A truck roared by blowing its air horn.
“Hold on please,” I said, ducking into a doorway and holding my free hand against my other ear. “I’m sorry. It’s noisy here on the street. You were saying?”
“I wondered whether we could get together, you know, to bat around some ideas. And I figured that I gotta eat and so do you. So are you free for dinner? I really enjoyed last night.”
I hadn’t expected that he was calling to invite me out again, and took a moment to consider.
“Jessica? Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes, I’m here.” A fire truck roared by, its siren screeching. “There’s so much noise here,” I said.
“Not like that town you live in, huh?”
“Nothing like it.”
“About dinner. If you’d rather not, it’s okay.”
“It’s just that I’m meeting with my agent at six. I’m not sure what time I’ll be free.”
“Sure, I understand. Just thought you’d be curious about this new case I’ve been working, you know, the death of this other model, the famous one, Ms. Moore. I’ve been on it all day and thought it might interest you.”
“I, uh—yes, I’d enjoy dinner tonight. Is seven thirty too late?”
“It’s perfect. How about I pick you up at your hotel, then? I’ll take you to one of my favorite joints, nothing fancy.”
“That’ll be fine,” I said.
I hung up and shook my head. Initially, in our brief conversation, I’d decided not to accept his invitation. I wasn’t eager for another date. But then he mentioned the death of Latavia Moore and that he was working that case, and I changed my mind. It was like dangling a worm in front of a fish. I bit.
My curiosity had gotten the better of me, which my dear friend and Cabot Cove’s favorite physician, Seth Hazlitt, claims is an affliction of mine like asthma or sinusitis. When I’m offered to discuss murder with a professional like Detective Kopecky, or any seasoned detective for that matter, my inquiring mind almost always takes over.
As I walked uptown in the direction of my next appointment, I thought of having met Scotland Yard inspector George Sutherland in London years ago when he was investigating the murder of my dear friend Marjorie Ainsworth, a world-famous writer of murder mysteries. I’d been at her mansion when the deed occurred, and Inspector Sutherland had spent considerable time with me discussing the case. Our mutual attraction had bloomed. We’ve remained close, our friendship cemented by our strong feelings for each other that threaten to advance the relationship to another level. But we’re both wary of moving too fast in affairs of the heart, and content ourselves with knowing how much we care for each other.
Of course, having dinner with Detective Kopecky had nothing to do with personal issues. I was not at all interested in him romantically, and he, as a relatively recent widower, probably felt the same about me—at least I hoped he did. As he said, he needed to eat and so did I, and we could enjoy a companionable meal and talk about what interested us both. I’d admit to being curious about this latest death of a fashion model. If Rowena Roth’s death was the result of natural causes, was it the same with Latavia Moore?
Enough making excuses for having accepted his dinner invitation, I told myself. If my inquisitiveness draws me to those who investigate murder, so be it.
It was good to see my publisher, Vaughan Buckley, again. We seldom get together in person, and each time I do I’m reminded of what a splendid gentleman he is. His assistant brought us coffee and we sat in his spacious office with windows affording a lovely view of the city. I caught him up on what I’d been doing, and he consulted with my editor on a printout of the sales of my various books published under the Buckley House banner. I mentioned having been at the fashion show and Rowena’s death.
“I read about that in the Post,” he commented. “And there’s another model who just died, isn’t there?”
“I’m having dinner with the detective who’s working both cases,” I said.
His eyebrows went up. “‘Working both cases’?” he said. “Is foul play suspected?”
“Not that I know of.”
He cocked his head, and a knowing smile crossed his lips. “But Jessica Fletcher’s fertile brain is in overdrive,” he said, more a statement than a question.
“No, nothing like that,” I offered defensively.
“Maybe the basis for your next novel?”
“I hope not,” I said. “I know nothing about the fashion world. The amount of research needed would be daunting.”
“Well,” he said, “if you do decide to set your next book in New York City during Fashion Week, I can put you in touch with someone who knows it better than anyone else. Claude de Molissimo wrote the definitive book on the New York fashion scene.” He pulled a copy from a bookcase and handed it to me. “Here. Take it with you. It wasn’t a big seller,” he said, “but I was pleased to publish it. His insight into what makes the fashion world tick is impressive.”
We chatted a little longer before he walked me to the elevator. “Olga asked me to send her best to you,” he said. “She’s visiting a cousin on the east end of Long Island this week. She’s disappointed not to be able to catch you while you’re in town.”
Vaughan’s wife is one of my favorite people, and I asked him to return the greeting.
I killed time between seeing Vaughan and my meeting with Matt Miller by browsing shops, including a luggage store where I treated myself to a stunning leather shoulder bag that had been drastically discounted, which appealed to my New England sense of thrift.
As usual, Matt was on the phone when I arrived. I retreated to his conference room to wait, and perused the book Vaughan had just given me. Its author, Claude de Molissimo, had written for Women’s Wear Daily and other fashion publications. The photo on the back cover showed a smooth-faced, white-haired, plump octogenarian in a plaid jacket with an ascot peeking from his open-collared shirt. I flipped through the pages that detailed the organization of the textile and apparel industries from the sweatshops in impoverished countries where so many of our clothes are made to the rarefied workshops—ateliers to use the French word—of famous designers in Paris, Milan, New York, and London who contribute to the wardrobes of wealthy clientele.
“What have you got there?” Matt asked when he joined me in the conference room fifteen minutes later.
I held up the book so he could see the cover.
“Hey, I know that guy.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, saw him at a garden party in the Hamptons last summer. Can’t miss that shock of white hair. Makes him unique.”
“Did you have a chance to talk?”
“Not really, but if you ever need to get in touch with him, I can get his number from the hostess. She knows everyone out there.”
I thanked him and we spent a pleasant hour together. Among many things Matt had wanted to discuss with me was an offer for the audio rights to some of my newer books, which impressed me. But he felt he could negotiate for a better advance and royalty and wanted my permission to turn down the offer, which I granted him. He’s been my agent for many years and I trust his instincts.
As I waited for the elevator in Matt’s building, my mind wandered to my pending dinner with Detective Kopecky, and I began to regret having agreed to see him. I’d turned down dinner with Grady and Donna because I wanted time alone, and here I was making plans for dinner with someone I barely knew. Seth Hazlitt would undoubtedly find it amusing, and I could only imagine the comment he would make about it.
I was waiting in the lobby when Kopecky arrived. While he’d claimed the “joint” we were going to was “nothing fancy,” he was dressed in a nice gray suit, white shirt, and tie, and didn’t look as though he’d been through a tough day. He was freshly shaved and sported a pleasant aftershave lotion.
“You look beautiful,” he said
.
“Thank you.” Finding his comment strangely personal, I resisted returning the compliment.
We drove to where he said he’d called ahead for a table at a place called Jeremy’s Ale House, on Front Street in the South Street Seaport section of the city. Kopecky parked directly in front of a NO PARKING OR STANDING sign and hopped out of the car to open the door for me.
“Ever been here before?” he asked me.
“No. I don’t know it at all.”
“It’s kind of a hangout for cops, always has been. It’s just far enough away from One Police Plaza so the brass can’t keep an eye on its customers. It’s got the best crab cakes in the city, and chips like you’ve never tasted before.”
“It sounds like fun,” I said as we climbed the front stairs and entered the noisy restaurant.
Kopecky leaned close to my ear and said in a low voice, “Most cop hangouts are Irish places, you know, Irish pubs. That’s why I like this place. You don’t have to be Irish to get in.” He laughed to be sure that I hadn’t taken him seriously.
As with Jill’s, where we’d gone the previous night, a number of customers and staff welcomed Kopecky by name. But the atmosphere at Jeremy’s was as different from Jill’s as it was possible to be. The interior was dim, most of the lighting, as far as I could tell, coming from suspended television sets and neon beer signs hung on the redbrick wall. We squeezed past the packed bar of drinkers holding foam cups of beer and managed to get a small table as far from the throng as possible, which pleased me. It was a boisterous crowd, with a lot of loud talk and raucous laughter. I looked up and was stunned to see women’s bras hanging from the dropped ceiling, the acoustic tiles covered with graffiti made by multiple-colored markers.
Kopecky was definitely overdressed for the occasion, and I was, too. This was the definition of a dive bar, more like a clam shack in Maine than any restaurant in New York I’d ever been to.
“Hope it’s okay that we came here,” Kopecky said. “I mean, you’re probably used to places like ‘21’ and the Waldorf.”
“Oh, no,” I said, “this is fine.”
“They have great seafood. I figured, you being from New England and all, you’d appreciate that. It gets pretty loud sometimes. That’s because cops come off a shift and have to unwind.”
“I can understand that,” I said, although most of the bar patrons looked more like college kids or young Wall-Streeters than off-duty officers.
“You drink beer?” he asked. “They’ll make you a drink, but most people order beer.”
“A beer would be fine,” I said. “I enjoy a beer now and then.”
Kopecky went to the bar, ordered our beers, and returned to the table with them. “It’s kind of a do-it-yourself place,” he said. He raised his foam cup and said, “Here’s to seeing you again, Mrs. Fletcher.”
I touched my cup to his and said, “Good to see you, too, but please call me Jessica.”
“Jessica it is,” he said, grinning. “I’m Aaron.”
“I remember.”
I started to ask a question about his job and crime in the city, but he began telling me about his late wife.
“Mary, she was a saint to put up with me,” he said. “She never liked coming to places like this—you know, too noisy. We didn’t have many cop friends. Mary was uncomfortable with them.” He laughed. “Imagine, being married to a cop and being uncomfortable around other cops.”
“Too much shop talk, I imagine,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he said.
We ordered from a menu of small dishes, including the crab cakes he’d touted, calamari, two shrimp cocktails, and onion rolls and butter. Kopecky told more stories about his wife and their life together, and it was plain to me that he was desperate to share these tales of their long married life together with someone, anyone.
I took advantage of a lull in his virtual monologue to ask what it was that he wanted to “bat around” regarding the deaths of the two models.
“That’s right,” he said, wiping his mouth with the napkin that he’d tucked into his shirt collar to cover his tie. “I was at the apartment today of that model who was found dead.”
“How was she discovered?” I asked.
“She never showed for an appointment with her agent yesterday, and he came to the building this morning and got the super to open the door. There she was, on the couch.”
“Was she fully dressed?” I asked.
“Yeah, she was. I know what you’re getting at. No sign of sexual assault.”
“And no signs of a struggle? Was everything neat and orderly?”
He shook his index finger at me. “You’d make a good detective, Jessica.”
“I’m not sure I would, but thanks for the compliment. I take it that you’re content with this celebrity model having died of natural causes.”
His face screwed up in thought. I waited for his answer.
“Tell you the truth, Jessica, I’m not so sure of that.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I had a chance to look at the body while the medical examiner did his work. Not that I’m a doctor or anything, mind you, but I have seen a few corpses in my thirty-three years on the force.”
“I imagine you have.”
“Something struck me as wrong.”
“Which was?”
“Her eyes. When the ME held them open, I got a good look. There were these little red dots I’d seen before with victims who’d been strangled.”
“Petechial hemorrhages,” I said.
“Yeah, I knew you’d know about those things. I never can remember how to pronounce it.”
“Did the medical examiner agree?”
“He’s a young guy who doesn’t like to be told anything,” Kopecky said. “I asked about those red dots, those—”
“Petechial hemorrhages,” I put in.
“Right, those. He blew me off, said she probably choked on her dinner.”
“Was there any food near the body?”
“There were a couple of plates with some crumbs on them.”
“Did you have a chance to see her tongue?”
He shook his head.
“Sometimes when someone is strangled or smothered, they bite their tongue.”
“You know a lot, Jessica.”
“I’ve taken a few courses in forensics,” I said modestly.
“Yeah, well, I suppose we have to wait until the ME does his thing—the autopsy, that is.”
“It’s always best to wait for the official findings,” I said, which ended the conversation about the model’s demise.
Kopecky abruptly asked, “Got a boyfriend?”
I couldn’t help laughing. “You asked me that last night.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t really answer.”
“I’m a little old for having a boyfriend, but I do have a friend whom I like very much. We don’t see much of each other because he lives in London. He’s an inspector with Scotland Yard.”
“That’s impressive. You and he, are you—?”
“As I said, we like each other a great deal.”
“That’s good,” Kopecky said. “I mean, it’s good that there’s somebody special in your life.”
I couldn’t be sure, but I sensed that he was fighting against tearing up.
“Let’s call it a night,” I said. “It’s been a long, busy day for me and I need some sleep. Sounds like it’s been a long, busy day for you, too.”
“Just another day,” he said as he picked up the check.
“You sure I can’t take that?” I asked. “You treated last night.”
He put his hand over his heart. “My wife, if she was alive, would kill me if I let a lady pay the tab.”
* * *
He pulled up in front of my hotel.
“I really enjoyed having dinner with you,” he said. “I know it’s not a fancy place. I kind of forgot about the bras on the ceiling. I hope you weren’t offended.”
“Not at all. It was an interesting bit of decor,” I said, choosing my word carefully.
He laughed.
“Anyway, I enjoyed dinner, too. Thank you.”
For a moment I sensed that he was poised to lean across the seat and kiss me good night. I opened my door, which sent him through the driver’s door and to my side.
“Maybe we can do this again sometime,” he said.
“I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be in New York,” I said.
“That town you’re from? Cabot something?”
“Cabot Cove.”
“Right. Cabot Cove. In Maine. You know, I’ve never been to Maine. Well, good night, Jessica.”
“Good night, Aaron.” I hurried into the hotel, hoping that I wasn’t going to get a surprise visitor once I got home. Detective Aaron Kopecky was a very nice man, but he needed something from a woman that I couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—give him.
Chapter Eight
I awoke the next morning to a city filled with speculation about the demise of two models, seemingly within hours of each other during Fashion Week. Could a serial killer be on the loose? The morning television shows were interrupted by a news conference in which the city’s chief of detectives briefed the press. As the camera briefly panned across the other dignitaries behind him, I was pretty sure I saw Aaron Kopecky standing to the side. The chief of detectives declared there was no evidence to support that the deaths were related in any way. While the toxicological results would take some time to come back, he reported, the city’s medical examiner hadn’t found anything to indicate foul play in his examination of seventeen-year-old Rowena Roth. Similarly, the postmortem on supermodel Latavia Moore was deemed “nothing of concern so far,” notwithstanding Kopecky’s suspicions about the little hemorrhages that he’d noticed.
Nevertheless, official statements by the police department didn’t tamp down rumors that whizzed around the Internet and fed gossip columns, both off- and online. Twitter was alive with comments linking the two young women, although it was unlikely they’d ever met. Under the headline DEATH STALKS THE CATWALKS, the Post’s front page featured a glamorous photograph of Latavia in a dress with a deep décolletage, her long bare legs crossed. Boxed on the lower right was a head shot of Rowena that looked as if it came from her high school yearbook rather than her model card or anything her agent might have provided. Inside, an article bylined by Steven Crowell offered the shocked reactions of friends and associates of Latavia Moore, accompanied by more photographs from her glamorous life. At the close of the piece, the reporter quoted Xandr Ebon, whom he described as an up-and-coming designer whose clothes the other dead model was wearing when she collapsed on the runway. “It was a terrible tragedy. She was a beautiful girl with natural elegance. She would have gone far,” he’d said of Rowena.
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