A Fashionable Murder (7 page)

“That’s what I heard.”

“Do you know his name?” Josie asked. “Could it have been Sam?”

“I suppose so . . .”

SEVEN

JOSIE AND BETTY were back on Fifth Avenue before their hair spray had dried. “Where do we go? Where do you think Sam is?” Josie asked frantically, looking up and down the sidewalk.

“I have no idea . . . Oh, excuse me.” Betty bumped into a man rushing by, cell phone to his ear. “Is your cell phone on? Why didn’t Sam call?”

Josie rummaged in her purse. “I thought . . .” She was so upset that her hands were shaking, but she managed to press the correct buttons. “Two messages. There are two messages. Probably from Sam. Just wait one minute.” She pressed the buttons required to retrieve her messages and listened intently. “The first is from Tyler. He’s fine, may need more money . . .” Impatient, she pressed some more buttons and listened, a frown on her face.

“What? What is it?”

“He says not to worry. He got an advance on his salary.”

“Why does Sam need a loan?”

“It’s Tyler, not Sam. Both calls were from Tyler.” For the first time in her life, Josie ignored an opportunity to worry about her son. “Betty, where could Sam be? Who are you calling?”

“The person we should have called first. My husband. He’s one of Sam’s best friends and he’s a defense attorney. Sam’s a smart man. If the police are going to arrest him, he would have called Jon first. . . . Damn!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Battery’s dead. Give me your phone.” It was in Betty’s hand before the words were out of her mouth. “Damn,” she repeated, staring at the keypad.

“What’s wrong now? Why aren’t you dialing?”

“I can’t remember his cell phone number. It’s on my auto dial at home and on my cell and I . . . wait, let me think for a second . . . Okay, got it, I think . . . at least . . .”

Just when Josie had decided that she could no longer resist screaming, Betty got through.

“Jon . . . Yes, hi . . . Yes, we heard . . . At Elizabeth Arden . . . Oh, well, that’s a huge relief. . . . Yes . . . Why not? Oh . . . well, okay, but I don’t think she’s going to be very happy about it. . . . Okay, we’ll wait at home. Love you. Bye.”

“He’s seen Sam?”

“He just left him at the police station and he says everything is okay.”

“What? Why were they at the police station? Why did he leave him there?” Josie shrieked, backing into a woman carrying three large bags from Bergdorf Goodman. “I’m sorry!”

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going? You could hurt someone!”

“She said she was sorry!” Betty grabbed Josie’s arm and pulled her to the side of the sidewalk. “Listen, Josie, our information’s wrong; Jon says Sam wasn’t arrested. He was asked to come down to the police station and make an official statement. That’s what he did—after calling Jon. No smart lawyer is going to be questioned by the police without another lawyer present. Anyway, Jon stayed with him during the questioning and then left. Sam was waiting around for his statements to be typed up and then, after checking them over, he’ll leave. Let’s go back to my place. We can figure out what to do when we get there.” She raised her arm to flag a cab.

“I think I should go back to Sam’s. I want to be there when he comes home.”

“Josie . . .”

“Betty, I’m going to go back to Sam’s apartment.” Josie had been Betty’s boss for almost a decade. She knew the tone of voice to use to get her point across.

“But you’ll call me the second you hear anything,” Betty said.

“Of course.”

“And, Josie . . .”

“What?”

“Your hair looks wonderful.”

“I just hope Sam gets to see it.” Josie’s answer was grim. She turned and walked up Fifth Avenue. Her mind was as chaotic as the midday traffic. At Fifty-fifth Street a taxi, swinging around the corner, almost ran over her toes. Josie scowled and continued on. The sign said Walk; she had the right of way. She stomped down the sidewalk, ignoring shopping bags that nicked her legs, brushing by women in full-length furs and men in immaculate trench coats, Burberry scarves wrapped around their necks, briefcases firmly tucked under their arms. She detoured around an elegant young couple in matching black leather staring at the display of diamonds in Cartier’s windows. The woman already sported a pretty large diamond—pierced onto her left eyebrow. A block later a group of noisy high school students had taken over the sidewalk; giggling, pushing, and shoving one another despite their teacher’s attempts to convince them to line up for a group photo beneath a sign indicating that they were at Fifty-seventh Street. Josie passed them all, pausing only when she came to FAO Schwarz.

There was very little about New York City that she remembered from family vacations when she was growing up, but a visit to this store was printed on her mind. She had wanted—desperately wanted—a massive stuffed St. Bernard. Her parents, always practical, had refused to spend hundreds of dollars on such a thing and she had gone home with a red plastic pencil case; it had fallen apart the first day of the new school year. How long, she wondered, would that stuffed dog have lasted?

She tripped on a chunk of uneven sidewalk and stopped wondering about the past. She would have fallen on her face if a young man hadn’t grabbed her, set her upright, and hurried on his way without giving her time to thank him for his good deed. Realizing there might not be a Good Samaritan waiting for her on every block, Josie marched on, paying more attention to what she was doing. She had to get to Sam’s apartment. Sam would be waiting at his apartment. Once she saw him, once she talked to him, everything would be okay. By the time she arrived at Mentelle Park Apartments, she was almost running. She pushed through the double doors into the lobby.

The doorman, Harold, was on the phone and Josie hoped she would get by with just a wave, but he hung up as soon as he saw her. “Miss Pigeon. Your timing is perfect. Mr. Richardson will be relieved that you beat the crowd.”

“What crowd?”

“He’ll explain. You hurry right on up. You can depend on Harold to protect you.”

Josie didn’t understand but she didn’t care. She was finally going to see Sam. She trotted into the elevator and pressed the correct button. And gasped as the doors closed.

The elevator was paneled in walnut burl. And set in that burl were four pairs of mirrors. Josie was presented with eight images of herself. She looked around. She moved a bit to the left. And then a bit to the right. She moved forward and then back. She couldn’t believe it. She really looked wonderful. Mia had tamed her red hair into a shoulder-length bob. It was perky without being adolescent, mature without being matronly. She tilted to see the highlights on top. They really did look natural and even elegant. Josie smiled as the elevator stopped. The doors slid back. And she ran straight into Sam Richardson’s arms.

“Sam!”

“Josie! Thank God you got back before they arrived!” Sam’s quick release was completely unsatisfactory—as was his next action. Sure he had lost an ex-girlfriend, sure he was in that ignoble position of helping the police with their investigation, sure he had a lot on his mind. But how could he ignore her new look? And was it necessary to grab her arm and hustle her through the hallway and into his apartment without any explanation?

“Sam? What’s going on?” she asked as he locked the door behind them.

Sam slammed the last dead bolt in place and turned to her. “If anyone knocks, we ignore it. I know Harold thinks we can rely on him to keep the horde out of the building, but I’m not so sure.”

Josie was completely mystified. “What horde?”

“Reporters and photographers.”

“Because of the murder?”

“What else? Pamela wasn’t really rich and famous, but she worked for the rich and famous and that’s all the local press are interested in. God, I hope her murder isn’t picked up by the tabloids.”

Josie ran her hand through her hair—with some difficulty due to Mia’s fondness for hair spray—and glanced around the room. Nothing seemed to have changed since she left a few hours ago. She looked at Sam. He’d changed. She wasn’t sure just how, but he had definitely changed. “We heard that you were arrested, but Jon told Betty that wasn’t true.”

“No. Just brought in for questioning. Any arrest will come later.”

Sam’s last sentence was spoken almost under his breath and Josie stared up at him. “Why would they arrest you?”

“In the first place, I didn’t say they would, but you have to realize, Josie, that there are lots of reasons to look at me as the most likely suspect.” He sat down on a stool by the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area and folded his hands in his lap.

“What reasons?” Josie asked quietly.

“Well, her body was found in an apartment I own—”

“But you don’t live here anymore. Maybe the person you were renting this place to killed her.”

“The person I rented this place to hasn’t lived here for three months. He was transferred to Singapore in the late fall. And there’s no reason to assume he knew Pamela. Besides, I doubt if finding the body here is all the police are considering.”

“What else?”

Sam got up and walked to the window. “Well, remember we went together—were a couple—for over a year. There are a lot of people who knew the two of us and knew about our relationship.”

“So what? You’ve had relationships with lots of women!” Certainly too many for Josie’s taste.

“But Pamela was different.”

This was something she certainly didn’t want to hear. “What do you mean?” Josie asked.

“She . . . I . . . we used to argue a lot. Everyone knew it.”

Josie didn’t know what to say. “That doesn’t sound like you” was all she came up with.

“I know.” Still looking out the window (avoiding her eyes? Josie wondered), he continued his explanation. “Pamela and I weren’t good for each other. I mean, we didn’t bring out the best in each other.”

“Which is why you argued,” Josie guessed, hoping to keep him talking.

“I suppose. To tell the truth, I have no idea why we were always disagreeing. Hell, I have no idea why we got together in the first place.”

“Love at first sight?” Josie almost whispered the words, half of her hoping Sam wouldn’t hear and the other half hoping Sam would hear and deny the truth of her suggestion. But Sam didn’t respond the way she wanted him to. He didn’t respond at all.

Finally Josie couldn’t stand the silence. “So what if people knew you and Pamela Peel argued. She may not have gotten along with a lot of people. It’s not reason enough to arrest you for murder.”

“There’s more . . .”

“What? Sam, what is it that you’re not telling me?”

Finally he turned from the window and looked at her. “Josie, I can’t tell you any more than this. Really, I can’t.”

“But—”

“You’re going to have to trust me. I . . . I can’t say any more about this.”

Josie blinked and turned her back to the room. She couldn’t believe Sam was saying this to her. Her Sam didn’t say things like this. Other men did. Her girlfriends had husbands and boyfriends who said things like this. And when they told Josie about it, her response was always the same: Dump him. But not her Sam. He wasn’t like this. And she sure wasn’t going to dump him. She blinked back the tears beginning to spill out of her eyes. She had no idea what she was going to do. She looked around the apartment. She hated everything about it: the color, the uncomfortable furniture, and the way the large area had been broken up into small, awkward spaces. But most of all she hated the woman who had decorated it. And what that woman’s death was doing to her Sam. She took a deep breath and turned to him.

Sam was staring out the window again, his back to her so she couldn’t see the expression on his face. Josie thought for one minute. She had to be sure about the decision she was about to make. Once made, it couldn’t be changed. “Sam.”

He didn’t move and, for a moment, Josie wondered if he had heard her. Then, “Yes?”

“Sam, I know you didn’t kill Pamela Peel and I wish you would tell me whatever it is that you’re not telling me.” She stopped, taking a deep breath before continuing. “But I trust you. So tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

Finally he turned around and looked at her.

“Thank you.” He took a deep breath and Josie realized he had been near tears. “This is a horrible situation and it may become even more horrible very shortly. I don’t know what people will say. I don’t know what you’re going to hear, whether it will be lies or truth. This is not going to be easy, you know.”

“I know. And it doesn’t matter.”

“Your faith in me is the only thing that will get me through this.”

Josie moved across the room and flung herself into his arms. But even as she was finding the comfort she desired, she wondered where she was going to find the strength to get through this herself.

EIGHT

NEW YORK CITY has a restaurant on every block. There are even areas where the restaurants outnumber all other businesses. So an empty refrigerator isn’t a problem. But, in Sam and Josie’s case, getting to the restaurant without drawing unwanted attention from the journalists who had gathered outside of Mentelle Park Apartments was. At least that’s what Josie had assumed. Her assumption was wrong.

“We’ll use the tradesmen’s entrance.”

“The what?”

“I’ll show you. Just let me call Harold and make sure the doors are unlocked.”

Josie, who hadn’t been in the apartment long enough to remove her coat, waited silently while Sam called down to the doorman and pulled his Burberry from the stainless steel armoire by the front door. Watching him, Josie smiled sadly. Leave it to Sam to be neat even in a crisis.

“You know, I should call Jon and let him know where I’ll be before we leave.”

“You have your cell phone, don’t you?” Josie reminded him.

“Yes, but I don’t want anyone to overhear my conversation. This will just take a few minutes.”

Sam’s phone call did take only a few minutes. But he spent them on the extension in the bedroom and to Josie it was an awfully long time to wait and wonder what was going on—and why he wasn’t sharing it with her. Well, she had other things to worry about. She rummaged in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. Time to check on Tyler. And, perhaps, she had better tell him about the murder before he heard about it on the news.