A Fashionable Murder (12 page)

“We should leave right away,” Carol reminded them. “We don’t want Shep to find us here. You’ll be fine, Josie. How many times have you been interviewed by prospective clients considering hiring Island Contracting?”

“Lots, but in that situation, I’m the person trying to get the job, not the one doing the hiring,” Josie pointed out.

“Think of this as role reversal and be as snobby as possible. Believe me, Shep Henderson will be surprised if you’re anything else.”

“Oh, and the most important thing to remember is money,” Sissy said, getting up and moving toward the door.

“Money?”

“Yes, make sure he knows that you have it and intend to let him spend it. Nothing makes a decorator happier than spending lots and lots of other people’s money.”

The peal of the doorbell, a duplicate of the chimes of Big Ben, made further instructions impossible.

“We’ll leave by the service entrance. You go greet Shep Henderson,” Carol ordered.

And, in a flurry of mink coats, Carol and Sissy hurried off, leaving Josie alone and nervous. She took a deep breath, rearranged the turquoise-trimmed scarf around her shoulders, and walked toward the duplex’s foyer.

Hidden within the duplex’s baroque decorations lay a state-of-the-art security system, complete with cameras outside the building aimed at visitors standing on the brownstone doorstep. Josie checked the inside monitors, as she had been instructed, then opened the door to a man she assumed was Pamela Peel’s partner.

“Mr. Henderson?” Realizing she had already failed to follow Carol’s directions, Josie wiped the smile off her face and tried to look prosperous and in charge. “Please come in.”

“You are Mrs. Austin?” he asked, entering the foyer.

Josie decided brevity was the best policy. “Yes. Why don’t we talk in the library . . . or would you rather look around first?” she added. When being interviewed for a job on the island, Josie always liked to chat a bit to give the client a chance to get to know her and her company before they discussed the job itself. She wondered how Shep Henderson worked.

“Oh, that would be fine.” He looked down at her without smiling. In fact, he didn’t seem terribly interested in her or what she was claiming was her home.

It wasn’t until they were seated that Josie suddenly realized she might be expected to offer coffee or tea. Having no idea where a coat closet might be located, she had been relieved when Shepard casually tossed his navy cashmere coat over the back of a sofa. “I . . . my staff is off today.” She struggled to excuse her lack of hostess skills. “I could make us some coffee if you’d like.” She crossed her fingers and hoped he refused. The kitchen she had been shown through had the best of everything including imported appliances. She had noticed a large Italian espresso machine, but she couldn’t begin to imagine how it worked.

“Frankly, I’d rather have a drink.”

“I . . . Oh . . .” Shep Henderson was staring over her shoulder and Josie, fingers crossed, turned around to discover an extensive bar that she hadn’t noticed before. She jumped to her feet. “What would you like?” she asked, glancing around. Dozens of bottles were on display.

“A small brandy would be nice.”

Josie walked toward the liquor—very slowly. A bottle of brandy was easily found. But where were the glasses? And how could she explain having to look for them? Surely even people with servants occasionally prepared their own cocktails. She reached out and opened the doors of a nearby ormolu cabinet. Champagne glasses and large goblets appropriate for old burgundies were there, but no snifters. She grimaced and opened another door, thinking furiously. She could always explain her confusion as the result of a new maid putting things away, she had decided, when, much to her relief, she found dozens of snifters in two sizes and a pile of pale gold linen cocktail napkins as well. Feeling like the excellent hostess she was not, she turned back to Shep Henderson with a full glass and napkin in hand. “Here you are.”

“Won’t you join me?”

“It’s a little early for me,” Josie said, sitting back down.

“It’s usually early for me too—very much too early.” Shep Henderson ran a hand through his hair in a gesture reminiscent of a young James Stewart and then continued. “But these are difficult times. As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, my colleague has died. She was murdered. It was in all the papers this morning.”

“Pamela Peel.”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry. It was good of you to keep your appointment under the circumstances.”

“Everyone expects me to maintain Henderson and Peel’s high standards despite this dreadful event. My parents . . . Pamela herself . . . I felt I had no choice but to go on,” he ended rather abruptly. He raised his glass to his lips and drank.

Josie took the time to examine Shep Henderson while he sipped his brandy. He wore an elegant black suit with a sparkling white shirt and a pinstriped white-on-black tie. His shoes were polished. A heavy gold Rolex hung loosely from one thin wrist. A handsome man in his early forties, he wore his pale gold hair in a conservative cut. The more she looked, the more he reminded her of Jimmy Stewart. “You and Pamela Peel must have been very close,” she said without thinking.

Fortunately, he didn’t appear to find the comment odd. “We had been business partners for years. We worked together each and every day. We . . . we had to trust each other. And, of course, you know how rare that sort of relationship is in this city.” He looked up at her.

“Of course.” Josie paused and then plunged in. “Exactly how long had you known each other?”

“Oh, my. Forever. We met first in college years and years ago. But it wasn’t until we had both moved to the city and were working for other decorators that we ran into each other again. Neither of us liked our situation. I was slaving for a man who took my ideas, presented them as his own, and then refused to allow me to work on anything original. Pamela was being used as a front person by one of the most irritating decorators in the business. He was using her looks and personality to charm potential clients into hiring him but not allowing her to contribute anything creative. We were both afraid that would go on for years. And we were both desperate to have our own design firm. I was positive we would make a good team and by joining forces we’d make a fortune.” He smiled wistfully and ran his hands around his snifter.

“You were both ambitious,” Josie prompted him.

“Yes, that goes with being young, of course. But Pamela and I were courageous as well. We decided to jump in with both feet—sink or swim we’d set up our own shop. We had ideas and connections. All we needed was money. You don’t know how difficult it is to get a new business off the ground without cash coming in . . .”

“Or to stay in business,” Josie jumped in, forgetting that she was supposed to be an upper-class lady of leisure.

Luckily, Shep Henderson didn’t seem to find her response at all unusual. He sipped his drink and nodded vaguely. Josie wondered if this wasn’t his first drink of the day. “But you two did find the money to start Henderson and Peel,” Josie pointed out, hoping he would start talking again.

“Yes, my parents allowed me to cash in one of my trust funds and we started our company.” He looked up at Josie with an appealing expression on his face. “We have been very, very successful. Heaven knows what will happen now.” He shook his now empty glass and Josie remembered her duty as hostess.

“Would you like another?” she asked, getting up.

“Yes, thank you.”

Josie poured more brandy, glad to have her back to him. She ran her own business, she had met potential clients many times; she had never acted like this. On the other hand, she remembered that after Noel Roberts, the founder of her company had died, she’d felt disoriented, frightened, and in a panic over Island Contracting’s future. She poured the golden liquid into his glass and glanced over her shoulder at Shep Henderson. He had gotten up and was looking closely at the oil painting over the mantel. Oh, Lord, what if he made a comment that required her to know the name of the artist? She took a deep breath and spoke up. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

“If you like minor impressionists.” His tone said that he didn’t.

“Here’s your brandy,” Josie said.

He looked at the glass she offered with a frown. “Perhaps we should look around your place. I can’t spend all morning here drinking.”

“Yes, of course,” she agreed, surprised by his response. “Why don’t we start upstairs,” she suggested, trying to take charge.

“Fine. And you can tell me what you’re thinking of . . .”

“Oh, um . . .” For a moment Josie couldn’t figure out what he meant. Then she realized that his back was straighter, his eyes brighter, and he had taken a small leather-covered notebook from his breast pocket. Shepard Henderson was back on the job. “I’m thinking simplicity,” Josie explained. “I’m looking for a more spiritual environment.” She could tell from the puzzled expression on his face that Sissy’s words meant as little to him as they had to her. “I want to use things like these . . .” She pointed to the artifacts Sissy had left on the commode. “I’m thinking green plants, orchids . . . um, raw silk . . .”

“Perhaps we should start upstairs as you suggested.”

“Excellent idea.” Now she just had to hope that she could find her way around.

Half an hour later, she showed Shep Henderson to the door. “Good-bye, Mr. Henderson,” she said, not worrying about whether or not she was addressing him properly.

His response was equally abrupt. “Good-bye.” He didn’t suggest that she call him. She closed the door behind him and leaned against it with a sigh. She’d blown it. She had learned nothing. And there was no way Shep Henderson would see her again.

No decorator wanted a client who couldn’t distinguish the door to her closet from the door of her bathroom.

THIRTEEN

“I BLEW IT.”

“Josie, dear—”

“Carol, it was a good idea, but I couldn’t pull it off. He never loosened up. He didn’t tell me anything useful. He probably thought I was weird. Hell, of course he thought I was weird. How many women don’t know the way around their own apartment?”

“You did the best you could,” Betty reminded her. Carol and Josie had joined Betty for lunch in the lobby lounge of The Four Seasons Hotel. JJ’s baby-sitter being previously engaged, the young man was enjoying the first ladies’ lunch of his short life. Carol hadn’t allowed the child to leave her lap since their arrival. Now she was dangling a silver teaspoon in front of him, much to the baby’s delight. Josie was nursing a white wine spritzer, a drink she would normally have avoided, but somehow it seemed appropriate in this large formal space. She leaned back in the comfortable leather chair and sighed. “I had one chance and I blew it.”

Betty put down her menu and smiled at her baby before turning her attention to Josie. “You do know one thing.”

“What?”

“He was drinking early in the morning. Surely that’s interesting.”

Josie shrugged. “I don’t see why. Maybe he always drinks in the morning. Maybe he’s an alcoholic.”

“And maybe he’s devastated by Pamela Peel’s death. Maybe he’s worried about the future of Henderson and Peel. Maybe Pamela was the brains behind the business and he’s convinced he can’t carry on without her.”

“Nice theory,” Josie said, “but what does it prove? Henderson and Peel is a successful business. He’ll find another partner and go on. A company that has a waiting list of clients can’t be in serious financial trouble. Unless things are really different in New York City.”

“Probably not in this particular case,” Betty agreed with her friend.

The reappearance of their waitress ended Josie’s speculation. After a rather extended discussion of the menu and the ingredients in various offerings, the young woman headed back to the kitchen with their order and, with a sigh, all three women reached out for the bread basket.

“I usually don’t . . . ,” Carol began, choosing a baguette.

“It’s been a long morning,” Josie muttered, picking up a whole-wheat roll spiky with raisins and walnuts.

Betty laughed and took one of each. “Nothing like nursing to keep your weight down,” she said, adding a large pat of butter to the pile of bread on her small plate.

They munched quietly, each involved in her thoughts. Josie looked around the large space at the other diners. Tourists, businessmen, tired shoppers, everyone seemed to be occupied with the serious business of eating and drinking. One young woman stood out; thin, with unkempt hair, and dressed in a more artistic manner than the other guests, she sat alone at a small round table devouring a huge, bloody steak.

JJ closed his eyes and began to doze, eyelids fluttering in what all three women agreed was a charming manner. But the appearance of their waitress with plates of lobster salad, crab cakes, and grilled shrimp returned them all to the subject at hand.

“So what do we do now?” Josie asked, picking up her lobster-filled baguette and taking a large bite.

Betty smiled at the waitress, who was waving well-manicured fingertips at her now awake son, then returned her attention to the topic. “What about finding Pamela’s friends and—”

“Carol and I don’t think her friends would talk with us,” Josie interrupted. “After all, why would they? And how are we going to explain our interest?”

“I suppose you’re right. Not many people are comfortable discussing the lives of people they hardly know with strangers.” Betty stopped speaking and reached over to take her son’s sock out of his mouth and replace it on his foot. She removed a big plastic ring with bright colored wooden keys hanging on it from her purse and offered it to the child. He frowned and returned his attention to the empty spoon Carol had offered him. Betty shrugged and picked up her fork.

“My dears, it’s not one’s friends who know our secrets. It’s the people who take care of us who know the truth about our lives.” Carol stopped speaking and placed a dab of tartar sauce in the exact center of her crab cake.