Design for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  In the meantime I’d set into motion a busy schedule that shucked my role as simply a happy, wide-eyed visitor to New York City. Two fashion models had died suddenly under unexplained circumstances, and I’d taken it upon myself to at least find out why they’d died. Maybe Sandy Black, aka Xandr Ebon, was right. Maybe I was a busybody who poked her nose into other people’s business. But I certainly hadn’t asked to be present when Rowena Roth dropped dead, nor was it my initial intention to delve into Sandy Black’s past.

  But now that I had done that, there was no way that I would back off from seeking the truth.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dr. Edmund Sproles’s offices had the look of a Hollywood movie set. I stepped through the door and was in the midst of a reception area the size of my entire first floor in Cabot Cove. My feet disappeared into thick ruby red carpeting. Framed photographs of well-known people posing with a man I assumed was the doctor were arranged in groups on the walls. At least a dozen young women and some older ones sat on the gray leather sofas and chairs that defined the room’s perimeter. Tall black marble sculptures depicting Greek and Roman goddesses stood sentry in three corners. The fourth corner of the room contained a brightly lit eight-by-ten-foot glass atrium containing a variety of exotic plants, some with vividly colored leaves or blue or purple flowers. To complete the room was a massive gray marble desk at which an attractive middle-aged woman, dwarfed by the desk’s size, sat.

  “Hello,” I said as I approached her. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. The doctor and I have an appointment.”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Fletcher. How nice to meet you. I’m Susanna.”

  “I’ve brought something for you.” I retrieved a copy of my latest hardcover book from my bag, one of two copies I’d purchased at a bookstore on my way to the offices. “I’ve signed it to you,” I said. “The doctor told me your name.”

  “How sweet of him,” she said in her British accent, “and of you. Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  “Please take a seat. I’ll see if the doctor is available,” she said, and disappeared down a long hallway. I stepped closer to the hall and saw that its walls, too, contained multiple photographs of Dr. Sproles with his better-known patients. I recognized Latavia Moore in one, and was that Babs Sipos in the background?

  I didn’t have time to scrutinize the photo as Susanna returned and waved me toward the seating area. “The doctor will be with you shortly,” she said. “He’s had a last-minute emergency. He won’t be long. Would you like mineral water or perhaps a glass of white wine while you wait?”

  “No, nothing, thank you.”

  She went back to her desk, and I took an empty seat. While I waited, several women in white uniforms—Nurses? Technicians?— collected some of those waiting and led them through another door marked TREATMENT ROOMS.

  On a table next to my chair was a plastic holder containing pink brochures. I plucked one out and idly opened it. Inside was a catalogue of the various services Dr. Sproles and his staff offered. In addition to the usual spa services, the list included such treatments as Jelly Masks with Sea Kelp, Enzyme and Lactic Exfoliation, Synthetic Snake Venom Facials, and something called Radio Frequency Jawline Treatments. I was reading with fascination the descriptions of those treatments, and many others, when Susanna called my name.

  “The doctor is ready for you now,” she announced.

  As we passed the atrium I asked about it.

  “The doctor is interested in horticulture,” she said, pausing to admire the display. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

  “Lovely.”

  “He likes to grow plants that have medicinal properties to try in his treatments.”

  “Isn’t he a surgeon?”

  “Of course, but he says wherever you can spare the knife, you should.”

  “Interesting philosophy for a plastic surgeon.”

  “He loves to study Chinese medicine. That yellow flower is called birthwort, and it’s supposed to help the pain of childbirth.”

  “Not something this doctor would need in his practice, would he?”

  She shook her head. “He just likes the shape of it.”

  “What’s the purple flower?” I asked.

  “I think it’s soldier’s helmet or hood, something like that.”

  “Do you take care of these plants for him?”

  “Oh, no!” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “They’re very delicate. If you handle them incorrectly, they can die. Or give you a terrible rash. Some can be poisonous, like the purple one. The doctor has a specialist to take care of them.”

  “So the specialist has a specialist for his plants?” I said, smiling.

  She seemed to think I was making fun of the doctor and stiffened. “Dr. Sproles is a dedicated doctor and is always conducting research into areas that can help his patients.”

  “I meant no offense. I’m sure his patients are in excellent hands.”

  Susanna quickly led me past Dr. Sproles’s “celebrity wall” in the hallway and we eventually reached his office, a handsome room decorated in muted brown tones; the furniture, including a large desk, appeared to me to be made of some rare—and expensive—wood.

  The doctor was seated when I entered. He stood, flashed a gleaming smile with teeth that appeared to have been enhanced by cosmetic dentistry, came around the desk, and extended his hand. I judged him to be in his late forties or early fifties, although it was hard to tell. His pale blue eyes were set in a face that was wrinkle free without a freckle or mark on it, a walking advertisement for his medical specialty. I assumed that his hair was his own, but it also could have been a perfectly executed hairpiece. He wore a pristine white lab coat over a pink button-down shirt and burgundy tie.

  “What a pleasure,” he said, “to meet such an esteemed author.”

  I thought that was a bit much but simply thanked him.

  “Please, have a seat. My culinary adviser is preparing a light repast for us, a special vegetable platter she whips up. I trust you haven’t had lunch.”

  Culinary adviser?

  “Susanna says that you were kind enough to have brought her a signed book,” he said, taking his chair behind the desk.

  “And I have one for you as well,” I said, handing it to him.

  “I am extremely grateful.” He weighed the hardcover in his hands, turning it over to admire it like a precious gem. “Sy, my photographer, will be here shortly.”

  “May I ask why you have a photographer?”

  His grin was both reassuring and condescending. “I take multiple photographs of my patients before and after. I used to do it myself, but there’s nothing like a professional’s touch, I always say.”

  “I see.”

  “But you’re not here to discuss photography. What can I tell you about the fashion world?”

  “I suppose we can start with the death of the young model Rowena Roth. I was present when she died on the runway.”

  His face assumed an expression of profound sorrow. “Oh, yes, poor Rowena. What a tragedy.”

  “She was a patient of yours?” I asked, wondering how Rowena could afford to see the most popular plastic surgeon in New York.

  He eyed me carefully. “This is off the record, I presume.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I have to be careful, you know, just in case patient confidentiality still applies after the patient has departed this world.”

  “I understand.”

  “After she died I pulled her records and photographs from the files. Such a beautiful young woman. I did only minor procedures on her. It mostly involved her lips. I added a slight bit of form and contour to them to better match her other facial features.”

  “She needed that work?”

  He smiled. “My goal with the models I see is to achieve perfe
ction in their looks. That’s why they come to me. Some involve more extensive work, but Rowena wasn’t among them. Who could ever have guessed that within that exquisite body was a ticking time bomb, a heart that would fail her at such a ridiculously young age?”

  “When you saw her did she give any indication that she might have had a medical problem? I assume that you’re informed about someone’s overall health before you work with them.”

  “Of course. We have them fill out an extensive medical history, everything from diaper rash to acne.”

  My eyebrows flew up.

  “Just kidding. No, Rowena seemed in the best of health. She was, however—”

  I cocked my head and waited for him to finish his thought.

  “She seemed to me to be a difficult young woman, perhaps psychologically unsuited for modeling. She was easily provoked, snapped at my nurse for silly things. Of course she didn’t dare do that with me or risk losing my attention. I’m successful enough to pick and choose my patients. And I don’t tolerate rudeness. But my staff found her very unpleasant to deal with.”

  “I’ve heard that from other people,” I said. “Do you mind if I bring up something contentious?”

  Before he could answer, his “culinary adviser,” an attractive young redheaded woman, entered the office carrying a tray.

  “Ah, my savior,” Sproles said. “Haley keeps me healthy along with my fitness adviser.”

  Haley flashed me a smile. “He’s such a flatterer.” She was accompanied by a young man pushing a cart covered in white linen. He pulled up the sides to create an oval table, and took the tray of food from her, arranged its contents on the table, and drew up two chairs.

  Haley adjusted the angle of the linen napkins and nodded at her assistant, who took his leave.

  Instant restaurant, I thought, admiring the silver, china, and bud vase with a single pink rose.

  “Time to dig in, Mrs. Fletcher,” Dr. Sproles said, pulling out a chair for me.

  Haley portioned out two plates of steamed vegetables and brown rice, and set them before us. “Bon appétit,” she said with a smile, and left the office.

  I ate some of what was on my plate to be polite, but made a mental note to stop somewhere for a different lunch after leaving.

  Sproles cleaned his plate quickly. “Not hungry?” he asked, patting his mouth with a sigh.

  “This is very good, but I had a late breakfast.”

  “Now,” he said, “where were we?”

  “You were saying that Rowena had a chip on her shoulder.”

  “Right. Yes, that was my impression of her. Don’t get me wrong. She could be charming when she wanted to be, a cuddly little kitten, but the kitten had sharp claws. Yes, there was an edge to her that was unmistakable.”

  “Did she mention to you anyone she might be having trouble with?”

  “Hmm. Just the usual, you know, roommates. These aspiring models tend to live in crowded quarters. It’s all they can afford until they make it big.”

  “Do many of them ‘make it big’?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Afraid not,” he said. “I see hundreds of girls—and quite a few young men, too. You’d be surprised. They all have big dreams, but those dreams seldom lead to fame and fortune.”

  “There are exceptions, of course, like Latavia Moore,” I said.

  His face turned solemn. “Oh, yes, Latavia, dear, sweet Latavia. Another tragedy.”

  “I saw her photograph on your wall. Was she also a patient of yours?”

  “When she was in New York. Although if I had to depend upon her for a living, I’d be destitute. Her beauty was the most natural of all. There was little I could to improve on it. Strange, isn’t it, that two models die of natural causes during Fashion Week?”

  “Very. Do you think that they died of natural causes?”

  He cocked his head and fixed me in a quizzical stare. “My goodness! Are you suggesting that it wasn’t natural causes that took their lives?”

  I started to reply, but he began chuckling. “Oh, you had me there. I forgot for a moment that you’re researching your next murder mystery. What a character you are. I thought you might be playing a real-life detective.”

  I laughed, not because what he’d said was funny, but to make the point that what he’d suggested was amusingly untrue.

  There was a knock on the door, and a short, bald man poked his head in.

  “Sy! Your timing is perfect,” the doctor called in greeting. “We’ve just finished lunch.”

  “I’ll set up while you wash up,” Sy said, lugging in a tripod, a sizable camera on a strap over his shoulder.

  Sproles opened a door to his private bathroom and I waited while he brushed his teeth and gargled noisily. On the way back, he stopped at his desk for my book and pressed a button on his phone.

  Sy positioned me in the middle of the room. “We don’t want any shadows on the wall,” he said.

  The doctor came to my side, holding my book, cover facing the camera, with one hand. He wrapped his other arm around my shoulder and revealed his bright, minty smile to the lens.

  “Got it!” said Sy. “I’ll have the print to you this afternoon.”

  “In the silver frame, please,” Sproles said, glancing at his watch. “I’m afraid we have to wrap this up,” he said to me. “My next patient will have arrived, and I’ve got a full slate today.”

  His arm was still around my shoulder as he escorted me toward the door behind the departing photographer.

  “I appreciate your time and expertise,” I said.

  “I’m afraid I had very little to offer,” he said. “I’m just a fortunate doctor who gets to make beautiful young women more beautiful.”

  I remembered Claude de Molissimo’s rant about Dr. Sproles and his ilk who, according to the cynical Mr. de Molissimo, preyed on gullible young women.

  We shook hands as Susanna arrived to escort me back to the waiting room. “If you ever want some plastic surgery on that lovely face of yours, Mrs. Fletcher, all you have to do is call. I’ll fit you in no matter what my schedule,” Sproles said.

  “That’s very kind of you, Doctor.”

  “You’re very attractive for a woman your age. A little tweak here and there, and you’ll look twenty years younger.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, eager to find a mirror to see whether I’d suddenly aged during the past forty-five minutes.

  Susanna accompanied me back to the sumptuous waiting room. I immediately spotted someone I knew sitting on a couch, reading a magazine. It was Linda Gould, whom I’d met at the party her husband had hosted. She was wearing a low-cut cashmere sweater with her ample bosom on display. A fur jacket was folded in her lap.

  I thanked Susanna for her courtesy, but instead of leaving I took the empty seat next to Mrs. Gould.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. We met at the party your husband’s company hosted the other night.”

  She looked at me with an expression that said both that she was trying to remember who I was and that she was uncomfortable being recognized in the swank offices of a leading plastic surgeon.

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  “It was good of Philip to hold that party after what happened to the young model on the catwalk, don’t you think?”

  I couldn’t tell whether she agreed with me, or found the subject distasteful, because she eyed me carefully. “And just how do you know my husband?” she asked.

  “We met at a fashion show New Cosmetics was sponsoring. The mother of one of the designers is an old friend of mine. Philip generously gave me a ticket to come to your party.”

  “Yes. Philip can be very generous. Is that all he gave you?”

  I ignored her question and posed one of my own. “You’re here to see Dr. Sproles?” I asked, knowing the answer.


  “Yes. Are you a patient of his?”

  “Not yet,” I replied. “I was just interviewing him.”

  “Oh, are you a reporter?” She shifted in her seat, which caused her fur jacket to open, enough for me to see the satin label for Chi-Chi Quality Furs. She closed the coat and hugged it, as though it were a cuddly dog, and I had the feeling that she wanted to move farther away from me.

  “No. We just had a little chat and had our picture taken together.”

  “How nice.”

  It was obvious that she didn’t wish to engage in further conversation. But while we were talking, I’d looked closely at her face. Previous plastic surgeries—and I had no idea how many procedures had been performed on her—had given her a “false” look, her skin stretched tautly across prominent cheekbones and a shiny, smooth forehead. Her lips were puffy, her neck firm, and her eyebrows arched high over green eyes that lacked any acceptable bags natural aging would have created. But the back of her hands, with ropy veins and spotted skin, revealed the age she fought so valiantly to hide in her face.

  “It was good seeing you again,” I said, and left.

  As I rode the elevator down to the lobby, I was suddenly and inexplicably troubled by my brief encounter with Linda Gould. What drove her to keep looking for a more youthful appearance? Was it vanity, or a self-image so fragile that she was willing to go under the knife to stave off the natural progression of nature?

  Or was it to remain attractive to her husband, whose work brought him into constant and close contact with youthful beauties?

  Whatever the answer was, it only saddened me further, and I stepped out onto the street feeling very sorry for her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I made straight for a nearby luncheonette and ordered a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich and a Diet Coke. As I enjoyed my meal I reflected on my time spent with Dr. Edmund Sproles, plastic surgeon to the stars of the modeling world.

  When Sproles had asked that I bring a book for him and his receptionist, my first thought was that it would have been nice if he’d purchased two books for me to sign, rather than expecting freebies. But on reflection, I thought it was a small price to pay to take up the doctor’s valuable time in my attempt to better understand the fashion industry. As it turned out, I didn’t learn much of anything except that he was a man with an outsize ego who had “advisers” for every aspect of his life, and who basked in having his picture taken with famous people. I suppose I should have felt flattered to have my photograph added to his “celebrity wall.” I was sure he expected that I would. But I wasn’t flattered at all. Here was a man who collected images of himself with public figures like the way Grady used to collect baseball cards when he was a boy. I was convinced the celebrity wall was a rotating gallery depending on whether the person standing next to the doctor was in or out of favor at the moment.