Design for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  Isla emerged from the bedroom wearing a different sweater from the white angora, and a pair of torn blue jeans. She flopped down on one of the sofas. “I have to go back into Manhattan. I only came home to change. If I’d known you were going to be here, I’d have stayed in the city,” she said to no one in particular. She stood and stretched. “Is there any food left?”

  “There’s part of a sandwich here that no one touched,” I replied.

  Isla walked to the table and used her index finger to flip off the top piece of bread. “What is it?”

  “I believe that one’s corned beef and Swiss,” I replied.

  She peeled off the cheese, rolled it up, took a small bite, and returned to the sofa. She picked up the remote and aimed it at the television. The room filled with rock music and an announcer’s voice extolling the virtues of a dishwashing soap.

  I walked in front of the screen, blocking Isla’s view. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “Is it about Rowena?”

  “Yes.”

  “I already told the cops I didn’t know anything,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the commercial playing behind me.

  “Well, maybe you know more than you think,” I said. “I just have a few questions.”

  “All right. Get out of the way and I’ll shut it off.” She pushed the rest of the cheese into her mouth, wiped her fingers on her jeans, and switched off the television.

  I turned around the desk chair and sat in front of her. “I understand you and Janine were not good friends with Rowena.”

  She shrugged. “We got along okay.” She glanced toward the bedroom and leaned forward. “She was a selfish brat,” she whispered. “And she was weird, too.”

  “How was she weird?”

  Isla looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know. She was always going down to Chinatown to buy stuff. She made her own lipstick and eye shadow, tried to get me to use it.”

  “Did you? Use it?”

  “No way! Who knows what she put in it? She sent away for stuff on the Internet and videoed herself, like a mad scientist. Although I have to admit, it looked good on her.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  Isla had the grace to look down. “No,” she said softly.

  “Do you happen to know what she had for breakfast that day?”

  “Oatmeal.”

  “That was a quick answer,” I said, smiling.

  “She had oatmeal every morning. Disgusting stuff, but she liked it.”

  “I take it you don’t like oatmeal. What do you eat for breakfast?”

  “Black coffee, and if we have anything left over from dinner the night before, I might finish that. I know. Please don’t give me a lecture on good eating habits.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Why do you care what Rowena had for breakfast?”

  “She was a little sick to her stomach before the show and I just wondered what she might have eaten.”

  “The policeman told me she probably had a heart attack. Can you believe it?” She gave a shiver. “He said she probably had an inborn weakness.”

  “It’s certainly possible. Did she seem sick here at home before you went into Manhattan for the show?”

  “Even if she was, she wouldn’t have admitted it. We had to be at the venue by eight. I’m not even human at that hour, so I wouldn’t have noticed anything. I don’t think Janine would have either. She didn’t say anything to me anyway.” She was silent a moment. “We were a little freaked out when Rowena dropped dead. It’s odd, isn’t it?” She gave a big sigh. “And now we have to find another roommate. It’s such a hassle.”

  I had to work not to let my shock show. Wasn’t there anyone, other than her aunt, who mourned the loss of this child?

  Isla left shortly thereafter wearing a hooded down jacket for the return trip into Manhattan.

  When Maggie finished cleaning up the kitchen, she handed me a grocery bag of garbage to leave by the door. “We’ll take it downstairs when we go,” she said.

  As I set the bag by the door, I noticed a crushed cereal box inside and pulled it out. With it came a crumpled receipt from a Chinatown apothecary for fu zi. I looked at both. Rowena had scrawled on the oatmeal box “This belongs to RR. Don’t touch!” over the front panel. I opened the box to find a half-used packet of oatmeal. When Maggie wasn’t looking, I wrapped the packet in a paper napkin and tucked it and the receipt in my shoulder bag.

  Chapter Ten

  I spent the afternoon after leaving Rowena’s apartment shopping for gifts to bring back to friends in Cabot Cove. I seldom returned from a trip without such token gifts and didn’t want this one to be an exception. Truth to tell, however, I found meandering through some of the city’s wonderful shops and choosing what to buy a welcome respite from thoughts of dying models and what is obviously a competitive, somewhat nasty business—fashion, and the week celebrating it.

  I stopped at my hotel to drop off my purchases, which I’d had gift wrapped, and to freshen up. I had some time before I had to leave for dinner at Grady’s and Donna’s apartment and used it to go back online to find what I could about Sandy Black’s time spent in Hollywood, which I’d been in the process of doing when Maggie Black called to ask me to accompany her to Rowena’s apartment. Google turned up several Sandy Blacks, including a few in the fashion industry, but none of them were familiar to me. I scrolled through a few more mentions until coming to an abrupt stop at a two-paragraph news item from a Los Angeles weekly newspaper. It was a report of a costume design assistant, Sandy Black, having been convicted for theft of costumes from the studio where he was employed, and who was sentenced to a year’s probation in return for a plea of no contest and the return of the stolen items.

  “Oh, my,” was all I could muster.

  If I’d had any doubt about the identity of this Sandy Black, it was dispelled by the grainy photo that accompanied the piece. It was clearly of Sandy, even though the dark circles under his eyes and the unkempt hair were not part of his usually well-groomed appearance. I read the piece again in search of more details, but there weren’t any. I continued to Google Sandy’s name but came up with nothing else. Now I knew why his mother preferred to forget about his stint in L.A. As I signed off I reminded myself that he hadn’t pleaded guilty. A “no contest” plea, also called a nolo contendere, means the defendant does not admit guilt but assumes a conviction will take place, and allows the court to determine punishment.

  Had he stolen the costumes? I preferred to believe that he hadn’t. But they must have been found in his possession. At least he hadn’t received jail time. Why would Sandy want to steal costumes from a film studio? Were they famous outfits from iconic movies for which collectors would pay handsomely? Or did he want them for himself as a souvenir of his profession? I hoped it was all a crazy mix-up, but it certainly explained why Sandy Black had become Xandr Ebon, and had left California for New York.

  I typed in Latavia Moore’s name and pressed the “Images” link. My screen filled with row upon row of the beautiful celebrity model and—to my surprise—what appeared to be other Latavia Moores, black, white, and Asian, in both formal photographs, candids, and selfies. Focusing on the famous face I recognized, I scrolled down the page. Latavia was featured on myriad magazine covers and in articles, frolicking on the beach, posing on a red carpet with her then husband, pursued by the paparazzi, and—“Wait a minute,” I said aloud. I clicked on one of the paparazzi photos of Latavia in huge sunglasses, her left hand holding the scarf that covered her head. Who was that next to her? A man had his arm wrapped around her waist, his head ducked down and shoulders hunched as though trying to hide inside the collar of his windbreaker. But even behind his dark sunglasses, it was impossible to disguise his handsome face. It was Sandy Black.

  So Sandy had a relationship—romantic?—with Latavia Moore. It sure l
ooked that way. I searched for a date on the picture. There wasn’t one, but Latavia was wearing a wedding ring. Had they been secretly married? It couldn’t be. Sandy had barely had a reaction to learning of her death. But clearly they knew each other. What did it mean?

  An hour later, I headed for Grady and Donna’s apartment. As I got closer to their building, my spirits were boosted. Anticipating seeing Grady, Donna, and their son, Frank, always put an added spring in my step. I walked briskly into the lobby and told the doorman that I was visiting the Fletchers. He went behind the desk to call the apartment, saying as he did, “The other guest has already arrived.”

  Who could that be?

  My question was answered the minute Grady greeted me at the door. I looked past him and saw Detective Aaron Kopecky standing at the window with Frank. Grady read my puzzled expression and said, “The detective working the case, Detective Kopecky, is joining us for dinner. Hope that’s okay with you.”

  “It’s—yes, of course, that’s fine. Which case?”

  Kopecky broke away from Frank the minute he saw me and said, “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher. Uh . . . Jessica. Nice to see you again.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It hasn’t been very long.”

  “Nice apartment, huh?” Kopecky said, indicating the living room with a sweep of his hand.

  “Lovely,” I replied, giving a quick hug to Grady’s son, who had come to greet me. “I’m eager to read your story,” I told Frank. I was also eager to find out what had transpired between Kopecky and Grady to lead to his being invited.

  “Your nephew and his wife were kind enough to ask me to join you for dinner,” Kopecky said.

  Grady added, “Detective Kopecky interviewed me this afternoon about the death of the model.”

  “Which one?”

  Grady frowned. “Rowena. Polly Roth’s niece. You were there.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I was about to ask what Grady could contribute to the detective’s investigation when Aaron added, “We’ve discussed other cases, too.” He gave Grady a wink before turning to me. “I get obsessed when I work a case, Jessica. I never want to think that there’s something or someone I’ve overlooked. I figured that since your nephew here helped set up the fashion show through one of his clients, maybe he could give me a look inside how these things work.”

  “I’m sure he can.”

  Grady grinned at me. “The detective—”

  “Please, it’s Aaron,” Kopecky interrupted. “I’m off duty now.”

  I wondered if he really was.

  “Aaron was free tonight,” Grady said, “and he said that you and he had had dinner before, so I figured that since you already know each other, it would be nice to get you two together again. Donna’s making her famous angel-hair pasta with lobster meat. Oops! I’d better get in the kitchen and whip up the salad. That’s my assignment. A drink, Aunt Jessica, before I disappear?”

  “No, nothing, thank you.”

  “Don’t forget that you have to read the short story that Frank wrote. He’s dying for your reaction.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” I said.

  I would have been happy to read the story right then and there, but Frank had disappeared, leaving Kopecky and me alone. I noticed that he wore the same gray suit he’d had on when we had dinner at Jeremy’s Ale House, but his shirt was blue this time, his tie a bright yellow.

  “So,” he said, “had a busy day?”

  “It turned out that way. You?”

  “It’s always busy. I like it better that way.”

  “Anything new on Ms. Moore’s death?”

  “If you mean do I know what killed her, the answer is no. Not yet, at least.”

  “The chief of detectives said there was nothing suspicious. True?”

  He laughed. “So you caught the press conference. Well, that’s what we’re hoping. If the ME comes back and says it was a heart attack or stroke, that’ll put to rest all this sensational serial killer nonsense that the media is stirring up.”

  “But you still have doubts?”

  He nodded. “Nature of the beast,” he said. “We always treat any untimely death as a homicide until proven otherwise. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything evil took place. You know, if you run someone over and they die, it’s a homicide. That’s not the same as murder unless you were aiming the car at ’em.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I forgot. You’re the expert on murder.”

  “Hardly an expert.”

  “Yeah, but you know more than the average guy on the street. I should say gal on the street.”

  Donna emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron. “Aunt Jessica,” she said, “sorry to not have welcomed you.” She hugged me before disappearing back into the kitchen from which a lovely aroma emanated.

  “Nice people,” Kopecky commented.

  “The best.”

  “Like I was saying,” he said, “I have a problem buying the idea that two young women, both in great shape, drop dead on the same day from causes unknown.”

  “There is such a thing as a coincidence,” I said.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences. Do you?”

  I hesitated. “Occasionally.”

  “Yeah, well, on this occasion I’ve got my doubts. My wife, she always said that if somebody said the sun was shining, I’d have doubts even though I could see that the sky was blue.”

  “I suppose that goes with your job.”

  “I suppose it does. Tell me about this designer you knew from Maine, Xandr Ebon.” He snickered. “Some name, huh?”

  “I knew him as Sandy Black, although not well.”

  “I did some checking on him.”

  “So did I,” I said.

  “You are way ahead of me, Jessica. Must be some of that Scotland Yard fella rubbing off on you.” He laughed to soften the comment.

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  “Seems Mr. Ebon, or Black, had sticky fingers when he was working out there in La-La Land.”

  “He claimed that he hadn’t done anything wrong.”

  “They all do. Not that stealing costumes some actress wore means he had anything to do with his model’s death, but it does say something about his character.”

  “Do you suspect that he might have been responsible for Rowena Roth’s death?” I asked, unable to keep the incredulity from my voice.

  “Everything’s on the table, Jessica. Everything’s on the table.”

  Frank came into the living room carrying a binder and looking uncertain. “Excuse me, Aunt Jessica,” he said, “but Dad said that you wanted to read my story.”

  “I can’t wait to see it,” I said. “I hear your teachers think it’s terrific.”

  “It’s okay, I guess. It’s not like I’m a real writer or anything.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge?”

  “I’ll see if I can help in the kitchen,” Kopecky said. “My wife always said I was more of a nuisance than a help, but we just did things differently. She never did learn how to load a dishwasher.”

  Frank and I settled on the couch and I began to read. He interrupted me once to explain what he meant in the story, but I hushed him. “Either I’ll understand what you intended by reading the story, Frank, or I won’t. If you have to explain it, then the story lacks something.”

  He sat quietly as I read through the pages. When I was finished I applauded and exclaimed, “An A-plus is too low a grade. It’s wonderful!”

  He blushed as he thanked me. Grady poked his head out of the kitchen and asked, “Do we have another bestselling author in the family?” he asked.

  “I think we do,” I said.

  Kopecky came from the kitchen. “The kid has talent, huh?” he said. “I heard you clapping.”

  “It was very
good,” I said. “Maybe Frank will let you read it, too.”

  “Is dinner almost ready?” Frank asked.

  “I think so,” Kopecky said. “Your mom is a good cook. I got to taste the sauce.” He bunched his fingers together and kissed them. “Delicioso! That’s Polish for yummy.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Frank said, laughing.

  Kopecky was right. Dinner was delicious, and the mood at the table was upbeat. I tried not to grapple with why he’d ended up at dinner with us, but other topics pushed those thoughts aside. When they were present I couldn’t help wondering whether he had accepted Grady and Donna’s dinner invitation because he truly enjoyed their company, or because he knew that I would be there. I also couldn’t get my hands around Kopecky having interviewed Grady regarding Rowena’s death. What could a CPA for production companies know that would be of interest about a model’s untimely death?

  These and other musings really didn’t matter, however. What was important was that I got to spend time with my great-nephew and his lovely parents, even though our usual relaxed atmosphere was stiffened by the presence of another guest.

  Donna turned down my offer to help with the cleanup in the kitchen. Grady pitched in, and Frank excused himself after dinner to do his homework. That left Kopecky and me alone again in the living room.

  “Terrific dinner, huh?” he said.

  “Donna has always been a good cook.”

  “You’re lucky to have such nice family,” he said.

  “I certainly agree.”

  “Look, uh, I was wondering what you were doing tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow night? I—”

  “The reason I ask is that I have a pretty nice family, too.” He launched into a long monologue, and I wondered if Kopecky talked so much and so fast to cover feelings of inadequacy. “My daughter, Christina, is a sweetheart. How she ended up my daughter, I’ll never know. My wife, she always said that Christina took after her, not me, and she got no argument. I mean, I’m a cop. I see the world different than most people. Anyway, Christina is my only daughter. I’ve got a son, too, Paul, but he’s out in Oregon working for some real estate company. We don’t talk much. But me and Christina are pretty close. She’s a college graduate like her mom. So’s Paul. Me? I got through a couple of years at John Jay but dropped out to join the military. I was military police. I guess that’s what got me into law enforcement when I got out. So what I’m saying, Jessica, is that I’d like you to meet Christina.”