“I’ll go up with you,” she said. “I could use some fresh air.”
We ascended the stairs and walked through the hotel lobby, out into the chilly night.
“People say you’re researching a murder mystery here during Fashion Week.”
I was tempted to dissuade her of that notion but held my tongue. I’d been saying it to a number of people to justify asking questions and thought I might as well continue with that story.
“Has that detective been part of your research?” she asked.
“Detective Kopecky? He interviewed me after Rowena died,” I said, trying to be noncommittal. “I imagine he interviewed you, too.”
As I spoke with her I kept thinking about what Claude de Molissimo had said, that she’d demonstrated a violent streak in the past, and had been a mistress of sorts to some powerful people in the fashion industry, including possibly Philip Gould of New Cosmetics. Her personal life certainly wasn’t any of my business, of course, and I’m not someone who makes moral judgments about people when their actions don’t directly impact me. Besides, de Molissimo appeared to delight in being a rumormonger of the first order. His gossip about people in the fashion industry served him well; he’d even landed a publishing contract with a leading publishing house, the same one that published my books. But I knew whatever he said had to be taken with the proverbial grain of salt until proven true.
“Mind a word of advice?” Ann said as we stood together on Sixteenth Street.
“Not at all.”
“The fashion world is a small, tight-knit community, Mrs. Fletcher, sort of like Las Vegas being a small, close-knit city. You know the saying about Las Vegas: ‘What happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas.’”
“Yes, of course.”
“It applies to the fashion industry, too. We hate to give up our secrets, especially to strangers. Don’t believe everything you hear. It will get you into trouble. And I’m sure you’re not looking for trouble, are you?”
She said it slowly and emphatically, as though to make sure that every word had meaning, and that I understood the thought behind the words. As she said it, her attractive, expertly made-up face was set in a stony glare.
“I’ll remember that,” I said.
“Make sure you do. Have a good night, Mrs. Fletcher, and enjoy the rest of your stay in New York.”
Chapter Nineteen
I decided to walk back to the Refinery Hotel rather than take a taxi. My mind was swirling with thoughts and I needed the brisk air to help sort them out.
What was intended to be a pleasant trip to New York City to enjoy Fashion Week and to spend time with close friends and family had ended up a tension-filled, provocative stay in which murder had once again injected itself.
The police were looking at Rowena Roth’s case as a homicide. While nothing tangible had been established yet in that regard, it was possible that someone had deliberately taken her young life, and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.
I know, I told the voice of Seth Hazlitt in my mind, it’s not my business to solve crimes. I’m a widow who writes mystery novels and helps host civic events in Cabot Cove, Maine. You’re right—except that one of my genes dictates something different. Sorry, but it’s who I am.
As I neared the hotel it occurred to me that I’d spent too little time with Grady, Donna, and Frank, and made a silent pledge to rectify that. I was thinking about Frank’s excellent short story while crossing a street, not realizing that I wasn’t paying attention to traffic. A car whizzed by close to me, causing me to jump back. I tripped on the curb behind me and landed on my bottom.
“Are you all right, lady?” a man said, helping me to my feet.
“I . . . I think so.”
“Okay, then.” He smiled and continued on his way.
I dusted off the back of my coat and took a mental inventory of my body. No bones broken, although I expected to be good and sore the next day. Rattled, yes, but it was my own fault. I’d been so immersed in my musings that I neglected to watch where I was going, like all those people who walk the streets peering into their cell phones, oblivious of everything and everyone around them. That’s how people get killed on the streets of New York, Jessica.
Several people gave me strange looks as I stood rooted to the pavement before I felt confident enough to cross the intersection. No one could have done that on purpose, I assured myself. I looked around. A couple with their arms around each other seemed to be engrossed in a store window. A man across the street stopped to light a cigarette. You are not being followed! But there was still a niggling suspicion that perhaps someone wasn’t happy with my inquiries. I remembered all of Seth Hazlitt’s cautions to me over the years and my dismissals of his concern.
As I reached the street on which the hotel was located, my cell phone sounded.
“Hello?”
“Jessica?”
“I was just thinking of you, Seth.”
“What’s all that noise I hear?”
“Traffic. I’m on the street.”
“What are you doing on the street at this hour?”
“I can’t hear you, Seth. I’ll be at my hotel in a few minutes. I’ll call you back.”
“I’ll stay on the line.”
I walked faster, reached the hotel, and went to a quiet corner in the lobby.
“Seth?”
“Ayuh, I’m still here.”
“Why are you calling?”
“I’m calling because you asked me to check into poisons.”
“Yes, right. I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“Are you still interested, Jessica?”
“Of course I am, and I appreciate your taking time to do this for me.”
“Always happy to oblige my good friend Jessica Fletcher. I did some research as promised.”
“What did you find?” I asked, hurriedly removing a pad and pen from my purse.
“Well, there are many naturally grown substances that can be used to poison someone, things like water hemlock. That’s what the old Hemlock Society was named after. They call it Compassion and Choices these days.”
“I know,” I said. “I donate to it every year.”
“Could be rosary pea, or even lily of the valley.”
I scribbled down what he was saying. “That’s such a pretty flower.”
“Mebbe so, but you don’t want to eat it. Then there’s kudu, also known as desert rose. Good old castor oil can be lethal, too, if taken in large quantities. The list goes on and on.”
“But have you narrowed down the list?” I asked.
“Ayuh, I have. I can’t be certain, of course, and only testing can nail it down, but a good bet might be aconite. Care to hear more?”
“Fu zi,” I whispered, remembering the Chinatown apothecary purchase.
“What was that?”
“I’m listening,” I said, my pen poised over the pad.
“Aconite’s from the buttercup family of plants,” he said. “You’d think those pretty flowers would be safe, but one of them is monkshood. It’s been used in Chinese medicine for years—in small doses, of course.”
“I remember reading about monkshood. It’s also known as wolfsbane and was considered the queen of poisons in ancient Greece.”
“It’s plenty toxic, that’s for sure. Somebody who ingests aconite, either in liquid or food, or absorbed through the skin, can die pretty quickly. The first symptoms can show in just a few minutes, things like numbness, nausea, staggering, a tingling sensation, difficulty breathing, cold and clammy skin, sweating. The heart takes a hit; so do the kidneys and liver.”
“I assume a blood test offers a definitive finding,” I said.
“Ayuh, but it’s more likely to show up first in the urine. By the way, Jessica, the Lepchas—that’s a tribe of sorts in Nepal and environs—po
isoned the water supply of British troops with it back in the late eighteen hundreds when the Brits were out to conquer the world.”
“That’s interesting,” I said, having stopped writing.
“Just thought I’d throw in a bit of history,” my doctor friend and inveterate history buff said. “Beats me how it’s still a basic part of Chinese pharmacology, and apparently it’s widely available in homeopathic remedies. You wouldn’t find me taking it, although there’s some who say it staves off aging. Lot of nonsense. But I guess it’s true: if you die, you won’t grow older.”
“And so you say that if—and I stress if—one of these models was poisoned, it was possibly aconite.”
“I didn’t say ‘possibly,’ Jessica, but it’s my best guess, only because it’s so easily available.” He rattled off a list of ailments it could be used for. “If anyone can come up with the definitive answer, it’s someone like Michael Barden. He’s the best.”
We chatted about other things including his recent dinner party that I wished I’d been able to attend.
“Everyone missed you,” he said. “I gave them your best.”
“I’ll be home the next time you cook a roast,” I said, smiling at the contemplation.
“We’ll all look forward to that,” he said. “And, Jessica.”
“Yes?”
“If that model was murdered by somebody, it’s not your business.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “And thanks for the information about aconite.”
“You’re welcome, Jessica. Stay safe. You’re not as young as you used to be.”
Those final words rang in my ear as I clicked off my cell phone. It seemed as though I’d aged considerably in the few days I was in New York for Fashion Week, at least in the eyes of people like Claude de Molissimo, Dr. Edmund Sproles, and everyone else involved in what is decidedly a young person’s game. Promptly, I decided not to look in the mirror until I got back home to Cabot Cove, whose mirrors are more flattering to those of us on the wrong side of forty.
I was pondering my accelerated aging when I looked in the direction of the lobby bar and saw Detective Aaron Kopecky emerge from it. He spotted me and came to where I sat.
“My lucky night,” he said.
“You just happened to be having a drink in this hotel?” I said.
“I cannot tell a lie,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “Mind if I join you?”
He sat next to me before I could answer.
“I called your room a couple of times, but you weren’t there. I was sure you would be because you told me you needed to rest.”
“I did rest,” I said, a little irritated at having to account for my time. “But Maggie Black called and insisted I come to a celebratory party.”
“Another Fashion Week bash?”
I nodded.
“Anyway,” he said, “when I couldn’t reach you in your room, I figured I’d stop in here for a drink and hope you’d arrive. You did. How was the party?”
“It was fine. Why have you been trying to reach me?”
“Oh, I figured you’d want to hear the latest on the model murder.”
He had my attention. I sat forward and said, “It was murder? Rowena was murdered?”
It was his turn to nod. “Join me for a drink and I’ll fill you in.”
“I don’t need a drink, Detective. I don’t want a drink.”
“Had dinner?”
“No, I—I’m not hungry,” I said, hoping my rumbling stomach wouldn’t give me away.
“Keeping your figure?”
I’d had enough of the banter. I said firmly, “Detective Kopecky, I—”
“Hey, come on. It’s Aaron, remember? We’re old friends.”
“Why not just tell me without a drink or dinner why you’ve decided that Rowena Roth was murdered?”
“Okay,” he said, “provided that after I do you at least join me in the bar for a nightcap.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“You drive a hard bargain, Jessica.”
I fixed him in my best hard-nosed stare.
“It’s like this,” he said. “My boss called me this afternoon and told me to be at headquarters for a meeting with Dr. Barden.”
“About Rowena Roth’s death?”
“You’ve got it. Barden is quite a guy, a straight talker, no beating around the bush. I felt like I was back in grade school being lectured by a teacher.”
“He has a wonderful reputation,” I said.
“That he does. Anyway, Barden had come to headquarters to give his latest findings on the autopsy he did on Ms. Roth.”
“And?”
“Looks like she didn’t die of natural causes. Somebody wanted her dead.”
When I didn’t say anything he added, “She was poisoned.”
“Could it have been aconite?” I asked.
It was as though I’d punched him in the stomach. He stared at me, looked down, looked up again, blinked a few times, started to say something, stopped, held up his hands in a surrender gesture, and finally said, “I really need a drink now.”
Chapter Twenty
I felt obligated to accompany him back into the bar after having obviously unsettled him. I certainly hadn’t intended to. My conversation with Seth Hazlitt about poisons was fresh in my mind and I’d just blurted out “aconite.” I suppose that Kopecky expected to surprise me with what he’d learned that day and I’d taken the wind out of his sails.
We found a table. He ordered a bourbon, neat; I asked for a club soda with a wedge of lime. He stared at me and we said nothing until the drinks had been served. He looked down at his glass with its shimmering amber liquid, shook his head, smiled, sipped from the drink, and said, “Aconite.”
“Is that what Dr. Barden found during his follow-up autopsy on Rowena Roth?” I asked, nibbling at the bowl of pretzels on the table.
He started to say something in response, shook his head again, took another sip, and finally asked, “How did you know it was this poison called aconite?”
“I didn’t know. I was guessing.”
He guffawed. “Guessing? You just guessed that it was this aconite stuff?”
“I’m misleading you,” I said, “and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. My friend back in Cabot Cove, Seth Hazlitt, is a respected physician who is constantly keeping up on advances in medicine, including forensics. I was chatting with him on the phone and asked if he would look up poisons that could affect the heart. He named a few and felt that aconite was the most logical choice. But he was guessing, too.”
I asked again whether Dr. Barden had found aconite during his autopsy of Rowena.
“That’s right,” he said, “but he wasn’t guessing. He said aconite was found in her urine and liver. No doubt about it.”
I pondered what he’d said before saying, “So the obvious question is, how did Rowena Roth ingest it, and under what circumstances?”
“Why do I have the feeling that you already have the answer to that question?”
It was my turn to shake my head. “No,” I said, “I haven’t a clue why aconite would be found in her body.”
Kopecky pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and read from notes he’d jotted on it. “Doc Barden said that he discovered the poison using what he called a liquid chromatography tandem mass spectrometer, whatever that is.”
“It’s a—” I stifled the urge to explain how that piece of laboratory equipment works. He didn’t need for me to one-up him again. “My friend Seth said that aconite is sometimes used as a medicine for all sorts of ailments in Asia, things like gout, facial paralysis, pleurisy, and many other maladies.”
“Your doctor friend sounds like a pretty smart guy.”
“He certainly is, as well as a close friend. Detective Kopecky, I—”
“What hap
pened to calling me by my first name? Because you’ve trumped not only me but Dr. Barden, too, it’s all formality now? No more Jessica and Aaron?”
I didn’t debate what we called each other and took a sip of my drink.
Kopecky broke the silence. “You think it’s possible that Ms. Roth used it herself for some medical problem she was having?” he asked. “Like one of those problems your doctor friend mentioned?”
“I can’t imagine that,” I replied, “although since I’ve been here at Fashion Week talking to people, it seems that there’s nothing these young models won’t do to enhance their natural beauty. Did she use it as some sort of cosmetic concoction? It’s possible, I suppose. She liked to experiment, creating her own makeup and buying potions from Chinatown.”
“Yeah? Who told you that?”
“Her roommate. And I found a receipt in her garbage for fu zi, which turns out to be aconite root. Of course, nothing on the receipt indicated who bought it, and I didn’t realize at the time that it could be poison. It was supposed to be good for circulation.”
Kopecky downed what was in his glass and motioned for another. My fatigue of earlier in the evening had returned, and I was beginning to feel the effects of my fall on the street. I was eager to call it a night. I told the detective that I would be leaving.
“Sure, sure, I understand,” he said. “But before you go, let me ask you a question. Did this doctor in Maine tell you how aconite can be used to murder someone?”
“He said that it can be mixed in liquid or food and ingested, or can be absorbed through the skin.”
“Since you seem way ahead of me, what’s your best guess how it ended up in Ms. Roth’s body?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said, pleased that I could say it with conviction and not further attack his already fragile ego.
He suddenly perked up from his sour mood and asked, “Feel like dinner?”
“Afraid not,” I said, “but thanks anyway.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, his words exhibiting disappointment.
I stood and offered my hand. “It was good seeing you,” I said, feeling a modicum of guilt at leaving him alone.
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