A Fashionable Murder (28 page)

There was a full dining room, an eat-in kitchen, a large bedroom done up almost entirely in lace and silk—Josie just glanced in and then left, trying not to imagine Sam doing anything in such surroundings—a white-tiled bathroom with yet another étagère filled with apothecary jars and white china dogs, a small kitchen that was so filled with decorator touches, it was impossible to imagine anyone turning on the stove for fear of starting a damaging inferno. Behind this Josie found another room, which she assumed was the maid’s room. If there was a maid present, she was hiding beneath boxes and boxes of lamps, pillows, fabric swatches, and the like. Josie stood there in the open doorway and wondered just what, if anything, she had found here.

Discouraged, she wandered back down the hallway to the living room, smacking into an inlaid desk, too large for the small space it occupied. She started to walk around it and then had second thoughts. She’d had no compunctions about looking around Pamela Peel’s apartment. Why stop here? Why not look in her desk? Josie started pulling out drawers and searching through them. After a few minutes, she decided that what she was looking for was probably at Henderson and Peel’s office. She walked around one more time, discouraged and a bit depressed. Fascinating as it was to look into Pamela Peel’s private life, she seemed to be getting nowhere. She had learned a lot in the last few days and her appearance had improved dramatically, but she couldn’t prove that Sam hadn’t killed Pamela Peel.

Disheartened, she decided it was time to go back to Sam’s place. She put on her boots and coat and left the apartment, carefully locking the door behind her. She got on the elevator without paying too much attention to the man who was already there.

“Sam?!”

“Yes, Josie?”

It was obvious that only one of them was surprised. “Ah . . . ,” Josie began.

“You’ve been in Pamela’s apartment, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I thought I might learn something there that would help you . . . keep you from being arrested for her murder.”

“And did you?”

“No.”

“Too bad.”

“Do you think the police—”

“I don’t know what the police are thinking. I didn’t realize what you were thinking, to be honest. I’ve been so worried about Mother.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Sam looked down at her and frowned. “Listen, I don’t know what might be open in this storm, but let’s see if we can get some dinner. It’s time we talked.”

They left the building arm in arm, as much to keep from falling as for moral support. “There used to be a deli around the corner. I think the family that owned it also owned the building. They might have stayed open.”

The deli was closed, but next door, a small sushi place’s lights were still on. Sam knocked on the door and two smiling young Japanese women waved them in.

“Sushi?” Sam asked.

“And soup. Good soup!” One of the women pointed to a blackboard where the menu had been written out.

“Two miso soup, two tekka rolls, two salmon skin rolls, and two yellowtail with scallion,” Sam ordered, raising his eyebrows for Josie’s approval.

“And tea,” she added. “Hot tea.”

The women hurried off and Josie and Sam sat down at a small table as far away from the window as they could get.

“Why are you worried about your mother? What’s wrong with her?” Josie asked, getting to the point immediately.

“I’ve been afraid from the very beginning that the police will think she killed Pamela. All the evidence points to her.”

“Why?”

“She was at my apartment the day Pamela was killed. She doesn’t know that I know though, so don’t tell her.”

Josie was shocked. “You saw her there?”

“I saw her coming out.”

“Where were you?”

“Returning from the storage area . . . you use the tradesmen’s elevator to get there. I was just coming into the hallway and she was leaving my apartment. She headed toward the elevator and didn’t see me.”

“And you didn’t call out to her?”

“I was busy and . . . well, you know how Mother can be. I didn’t want to be held up.”

Two little cups of steaming green tea were placed before them and Sam cupped his hands around his before continuing. “Remember you showered before we left for the theater?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, while you were in the shower, I went down to the storage locker in the basement. When I came up, Mother was leaving my apartment.”

“She was inside while I was in the shower?”

“Yes, and, I’m afraid Pamela could have been in there too. That might have been when Pamela was killed.”

“But, Sam, why do you think that? She could have been killed while we were having brunch with Betty and Jon. Or while we were at the theater in the evening.”

“Then why hasn’t Mother admitted that she was in my place that day? Why would she be keeping that fact a secret?”

“But Sam . . .” Josie didn’t know what to say so she snapped her mouth shut. Maybe it was true. Maybe Carol had killed Pamela. Maybe Carol had been working so hard to prevent Sam from being arrested because she knew he hadn’t killed Pamela because she had done it. Josie thought for a moment. “Didn’t Harold see her?”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell the police?”

“No. They didn’t ask. He didn’t tell. If they ask, though . . .”

Josie nodded. “Of course. He couldn’t lie to the police.”

Sam smiled for the first time since sitting down. “I don’t know about couldn’t, but I told him that he shouldn’t. He’s crazy about Mom, so he’ll protect her as long as he can. But I don’t know how long that will be. I didn’t tell Jon about all this, but he’s like you. He’s afraid the police are beginning to get anxious to find a suspect. If only
New York
magazine hadn’t put Pamela on their cover. She was always well known in her professional world and a small, wealthy segment of the population of the Upper East Side, but that story made her famous. And the police can’t ignore the murder of a famous person. Makes the media ask too many questions.”

“Sam, I have a question.”

“What?”

“What did the desk that used to be in your living room look like?”

TWENTY-NINE

LATER, WHEN JOSIE was explaining what had happened to Tyler, she realized that running into the desk in Pamela Peel’s apartment had been a turning point. She had been looking in the wrong places and, more important, at the wrong things. In fact, everyone’s attention had been directed in the wrong place. Instead of running all over the city, she should have centered most of her attention on Sam’s apartment.

Josie and Sam hadn’t had to return to Pamela’s apartment for them to be pretty sure that the desk which had occupied the place of honor in his apartment before Pamela Peel had decorated it had become an annoyance in her hallway.

“It’s not like Pamela to have furniture blocking what she called ‘the flow.’ I would imagine that it wasn’t supposed to stay there for very long. She always had so much stuff in her apartment and she was always rearranging it,” Sam said, dipping his spoon in the steaming miso soup. “And, of course, it wasn’t there when I was . . . well, was there.”

“It may have been in storage,” Josie said. She wanted to check out a few things before she told Sam, or anyone, what she thought had been going on. She sipped her soup. It was warm and delicious, but she had more questions. Some she wanted to ask, some she had to ask.

“Why did you ever get involved with Pamela Peel?” Josie asked.

“Well, she was smart, beautiful, well educated . . .”

“From the way you talk about your life in the city, it’s always seemed to me that you could say that about almost every woman you dated.”

“That’s true. There are a lot of wonderful, single career women in New York City. A whole lot.”

Their waitress placed a beautiful tray of sushi in the middle of the table and they stopped speaking for a moment to admire it.

“So what was different about her? Why did that relationship last longer? Why was it more serious than the others? Were you in love with her?” Josie asked the fourth question and held her breath, waiting for his answer.

“I’ve been asking myself that same thing for the past few days,” Sam admitted slowly. “And I think I’ve come up with the answer. Inertia.”

“In . . . What do you mean?”

“I mean that Pamela came after me and I stood still—for a long time. And then, of course, after a few years I started moving. And I moved right out of the city.”

“Are you telling me you didn’t love her?”

“Josie, to tell you the truth—and I am ashamed to admit this—I didn’t even like her.”

“Are you saying that to make me feel better?”

“I’m saying it because it is true. Sad and true. Pamela Peel loved two things: money and fame. I was involved in a big case at the time, lots of publicity and notoriety. She came after me because of what I had. And I was exhausted, tired of the round of getting to know a new woman every few months, all those first dates with the same questions and so many times the same answers. I didn’t run after her; all I had to do was stand still and let her catch me. And I did. And then we became a couple. We argued a lot, but I didn’t have the sense to see that it was because we were completely incompatible. I didn’t realize that until she decorated my apartment. It was
so
not for me. The first night I spent there, I woke up to go to the bathroom and was suddenly struck by what a depressing place it was. I knew I had to get out. And thinking about that forced me to reevaluate my life, and eventually led me to retire and move to the island.”

“So, if you hadn’t been involved with Pamela Peel, you might never have changed your life,” Josie said, deciding she would ask him about this money he had had another time.

“And if I hadn’t changed my life, I might never have met you,” Sam added, taking the thought to its logical conclusion.

“Yes, I suppose that’s so.” Josie dipped a tekka roll in soy sauce and raised it to her lips. “But she really was a talented decorator, right?”

Sam didn’t seem surprised by the question. “Yes, definitely. Henderson and Peel won all sorts of major awards and they were getting many of the best jobs in the city.”

“Yes, but was that because of Pamela’s talent or Shepard Henderson’s? Or did they work together as equals?” Josie asked.

“The money was Shep’s and the talent was Pamela’s. She always said so and he was a little drunk one night when we were all having dinner together and he confirmed it. Said he couldn’t run the company without her. Why?”

“Because I think that’s why he killed her.”

“He . . . Josie, are you sure?”

“I think so. I just don’t have any proof.”

“Are you saying that Shep Henderson killed Pamela because he wanted to destroy his company?”

“No, of course not. He killed her because he was afraid she would destroy the company. In an odd way, he was probably trying to save it.”

“I’m sorry, Josie, but I don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand completely either. But I’m hoping that I will tomorrow. Can you wait that long?”

“What’s going to happen tomorrow?”

“I’m going to talk with some of the contractors who worked for Henderson and Peel. I’m hoping at least one of them will have a few answers.”

“Which you will pass on to me immediately.”

“Yes. I promise.” She put down her chopsticks long enough to reach across the table and squeeze his hand.

“Of course you’re going to have one big problem . . . just like the rest of the city.”

“What?”

“Getting from one place to another,” Sam said, staring out the window at the still falling snow.

It was a relief to be honest again. The next morning, Josie found herself smiling as she climbed over snowdrifts and squished through the gray slush-filled streets. Last night she had called the three contracting companies, and identified herself. She hadn’t pretended to be getting ready to go on a diet; she hadn’t claimed to want a different hair color. She was an out-of-towner, she owned a contracting company, and she was looking for information. She had been simple and to the point. And the answers had been too. The owner of the last company she had called seemed particularly amenable to talking about Henderson and Peel. All Josie had to do was be at their work site at seven A.M. Josie had agreed, set the alarm, and gone to bed, ignoring Sam’s protests that the city would be completely impassable in the morning. Finally, he gave up trying to talk her out of going and insisted on going with her.

Although it was still dark when they left Mentelle Park Apartments, the number of people on the streets amazed Josie. The storm had passed and a massive cleanup had begun. Snow was being shoveled from sidewalks and piled up wherever a few square feet could be found. Bulldozers were filling large dump trucks with snow, to be driven away and dumped into the rivers surrounding Manhattan, Sam explained. Cars whose drivers had ignored the No Parking Snow Route signs were being towed away. Corner coffee shops were open for business and Josie stopped and bought half a dozen cups of coffee and a dozen glazed doughnuts. “You’re not the only person who knows the way to a carpenter’s heart,” she explained, handing her purchases to Sam.

“Just as long as one of those cups of coffee is for me.”

“You can have as much as you want.” Josie was forced to watch where she was stepping on the slippery sidewalks, but at least her feet were now encased in familiar work boots. Her old clothing, which Carol had deemed so inappropriate for city wear, had turned out to be the only practical choice this morning.

The address she had been given was only a few blocks away. Josie had assumed they would be heading into yet another ornate lobby with yet another uniformed doorman, but this place turned out to be one of a row of brownstones. It was easy to find the one they were searching for. A gigantic snow-covered Dumpster stood on the street before it. The sidewalk had been cleared as well as the stone steps leading up to the doorway. As they mounted the steps, a young black man pulled one of the tall French doors open and exited, bumping one of Josie’s shoulders as he brushed by. “You better get upstairs with that coffee. She’s in a pisspoor mood this morning,” he said, without slowing down.