I looked across the room and saw my nephew, Grady, and his wife, Donna, making their way through the crowd.
“What happened, Aunt Jessica?” Grady asked when they reached me.
“A model has died.”
“Died?” Donna said. “Just died, like that?”
“I’m afraid so.”
One of the emergency medical technicians folded his stethoscope and said to the other, “She’s gone.”
“No, it can’t be,” the woman in the green suit wailed.
“Is that Polly Roth?” I asked Grady.
“Yes,” he replied. “She heads up the PR agency that’s been publicizing the show.” He leaned forward to get a better look at the body. “Oh, boy,” he said, “that’s her niece, Rowena.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Donna said. “She’s just a kid.” Donna went to Polly and guided Rowena’s aunt to a chair. “I’ll get you some water,” she said.
The EMTs directed everyone to move back as they replaced the sheet over Rowena and gently lifted her onto the gurney. Philip Gould, the show sponsor, emerged from the side of the black curtain as they were tucking in the gold train of her gown. “Just what we don’t need,” I heard him mutter to himself. “Okay, gentlemen,” he barked at the EMTs, “come on, move. Get her out of here!”
“We’re waiting for the police,” an EMT said in response.
“Police? Why?”
“Those are our orders,” he told us.
Sandy paled. “Do we really need the police?” he asked me. “Can’t they just take her to a hospital?”
“It’s an unusual death,” I said. “Unusual deaths are almost always investigated.”
Philip Gould sank down onto a seat next to Polly and put his arm around her until Donna returned with a glass of water. Then he moved to another chair and typed furiously into his cell phone.
Despite his mother’s urging him to sit down, Sandy paced along the runway until the police arrived, shooing away anyone from backstage who poked a head through the curtain to see what was going on out front.
Two uniformed officers and a plainclothes detective arrived.
“Who’s in charge here?” the detective asked.
“I suppose I am,” Gould said, pocketing his phone. “My firm, New Cosmetics, sponsored this show.”
The detective, a barrel-chested spark plug of a man with a steel gray buzz cut, whom I judged to be in his early fifties and who chewed on a toothpick, looked around. “Who else is a witness to what happened?”
“We are,” Sandy replied, pointing to himself and to me. “But lots of people saw her fall. All the models backstage.” He waved a hand toward the curtain. “My mother over there and—”
The detective gave orders to his officers to take names and statements. They disappeared behind the black curtain. He asked Philip Gould to “hang around,” and came to where Sandy and I stood. “Aaron Kopecky, NYPD,” he said, showing us his badge. “You are?”
“Xandr Ebon,” Sandy answered. “I’m an evening-wear designer. She was one of my models—Rowena, that is, the girl who died. She’s wearing one of my gowns. Oh, jeez,” he said as he looked at me, his eyes stricken, “how am I going to get the dress back?”
“We’ll worry about that later,” I said.
Sandy nodded and introduced me. “This is Jessica Fletcher. She’s a good friend from back home and—”
Kopecky cocked his head. “Jessica Fletcher? The mystery writer?”
“Yes.”
“No kidding? I’m pretty sure I’ve got some of your books at home. My wife was a big fan.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“You saw the deceased die?”
“Well, yes, along with everyone else who was here.”
“Who is she?”
Sandy answered, “Her name is Rowena Roth. She’s seventeen—or was. That’s her aunt over there, the woman in the chartreuse suit, Polly Roth. Her PR agency handled press for the show.”
“I’ll get to her later. How about we find a quiet corner and you tell me exactly what you saw?”
As we started to walk away in search of solitude, the owner of the catering hall intercepted us. “These people have to go,” he said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “I have a wedding tonight to prepare for.”
Detective Kopecky eyed the caterer. “We may be here several hours,” he said.
“But my wedding party . . .”
“Looks like the bride and groom will have to elope,” Kopecky said.
Chapter Three
Sandy and I told Detective Kopecky what we’d observed, which wasn’t much, and he didn’t ask many questions. As far as I could tell, he’d been called to the scene of an unusual but not suspicious death of a young person and wasn’t viewing it as anything more than that.
“She must have had a congenital heart problem,” Sandy offered. “It’s always so shocking when someone that young dies like this. I mean, heart attacks are how older people die.”
“I’ve seen a few younger people keel over,” Kopecky said. “She never showed any signs of having a cardiac problem?” He angled his head at me.
“I wouldn’t know,” I replied. “I’d never met her before today.” I turned to Sandy. “Had you known her long?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. Polly—that’s her aunt—asked me to use her in the show, which I was happy to do. The only conversations we had concerned the clothes she would wear and what I expected of her on the runway. She was inexperienced—a little cocky—but she learned quickly.”
“Well,” the detective said, stretching against a pain somewhere in his body and letting out a groan to confirm it, “sorry for your loss. My officers are gathering names of those who are still around in case I’d like to speak with them. Just pro forma. The medical examiner will do an autopsy. That’s pro forma, too, in cases like this. What about her family?”
I mentioned Polly Roth again and her relationship to Rowena Roth. “I’m sure that she’ll inform other members of the family of this tragedy,” I said.
“She’s next on my list,” Kopecky said. “Thanks for your help. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher. If you ever need somebody to fill you in on how murder investigations really work, give me a call.” He handed me his card. “Nice meeting you, too,” he said to Sandy. “Sorry it’s under such circumstances.”
Grady and Donna had been waiting for my conversation with the detective to end.
“Are you okay?” Grady asked when I joined them.
“I’m fine,” I said, “although it’s terribly sad to witness the death of a teenager who never had a chance to grow up and enjoy her adult life.”
“Do you think it was a heart attack?” Donna asked.
I could only shrug. “That’s for the medical examiner to determine,” I said. “It’s hard to accept that someone that young could die of heart failure, but it does happen.”
Donna showed her watch to Grady. “We have to get back to the office,” she said, tapping the face.
“I need lunch first. I’m famished,” he said. “Aunt Jess, will you join us?”
“I’d be happy to.”
Before we left, Sandy, his mother, and Philip Gould approached us. The EMTs had removed the body, and Detective Kopecky was engaged in a conversation with Polly Roth.
Gould shook his head. “Terrible, terrible tragedy,” he said. “But I hope this won’t keep you from attending tonight’s reception.” He passed two invitations to Grady and Donna. “We’ve taken over Capriccio’s. Got our reservation in before any of the others even thought about it.” He grinned. “They tried to back out when one of the magazines wanted the space, but we had an ironclad contract.”
We asked Sandy to extend our condolences to Polly Roth and said good-bye to the others.
It felt good being with Gr
ady and Donna as we left the catering hall and walked to a restaurant they’d suggested for lunch. Although we lived in different parts of the country, my nephew and I had remained close through e-mail and frequent phone calls. He was a terrific young man, married to a wonderful woman. They’d named their only child, Frank, after my late husband, even further endearing them to me. Both Grady and Donna were certified public accountants, but they’d decided that Donna would not seek full-time employment while bringing up their son.
Like many young professionals launching a career, Grady had suffered through some early rough spots, bouncing from one job to another, never finding the right place for himself. I’d thought he’d finally settled down with a firm that handled the payroll for a variety of film and video production companies. But that firm’s management had been “creative” when it came to handling the books—“cooking the books” it’s often called—and when it went belly-up overnight, the production companies that depended upon it, as well as its employees, found themselves in a bind. Out of a job, Grady and his boss, Carl Zucker, stepped into the breach. They banded together, started their own payroll company, and eventually built it into a respected and lucrative business.
“The firm’s name is Zucker and Fletcher,” Grady told me at the time. “I held out for Fletcher and Zucker, but we decided to settle it by flipping a coin. Carl won.”
With their son, Frank, no longer needing his mother at home full-time, Donna now worked part-time at Zucker and Fletcher.
We walked into a small French bistro near their office but across town from the apartment building to which they’d recently moved. I’d had dinner at their home the previous night after having flown to New York from Boston and was impressed with their new apartment’s space compared to the small quarters they’d previously shared.
“What did the detective have to say when you and Sandy talked with him?” Donna asked after we’d all ordered French onion soup and salads.
“He was just following procedure,” I said. “Having a very young woman suddenly die of no apparent cause qualifies as an unusual death. Sandy and I told him what we’d observed and that was that. I feel terrible for her aunt and the rest of her family.”
Grady sipped his Diet Coke and shook his head. “The fashion world is a strange one,” he commented. “I never knew anything about it until I got one of our clients involved in helping stage the show. They’re a top producer of TV commercials; they know how to stage a set so it looks like all the other fashion shows, only just different enough to be exciting and dramatic. This was exciting and dramatic all right. I spoke with one of the guys from the production house who was there. He said they were as shocked as everyone.”
“Sandy certainly was shaken,” I said. “It’s an unfortunate way to launch his career.”
“You knew him from Cabot Cove, didn’t you?” Donna asked me.
“Yes, I did, but not well. I’m sure Grady’s told you this, but he was Sandy in those days, not Xandr as he’s known now. He was a talented but troubled young man as I remember. I knew his mother back then and recall the problems she had with him. He seemed to think he could charm his way out of difficulties, and many times he got away with it.”
“With a face like that, I’m not surprised,” Donna said. “He looks like he should be a model himself, or a movie star.”
“Unfortunately, I think it skewed his expectations,” I said. “He always had an artistic bent, though. He won some high school art competitions. Oh, and he also designed costumes for school plays if I’m not mistaken.”
“He spent time in Hollywood, didn’t he?” Grady said.
“Yes. He—”
The arrival of our lunches interrupted our conversation and we eagerly dug in. When we resumed our chat, the topic turned to my catching up on what was going on in their lives, and the activities of Frank, now almost a teenager.
“He takes after his aunt Jessica,” Grady said proudly. “He’s a good writer, gets straight A’s in his English classes.”
“Maybe we’ll collaborate on a novel someday.”
Grady pressed my hand. “He’d love that, Aunt Jess.”
“As long as you wouldn’t mind that he’d be writing about murder.”
“He’s a little young for that,” Donna said as she used a piece of crusty French bread to mop up what remained of her soup. “Then again, what kids are exposed to these days can be upsetting for a parent.”
I smiled and our conversation turned to other topics, although the vision of Rowena sinking to the floor and my vivid recollection of the fact that the teenager was dead were never far below the surface.
Grady paid the bill and we stepped outside into a crystal-clear day with a cobalt sky above.
“Sure you want to stay in your hotel, Aunt Jess?” Grady asked. “Our pullout couch is really comfortable and—”
“I appreciate the offer, Grady, but the Refinery Hotel is perfectly fine with me. It gives me my own space, and I don’t feel that I’m intruding into a busy household. Will you two be at the reception that Mr. Gould is hosting this evening?”
“He gave us tickets,” Donna said. “I guess we’re expected, but what happened this afternoon takes the joy out of any celebration.”
“But the show must go on,” Grady said. “We have to put in an appearance.”
Donna nodded. “I know.”
Grady turned to me. “What will you do for the rest of the afternoon?”
“Don’t worry about me. I feel very much at home in New York City. Perhaps I’ll take a nice walk, maybe catch a nap at the hotel before the reception this evening.”
“We’ll see you there, Aunt Jess.” He kissed my cheek, as did Donna.
I watched this delightful couple stroll away and my heart filled. Having them in my life was a blessing. My late husband, Frank, and I never had any children. Grady had been like a surrogate son for us and I couldn’t love him more than if I’d raised him from infancy. And that went for Donna, too.
I sighed, but my elevated spirits soon came back down to earth. The beautiful young model who’d died intruded into my thoughts everywhere I walked, even while stopping to admire store windows, taking in the variety of people sharing the streets with me, and musing on our lunchtime conversation and Grady’s parting words.
“The show must go on,” he’d said. The saying originated in the circus world many years ago, its meaning now applicable to almost every aspect of life. I only hoped that what was supposed to be a pleasant week in New York City with my nephew and his lovely wife, and a triumph for Sandy Black, aka Xandr Ebon, didn’t turn into a circus.
Chapter Four
The reception hosted for the designers by Philip Gould, chairman and CEO of New Cosmetics, was held at one of New York’s hot spots for people in the fashion industry—or so I was told. Capriccio’s was located a block from New Cosmetics’ corporate headquarters in downtown Manhattan on a street that had once been down-and-out, but with gentrification had sprung back to life. Small, trendy restaurants lined both sides of it, along with boutiques whose windows displayed the latest in fashion. I was pleased to see an independent bookstore nestled among the eateries but fought the temptation to go in and sign whatever copies of my books they might carry. Maybe another day.
I’d managed to find time to rest at the hotel before getting ready for the reception. I’d worried about what to bring with me from home. Fashion Week in Manhattan is always a festive and high-toned affair, and every newspaper and magazine highlights the cutting edge of fashion being celebrated. But judging from those in attendance at the showing earlier in the day, only the models were dressed to the nines, with some notable exceptions.
Satisfied with the wardrobe I’d chosen—I wore a silk wrap dress that was both practical and pretty—and relaxed from my rest, I took a taxi and walked into Capriccio’s feeling refreshed, if a little apprehensive about how Rowena
’s death would affect others at the party. Sandy Black—I’d not yet gotten used to his new name, Xandr Ebon—had been extremely upset, as we all were. The distress felt by Polly Roth was the most personal, of course. Rowena had been her niece, and she had arranged to have the young woman model in Sandy’s show. I could only speculate what dreadful thoughts must be going through her mind at that moment.
The restaurant was surprisingly large based upon its modest exterior. Once inside, I passed a long bar to my left and arrived at a staircase leading to an upper level. A young woman with two large tattoos of birds, one on each side of her neck, stood at a makeshift podium at the base of the staircase. She took my coat after I’d handed her my invitation. She flashed a smile and said, “The party’s upstairs. Enjoy!”
I followed the sound of a string quartet up the stairs and arrived at the party venue, a large room with pictures of models in the designers’ fashions projected on the walls, and a huge banner that read WHO WILL BE THE NEW FACE OF NEW COSMETICS? From what I could see, the room’s perimeter was lined with couches, and small tables with two chairs at each. A bar was set up in the near corner, and a crew of dramatically made-up young women wearing tuxedo suits passed through the crowd offering hot and cold finger food.
The string quartet occupied a raised platform in the opposite corner from the bar, and played classical selections that, while amplified, stayed at a level that thankfully enabled easy conversation. I’ve never understood why some hosting parties, wedding receptions, and other social events allow the musicians, or DJs, to dominate the scene, making conversation impossible without shouting. It crossed my mind as I entered the space that a sound financial investment would be in companies that manufacture hearing aids. The younger set exposed to such racket on a regular basis will certainly need such devices at some point in middle age. But this musical choice, probably thanks to Philip Gould, who was paying their tab, not only provided an elegant backdrop but kept the volume down.
As I scanned the crowd for Grady and Donna, Peter Sanderson, the male model whom I’d seen behind the scenes at the show, crossed the room to me. “Mrs. Fletcher, I’m so glad that you decided to come.”
Design for Murder Page 3