A Fashionable Murder (2 page)

“I am so sorry to be so rude, Josie. You don’t mind me calling you Josie, do you?”

Tony’s father looked remarkably like Cary Grant; he could call Josie almost anything. “No, that’s fine.”

“It’s great to meet you, but I have to run. My life is a mess, Josie. The movie I’m working on is weeks behind schedule. So I’m not home a lot these days. I’ve told Tony that he and Tyler are going to have to stay on the set most of the time. I don’t want them running loose in New York City. And I’ve prepared a list of ways for you to reach me—my cell phone, my office phone, the private phone numbers for my personal assistants.” He rummaged in the pocket of his sheepskin jacket and handed Josie a sheet of paper. “There are also numbers for Tony and Tyler. I’m giving them both cell phones as well. So you should be able to check in whenever and as frequently as you need to.”

“Dad, this isn’t necessary. I keep telling you . . . at school . . .”

“You’re not at school and I would feel much more comfortable if I know where you are and what you’re up to.”

“And I agree completely,” Josie said firmly. “Tyler has the number of the place I’m staying. If there are any problems . . .”

“I’ll call you immediately.” Tony’s father took the card she had written Sam’s number on and smiled at her. “We should be going, boys. I have a late lunch scheduled down at the Union Square Café. If you want to tag along, we should hurry. I hate to keep Julia Roberts waiting.”

“Julia Roberts!” Tyler’s voice rose to a squeak. “You’re going to have lunch with Julia Roberts?”

“Nope, we’re going to have lunch with Julia Roberts—if you want to.”

“Want to! We want to. Don’t we, Tony?”

“Sure do!”

Tony’s dad smiled at Josie. “Why don’t we all get together for dinner?”

“It sounds wonderful, but I should check with Sam.”

“Do that and then call me. If tonight is bad, we can figure out something else. If it’s good, how about Indochine at eight? Ready, guys?”

Josie suddenly realized that the limousine standing ready at the curb was waiting for her son and his hosts. She smiled at Tyler, resisting a strong urge to hug him and watched as he handed his duffel bag to the uniformed chauffeur, and, with a grin at his mother, got into the long black car with his friend and host. Tony’s father was back on the phone before the car pulled away from the curb.

Josie watched them head downtown and turned in the other direction. Tyler would be fine. He and Tony were going to spend their vacation learning about moviemaking. They had been assigned a report on all they learned. They’d get extra credit and have a lot of fun. She, on the other hand, was going to spend the week helping Sam, her very significant other, pack up his apartment in preparation for putting it on the market. That is, she was going to do this if she could actually find his apartment. She looked up at a street sign. Sixty-three. Time to turn right. She did this, bumping into a woman carrying an elegant briefcase, which felt like steel as it slammed into her shin.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Josie apologized.

The woman glanced at her and then down at her leg. She brushed her cap of blond hair off her forehead. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Oh yes. I’m fine,” Josie answered. But her assailant hadn’t hung around for an answer.

Everyone in the city seemed to be busy, Josie observed, continuing on, this time watching her step as well as looking for the number of Sam’s building. This was it, she decided, looking up at a large, dark redbrick building. Brass letters embedded in the pediment over the door spelled out Mentelle Park Apartments. Josie smiled. This was definitely it. She walked up to the steps, pushed open the heavy walnut French doors and stepped into the lobby. Sam had explained the building had been completed shortly after World War I and the marble and brass of the lobby was as rich and imposing today as it had been eighty years ago.

“May I help you?” An elderly man in a quasi-military uniform sat behind a small walnut desk at the back of the room.

“I’m here to see Sam Richardson.”

“Of course. You must be Ms. Josie Pigeon. Mr. Richardson told me you would be arriving this afternoon. I believe he said you have a son . . . ?” He peered behind her as though expecting to see someone else.

“My son has gone off with a friend, so it’s just me,” Josie explained. “I don’t suppose you know if Sam’s here?”

“Bless me, of course I do. I know more about the people who live in this building than they know I know. The things I could tell you . . .” And he winked at her.

But the elevator doors opened and Sam appeared, putting an end to further confidences. “This is the woman I love, Harold,” Sam announced. “She doesn’t want to hear a bunch of lies about my past.”

“Yes, Mr. Richardson, I hear what you’re saying.”

“Thank you.” Sam put his arm around Josie’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “Where’s Tyler?”

“He took off.” Josie smiled. “We met the famous producer and his son as we planned—they both seem very nice—and then they had to run. Lunch with Julia Roberts.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“We’re invited to dinner with them tonight. Maybe they’ll bring her along. Sam, I’d really like to get cleaned up. And change my clothes. My shoes are soaked. How much time do we have before we have to meet your mother?”

“A while. She called to say she’d been held up. Apparently Bloomingdale’s is having a sale in their women’s department. She says she’ll be here in an hour or so. Probably wearing a new dress.”

“Probably wearing a new dress and carrying a half dozen bags and boxes,” Harold interjected, chuckling. “Your mother is one fancy woman, Mr. Richardson.”

“That she is,” Sam agreed, putting his arm around Josie’s shoulders. “Why don’t we head on upstairs?”

“Great. It was nice meeting you, Mr . . . ?”

“All the tenants call me Harold and I’d be happy if you did too. Mr. Richardson’s women friends have always done so in the past. No reason to change now.”

Josie managed to keep a smile on her face. This was one of the things she had been dreading about visiting New York City. “Then I guess we’ll see you later, Harold.”

“You sure will. I’m on duty until seven.”

Josie followed Sam into the elevator and watched as he pressed the button to take them to the fourth floor.

“It’s good to have you here.” Sam folded Josie into his arms. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her head into his familiar chest, and wondered if she could survive the next week without going crazy.

TWO

SAM AND JOSIE had been dating for almost four years— ever since Sam retired from his job as prosecuting attorney for the City of New York, moved to the small barrier island about a hundred miles from the Empire State Building as the seagull flies, and bought a home to live in and a liquor store to run. During this time, Josie had heard a lot about his previous life and more than enough about his previous women friends. She had enjoyed none of these conversations.

And the ones about Pamela Peel had been the worst. Pamela Peel was beautiful, well educated, and rich. Pamela Peel was always flying off to spas in the mountains in Mexico, resorts in Thailand, or intimate little hotels in various capital cities in Europe. Pamela Peel was a successful decorator, a profession which, Josie just knew, she practiced while wearing elegant little designer suits, high heels, silk stockings, and, probably, French underwear. Josie was just guessing about the underwear; Sam had the good taste not to mention Pamela’s unmentionables.

Pamela Peel had been Sam’s last significant other. Josie knew that Pamela had been someone special. After all, he had let her decorate his apartment. The apartment they were entering now.

Josie hoped it would be horrible. She knew it would feel empty since Sam had brought thousands of books, his clothing, his computer, and a few paintings to the island along with what she had come to think of as The Chair. The Chair was cherrywood with a seat upholstered in rich brown suede. The Chair was a work of art, actually signed on the bottom by its maker. It had a place of honor in Sam’s living room on the island. It also had a connection to Pamela Peel. Josie wasn’t sure what the connection was but she hated it.

Sam opened the door and motioned for Josie to precede him into his apartment.

The foyer was lined with empty bookshelves. Josie followed Sam across a steel gray, handwoven wool runner into a large living room. A pair of charcoal suede couches bracketed a granite fireplace centered on the far wall. A mirror, framed in silver, hung above the fireplace and reflected the pale winter light coming through large windows to the left. There was a massive coffee table, fashioned from slate, in the middle of the floor. A built-in window seat, upon which numerous itchy-looking wool pillows in shades of gray were stacked, completed the furnishings in this section of the room. To the right, a slate-topped table encircled by six black leather chairs indicated that this part of the room was to be used for dining. Josie assumed that the folding doors centered in the nearby wall would lead to the kitchen.

“The bedroom’s that way,” Sam said, pointing. “So what do you think of this place?” he asked, picking up her small bag and leading the way. Sam had driven to the city, carrying the rest of Josie’s luggage in his trunk.

“It’s different from your place at home . . . I mean, your house on the island.”

“It looked better when my books and things were here, I guess. To be honest, I didn’t remember it being this bleak.”

“Maybe your taste has changed,” Josie suggested, entering the bedroom and gasping.

Sam chuckled. “This I did remember. Hideous, isn’t it?”

The bedroom, Josie assumed, would be called minimalist. A huge king-size bed, flanked by chrome nightstands, dominated the room. A large steel armoire stood on the wall opposite, its open doors revealing empty shelves where a television and tape machine had once been stored. A matching double dresser had been placed under the windows. A massive abstract oil painting hung over the bed. Gray, white, and black paint had been used to ruin a perfectly good canvas.

“Why did you ever buy this?” Josie asked, walking over for a closer look.

“It was a gift.”

“Good Lord, from who?”

“Pamela. Actually, she painted it.”

Josie looked up at his face. “So you had no choice but to hang it,” she guessed.

“Actually, I didn’t hang it. She did. Or one of her minions did. I doubt if Pamela actually ever picks up a hammer and smacks nails. She hires people to do that sort of thing.”

“People like me,” Josie muttered.

“No, Josie, not people like you. You are an independent contractor. Pamela usually hires illegals—men she can boss around and who have no recourse when she expects them to work long hours seven days a week. She avoids hiring young, independent women. She probably thinks they would cause trouble.”

Josie, who looked for women just like that when she was hiring her crews, didn’t respond. She never knew what to say under these circumstances. She knew Sam was too much of a gentleman to criticize the women he had been involved with before, so much as she would have enjoyed—hell, loved—to trash them with him, she resisted. On the other hand, that was one ugly painting.

“Maybe you should take it down before you try to sell the apartment,” she suggested.

“Oh, everything will be gone by then. What I don’t take to the island or Mother doesn’t want will be picked up by the Salvation Army.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. Unless there’s something you want?”

“I . . . What’s that?” she asked as a horrible squeal filled the apartment.

“That’s what happens when you’re not around to tip the superintendent at Christmas. He doesn’t take the time to properly fix your intercom.” Sam walked back to the front door, pressed the correct button and spoke into the grill on the wall. The voice that came back to him was garbled, but apparently Sam understood the message. “Send them up,” he ordered. He was smiling broadly when he turned back to Josie. “We’re going to have company. Betty and JJ are on their way up.”

“Look, Sam, isn’t he the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?” Josie asked.

“Without a doubt. Why don’t we go back into my apartment where we can admire him properly? The hallway can be drafty,” he added.

Betty wrapped her arms around her son and pulled him even closer to her chest. “Then let’s get inside. JJ seemed to be sniffling a bit this morning and I don’t want him to catch cold.”

Once safely out of the hallway, Sam relieved Betty of her bags of infant paraphernalia and Josie folded the baby blanket into a nest on the window seat while Betty released her son from his carrier. Once JJ had been settled down in his place, a green plastic elephant–shaped rattle firmly grasped in one hand, the women hugged again.

“You look incredible,” Josie cried, releasing her friend.

Betty ran her hands through her gorgeous blond hair and laughed. “You’re just being nice. I still have a few more pounds to lose and I need a trim and a facial. And look at my nails.” She held out what appeared to be perfectly manicured nails for Josie’s inspection.

“They’re beautiful!” Josie insisted.

“The polish is chipped.” And just as Josie was about to decide that her old friend had changed completely, Betty put her hands down and whooped with laughter. “Listen to me! I sound like one of those I-never-do-anything-to-chip-my-polish women that we were always laughing at on the island! Josie, you must think living in New York has turned me into an idiot!”

Josie grinned at the woman she had known for years. “Well, I was wondering just a bit.”

“It’s just that I’m nervous. You know, seeing you and Sam again and introducing you two to my little sweetie . . .” She paused long enough to smile down at her baby. “Oh, I’m being an idiot. I’m just so happy to see you again! I love New York and my life here, but I do miss the island.”

“What do you miss most? Working long hours at a dirty job for not much pay or living in a tiny little apartment over the garage of a rich person’s summerhouse?” Josie asked, laughing.