'Tis the Season Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Where I come from you don’t need an invitation to attend a funeral. Most everybody in town goes and the family takes pride in attracting a crowd. It’s almost like a popularity contest—you don’t want to have just a handful of mourners, you want everybody to come.”

  “That’s how it is in my town, too,” said Lucy, ignoring the menu, which was encased in a sticky plastic sleeve bound with maroon cloth tape. “But I’m beginning to think Tinker’s Cove is on a different planet from New York.”

  Christine laughed. “You could say the same for Chagrin Falls.”

  Lucy thought it sounded like something from “Rocky and Bullwinkle” but kept that thought to herself. It sure was easy to talk to this FBI agent, though. She hadn’t expected her to be so friendly. “And where is Chagrin Falls?”

  “Ohio.” Christine smiled at the waitress, who was standing with her order pad at the ready. “I’ll just have coffee.”

  “Same for me,” said Lucy.

  Once that was out of the way Lucy expected Christine to begin questioning her and she was eager to share her thoughts on the case. She was sure the FBI would want to know all about Nadine’s compact and her habit of commandeering all the product samples. She could also offer quite a bit of insight into the rivalries at the magazine, and then there was the fact that Arnold had made a pass at her at the gala, which seemed to indicate he was something less than a devoted husband. And, of course, there was Camilla’s increasingly strange behavior.

  “So how come you and your daughter are in New York?” asked Christine, setting a small tape recorder on the table between them. “You don’t mind if I record this, do you?”

  The presence of the compact device set off alarm bells in Lucy’s head. Maybe all this friendliness was just a trick to get her to let down her guard. “Am I a suspect or something?”

  The agent’s reply was quick as a whip. “Should you be?”

  Lucy felt for a moment as if all the air had been sucked out of the shop. “Oh, no! Not at all.”

  “Well, then you have nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s what they told Monica Lewinsky,” said Lucy. “And Martha Stewart.” The waitress set the coffee on the table. “Maybe I should have a lawyer.”

  Christine ripped a packet of sugar open and poured it into her cup, then peeled open a little plastic bucket of cream and poured it in, stirring smoothly. “That’s your right, of course, but I think you’re overreacting. Don’t you want to help us catch the person who did this to your daughter?”

  Lucy lifted her mug and took a sip. “Of course I do. But, frankly, I don’t understand why you’re questioning me. Agents Hall and Wood were at the hospital last night and they made it very clear that they were only interested in talking to Elizabeth.”

  “Really? They were there last night?”

  Lucy was puzzled. “Didn’t you know? Don’t you guys talk to each other?”

  Christine took a long, long sip of coffee. “Department policy,” she said, finally. “We don’t like our left hand to know what our right is doing. It corrupts the investigative process.”

  It sounded reasonable enough to Lucy. She might even be quoting some FBI manual packed with government gobbledygook. “If you say so.”

  “Okay, then. What brought you and your daughter to New York?”

  “Actually, Elizabeth won a contest for mother and daughter makeovers. Jolie magazine flew us to the city and put us up at the Melrose Hotel, all expenses paid.”

  Agent Christine didn’t reply and Lucy found herself babbling to fill the silence.

  “It meant leaving my husband and the other kids at home during Christmas school vacation but I thought it would be an opportunity to spend some special time with my oldest daughter. After all, who knows where she might go after graduation? It could be my last chance to have her to myself.”

  “How many other children?”

  “Three others, but my oldest son doesn’t live with us anymore so it’s really just Sara and Zoe. They’re fourteen and eight.”

  Christine stared at her. “And you really thought it was a good idea to fly to New York?”

  Lucy’s back stiffened. “Why not? She’s not a baby anymore and my husband is perfectly capable. . . .”

  “Not that. I meant flying. Haven’t you heard about 9/11?”

  “Of course I’ve heard about it.” Lucy remembered the beautiful sunny weather that day and how she was unable to pull herself away from the TV set as the horror unfolded. “I was just as upset as everyone else. But, hey, aren’t you guys supposed to be making flying safer? Aren’t we supposed to go about our lives as normally as possible? Not let the terrorists stop us because that would be a victory for them?”

  Christine looked at her as if she were crazy. “All it takes is one extremist with a bomb. And it’s not just airplanes. They can hit buildings, subways, commuter trains, buses, you name it. The Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building.” Christine was getting rather agitated and there was a gleam in her eye. “Do you know they have nuclear bombs that can fit in a suitcase? And just imagine what a biological agent could do if it were released in the subway.”

  Lucy was beginning to feel cornered and she didn’t like it. Who did this person think she was to make judgments about her choices? “Well, if something like that happens at least I’ll know I looked good when I went,” she answered, tossing her head. She knew every hair would fall back into place, thanks to her Rudolf haircut.

  As a matter of fact, she was beginning to think Agent Christine should spend a little more time worrying about her appearance and a little bit less worrying about doomsday scenarios. Of course, that was her job, admitted Lucy, but she could at least try to look her best while pursuing terrorists and criminals. The poor girl had obviously cut her hair herself or had gone to one of those walk-in places that charge eleven dollars. She didn’t bother with make-up, her eyebrows needed shaping, and that navy blue pantsuit she was wearing was all wrong with her pinkish complexion and blond hair. The pantsuit was also much too severe, and that red bow she’d tied around her neck went out in the eighties. Where did she buy her clothes anyway? Goodwill?

  “You certainly have a great haircut,” said Christine. “I’ve been admiring it. Who did it?”

  “Rudolfo. The magazine sent us to his salon.”

  “Is he expensive?”

  Lucy was surprised by the question. Surely everyone in New York knew about Rudolfo and his five hundred dollar haircuts. “Very expensive, but there are plenty of other good stylists. Ask around.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  Encouraged by Christine’s reaction, Lucy thought she might offer a bit more advice. “You could also have your eyebrows shaped. It really opens up your face, at least that’s what they told us. And if you have it done once professionally you can maintain it yourself with tweezers.”

  “My sister plucked hers and all she’s got left are two tiny arches that look ridiculous.”

  “That’s why you need a professional shaping,” said Lucy, aware that she was sounding an awful lot like her friend Sue back in Tinker’s Cove. What a change a few days could make. She always resented Sue’s unbidden advice, but now she couldn’t seem to stop herself from doing the same thing. “You could also get your colors done. They told me I’m a winter and I should wear black, white, and jewel tones. I’m no expert but I think you’re a spring and you’d look good in soft pastel colors.”

  “FBI agents don’t wear pink.”

  “Maybe a sage green suit with a pink blouse? Or a little floral-print scarf, tied cowboy style so it wouldn’t get in your way? You can be both professional and feminine.” Lucy was beginning to wonder if she’d been possessed by some sort of fashion demon. Indeed, Christine didn’t seem to be listening. “But we’ve gotten off track here,” she admitted, swallowing the last of her coffee. “I have some ideas about how the anthrax was delivered. As beauty editor, Nadine got a lot of product samples, including a rather fancy powder c
ompact. She dropped it during our consultation and Elizabeth picked it up, which is probably how she got exposed.”

  The agent looked at her sharply. “How did you get this information?”

  “It’s just a theory,” said Lucy. “One of Elizabeth’s friends did some Internet research and that’s what we came up with. It seems to fit the circumstances of the case. Nadine was always powdering her nose. I guess she was known for being vain. And it was also widely known that she didn’t like to share the samples and kept them for herself. Putting the anthrax in a fancy compact was a clever touch, though. Whoever sent it to her must have known her well and been confident that she would want to keep such a beautiful trinket for herself. The fact that Elizabeth was exposed was simply bad luck; the anthrax wasn’t meant for her. Nadine was the real target, and Elizabeth just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Lucy tapped her upper lip with her finger. “The big questions, of course, are who sent the anthrax and why did they do it? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “And is that why you went to the funeral today, even though you weren’t invited?”

  Lucy’s jaw dropped. She was beginning to think she’d underestimated Agent Christine. Just when she was beginning to wonder what her FBI superiors would think if they listened to the tape of their conversation and if she’d get in trouble for discussing hairstyles and fashion tips, it occurred to Lucy that all that small talk might have been a ploy to get her to say more than she otherwise would. If it was, she had certainly fallen for it and right now she felt pretty stupid.

  “I simply wanted to pay my respects to a woman who taught me the value of daily moisturizing,” said Lucy. She thought about dabbing her eyes with a tissue but decided that would be overdoing it.

  “You’re an investigative reporter. You want to break this case.”

  Lucy was stunned. “How do you know what I do? And anyway, that’s not important. This is my daughter, you know. Of course I want to find out who poisoned her, but not because I’m going to break a big story. It’s because I love her and I want to make sure whoever made her sick doesn’t do it to somebody else.”

  “Which is why you’re going to start cooperating and telling the truth,” said Christine. “You say Nadine dropped the compact and your daughter picked it up. Why?”

  “It practically fell at her feet. It was the polite thing to do.”

  “Did Nadine throw it at her? Did somebody knock it out of her hand?”

  “Nope. She just dropped it.”

  “How did the others react when she dropped it?”

  At this rate, thought Lucy, Agent Christine would be retired before the case was solved. “I don’t think anybody noticed. It was all over in a second or two.”

  “Did anyone else reach for the compact?”

  “Not that I noticed. Frankly, I was mostly watching Nadine.”

  “Why?”

  “She was the queen bee, if you know what I mean. Ordering people around, coming up with crazy ideas, and all the time looking at herself in the compact mirror. She was completely narcissistic. I don’t think I ever met anyone like her before. Nobody else mattered to her.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Christine nodded, then seemed to remember her role. “I mean, you picked all this up in less than half an hour?”

  “Well, I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.” Lucy’s eyes met the agent’s. “Sitting in a hospital room with a sick child does tend to concentrate the mind. I’ve been over that session in my mind a million times, dredging up every detail.”

  “Hindsight isn’t always accurate,” warned Christine. “Your emotions can color your memories.”

  “I know,” admitted Lucy. “But you’ve probably been talking with lots of people. You’re trained to filter out the personal reactions to get to the truth.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So what have you learned so far?”

  Christine’s unkempt eyebrows shot up and she pursed her mouth. “Any information relevant to this case is strictly confidential and I am not at liberty to divulge it,” she said.

  There it was again, that darn FBI manual. “Just thought I’d try.” Lucy shrugged.

  “I don’t think I need to keep you any longer,” said Christine, crumpling her napkin and tossing it on the table. “But I do think I ought to warn you that obstructing a federal investigation constitutes a felony.”

  “Felony? That seems kind of harsh. Are you sure it’s not a misdemeanor?”

  For a brief second Christine seemed confused. “A felony,” she snapped, dropping a couple of dollar bills on the table. “Let me make this very clear,” she said. “Mind your own business and leave the investigating to the professionals. We don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Having delivered a warning, Agent Christine turned on her heels and sped out of the coffee shop.

  Darn, thought Lucy, she hadn’t even gotten a chance to share her theory about Arnold or her questions about Camilla.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ACCESSORIES FORECAST: BRING ON THE BLING!

  Lucy remained at the table after Agent Christine left and pulled her cell phone out of her purse, eager to check on Elizabeth.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Did you find the things I left you?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Mom.”

  “Is there anything else you need? I’m on my way over.”

  “Right now?” Elizabeth didn’t sound eager to see her.

  “Yeah,” said Lucy. “Is there a problem?”

  “Uh, well, Lance is coming. He’s bringing me lunch.”

  “Okay.” Lucy sighed. “I’ll catch you later.”

  “No rush, Mom. I’m fine. Really. Come tonight, okay?”

  Well, that certainly didn’t take long, thought Lucy, ending the call. Already she was a third wheel. She wasn’t needed, she was superfluous. That’s how it was with college-age kids. One minute you were bailing them out of a crisis and the next you were getting in their hair. She might as well have another cup of coffee. So when the waitress came over with the coffee pot and offered to refill her cup, she accepted and sat, staring into the black liquid, thinking over her conversation with Agent Christine.

  The FBI agent was right about one thing. It was ridiculous to think she could identify Nadine’s killer. For one thing, she was a fish out of water in the city. Back home in Tinker’s Cove she knew her way around, she knew the people. But that certainly wasn’t the case here; she’d only been in the city for a few days and hardly knew anyone. And then there was the matter of the murder weapon: anthrax. She hardly knew what it was and didn’t have a clue where the killer could have obtained it. It seemed the very last thing that people in Nadine’s world of society and fashion could access.

  Nevertheless, leaving it to the FBI was like staring at the slick, oily surface of the coffee hoping that a face would magically appear or the steam rising from the cup would take the shape of letters spelling out a name. It was no good. There was no way she could sit around waiting for the official investigation to produce the sicko who had killed Nadine and poisoned Elizabeth. After all, government officials hadn’t succeeded in solving the original anthrax attack, and that was years ago. She might not have any better luck, but she had to try.

  Investigating was the only thing she knew how to do. She couldn’t administer drugs or conduct lab tests to make Elizabeth better; she had to leave that to the doctors and nurses. But as a mother she still wanted, no, needed, to help. Even if she only turned up one tiny clue, it would be better than doing nothing.

  Besides, if Agent Christine was the best the FBI had to offer, Lucy didn’t have a lot of confidence the agency would ever solve the case. She didn’t know much about the FBI, but she was aware that its reputation for infallibility had suffered after Oklahoma City and 9/11. Even so, the conversation with Agent Christine had seemed a bit odd. Lucy chewed on her lip. Maybe Agent Christine was new to the job.

&
nbsp; Lucy took a sip of coffee and pulled a pen out of her purse. She plucked a paper napkin from the chrome holder on the table and started making a list of names, all possible suspects.

  Nadine’s husband, Arnold, topped the list. It was a sad but indisputable fact that the husband was always the prime suspect when a wife was murdered, and from what she knew of Arnold he certainly deserved that dubious honor. She clucked her tongue, remembering the pass he made at her at the gala, even while his wife was dying. What a slimeball. She underlined his name and added an exclamation point.

  Of course, the fact that he had a roving eye didn’t necessarily make him a murderer. Plenty of men felt they had to make a pass at every attractive woman they encountered; it was almost expected, like all men were supposed to love sports. Those who didn’t, the guys who’d rather spend Sunday afternoon at the ballet than in front of the TV watching football, were judged as less than manly. Maybe she was placing too much emphasis on one little pass. It had been a clumsy attempt, almost cartoonish, with his talk of champagne and caviar. Maybe he had only been joking and she was such a rube that she didn’t get it. Maybe it was some sort of New York compliment.

  But that didn’t explain his reaction to her at the funeral. You would have thought he suspected her of poisoning Nadine, which was patently absurd since Nadine was already sick when they met. Lucy scratched her chin thoughtfully. It could be a smart ploy, however, if he wanted to turn suspicion away from himself. She supposed it could be argued that Elizabeth got sick administering the anthrax to Nadine. It wouldn’t hold up for long, of course, but it might give him time to hide evidence or flee to the Bahamas or whatever he might be planning.

  And what about Camilla? Lucy wasn’t at all convinced that her show of grief at the funeral was genuine. In truth, from what she’d seen of Camilla, it seemed the woman had ice water in her veins. She was essentially interested in only one person—herself. And what had Pablo meant when he’d said Nadine wasn’t as good a friend to her as she thought? Had Nadine been angling to get Camilla’s job? It was possible; she certainly seemed to have plenty of ideas about how to run the magazine. Everybody knew the magazine was in trouble—did that mean Camilla was in trouble? Camilla was an ambitious woman, and Lucy had no doubt that if she found herself pressured by the publisher on one hand and her old friend on the other, the old friend would have to go. But why not fire her? Did Nadine have some hold on her, some information, that made that option impossible? You didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to know that Camilla was driven to succeed. Lucy had no doubt she would do whatever it took, even murder, to maintain her status as New York’s most influential magazine editor.