A Fashionable Murder (13 page)

“You mean doctors?” Josie asked, mystified.

“Perhaps one’s plastic surgeon or psychiatrist. But I was thinking of the more intimate caregivers—one’s hairdresser, manicurist, masseuse, nutritionist . . . you know.”

Josie didn’t, but Betty jumped right on Carol’s band-wagon.

“Then maybe we should go back to Elizabeth Arden,” she said.

Josie was astounded. “Betty, Sam may be arrested for murder. What difference does it make how we look?”

“We’re not going to work on our appearance. We’re going to get information. We’re going to talk to the people who worked on Pamela Peel’s looks.”

“Brilliant!” Carol cried out, beaming. “Betty, you’re brilliant! We’ll spread out all over the city. We’ll find her hairdressers, manicurists, masseuses, personal trainers, nutritionists . . .”

“You are kidding” was Josie’s response.

“Why not? There are three of us. Well, four if you count JJ. We should be able to interview a dozen people easily.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Josie protested. “I just can’t believe that Pamela would go to so many people. No wonder she looked so great all the time.”

“Josie dear . . . ,” Carol began.

“How do you know that?” Betty asked directly. “How do you know how she looked? I thought you told me you’d never met her. And you can’t judge by a cover story in a magazine. They probably brought in makeup artists and professional photographers.”

“You’re right, we never met. Well, not officially, but, well . . .” Josie glanced over at Carol before continuing. She hated for Carol to hear this, but . . . “Sam has all these photo albums on the shelf in his closet. I was going through them last night after we got home. I mean, I told him I was going to look through them and he didn’t seem to care. He was busy . . . on the phone with someone.” She hoped she didn’t look as embarrassed as she felt.

Carol reached over and placed a hand on Josie’s sleeve. “Oh, my dear, this trip is really not working out as anyone planned, is it?” she asked, a sad expression on her face.

Josie took a deep breath and decided not to whine. “No, but the important thing is keeping Sam out of jail.”

“Good for you!” Carol perked right up. “We must focus. There’s nothing we can’t do if we put our minds to it.” She reached down and picked up her spacious green suede handbag and rummaged around in it. “I don’t know why I can never find a pencil or paper . . .”

Their waitress, ever attentive, reappeared holding a small bowl of creamy rice pudding. “I told the chef there was a baby out here and she sent this out. She says her son lived on it for his first year.”

“How wonderful!” Betty beamed. “Thank you!”

“Can I get anything else for you?”

“I don’t suppose you could dig up a pencil and some paper?”

“Oh, that’s easy. I’ll be right back!”

Betty picked up a spoon and dipped the tip of it into the pudding and took a taste. “Delicious,” she said and offered a few grains of rice to her son.

“I thought we were going to focus on keeping Sam out of jail,” Josie reminded them.

“We are. Just as soon as we have something to write with and on. I like to start out with a list,” Carol explained. “My second husband was in advertising and he was always talking about brainstorming. I think, this once, we just might take his advice.”

“What are we brainstorming about?”

“We need a list of the professionals Pamela went to see regularly over the years—hairdressers and the like. And then we need to figure out exactly who these people are. And then we need to go see them.”

“And what makes you think we’ll be more successful than I was with Shep Henderson this morning?” Josie asked ruefully.

“Oh, but it won’t be like this morning,” Carol protested. “These people will know that we’re interested in learning who killed Pamela Peel. We won’t have to pretend to be someone else.”

“What?”

Their waitress appeared with three little pads of paper imprinted with the name of the hotel and three white pencils similarly embossed and Carol repeated her suggestion. “We need to make a list of all the people we’re talking about— hairdressers and the like—and then we need to make appointments to see them!”

“But—,” Josie started.

“Fantastic!” Betty interrupted.

“But how will we find them?” Josie asked so loudly that everyone in the room glanced in their direction.

“Find who, dear?” Carol asked, putting down her fork and directing all her attention at Josie.

“Find these people—the people who took care of Pamela Peel. It’s not as though we have her address book to go through.”

“An address book—or her Palm Pilot would be a big help,” Betty agreed.

“Oh, we’ll find them easily enough,” Carol said blithely. “We have to find only one or two and they will lead us to others. If we’re lucky, we should be finished in less than forty-eight hours.”

“Of course,” Betty agreed. “That’s why I mentioned Elizabeth Arden. When we were there yesterday, the woman who does my hair—”

“And does it wonderfully, dear. I was going to tell you how much I love the new style,” Carol said.

“I miss having long hair, but, with JJ, it’s just so much easier to have short hair,” Betty said, momentarily diverted.

“Someone was going to explain how we’re going to find these people,” Josie reminded her easily distracted companions.

“And we really need to make that list, remember,” Carol said.

“Okay, list first,” Betty said, passing out the pads and pencils to the women and offering her son the crust of a whole-wheat roll, which he gladly accepted, using it to poke himself in the eye a few times before finding his mouth.

“Hairdressers. Colorist. Manicurist. Personal trainer . . .”

“How do you know she had a personal trainer?” Betty asked.

“Ha! I was talking about losing weight once—you know how you do—and Pamela suggested that I might be better off adding some muscle instead of trying to lose fat. And she offered the name of her trainer.”

“Then you have a name.”

“Heavens no. This was years ago. And I never even considered going to a personal trainer so I didn’t bother to remember the name. But I do know that she had one,” Carol explained. “And,” she added a bit too loudly, “I do believe I lost some of that weight.”

“I sure could use the name of a good personal trainer,” Betty said. “Maybe someone who would come to the apartment while JJ naps . . .”

“So you have a perfect excuse to interview Pamela’s trainer,” Carol said.

“If we find him,” Josie reminded them.

“Yes, if we find him,” Carol said, ripping a sheet of paper off the pad and handing it to Betty. “I have another name, not that you need it, but I understand that this woman is the best in the business. And I’ve known her mother for years. So drop my name and she’ll take you on as a new client.”

Betty blushed. “Thank you. This is wonderful,” she added, putting the paper in her purse.

“Can we possibly get back to the business at hand?” Josie asked, not bothering to hide her sarcasm.

“Of course,” Carol said as though she had never even considered anything else. “Masseuse. Everyone who hires a personal trainer has a masseuse. And I’m sure she had facials. It’s possible that she had a lot of these things done at the same salon.”

“Oh, that’s what I was saying before. She used to go to Elizabeth Arden. Remember, Josie?”

“Sure, but—”

“It’s just possible that she had everything done there— hair, fingernails, toenails, facials, whatever—and when her hairdresser left and she followed her . . .”

“Or him,” Carol put in.

“Or him,” Betty agreed. “Anyway, it’s possible that we only have to find where her hairdresser went after leaving Elizabeth Arden to discover all these other people we’re talking about.”

“So what are we going to do? We just had our hair done yesterday,” Josie reminded Betty. “And I assume we can’t just call on the phone and ask a lot of questions about clients.”

“No, but—”

“But I think I could use a haircut and maybe a new color.” Carol spoke up.

Josie smiled. She had always thought Carol’s hair a bit outrageous, but . . .

“And I know Josie could use a manicure, pedicure, and definitely a facial.”

“I—,” Josie began her protest.

“Pamela Peel used to swear by weekly facials,” Carol added, clinching her argument.

FOURTEEN

JOSIE FELT MORE confident the second time she walked through the famous red door into Elizabeth Arden. Her hair was styled. She was wearing a fashionable outfit bought less than twenty-four hours ago at Saks Fifth Avenue. She knew which button to press in the elevator. . . .

Well, she realized, at least this time, she knew which button to press if she wanted the hair salon, but she and Carol were going to part there and then Josie would have to find her way to the woman who was scheduled to give her her first facial.

Betty had set up an appointment for Carol to see her hairdresser and, as Carol was expected to be busy for well over an hour, Josie had been scheduled for a facial, a manicure, and a pedicure. Of course, Josie reminded herself, the point wasn’t beautification, but information. Carol was convinced that all they were required to do was bring up Pamela Peel’s name for the information to flow. Josie hoped so. She had insisted on spending some time while they shared two amazingly rich desserts making a list of questions. That list was tucked in her purse, ready for her to consult.

“Now where are we going to meet when we’re done?” Josie asked as Carol was whisked off to her appointment.

“Don’t worry, dear, I’ll find you.” Carol waved over her shoulder as she disappeared down the dark hallway toward the dressing rooms.

“I’m scheduled to have a facial, but I’m not sure where to go,” Josie told the elegant young man behind the circular desk that dominated the floor.

“Check in with the receptionist on the fourth floor,” he said. “Someone up there will help you.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Enjoy.”

The elevator doors opened to reveal three middle-aged women wearing brown robes and bright red plastic thongs; they were all giggling like schoolgirls. “So I’m thinking red highlights,” one was saying as Josie passed by.

“Oh, you’ll look wonderful . . .”

The doors closed, ending Josie’s eavesdropping, and she pulled the list from her purse for a last-minute review. Carol believed that the most important thing to discover was whom Pamela was dating now. If nothing else, she thought that information would provide an alternative suspect. Betty and Josie had agreed, but, in fact, Josie was more inclined to look for motives. Josie felt that motive would lead them to other suspects. But she hadn’t bothered to argue the point. She would be thrilled to get any information at all. Both Carol and Betty had assured her that just bringing up the name of a famous person would elicit information. Josie couldn’t imagine that being true.

The elevator doors opened and Josie found herself on yet another bustling floor. She headed straight for the large desk where an elderly woman was stocking up on cleansers and creams. The total of her bill made Josie blanch, but the woman passed over her American Express card without hesitation. “After all,” she said to the saleswoman, “you can’t take it with you.”

Josie moved up to the counter as the woman left, staggering under the weight of the three bags she carried. “Hi, I’m Josie Pigeon and I have an appointment for a facial at two . . .”

“Pigeon? Yes, you’re on with Marguerite. Have you been here before?”

“Well, I had my hair cut just the other day, but I’ve never been on this floor before,” Josie answered, a bit disappointed that she hadn’t managed to give the impression that Elizabeth Arden was her natural habitat.

“The dressing rooms are back that way, and I see here that you’re also on the schedule for a manicure and a pedicure. If you tell the woman who runs the cloakroom that, she’ll take care of you.”

“Fine.” Josie did as she had been told and, fifteen minutes later, she reemerged robed and with her own red plastic thongs. She was offered tea, coffee, or water and, after refusing all, she sat down to wait. She chose the only seat available, between two exceptionally well-groomed young women who were, she discovered, discussing Pamela Peel’s murder.

“It’s hard to believe she was found murdered like that. I mean, it’s just not the way you think about Pamela Peel. You know, she was always at the big society functions. And she dated famous men—that star of that musical on Broadway last fall.”

“That’s right! Bob something or other, right?”

“Yes. It just goes to show, doesn’t it? No one is safe. Not even the rich and famous. Nothing can protect you.”

“You’re right. I’m thinking of taking a self-defense course.”

Josie was wondering how she could return the conversation to Pamela Peel when a heavyset blond woman in a white nurse’s uniform called out her name.

“I’m Josie Pigeon,” she identified herself.

“I’m Marguerite. If you’ll just come this way.”

Josie followed Marguerite down a long hallway, stenciled with sayings purportedly made by the late Elizabeth Arden herself, into a small room with a window looking out onto Fifth Avenue. The chair in the middle of the room looked suspiciously like one found in a dentist’s office. A counter to the right was covered with pots, potions, and strange pieces of equipment. Josie took a deep breath; it smelled wonderful.

“You can put your purse over there and sit down and put your feet up. Relax. This is your time for yourself.”

Josie did as she was told and found her thongs being slipped off. Then delicious scented cream was rubbed into her feet and hands, and large electric pads were slipped over both.

“Wonderful.” Josie sighed.

“Is this your first facial?” Marguerite asked, pulling Josie’s hair back from her forehead and wrapping it in a small white towel.

Josie suspected Marguerite knew the answer to that one. “Yes. My skin’s not in very good shape. I work outdoors. In the sun and all,” she added.