“I’m sure I’d love to meet your daughter, but I’m busy tomorrow.”
“Like I say, she’s a sweetheart, a straight shooter. She works for the city, an administrative job with the Health Department. I was telling her about meeting you and she got all excited because she’s read some of your books and is a big fan, a really big fan. I thought that maybe we could have dinner together, some nice place, your choice, of course. Pick your kind of place.” He laughed. “Nothing like Jeremy’s, huh?”
I thought before saying, “I really appreciate the invitation, but I’m afraid tomorrow doesn’t work for me.”
Which wasn’t true.
What was true was that I’d become increasingly uncomfortable with his invitations—we’d already had dinner together three nights in a row—and I wasn’t anxious to establish an ongoing relationship with him. There was nothing objectionable about him. He was a decent man, and his frequent references to a deceased wife whom he obviously loved very much were touching. But I wanted to be free of social obligations during the rest of my stay in New York.
“Sure, I understand,” he said, forcing a smile. “You’re a busy lady and—”
“Now, don’t try to make me feel guilty.”
Grady and Donna’s arrival from the kitchen ended that conversation. I was ready to head back to my hotel, but Grady insisted that everyone taste a new liqueur he’d bought on the advice of a client. We all agreed that it was good, and conversation wound down. I announced that it was past my Cabot Cove bedtime. “I’ll get a cab,” I said.
“No need,” Kopecky said. “My car’s right out front.”
“Better than a taxi,” Donna said.
“Nothing like having a real-live detective drive you home. Right, Aunt Jess?” Grady said.
I could only nod.
We said good-bye to Frank, who thanked me again for reading his story, and Kopecky and I left the building and got into his car. We said nothing as we drove to the hotel. But as we pulled up in front, he turned to me and said, “I forgot to mention this while we were with your niece and nephew, Jessica, but when I dug into Mr. Black’s background, I found some other interesting information besides his being accused of theft.”
He had my attention.
“But I know you’re tired. Sorry we can’t get together tomorrow night. Christina will be disappointed. Like I said, she’s a really big fan of yours.”
“I’d enjoy meeting her one day,” I said, dying to probe what other information he’d unearthed on Sandy Black.
“You have a good night,” he said, yawning. “It’s past this guy’s bedtime, too.”
Chapter Eleven
While I’d grown sleepy toward the end of the evening at Grady and Donna’s dinner party, I found myself wide-awake once back in my hotel room. As I changed into nightclothes I thought about Detective Kopecky and my interactions with him since arriving in New York. On the surface he seemed like a pleasant, guileless man who’d spent his life in law enforcement, and who was obviously still grappling with the loss of his wife of many years.
But a pattern of sorts had emerged. While he might be all those things, there was also a devious side to him. Every detective develops a sixth sense about what buttons to push to get someone to open up and cooperate. Kopecky had found my buttons. My innate interest in police procedure and the solving of murders had become evident to him, and he dangled the possibility of sharing “inside” information with me as a means to entice me to spend time with him. The question was, what did he hope to accomplish?
It was possible that he’d taken a shine to me, that his invitations to dinner were a legitimate attempt to establish a closer personal relationship. After all, he was now a widower. Seeking female companionship to replace what he’d lost when his wife died was perfectly understandable.
But I also had the nagging suspicion that because of my reputation as a writer of murder mysteries, coupled with my friendship with some of the players at Fashion Week, he might be seeking insights that he felt he lacked.
Both scenarios were pure speculation on my part, of course, and I abandoned that train of thought as I settled in an easy chair and did what I try to do each evening, empty out the bag I’d been carrying and get it ready for the next day.
I unwrapped a napkin to find the folded packet of oatmeal Rowena had eaten for breakfast the day she died. I wasn’t certain why I had rescued it from the garbage. I checked online to see if there had been any reports of contaminated cereal or recalls, and there weren’t. But I decided to save it just in case something surfaced in the future. The receipt from the Chinatown apothecary was for fu zi, which an online search revealed was aconite root, used for “devastated yang,” whatever that was, and to restore circulation. Isla had said Rowena bought things in Chinatown for her homemade makeup, so I assumed the receipt was hers. But what Rowena needed with an herb to restore circulation I could not imagine.
Two other items I extracted from the bag were cards I’d found in my jacket pocket that afternoon. I’d forgotten that I’d tucked them there when I cleaned up the table in the apartment that Rowena had shared with the other models. One was an appointment card for the plastic surgeon Dr. Edmund Sproles, about whom Claude de Molissimo had spoken so disparagingly. The other was the note written to Rowena, presumably about the fur coat one of her roommates had borrowed for her “go-see.” The note had been signed “Love, P.” Whoever P was had written “R—Sorry for the disappointment. Hope this cheers you up.” It was hard to assign any meaning to the note that didn’t indicate a romantic relationship between Rowena and the mysterious P.
Who could that be? I wondered.
I passed the time waiting for sleep to prevail by reading and watching TV. My eyes finally became heavy and I climbed into bed. Before dozing off I remembered what Claude de Molissimo had asked when I mentioned Vaughan Buckley, my publisher, to him: “What’re you doing at Fashion Week? Researching your next book? If you are, I can tell you where all the bodies are buried.”
There was a good chance I would use New York’s Fashion Week as the backdrop for my next mystery. But even if I eventually decided not to, it was a perfectly good excuse for me to make contact with people who could give me an understanding of this tumultuous world of fashion that I’d found myself in.
I’d start the next day with Dr. Edmund Sproles.
Chapter Twelve
I was going to pretend that my interest in Dr. Sproles was born purely of curiosity about the lives of the beautiful young women who made their living modeling new designs on the catwalks of Manhattan. Of course my innate inquisitiveness—and having spent a number of years turning the knowledge gathered by that trait into murder mystery novels—made Dr. Sproles a natural target for my imagination. According to Claude de Molissimo, Sproles was the plastic surgeon to the modeling profession, and that obviously included Rowena Roth. What kind of doctor would operate on teenagers who were beautiful to begin with? Of course I was sure that the exorbitant fees he charged for his questionable services was a strong underlying motive. Did he also manipulate their young minds, promising fame and fortune with a nip here and a tuck there? I doubted whether he would agree to see me if I posed such questions directly. And I certainly wasn’t looking for a face-lift or other procedure under which pretext I could ask for an appointment. But powerful men have powerful egos; he might respond to a writer looking to pick his gifted professional brain for the novel I intended to write.
Detective Kopecky hadn’t cornered the market on deviousness.
I called the doctor’s Park Avenue office first thing in the morning. A pleasant woman with a British accent answered.
“My name is Jessica Fletcher,” I said brightly. “I write novels. I was wondering if—”
“Jessica Fletcher, the author?”
“Yes.
“Oh, I’ve read some of your books. They’re quite good.”
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“Thank you. That’s very kind. I live in Maine, but I’m in New York researching Fashion Week for my next book.”
“How exciting.”
“I’m excited about it, too, but I admit that I’m a bit of a fish out of water. I’m trying to speak with people who can give me insight into the fashion industry, and Dr. Sproles has been mentioned by a number of people. His brilliant reputation precedes him. I was hoping to benefit from his expertise.” I hoped I hadn’t overstated my case.
“Oh, the doctor is extremely busy,” she said. “But you’re right. His clients are the biggest names in the fashion industry. I’ll tell him about your call and see if he can fit you into his schedule. Do you have a number at which we can reach you?”
I gave her my cell number.
Ten minutes later it rang.
“Jessica Fletcher?” a man asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Edmund Sproles.”
“Oh, yes, Doctor, how good of you to get back to me so soon.”
“So you’re in New York researching your next novel set in the fashion industry.”
Since using the fashion industry as a milieu for a mystery novel was not out of the question, I said, “Yes.” But I couched it with “I’m not totally committed to it yet,” salving my conscience for not being completely straightforward. “It will depend on how much information I’m able to collect. I need a real feel for the industry before I can move forward.”
“Well,” he said, “you’ve certainly come to the right man. I’d be more than happy to take you into the swinging, swirling world of fashion modeling. I just hope you aren’t intending to kill off a plastic surgeon.”
I joined in his laughter. “I haven’t decided who the victim is yet, Dr. Sproles, but I doubt if it will be a physician. I really appreciate your willingness to spare me some time. When can we get together?”
“How about today at noon? I’ve had a cancellation just before that, and I usually take a break from noon until one.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“My receptionist is quite a fan of yours, Mrs. Fletcher. Any chance of getting a book signed to her? Her name is Susanna.” He spelled it for me.
“I’d be happy to give her a signed book.”
“I’d appreciate one, too,” he said. “If it’s okay with you I’d like to arrange for my personal photographer to take a shot of us together along with the book. I have a wall of photos of celebrity patients and friends. I’d like to add you to that wall. You’ll be in good company, I can assure you.”
His personal photographer? His wall of celebrities?
“I look forward to meeting you,” I said.
“The pleasure will be all mine.”
Before ending the call he gave me the address of his offices, which I already knew.
Since I had a few hours before my meeting with the doctor, I considered who else could possibly give me an understanding of the world of big-time fashion, and settled on Philip Gould, whose firm, New Cosmetics, had sponsored the show during which Rowena Roth had died. He had been very gracious the two times we met, and I hoped I could prevail upon him to answer some questions that had been floating around my brain. His secretary put him on the line.
“Thank you for taking my call, Mr. Gould.”
“Philip.”
“Philip, of course. I hope I’m not taking you from something, Philip.”
“As a matter of fact you are, but I can spare a few minutes.”
“I’ll make it quick,” I said. “First, I want to thank you again for inviting me to the post-show party.”
“Happy to do it,” he said.
“I’m so sorry that the tragic death of that young model took the edge off the festivities,” I said.
He said nothing.
“The other reason I’m calling,” I said, “is to ask a favor. I’ve been toying with the idea of setting my next novel in the fashion world, specifically during Fashion Week, and I’m looking to interview those who know a great deal about it. I think your insights would be helpful.”
“I’m in the cosmetics business, Mrs. Fletcher, not the fashion industry.”
“It’s Jessica, please.
“Jessica, I don’t see how I can help, but I’ll be happy to recommend others more knowledgeable than I.”
“Oh, I was really hoping to speak with you. You deal every day with models and designers, don’t you?”
“When I have to.”
His blunt comment stopped me for a moment. He filled the sudden silence with “I suppose I can find a few minutes for you. What would you like to know?”
“What I’d like to learn is more than we can cover in a brief phone conversation, and I know I’m taking you away from something important. Could we arrange to meet later today?”
“This is a pretty full day,” he said. “I have a series of meetings, and there’s the panel I’m moderating.”
“What panel is that?” I asked.
“On new advances in makeup.”
“I haven’t looked at my schedule today,” I said as I pulled it from my bag. “Ah, yes, here it is. Four o’clock. I’d like to attend.”
“I can’t promise that you’ll learn anything from it.”
“But I’m sure I’ll learn something,” I said. “Any possibility of getting together following the presentation?”
Another pause. “Yes, I suppose that will be all right, but it will have to be quick. I’ll see you there.”
While Dr. Sproles had seemed eager to meet with me—adding to his “celebrity wall” undoubtedly helped spur his reaction—I had the distinct feeling that Philip Gould didn’t share the plastic surgeon’s ready acceptance of me. Not that my call out of the blue should have been welcomed with open arms by anyone. These people led busy lives, and while it’s appealing to many to be asked to provide insight for a writer, it doesn’t resonate that way with everyone. Maybe it was my sense of guilt for intruding into their lives under false pretenses that caused me to misread Gould’s mood. Oh, well. As the saying goes, “nothing ventured, nothing gained.” And I was eager to gain information. I thought of my Scotland Yard friend, George Sutherland, and knew that he would approve.
I decided to use the time I had before going to Sproles’s office to call on Sandy Black. Since seeing the photograph of him with Latavia Moore, I’d been grappling with myriad thoughts and questions. Clearly, they knew each other in Los Angeles, and judging from their efforts to escape recognition by the paparazzi, it was possible that their friendship might have been more than platonic. I wondered if the picture had been taken before her divorce or after. Not that Sandy’s interest in Latavia suggested anything sinister. But it struck me as one of those odd examples of coincidence that I’d told Kopecky I occasionally believe in. Sandy had been involved in one way or another with both of the models who’d suffered untimely deaths. Could his involvement be explained away simply by noting that lots of people in the same industry know one another? Or was there more significance to the connection? I was afraid Kopecky thought there was and might be zeroing in on Sandy as a suspect.
When I called Sandy’s Garment District studio to see if he could squeeze in some time for me, his assistant told me that he hadn’t arrived yet but was expected within the hour. I passed the time reading that morning’s New York Times and catching up on e-mail. When I called an hour later, Sandy had arrived and got on the phone.
“Got a minute?” I asked.
“That’s exactly what I have, Jessica, one minute,” he said breathlessly as though he’d run up the stairs rather than taken the elevator.
“I know you’re busy,” I said, “but there are a few things I’d really like to ask you about.”
“Such as?”
“I was hoping I could stop by this morning.”
“Impossible.”
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“I understand,” I said, “but maybe you’ll answer one question for me.”
“Go ahead and ask.”
“When you were in Los Angeles working as a costumer in motion pictures, you became friends with the model who recently died, Latavia Moore.”
He said nothing.
“I saw a photo of you with her taken in Los Angeles and—”
“What is this about, Mrs. Fletcher? What are you insinuating?”
“I’m not insinuating anything, Sandy. I’m just curious how well you knew her and perhaps if—”
“My mother warned me that you were a busybody who pokes her nose into everybody else’s business. Well, stop poking your nose into mine, Mrs. Fletcher. Sorry I can’t see you. I’m unavailable.”
I was stunned at his tone and abrupt hang-up. I mentally went over our conversation. As far as I was concerned, I hadn’t been rude or asked my question in an accusatory manner. But I also understood what he read into my call, that I was in some way trying to implicate him in Latavia Moore’s death. In retrospect I decided my first instinct to speak with him personally had been the correct one. I shouldn’t have asked the question over the phone, especially after he’d just arrived at his studio and was rushed. A lesson learned.
But despite my finding justification for his reaction to my call, the question still lingered. How well had he known Latavia Moore while in Los Angeles? And had his relationship with her, whatever it was, continued after she’d moved to New York and achieved modeling stardom?
I was also taken aback at his contention that his mother, my friend from Cabot Cove, had said such a nasty thing about me. Maggie Black didn’t strike me as the sort of person who would gossip behind my back, and I wondered whether her son had attributed his own view of me to his mother. Rather than stew about it I decided to ask her directly the next time we were together.
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