enough to Lucy. She might even be quoting some FBI manual packed with government gobbledygook. “If you say so.”

“Okay, then. What brought you and your daughter to New York?”

“Actually, Elizabeth won a contest for mother and daughter makeovers.
Jolie
magazine flew us to the city and put us up at the Melrose Hotel, all expenses paid.”

Agent Christine didn’t reply and Lucy found herself babbling to fill the silence.

“It meant leaving my husband and the other kids at home during Christmas school vacation but I thought it would be an opportunity to spend some special time with my oldest daughter. After all, who knows where she might go after graduation? It could be my last chance to have her to myself.”

“How many other children?”

“Three others, but my oldest son doesn’t live with us anymore so it’s really just Sara and Zoe. They’re fourteen and eight.”

Christine stared at her. “And you really thought it was a good idea to fly to New York?”

Lucy’s back stiffened. “Why not? She’s not a baby anymore and my husband is perfectly capable….”

“Not that. I meant flying. Haven’t you heard about 9/11?”

“Of course I’ve heard about it.” Lucy remembered the beautiful sunny weather that day and how she was unable to pull herself away from the TV set as the horror unfolded. “I was just as upset as everyone else. But, hey, aren’t you guys supposed to be making flying safer? Aren’t we supposed to go about our lives as normally as possible? Not let the terrorists stop us because that would be a victory for them?”

Christine looked at her as if she were crazy. “All it takes is one extremist with a bomb. And it’s not just airplanes. They can hit buildings, subways, commuter trains, buses, you name it. The Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building.” Christine was getting rather agitated and there was a gleam in her eye. “Do you know they have nuclear bombs that can fit in a suitcase? And just imagine what a biological agent could do if it were released in the subway.”

Lucy was beginning to feel cornered and she didn’t like it. Who did this person think she was to make judgments about her choices? “Well, if something like that happens at least I’ll know I looked good when I went,” she answered, tossing her head. She knew every hair would fall back into place, thanks to her Rudolf haircut.

As a matter of fact, she was beginning to think Agent Christine should spend a little more time worrying about her appearance and a little bit less worrying about doomsday scenarios. Of course, that was her job, admitted Lucy, but she could at least try to look her best while pursuing terrorists and criminals. The poor girl had obviously cut her hair herself or had gone to one of those walk-in places that charge eleven dollars. She didn’t bother with make-up, her eyebrows needed shaping, and that navy blue pantsuit she was wearing was all wrong with her pinkish complexion and blond hair. The pantsuit was also much too severe, and that red bow she’d tied around her neck went out in the eighties. Where did she buy her clothes anyway? Goodwill?

“You certainly have a great haircut,” said Christine. “I’ve been admiring it. Who did it?”

“Rudolfo. The magazine sent us to his salon.”

“Is he expensive?”

Lucy was surprised by the question. Surely everyone in New York knew about Rudolfo and his five hundred dollar haircuts. “Very expensive, but there are plenty of other good stylists. Ask around.”

“That’s a good idea.”

Encouraged by Christine’s reaction, Lucy thought she might offer a bit more advice. “You could also have your eyebrows shaped. It really opens up your face, at least that’s what they told us. And if you have it done once professionally you can maintain it yourself with tweezers.”

“My sister plucked hers and all she’s got left are two tiny arches that look ridiculous.”

“That’s why you need a professional shaping,” said Lucy, aware that she was sounding an awful lot like her friend Sue back in Tinker’s Cove. What a change a few days could make. She always resented Sue’s unbidden advice, but now she couldn’t seem to stop herself from doing the same thing. “You could also get your colors done. They told me I’m a winter and I should wear black, white, and jewel tones. I’m no expert but I think you’re a spring and you’d look good in soft pastel colors.”

“FBI agents don’t wear pink.”

“Maybe a sage green suit with a pink blouse? Or a little floral-print scarf, tied cowboy style so it wouldn’t get in your way? You can be both professional and feminine.” Lucy was beginning to wonder if she’d been possessed by some sort of fashion demon. Indeed, Christine didn’t seem to be listening. “But we’ve gotten off track here,” she admitted, swallowing the last of her coffee. “I have some ideas about how the anthrax was delivered. As beauty editor, Nadine got a lot of product samples, including a rather fancy powder compact. She dropped it during our consultation and Elizabeth picked it up, which is probably how she got exposed.”

The agent looked at her sharply. “How did you get this information?”

“It’s just a theory,” said Lucy. “One of Elizabeth’s friends did some Internet research and that’s what we came up with. It seems to fit the circumstances of the case. Nadine was always powdering her nose. I guess she was known for being vain. And it was also widely known that she didn’t like to share the samples and kept them for herself. Putting the anthrax in a fancy compact was a clever touch, though. Whoever sent it to her must have known her well and been confident that she would want to keep such a beautiful trinket for herself. The fact that Elizabeth was exposed was simply bad luck; the anthrax wasn’t meant for her. Nadine was the real target, and Elizabeth just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Lucy tapped her upper lip with her finger. “The big questions, of course, are who sent the anthrax and why did they do it? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“And is that why you went to the funeral today, even though you weren’t invited?”

Lucy’s jaw dropped. She was beginning to think she’d underestimated Agent Christine. Just when she was beginning to wonder what her FBI superiors would think if they listened to the tape of their conversation and if she’d get in trouble for discussing hairstyles and fashion tips, it occurred to Lucy that all that small talk might have been a ploy to get her to say more than she otherwise would. If it was, she had certainly fallen for it and right now she felt pretty stupid.

“I simply wanted to pay my respects to a woman who taught me the value of daily moisturizing,” said Lucy. She thought about dabbing her eyes with a tissue but decided that would be overdoing it.

“You’re an investigative reporter. You want to break this case.”

Lucy was stunned. “How do you know what I do? And anyway, that’s not important. This is my daughter, you know. Of course I want to find out who poisoned her, but not because I’m going to break a big story. It’s because I love her and I want to make sure whoever made her sick doesn’t do it to somebody else.”

“Which is why you’re going to start cooperating and telling the truth,” said Christine. “You say Nadine dropped the compact and your daughter picked it up. Why?”

“It practically fell at her feet. It was the polite thing to do.”

“Did Nadine throw it at her? Did somebody knock it out of her hand?”

“Nope. She just dropped it.”

“How did the others react when she dropped it?”

At this rate, thought Lucy, Agent Christine would be retired before the case was solved. “I don’t think anybody noticed. It was all over in a second or two.”

“Did anyone else reach for the compact?”

“Not that I noticed. Frankly, I was mostly watching Nadine.”

“Why?”

“She was the queen bee, if you know what I mean. Ordering people around, coming up with crazy ideas, and all the time looking at herself in the compact mirror. She was completely narcissistic. I don’t think I ever met anyone like her before. Nobody else mattered to her.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Christine nodded, then seemed to remember her role. “I mean, you picked all this up in less than half an hour?”