New Year's Eve Murder (9 page)

“Brad and I met when we were both panelists at a community forum about public education,” said Geoff.

“This is the last place I ever expected to see you,” said Lucy, remembering Geoff as a suntanned lobsterman in Tinker’s Cove.

“He’s a tagalong, like me,” said Brad, wrapping his arms around his wife’s waist. “Sam lassoed me into this. She said if she had to organize it there was no way I wasn’t going to come.”

“And I’m here because Norah needed to fill her table and drafted Sidra.”

“Well, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” said Lucy.

“This is weird,” said Geoff. “By day I’m a mild-mannered high school science teacher; by night, a man about town.”

“I’m sure you fill both roles admirably,” said Lucy. “How about you, Brad? Do you get to affairs like this very often?”

“Too often,” he said, glumly.

“It’s not as bad as all that. The food’s good,” said Sam, punching his arm.

“And there are plenty of pretty girls to look at,” said Lucy.

“So long as he only looks,” said Sam.

“You don’t need to worry there. I have to save my energy. I’m going to be dragging tomorrow morning, and I’ve got an early morning meeting.”

“Governors Island?” asked Geoff. When Brad nodded, he continued, “How’s that going? I heard something about a proposal for a maritime trades high school.”

Lucy turned to Sam, hoping to catch up with her news while the men talked shop, but she had spotted trouble across the room. “Sorry, Lucy, I’ve got to get Lady Warburton away from the bar before she disgraces herself…. Call me!”

Lucy gave her a little wave and watched as she steered a tottery old woman with an elaborate hairdo over to the buffet, then turned her attention to Brad.

“Everybody’s got proposals,” he was saying, “but nobody’s got funding, except Arnold Nelson. He could break ground tomorrow while everybody else is scrambling, writing grants, and trying to raise money.”

“How does he do it?” asked Geoff.

“Glamour,” said Brad, nodding sagely. “He works events like this; he uses his wife’s contacts at that fashion magazine. Sam tells me the ladies on the ball committee have all invested in Nelco and can hardly talk about anything else.”

Lucy found Nelson in the crowd, dancing with a very tall brunette in a short red dress. She had thrown her head back, and her mouth was open in a laugh as if he’d just said something wonderfully clever. “He just looks sleazy to me,” she said with a shrug, “but he sure gets around. He was on Norah’s show yesterday, pushing that City Gate project.”

“Nelco? Is that his outfit?” asked Geoff.

“Yeah. Have you heard something?” asked Brad.

Geoff considered. “Maybe. If it’s the same outfit. Could be Felco or Welco—they all sound the same to me.”

“Run it by me and I’ll check it out,” said Brad.

“Well,” began Geoff. The band began playing a loud rock tune, and Lucy and Brad stepped closer to hear. “If it’s the same outfit, they’re building that new biomedical research lab for NYU. It’s a Level 4 infectious diseases facility, and it would be one of only a handful in the country. It’s desperately needed but I heard there’s been all kinds of problems.”

“Shoddy construction? Contract disputes?” asked Brad.

“No. Nothing like that. Vandalism. Sand in the gas tanks, brake lines cut, stuff like that. It’s really vicious. There have even been death threats. It’s got to the point where suppliers and truckers don’t want to have anything to do with it.”

“It could be neighbors,” said Lucy. “They might be afraid of having a germy old lab in the neighborhood.”

“I’d put my money on the unions,” said Brad. “There’s a lot of frustration out there. Even the cops and firefighters are threatening strikes.”

“I know there’s some concern that Nelco or whoever it is will pull out, which would delay the project, maybe even kill it.” Geoff drained his beer. “That would’ve been a perfect project for Governors Island, you know, instead of Arnold’s pricey condos. What happened to the public–private partnership we heard so much about? I thought the private developers were going to fund some of the public projects in exchange for permission to build.”

“They all dropped out when the federal government established the national park and started allowing public access. It was the inaccessibility, the exclusivity that had appeal. Now they’re saying nobody’s going to pay millions for a ritzy address if the hoi polloi can picnic on the lawn. The only one left is Arnold, and he’s playing hardball.”

“What’s the big deal? Access is still very limited, just Saturdays in the summer.”

Brad shrugged. “It doesn’t bother Arnold, that’s for sure. He’ll wring a sweet deal out of the city and make a bundle. Subsidized housing for millionaires.”

Lucy smiled as Sidra joined their group, looking chic in a shimmering satin column of a dress. “If only your mother could see you now,” she said, giving her a hug. “She’d be so proud.”

“She wouldn’t believe it,” said Sidra, laughing. “We used to squabble all the time over my fashion choices.” She put her hand on her husband’s arm. “I’m sorry, but I have to drag Geoff away. He has to get up early tomorrow, and I promised I wouldn’t keep him out too late.”

They all said their farewells, then Brad asked Lucy to dance, saying he felt quite neglected by his wife, who was too busy making sure the event ran smoothly to pay any attention to him. He wasn’t as good a dancer as Arnold, but Lucy enjoyed herself a lot more. When the orchestra played the final song, “I Could Have Danced All Night,” Lucy wished the evening would never end.

U
nlike Cinderella, Lucy had both her shoes next morning and her Prince Charming was keeping the home fires burning in Tinker’s Cove. Today was the final day of the makeover, and she needed to make the most of it if she was going to have any chance of winning the ten thousand dollars, she thought, hurrying over to the one-hour dry cleaners on Third Avenue with the consignment shop dresses.

She wasn’t quite sure when she was going to manage to pick them up and get them back to the shop, but she was determined to try despite today’s hectic schedule. This morning all the makeover winners were supposed to get their hair done at one of New York’s swankiest salons, Rudolf’s, in preparation for the afternoon shoot of the “after” photos. That evening the award dinner was planned, followed by the holiday show at Radio City Music Hall, and the makeover would officially be over. Tomorrow she would return home to tackle the sink full of dirty dishes and the mountain of laundry that she was certain awaited her.

The very thought was depressing, and she let out a big sigh as she laid the dresses on the counter in the dry cleaning shop.

“So the party’s over,” chuckled the clerk, a black woman with a round face and a big smile.

“You can say that again,” said Lucy, a bit surprised at how regretful she sounded. After all, she missed Bill and the kids and even the dog, Libby. She couldn’t wait to see them. Really. But experience had taught her that even a brief absence could require some painstaking work repairing relationships. The dog, for example, would wag her tail in glee when they returned, but then she’d refuse to come when called or would scatter her food all over the kitchen floor. The same went for the girls. They would greet her enthusiastically when she arrived, but then the tales of woe would begin: “I couldn’t find my long underwear” or “Dad wouldn’t let me go to the movies with my friends” or even her all-time favorite, “I think I’m getting leprosy.” Bill would make her pay, too, in subtle ways. He’d forget to mail the mortgage payment or would flare up angrily over some trifle or would want to know why she never baked apple pie from scratch anymore.

Truth be told, she wouldn’t mind spending a few more days in the city. She’d really enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the streets, where the honking horns of the cabs expressed the impatience everybody seemed to share. She’d also enjoyed the chambermaid service at the hotel, where she didn’t even have to make her bed. But best of all, she realized, was the attention she’d received from the magazine’s experts. Until now, nobody, herself included, had expressed any concern about the shape of her eyebrows or the condition of her skin. Well, except for Sue, who provided a running critique of her appearance. But Sue was always negative, while the people at the magazine had been a lot more positive. It was “this color becomes you,” or “try this lipstick,” or “let’s bring that hem down an inch and see how it looks,” which was a lot easier to take than Sue’s constant carping. It had been nice to think of herself for a change.

And, of course, there was the ball. The flowers, the music, the food, the dancing, the clothes…it had all been wonderful, a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and she’d never forget it.

“Do you want these dresses in an hour or is one o’clock okay?” asked the clerk, bringing Lucy back to reality.

“One is fine,” she said, taking the ticket and hurrying back to the hotel, stopping in a coffee shop to get an enormous bagel and a couple of coffees to go. They were due at Rudolf’s in less than an hour and, since there hadn’t been any earthquakes this morning, she was prepared to bet money that Elizabeth was still asleep.

So sound asleep, in fact, that she didn’t stir when Lucy came into the room.

“Come on, honey. We’ve got a photo shoot today.”

“I’m tired.”

“Well, what do you expect when you dance all night and drink a gallon of champagne?”

“Didn’t.”

“Don’t try to pretend you weren’t drinking,” said Lucy, carefully setting the paper cup of coffee on the tiny nightstand. “I saw you with a glass of champagne. I don’t know how they get away with serving underage drinkers, but I didn’t see any of the servers asking for ID.”

“Mom, I think I’m sick. I ache all over.”

“Even a glass or two could give you a hangover because you’re not used to it.”

“I only had a sip or two.”

“Really?” Lucy couldn’t help thinking of the headline announcing the flu epidemic’s rising death toll.

“Yeah. And I’ve got this bite on my hand that really hurts.” She held out her right hand, which was swollen and had a nasty red bump. “There’s no bugs in winter, are there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe city bugs are different,” said Lucy. “Drink some coffee.”

“Maybe some water?”

Lucy went into the bathroom to fill a glass for Elizabeth, and when she returned she discovered the girl had fallen asleep again. She pressed her hand against Elizabeth’s forehead and was relieved to find it was cool.

“Come on, honey.” Lucy shook her shoulder. “You’ve got to get up.”

The girl’s eyes finally opened and she managed to take a sip or two of water. Then, very unsteadily, she made her way to the bathroom.

“Demon rum,” muttered Lucy, unaware that she sounded exactly like her great-grandmother, a founding member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union.

Elizabeth seemed to rally when they arrived at Rudolf’s exclusive Fifth Avenue salon, where customers were greeted by a constantly flowing wall of water before being ushered into a luxurious waiting area where they were offered a choice of fresh coffee or herbal tea. Not that they had to wait very long; Lucy had only taken a sip of two of coffee before she was whisked into a private treatment room by a white-coat beautician.

Once Lucy was installed in the chair and covered with a smock, the beautician, an Asian girl with flawless tan skin and long, glossy black hair, began examining Lucy’s hair.

“Too dry,” was her verdict, “and your color is not flattering.”

“Really?”

“You need something warmer, a little red perhaps.”

Lucy didn’t like the sound of this. “Not red.”

“Trust me, you’ll see,” said the beautician, busily squeezing tubes of color into a plastic dish and stirring enthusiastically.

Soon Lucy’s head was slathered with a mudlike substance and tightly covered with a plastic cap. Then she was seated under a hair dryer, next to several other makeover winners. They all looked rather nervous.

“Why are we under the dryer?” asked Lucy, raising her voice to be heard above the noise of the machine.

“Beats me,” said Ginny.

“I didn’t want any color, I insisted,” said Lurleen.

“It’s a new process,” said Cathy, who was flipping through
Town & Country
magazine. “It sets the color faster.”

“I don’t have color,” said Lurleen. “I specifically said I didn’t want it.”

“Trust me,” said Cathy, nodding sagely. “You got color.”

Before Lurleen could protest further, the hood of the dryer was flipped back by a remarkably handsome young man wearing a tight white T-shirt that showed his muscles to advantage. “Ready for your shampoo?” he cooed, leading her away. For once, Lurleen was dumbstruck.

“I hope I get him, too,” said Cathy.

“Me, too,” piped up Ginny, and they all laughed.

When her turn came Lucy didn’t get the young man—she got an enthusiastic girl in a smock who she guessed came from Russia.

“First wash, then intense treatment,” she said, shoving Lucy back and hosing off the dye. “I give you head massage, no?”

Lucy felt completely powerless as Olga or whoever she was kneaded and pummeled and pounded her head. Then she was rinsed with scalding water, followed by cold, and slathered with some sort of organic substance that smelled like cow manure.

“What is this stuff?” she asked.

“Good for you; good for hair. I be back in ten minutes.”

Soothing music was playing, and Lucy decided she might as well relax. These people were experts, they knew what they were doing. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

Next thing she knew she was hit with a blast of freezing water. Reflexively, she jerked to a sitting position and was firmly shoved backward. “Must rinse.”

“C-c-cold,” sputtered Lucy.

“Good for hair,” grunted Olga, apparently ripping Lucy’s hair out by the roots. At least that’s what it felt like. Only a decade or two later Lucy heard the water stop, a towel was wrapped around her head and screwed tight, and she was propelled upright. “Follow me.”

Aware that resistance was futile, Lucy followed the Slavic tyrant down a pink hallway back to her private treatment room. Amazing, she thought, as she seated herself in the chair and studied her reflection in the mirror: there was no trace of the pain she had suffered.

When Lucy’s stylist returned and unwrapped the towel, she clucked her tongue appreciatively. “Very good.” She proceeded to comb and clip Lucy’s hair, working with astonishing speed. Then she was gone and a tall, storklike man wielding a blow dryer appeared. He was completely bald and sported at least twenty silver bangles on each wrist.

“I’m Rudy,” he said, whirling her around in the chair so her back was to the mirror.

“Nice to meet you, Rudy,” said Lucy, crossing her fingers under the smock. She heard the bracelets jingling as he worked and tried to keep a good thought. It was reassuring to discover Olga hadn’t yanked out all her hair; she could feel him brushing and tugging at something. Suddenly the blow dryer’s roar was silenced, she was whirled around, and Rudy said, “Voila!”

Lucy was silent, studying her reflection. Her hair was now a subtle auburn, so silky it gleamed. It shimmered and glowed. It looked fantastic. She’d never looked better, and she couldn’t understand how a haircut could cause such a dramatic change.

“How did you do that?” she asked.

“Trade secret,” he said, and was gone.

When Lucy was escorted back to the waiting area, she discovered all the contest winners were there, congratulating each other on their new hairdos. Everyone except Elizabeth.

Puzzled, and a bit anxious, she turned to her escort. “Where’s my daughter?”

“Elizabeth?”

“That’s her.”

“Don’t worry. Just a small delay. She asked if we could stop for a few minutes and let her take a little nap.” The girl giggled. “She said she was up late last night, at a ball.”

“Can I see her?”

“No. Rudy is finishing her. He doesn’t like to be watched when he works.”

Lucy seated herself and picked up a magazine.

“Is something wrong?” asked Cathy. “Don’t you like your hair? I think it looks fabulous.”

“Thanks. Yours, too,” said Lucy. “I’m just a little worried about Elizabeth. They say she asked them to let her nap because she was so tired.”

Just then Elizabeth appeared and everyone started clapping. The ragged, spiky look had been tamed and her color brightened with buttery blond highlights; she looked radiant, blushing with embarrassment at the group’s reaction.

“I hate it,” she declared, joking, and everyone laughed.

Fiona was speechless when they arrived at the magazine’s beauty department to be made up for the photo.

“Blond! I never would’ve….”

“Me, either,” agreed Elizabeth.

“It looks great.”

“Thanks. I wish I’d had it for the ball last night.”

“Bummer.” Fiona reached for the blush. “Who was there? What were they wearing?”

“Beyoncé is every bit as gorgeous in real life as she is in her videos,” gushed Elizabeth. “But Paris Hilton looks even skinnier in real life than she does on TV. Can you imagine?”

“She has great skin, though,” said Fiona. “That tan is gorgeous. Fake, sure, but really well done.”

“It’s actually orange,” volunteered Lucy, waiting her turn.

“Elizabeth’s a bit peaked today,” said Fiona, applying blush liberally with a brush. “Too much champagne?”

“You’re starting to sound like my mother,” complained Elizabeth.

In the adjacent chair, Lucy suppressed a giggle as Phyllis sponged on foundation.

“Actually, I’m afraid she’s coming down with the flu.” She paused. “How’s Nadine doing?”

“I’m worried,” admitted Phyllis. “This isn’t like her. She never takes sick days. I can’t remember the last time, it was that long ago. She’s so devoted to her job.”

“Phyllis,” said Fiona, leveling her gaze at the assistant beauty editor. “Nadine doesn’t even do her job. You do her job.”

“Oh, that’s not true,” protested Phyllis.

“Yes, it is,” insisted Fiona. “Think about it. What does she actually do?”

“She’s on the phone a lot.”

“With her friends.”

“She gives assignments.”

“So she doesn’t have to do them.”

“She studies new products.”

“Takes them home, you mean. Bags and bags full.”

“Well, the manufacturers are developing new products all the time.”