My thoughts drifted to the atrium in the doctor’s reception area for which he had a plant adviser, a “specialist,” according to his receptionist. She’d indicated that some of the plants were poisonous. Why would anyone raise poisonous plants? Did he really cultivate them so he could experiment on his patients with a plant’s unique “medicinal properties” as Susanna had said? Or was it simply to be different from other gardeners who contented themselves with more run-of-the-mill flora? Dr. Sproles struck me as the sort of man who needed to be associated with unusual possessions in order to set himself apart from the rest of us.
Of course he had confirmed everything I’d heard about Rowena Roth. His comments mirrored aspersions of her that I’d heard from others. Her aunt Polly attributed Rowena’s unpleasant edge to insecurity, but I had my doubts. Like the doctor, Rowena had her own collection of people. In her case, it was those she’d managed to alienate, and they constituted a sizable number.
Now that she was dead, was it unfair of me to be critical of her? As Seth Hazlitt often says, “When you’re dead, all bets are off.” But if there were any questions about whether her sudden collapse was caused by something other than natural causes, those with whom she was on bad terms during her young life would become “people of interest” to anyone investigating her demise.
Speaking of casting aspersions on people, I couldn’t shake my disappointment at what Sandy Black quoted his mother, Maggie, supposedly saying about me. Could it be true that she’d made that comment? You like to think your friends are honest with you. If they become annoyed at some aspect of your personality, isn’t it better to say so directly to your face rather than pass along nasty comments about you to others? It isn’t as if I don’t recognize my weaknesses. I know I’m inquisitive, certainly persistent, and perhaps occasionally nosy, but I hope I’m not a busybody. I like to pursue facts, but only as a path to the truth about a situation. I don’t dig up dirt on people to spread gossip or damage their reputations.
Rather than stew about Sandy’s comments, I decided to spend the time I had before attending Philip Gould’s panel to see if I could track down Maggie and ask.
She was staying at the same hotel I was—she’d said Sandy didn’t have room for her at his apartment—so I headed to the Refinery on the off chance I might catch her, but when I called her room from the lobby, she didn’t pick up.
A cup of coffee appealed and I went up to the rooftop bar, where I took a chair in the corner next to a long window overlooking the city and near a fireplace filled with candles. It was a perfect atmosphere in which to contemplate life. The building had been a factory at one time, and even though the room had brick walls and a stone floor, it was warmed considerably by an exposed-wood ceiling and the perfect placement of an antique rug, cozy chairs, and sofas. I sipped a latte as I gazed out the window at a slice of Manhattan’s tall buildings silhouetted against a gray sky. I was thinking that while I loved New York, I missed being in Cabot Cove, where the chilly winter wind held a tang of salt from the sea. And just then, Maggie appeared at my table.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” I said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“You have? Then you won’t mind if I join you?” she asked.
“Not at all. Please do.”
I waited until Maggie had settled herself on the chair next to mine. I set down my coffee and looked across the table at an unhappy woman.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
She started to say something, but emotion overwhelmed her. I could see her struggling against tears. She took out a tissue and held it balled in her fist.
I reached over and placed my hand on hers. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“It’s Sandy.”
“Is he all right?”
It was more of a guffaw than a laugh. “Oh, sure, he’s fine,” she said, “as obnoxious as ever.”
It wasn’t a characterization I’d have expected from his mother, from any mother for that matter. But from my personal experience that morning, I couldn’t disagree. I waited for her to elaborate.
“He’s become impossible,” she finally said. “I don’t know what’s happened to him. He’s always been high-strung, but I chalked it up to his artistic nature and his frustration at not getting recognition for his talent. But ever since—” Her eyes welled up. She pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. “I will not become ‘a whiny, weepy old lady.’ I’m sorry, Jessica. I shouldn’t burden you with this.”
“Did Sandy call you a whiny, weepy old lady?”
“He did.”
I laughed. “Well, he called me a busybody who pokes her nose into everybody else’s business.”
A look of horror passed over her face. “No!”
“Yes! And he said you were the one who told him that.”
“Oh, Jessica, I hope you don’t believe for one second that I would ever say something like that about you.”
“It didn’t sound like you. It was meant to hurt, and it certainly found its mark.”
“I’ve always prided myself on being straightforward,” Maggie said. “If I have a beef, I’ll confront you. I wouldn’t go around telling tales behind your back.”
“That’s nice to hear. I feel the same way.”
She lowered her chin and shook her head. “This day is getting worse and worse. I’m so sorry, Jessica. Sorry my son was so rude to you, and sorry he had to blame me for his bad behavior.”
“I’m sorry to see you in such distress,” I said. “Why don’t you have a cup of coffee or tea with me? My treat.”
“Tea would be wonderful,” she said, sinking back into the pillow on the chair.
At least the shock of hearing Sandy’s remark had dried up her tears. And her response had gone a long way to pacifying my disgruntled feelings.
With our cups between us, I asked, “Do you think the situation that Sandy found himself in while working in Los Angeles contributed to his behavior?”
Her eyebrows went up into question marks. “You know about that?”
I nodded. “I happened to find it when I Googled him.”
“Why did you do that?” Her tone was annoyed.
“Grady wanted to know if Sandy worked on any exciting movies when he was in Hollywood. I told him I’d look it up for him.”
“Oh. I guess you found more than you bargained for.”
“I did. You never mentioned the court case. I was surprised that Sandy would steal anything, but perhaps it was a misunderstanding.” I was hoping she would say that it was.
She drew a deep sigh and sat back. “Nothing is private anymore, is it, with the Internet and social media?”
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “If you’d rather not talk about this, I understand.”
“Why not talk about it? It’s obviously already common knowledge.”
“Well, if not common knowledge, at least easily accessed. I also found a photo of him with Latavia Moore, the other model who died. Did you know that he knew her, too?”
“What do you mean by ‘too’?”
“Only that he knew Rowena and also Latavia, both models who died under mysterious circumstances.”
“I don’t like what you’re suggesting, Jessica.”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Maggie, but you should know that the detective investigating both deaths, Detective Kopecky, is aware of Sandy’s legal problem while in Los Angeles.”
She gasped. “He doesn’t think that—?”
“Oh, no, no, Maggie, I’m sure not. But he has a job to do and is trying to put all the pieces together in the unlikely event that some sort of foul play was involved.”
“Is that what he thinks, that someone actually killed Rowena Roth and Latavia Moore?”
I shook my head. “I’m sure he hasn’t come to any such conclusion. As I said, he’s responsible for finding o
ut everything he can. He has an equally important responsibility to rule out foul play, if there was none.”
I filled the next void in our conversation by asking, “Maggie, how well did Sandy know Latavia Moore?”
I wasn’t sure whether her sour expression resulted from my probing, or because the answer was distasteful.
“They dated for a brief period of time,” she said, “while Sandy was working for the studio. She was in Hollywood trying to become an actress.”
“She certainly was beautiful enough.”
“Hollywood is loaded with beautiful young women, Jessica. Whether she could act is another story. She dated anyone she thought could help her get a movie role.”
“But Sandy wasn’t in a position to do that, was he? From what I understand, he worked in the costume department on some—well, some smaller films.”
“But his work on them was noticed. And he had high aspirations, Jessica. I really believe it was just a matter of time before bigger things came his way.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Maggie. Sandy is very talented. But since we’re on this subject, what actually transpired in Hollywood when he was accused of stealing costumes?”
Again, her expression changed. It was angry now. “He was set up.”
“Who set him up?”
“Her husband.”
“Whose husband?”
“Latavia Moore’s.”
It was my turn to sit back and exhale. “She was still married when she was dating Sandy?” I said.
“If you can call it that. Her husband was a Hollywood hustler, a so-called talent agent. When he learned that Sandy and his wife were seeing each other, he got even by accusing Sandy of stealing the costumes. When the police searched Sandy’s apartment, they found them.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Sandy swore to me up and down that he had never seen them before. But her husband had clout with the studio. They believed his accusations, and when the police said they had the evidence, Sandy was in a bind. He had no choice but to accept the plea, but of course that was the end of his costume designing days.”
I hesitated before asking, “And you’re convinced that Sandy had nothing to do with those thefts?”
“That’s right, Jessica.” She came forward, elbows on the table, her face closer to mine. “Look,” she said, “I don’t make excuses for Sandy dating a married woman. He was brought up better than that and should have known better. Latavia was a user, Jessica. She’d do anything to further her career.”
“But she didn’t succeed in Hollywood,” I said. “I’m not aware that she ever appeared in a film.”
“She never did. She divorced her husband and returned to modeling.”
“And became very successful.”
“With the help of that two-faced Jordon Verne.”
“Why do I know that name?”
“He’s Sandy’s business adviser and financial backer.”
“Yes, I remember him now. He was at Sandy’s studio when I visited there.”
“He’s bad news, Jessica. I’ve pleaded with Sandy to get rid of him, but he’s convinced that Verne knows how to elevate his career in the fashion world, and help him return to Hollywood. Look what he did for Latavia. She was an unknown and he made her into a supermodel. He has connections. Sandy’s determined to get back in the studio’s good graces, or if not them, another studio. Costume design was always his first love.”
“But isn’t fashion design satisfying as well?”
“Believe it or not, fashion is more cutthroat than movies. You have all these editors and reporters and bloggers you have to make up to. Not to mention the wealthy women who want to look twenty when they’re sixty, and talk trash about you to their friends if they don’t like your attitude, much less your designs. One false step and they can ruin your career.”
“And Verne can protect him from that?”
“So Sandy thinks.”
“I have to admit I was shocked to hear you say that Latavia Moore was married when she took up with Sandy. Would it be out of place for me to ask whether Sandy has been personally involved with other models?” When she didn’t answer I added, “Rowena Roth?”
Her response was a staunch “Sandy had nothing to do with her death.”
“I’m not sure anyone had anything to do with her death, Maggie, but—”
My cell phone rang. “Please excuse me,” I said, and answered it.
“Jessica, it’s Aaron.”
“Aaron?”
“Detective Kopecky.”
“Yes, Detective. Sorry. I’m in the midst of a conversation and—”
“Sorry to interrupt, Jessica, but I thought you’d want to know that the medical examiner’s preliminary report has come back on the Rowena Roth case.”
“Oh?” I glanced at Maggie, who held her teacup in both hands and stared into it.
“Can we get together?” Kopecky asked.
“What did the report say?”
“I’d rather not get into it over the phone,” he said. “How about I buy you a drink, or maybe dinner?”
“Listen, I’m being rude to a friend. May I call you later?”
Maggie looked up and waved. “It’s okay.”
Kopecky continued pressing. “I know you’re busy. I just figured that since you seem to be involved in what’s going on, you’d be interested in what the ME has come up with.”
“I’m attending a panel at four, but I’ll be free after that.”
“Good. I’ll meet you in the rooftop bar at your hotel, say five?”
“Six. I’m interviewing someone after the panel.”
“Six it is.”
“Not even a hint what the medical examiner had to say?”
He laughed. “Nope, not even a hint. Let me just say that—”
Maggie stood to leave and I asked Kopecky to hold.
“Sorry,” I said to her. “I’m getting off now.”
“That’s all right, Jessica. I see that you’re busy. And I have things to do, too. What’s this about the medical examiner?”
“Oh, nothing. I’ll fill you in next time we’re together.”
“Thank you for the tea.”
I watched her walk away and was disappointed at not having been able to extend our conversation.
“Sorry,” I said to Kopecky. “My friend was just leaving. You were saying?”
“I think you wanted me to give you a hint about what the ME’s report said.”
“And you said that you wouldn’t.”
“I’ll save it for when I see you this evening. Let me just say that I knew it right away.”
“What was that?”
“That we might have a murder on our hands.”
Chapter Fifteen
If Detective Aaron Kopecky’s intention was to grab my attention and give me a reason to meet with him again, he certainly had succeeded. I signed the tab to my room but remained in my chair reflecting on his final words.
He’d sounded upbeat on the phone, and I could only surmise that he was pleased that his suspicions had been confirmed—that it was too much of a coincidence that two models had died suddenly on the same day during Fashion Week. He’d suspected foul play—if not from the outset, as he claimed, soon after—and must have felt vindicated that his instincts had been validated by the medical examiner. I could understand that. A policeman’s job is to prevent or solve crimes, and without crime a policeman’s reason for being ceases to exist. I remember once speaking with a career army officer in Cabot Cove who was unhappy that we were between wars at the time. I expressed my dismay at his attitude, but he explained that he was a soldier, and without a war to fight his purpose was stifled and his chances of advancement in rank were limited. I still disagree with his view, but I understood where he was coming from.
I realized that if I lingered any longer I was going to be late for the panel on which Philip Gould was appearing. The venue was a short walk from the hotel and I arrived just as the discussion was starting. I’d had minimum interaction with Gould at the fashion show and party that he’d hosted, but I remembered that he carried himself with the self-assurance of a company CEO, a man of short stature who bounced on his toes and spoke in a louder voice than necessary.
I thought back to having bumped into his wife, Linda, at Dr. Sproles’s office and wondered about the tenor of their marriage. As a man who spent his days with beautiful young women, he had an obligation not to allow that to intrude on his marriage and his wife’s happiness. It seemed to me that Linda Gould spent a lot of time and money pursuing a more youthful appearance through plastic surgery. Did Gould demand that of his wife? Or did she believe that going under Dr. Sproles’s knife and whatever other procedures the doctor suggested would ensure her husband’s love and devotion? I hoped that neither was the case. If anything, I hoped the sacrifices Linda Gould made were for her own satisfaction and not someone else’s.
I glanced down at the program I’d been handed when I arrived and noted that New Cosmetics was offering several more upcoming lectures in conjunction with Fashion Week, plus a demonstration of how new products were developed at the company’s headquarters. That one was taking place the next day. The event promised a sample of custom-made cosmetics for the first fifty attendees. I took out a pen and circled the address.
Design for Murder Page 13