Once I was ensconced in my room at the Refinery Hotel and had traded my shoes for a pair of slippers, I turned my attention to what he had told me regarding the deaths of Rowena Roth and Latavia Moore. Without the ambient roar of the crowd and the distraction of deflecting Kopecky’s amorous interest, I was able to quietly review what I knew and what I needed to know.
What was blazingly clear was that the brass at headquarters must have a lot of confidence in Detective Kopecky’s ability to ferret out foul play to go so far as to bring in the esteemed Dr. Michael Barden to perform a second autopsy on Rowena Roth. It was going to be quite a feather in Aaron’s cap, since his hunch proved correct that Rowena was murdered, as Barden’s preliminary conclusions seemed to indicate that she might well have been.
I had been reluctant to believe that Rowena died from anything other than natural causes. But I wondered how much of my resistance was bound up in trying not to agree with everything Aaron said. I’d raised so many objections I began to sound like a resident of Missouri, the “show me” state, instead of my beloved Maine. And yet, even while I was demanding proof, my subconscious had me busy gathering evidence and tracking down leads in the event I was mistaken. And it looked as though I was.
Barden was a legendary figure in the medical examiner’s office, a man who stubbornly refused to accept nebulous results, and who kept digging for the truth. I’d once attended a lecture given by him and was impressed with his depth and breadth of knowledge of forensic medicine. He’d been consulted on many high-profile cases across the country, and even abroad, and had received every accolade and award available to men and women in his specialty. His books were considered the go-to source for insight into postmortems and their role in solving crimes.
Kopecky said that Barden had seen something during his autopsy that made him suspect Rowena’s heart had been damaged, and most likely her liver and kidneys as well. While those findings represented a preliminary report—the official toxicology results were still days away despite his having put a rush on them—his initial evaluation was provocative. Would the eventual toxicology findings support it?
As to Latavia Moore, apart from the fact that Sandy had had an affair with the beautiful model when they lived in California, there was little I knew about her or her death. Kopecky had seen the body and challenged the young medical examiner about some physical findings he’d seen. But unless the ME’s office called in Dr. Barden a second time, which was highly unlikely, Latavia’s passing might remain unexplained. I knew from previous consultations with police authorities that there are tens of thousands of such cases across the country each year. In many cases the cause of death is an undetected infection. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bacteria and viruses medical science hasn’t encountered yet. With all our medical advances—and they have been impressive—there is a world of unknown pathogens waiting to be discovered. Where had Latavia been in the days leading up to her demise? What had she eaten? Who had she seen? I didn’t know and suspected I never would. But I had been there when Rowena succumbed, had seen her in the hour before she perished, had visited her apartment, met one of her roommates, talked with her doctor, and I hoped I could contribute in some modest way to solving her death.
I picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Seth Hazlitt in Cabot Cove. I fully intended to honor my pledge to Kopecky not to share what he’d told me with any of the people I’d met or knew in New York. But I felt that bouncing my thoughts off Seth was an acceptable exception. Seth had nothing to do with the case, and was many miles away. He would never meet Kopecky or anyone who knew Rowena. And, anyway, he was always a model of discretion.
When he picked up the phone, I heard an electric noise in the background.
“Catch you at a bad time?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, you have, Jessica. I’m performing surgery.”
“Really?”
“No. I’m trying out my new electric knife.”
“Am I interrupting dinner?”
“Not yet. This roast I’m preparing for my guests requires delicate apportioning. Of course Tobé Wilson refuses to eat meat, so she will enjoy a vegetable lasagna instead.”
“You’ve been cooking up a storm, I see. Who else is going to be there?”
“The Wilsons, Jack and Tobé, Tim Purdy, Eve Simpson, and yours truly.”
“Please say hello for me.”
“I will be happy to do so. Enjoying Fashion Week in the Big Apple? Eve expects you to come home dressed in the season’s best and most expensive finery.”
“She knows me better than that, Seth.”
“I expect so, but hope springs eternal. She’s eager to debrief you the moment you get home.”
“She’ll be better off talking to Maggie Black. Maggie knows all about the fashion industry.”
“I’m sure Maggie is on her interrogation list as well. Speaking of interrogation, I see that your holiday in Manhattan has a bit of intrigue. I read about that model dying. Moore, was it?”
“Latavia Moore.”
“Looked pretty as a picture in the article. Tragic. Only twenty-five, it said. Did Sandy Black know her?”
“I believe he did.”
“By the way, how is Cabot Cove’s gift to the fashion world?”
“He’s known as Xandr Ebon now. He’s fine. But there was another death on the same day that Latavia Moore’s body was discovered. One of Sandy’s models dropped dead on the runway.”
“My goodness. All these young women dying. How old was this one?”
“Seventeen.”
“Too young to be traipsing around on a runway, and certainly too young to die. You were there?”
“Along with a hundred other onlookers.”
“Sounds fishy to me.”
“The detective assigned to the case feels the same way. Dr. Michael Barden was brought in to perform a second autopsy. He evidently has suspicions, too, about how she died.”
“Can’t get better than that man, Jessica. Excuse me. Something on the stove is about to boil over.”
I waited until he’d attended to his kitchen obligations and came back on the line.
“You were saying?” he asked.
“I was talking about the second model who died.”
“And I suppose you’ve found yourself smack-dab in the middle of things.”
“I have been doing a little probing of my own, nothing heavy-duty.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said, his skeptical tone all too familiar to me.
“Seth, you’ve taken a number of forensics courses over the years.”
“Ayuh.”
“Do you know of any poison that would cause a young person’s heart to give out, and that might also affect the liver and kidneys?”
“Off the top of my head, just like that?”
“I just thought that—”
“Can’t say that I do, but I’ll do some checking for you.”
I heard his doorbell in the background.
“My guests are here,” he said. “Have to run, Jessica. Good of you to call. You’re still at that hotel called the Refinery?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll give you a call tomorrow if I come up with that poison you’re looking for. But I warn you, there’s probably a slew of them.”
“I appreciate it, Seth.”
“Have a good night, Jessica. I’ll give your best to my guests.”
I felt a little homesick after the call. Jack Wilson is Cabot Cove’s top veterinarian, and his wife, Tobé, works with him. Tim Purdy is the town’s historian, and Eve Simpson is our most successful real estate agent. All old friends of mine. I would have enjoyed spending the evening with them.
I didn’t have any plans for my evening in Manhattan, which suited me fine. But that changed when my phone rang. It was Maggie Black calling from her r
oom in the hotel.
“I’m calling for two reasons,” she said. “First, I need to apologize for the way I acted in the bar, crying, then getting up and leaving while you were on the phone.”
“No need to apologize,” I said.
“I feel better doing it,” she said.
“Apology accepted.”
“The second reason for the call is to invite you to a party tonight.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Another party? It seems there are more parties than fashion shows during Fashion Week.”
She joined in my laughter. “There’s lots to celebrate,” she said. “Sandy has some big news.”
“Oh? That’s wonderful. What is it?”
“The actress Jeanne Rogét has approached Sandy through her agent to see whether he’d be interested in lending her a gown for the Academy Awards.”
“That is big news,” I said. “Jeanne Rogét is hot these days.”
“She sure is. Anyway, that troll Jordan Verne, Sandy’s financial backer, is hosting a party tonight to celebrate. I want you to come as my guest.”
“I’m not sure that—”
“You have to come, Jessica. I laced into Sandy about what he claimed I’d said about you. He wants to apologize in person.”
“That’s not necessary, Maggie, but I’m relieved to know he feels that way.”
“Please come with me. After everything negative that’s happened, we need something positive to celebrate.”
“That’s true. Who else will be there?” I asked.
“The usual group of suspects, models, other designers, and media. The press is so important. Jeanne Rogét’s interest in Sandy’s designs could make all the gossip columns, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some publications will want to interview him.”
“I’m delighted for him, and for you.”
“Meet you in the lobby at eight?” she said.
“That sounds fine.”
I had to smile. There was a moment when I almost declined Maggie’s invitation to accompany her to the party. I’m someone who covets downtime on a regular basis to recharge my batteries and clear my head before another round of party chitchat. But the realization that I’d committed myself to finding out what I could about the mysterious death of Rowena Roth changed that. Here was another opportunity to immerse myself in the fashion industry’s intrigues and cast of players. It was too tempting to pass up. I’d have plenty of time to recoup once I was home in Maine.
As I dressed for the party, I thought back to my conversation with Seth Hazlitt. He’s become quite the cook in recent years. I pictured him sitting down to dinner with my friends and exchanging news about the goings-on in Cabot Cove.
I missed being there.
Chapter Eighteen
Xandr Ebon’s party was held in a basement bar at the Dream Downtown Hotel on West Sixteenth Street, in the Chelsea section of the city. Maggie told me during the short cab ride that the bar, the Electric Room, was one of the city’s trendiest venues. “It doesn’t even open until eleven in the evening, but they make it available earlier for events. Sandy said Jordan was lucky to be able to book it on such short notice,” she said. “They’ve been having parties there all week, but it was free tonight because someone had a last-second cancellation.”
“I’m getting a real education about Manhattan’s in places,” I said.
“A far cry from Cabot Cove,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “but both places have their special appeal.”
The hotel had a lovely lobby, and we received a friendly greeting at the door. Maggie asked how to get to the Electric Room and we were directed past a wall of Andy Warhol portraits to a spiral staircase leading downstairs, although the sounds of loud recorded music emanating from the basement space made the need for directions moot. We descended the stairs and were greeted inside by Jordan Verne, Sandy’s business adviser and his mother’s least favorite person.
“Ah, Mrs. Black,” he said, flashing Maggie a smile. “Or under the circumstances should I call you Mrs. Ebon?”
“Black will do,” Maggie replied, forcing a return smile.
“Here to celebrate your son’s looming success?”
“Of course. I’m excited for him,” Maggie said. “Do you know Jessica Fletcher?”
“The bestselling writer,” he said. “Setting one of your mystery novels during Fashion Week?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, and added, “There are plenty of people around here who deserve a knife in the side.” He made a stabbing motion with his hand.
When neither Maggie nor I responded, he added with a smirk, “Just joking. Come, have a drink, some food.”
With that he looked past us to the next arrival.
“I detest that man,” Maggie grumbled to me as we entered the small dark room with high ceilings.
“Why do you dislike him so?” I asked. “Sandy seems to have confidence in him.”
“It’s not a matter of confidence. These money people exact their pound of flesh for every favor they provide. In exchange for funding Sandy’s collection, and making selected introductions, Jordan not only dictates Sandy’s every move, but he has demanded a huge cut of his profits regardless of how Sandy earns a living. Even if my son decided to leave fashion design and pursue, say, acting—which, given his looks, is not inconceivable—his contract with that man requires him to pay a fee to Jordan Verne for the rest of his life, even if the initial investment is recouped ten times over.”
“Good heavens! No wonder you’re upset. Didn’t Sandy consult an attorney before he signed such an agreement?” I asked, shocked that Sandy would bind himself to such restrictions.
“Oh, Jessica. The ego of an ambitious man knows no boundaries. He was desperate to keep designing and was convinced that he knew best. I told him about people who had raised money on the Internet. He pooh-poohed it. I begged him to call my cousin who’s a lawyer in Chicago, just to get some advice, but of course he wouldn’t. And there’s more.”
“What’s that?”
“The worst of it is that the man who introduced him to Jordan Verne was Latavia Moore’s husband.”
I turned my head to look back at Sandy’s “financial adviser” and wondered if Latavia’s husband, who’d accused Sandy of theft, was still orchestrating that young man’s punishment from behind the scenes.
Maggie spotted Sandy at the bar and we made our way toward him. From what I could make out in the room’s dim lighting, the far wall was studded with metallic bricks. Wood paneling separated niches in the wall, featuring avant-garde art on mirrors hung over leather benches—most of them occupied. In the center of the room, Chesterfield sofas were arranged facing one another to form conversation areas. One sofa was piled high with winter coats, and I was surprised to see several furs among them. Whoever left a mink nestled along with the other outerwear was a very trusting person.
Small tables were arrayed in what leftover space was available. Maggie and I skirted them and the groups of animated people sitting and standing with drinks as we headed toward the bar. I was surprised at how many people I recognized, including the Post reporter Steven Crowell who was talking to Dolores Marshall, whom Babs Sipos had pointed out as her roommate.
“Mom, Jessica,” Sandy said, hugging Maggie and kissing my cheek. “I owe you a big apology, Jessica.” He cocked his head and gave me his best little-boy look. “I shouldn’t have said what I did at the studio, and even worse, I laid it off on my mom. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“It’s completely forgotten, Sandy.” I was pleased that he’d seen fit to apologize, but I wondered how often he got away with saying terrible things thanks to his good looks and charm.
“This whole week is just a blur,” he said.
“You’ve been under a lot of pressure,” his mother said.
“I heard about Jeanne Rogét’s interest
in your designs,” I said. “Congratulations.”
“That’s why Jordan decided to throw this party,” Sandy said. “Man, if she follows through and wears one of my gowns on the red carpet, I’ll be over-the-moon. But if she gets me in to design costumes for her next flick, that’s the best. I’ll have it made.” His look of satisfaction faded to a scowl. “The kicker is that the dress she wants is the gold one, and I never got it back from the police. It’s going to cost me a small fortune to duplicate it. What am I saying? It’s going to cost me a large fortune. Thank goodness Jordan has deep pockets.”
Sandy waved at a woman who had arrived at the party, and left us to greet her. The newcomer was about my age, whip-thin, with a complexion that suggested she spent a great deal of time under a sunlamp. He wrapped his arms around her, kissed both of her cheeks, and smiled as if she were the love of his life.
“That’s Pamela McQuaid,” a voice whispered in my ear.
I turned to see Sandy’s model Babs. “I was just thinking about you,” I said. “And who is Pamela McQuaid?”
“Her husband is a biggie on Wall Street. She spends a fortune on clothing. All the designers court her like she’s the Queen of England.” Babs waved at Maggie, who was standing next to me. “Hi, Xandr’s mother. Boy, you must be proud of your son.”
“I certainly am,” Maggie agreed. “Jessica, will you excuse me? I see the editor of Catwalk magazine and I need to make nice.”
“Of course.”
“So, how are you, Mrs. Fletcher? See? I remembered your name,” Babs said. “I never remember anyone’s names.”
“Yet you remembered mine.”
“That’s because you’re famous. Did you hear about the actress Jeanne Rogét? She wants Xandr to lend her a frou for the red carpet.”
Design for Murder Page 15