Design for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Yeah, I’m sure. See you around.”

  I went to my room, happy to be by myself. I ordered a sandwich from room service and was about to run a hot shower for my aching body when the phone rang. It was Maureen Metzger, Sheriff Metzger’s wife, from Cabot Cove.

  “I hope I’m not calling too late,” she said.

  “Not at all, Maureen. It’s nice hearing from you.”

  “The reason I called is to remind you that the library fund-raiser is coming up in a week. You’ll be back for it, won’t you?”

  “I certainly intend to,” I said. “How is Mort?”

  “He’s fine,” she said. “Are you okay?”

  “Me? Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, Mort was talking to Doc Hazlitt and he told Mort that you were involved with that famous model who died, Latavia Moore.”

  I laughed. “It always amazes me how things become skewed in the retelling,” I said. “No, I have nothing to do with her unfortunate death, but I have been talking with the detective who’s investigating that case as well as that of another model, Rowena Roth.”

  “Another one? Is there a serial killer loose in New York?”

  “No, of course not. I don’t think they’re connected. She was modeling one of Sandy Black’s creations when she died. Remember him? From Cabot Cove?”

  “Can’t say that I do. So, you’re working with the detective on those two cases.”

  I had to laugh. “No, Maureen, I’m not working with anyone. The detective and I have become friendly, that’s all.”

  “Were those models murdered, Jessica?”

  “That hasn’t been determined yet,” I said, eager to change the subject. “It was good hearing from you, Maureen. Give my best to Mort.”

  “Oh, wait,” she said. “He wants to talk to you.”

  “How’s my favorite sheriff?” I asked when he came on the line. “Keeping crime down in Cabot Cove?”

  “Everything’s under control, Mrs. F. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Maureen. What’s this about a serial killer and a detective you’re working with?”

  I sighed. “I’m not working with anyone, Mort. I explained it to Maureen.”

  “Seems like every time you travel you get yourself mixed up in somebody’s murder.”

  “I’m not mixed up in—”

  “You know, Mrs. F., not all cops are like me. Some professional law enforcement officers don’t like having amateurs butting in. Not that you butt in exactly. But take it from one who knows. I was on the force in New York City for years. The detectives I worked with would get their backs up if you made suggestions about one of their cases.”

  I started to respond, but he pressed on.

  “I know, I know,” he said, “you’re familiar with how law enforcement and criminal investigations work because you write murder mysteries and all, and I’ll be the first to admit that you’ve been a help to this law enforcement officer a few times.” He paused before adding, “Maybe even more than a few times. But a good cop takes pride in what he knows and does, and having an outsider offer advice can be—well, it can be downright annoying.”

  I’d heard this speech from Mort before and knew there was nothing to be accomplished aside from telling him that I understood and that I agreed with him, which I did.

  “Just some friendly advice, Mrs. F.”

  “And I appreciate it, Mort.”

  He put Maureen back on the phone.

  “Hope you don’t mind Mort saying what’s on his mind,” she said.

  “I never have,” I said.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Time to run. My dinner has arrived.”

  “And, Jessica, you take care of yourself. If there is a serial killer in New York killing fashion models, he’s liable to mistake you for one. You’re pretty enough.”

  Bless Maureen Metzger.

  After room service delivered my very late dinner, I turned on the TV just in time to catch a local newscast. The anchor came out of a commercial break with an update on the deaths of the two models, Latavia Moore and Rowena Roth. She read from the teleprompter, “An unidentified source in law enforcement has told this station that the sudden death of the model Rowena Roth, who collapsed on the catwalk while modeling a dress designed by Xandr Ebon, is now being considered a possible homicide.” The anchor went on to mention Latavia Moore’s unexplained death, her words accompanied by a stunning photo of Ms. Moore wearing a luxurious mink coat in a magazine advertisement.

  I sat back in my chair and remembered having seen the labels for Chi-Chi Quality Furs in the fur coat worn by Philip Gould’s wife, Linda, and the one that had belonged to Rowena Roth, a gift from someone with whom she presumably had a romantic relationship.

  “Chi-Chi Furs,” I said to myself. I consulted my schedule for the next day. I’d circled a demonstration of makeup manufacturing that Philip Gould was giving at New Cosmetics. Maybe I’ll stop by Chi-Chi Furs before the program and see what I’ve been missing all these years.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  A good night’s sleep and a hot shower had done wonders for this lady’s sore body, and I faced the morning with renewed energy. Before heading off for Chi-Chi Furs, I used my smartphone to check out the city’s Fur District. Fur manufacturers tended to group together in parts of the city the way other industries did. According to what I read, the area in which more than eight hundred fur manufacturers were once cloistered is now home to fewer than a hundred, gentrification at work, replacing buildings that were once warehouses with pricy condominiums. Bawdy Times Square is no longer bawdy, and Brooklyn, once looked down upon by Manhattan dwellers, has become such a fashionable borough in which to live and work that its housing is as expensive as its sister borough across the East River.

  The Fur District is on the West Side of Manhattan, its vague boundaries defined by the upper Twenties and lower Thirties. I was surprised that the Chi-Chi Furs retail outlet, on West Twenty-ninth Street, wasn’t located in a more upscale neighborhood considering how much fur coats cost, but maybe its owners felt that there was a certain cachet being in the midst of where many of their furs were manufactured.

  On my way to Chi-Chi Furs, I passed a building from another era and was attracted to a pair of garish gargoyles on its façade, each depicting a furrier working at his trade. One featured what appeared to be a squirrel biting the furrier’s finger; the other could be interpreted as a furrier skinning a mink. Or maybe he was giving the animal a spanking. No matter. I just hoped that some developer wouldn’t tear down the building and destroy the gargoyles in order to erect a high-rise apartment building with rents that only wealthy foreigners could afford.

  Outside the glass door of Chi-Chi Furs, I pressed a buzzer and looked up to see a closed-circuit television camera watching me. My buzz was answered with a corresponding beep, releasing the lock, and I pushed the door open and entered. I looked around and was surprised at the Spartan surroundings. Instead of a posh retail store, the space had the look of a small warehouse. The floor was concrete painted red, and the ceiling was a maze of gray metal ducts and pipes. The furs hung haphazardly from shiny movable racks that took up the majority of the shop.

  A young man emerged from the rear and greeted me.

  “May I help you, madam?” he asked. He was a short, slender gentleman wearing a double-breasted midnight blue blazer, pale yellow shirt, and purple bow tie.

  “Perhaps in a moment. Right now I’m just browsing,” I replied, but added as an afterthought, “Philip Gould recommended you highly. I thought I’d see what might be available.”

  He smiled. “You’re a friend of Philip’s?”

  To claim that I was would have stretched the truth, so I replied airily, “We certainly know each other.”

  “Philip Gould is one of our very best customers,” the young man s
aid, drawing out his words for emphasis. “As you can see, we have a large selection of only the finest furs.”

  “So I understand. His wife has a darling jacket that I admired. And I met someone else who had a fur from Chi-Chi Furs,” I said. “Unfortunately, she died recently.”

  He adopted a sorrowful expression.

  “She was a model, Rowena Roth. Do you know the name?”

  “Yes, of course. I heard about her death. So tragic when someone so young passes.”

  “It was a shock for everyone,” I said, “including, of course, Philip.”

  His nod was solemn. “I understand he was very close to her.”

  I hadn’t expected such a quick confirmation of what I’d conjured as a possible scenario that the fur coat owned by Rowena Roth might have come from Philip Gould. The note that I’d taken with me from Rowena’s apartment had been signed “P,” and the fact that Gould’s wife wore a fur from Chi-Chi Furs, which was also the label in Rowena’s coat, meant that both had come from the same source. Whether that added anything to the resolution of Rowena’s poisoning was pure conjecture, but I was pleased that my impromptu visit to the fur shop had reaped minor support of my speculation.

  The salesman shifted gears and insisted on showing me some coats that he “just knew” had been created with me in mind. There was a full-length mink that would set me back $29,999; a snappy little sable jacket that cost only sixteen thousand; and if I preferred something less pricey, I could walk away with a coat made from the fur of raccoons that would cost a mere four thousand.

  I, of course, did not mention my aversion to fur coats. Instead I said, “I’m afraid I’m just not in a buying mood today, but I appreciate your courtesy.”

  “Of course,” he said, walking me to the door and joining me on the sidewalk. “Please give my best to Mr. Gould.”

  “I’ll be happy to,” I assured him. “I’m on my way to see him now.”

  His face assumed a knowing grin. “Mr. Gould certainly has an eye for pretty things.”

  “Pretty things? Pretty girls, you mean?”

  “Well, I didn’t say that, now, did I? But it would be more accurate to say pretty women in general.”

  Pretty young fashion models? Pretty women like Ann Milburn?

  The salesman lowered his voice. “You tell him that whenever he says the word, we’ll wrap you up in any glorious fur that takes your eye, like that elegant sable jacket you admired. You obviously have very good taste.”

  I didn’t hint that he might have been misinterpreting my response. Instead I thanked him again and strolled away.

  Because Sandy Black’s studio was only six blocks away, I decided to stop in before going to the makeup demonstration at New Cosmetics. I’d navigated two of those blocks when my cell phone rang.

  “Aunt Jessica, it’s Grady.”

  “Hello, Grady,” I said, suffering instant guilt at not having spent much time with him and his family. One of my primary reasons for coming to New York City was to see my nephew, his wife, and their wonderful son. “I apologize for being out of touch,” I said, “but—”

  “We understand,” he said. “You’ve been busy. Have you heard about Sandy Black?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m on my way right now to his studio.”

  “Well, you won’t find him there.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s been arrested.”

  “Arrested? For what?”

  “It was on the news this morning. Remember that famous model Latavia Moore who died? We talked about her at lunch.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Sandy Black has been taken in for questioning about her death.”

  “Being taken in for questioning and having been arrested are two different things, Grady.”

  “Maybe arrested isn’t the right word. Anyway, the police are questioning him about her murder.”

  “‘About her murder’? I thought it had been determined that she died of natural causes.”

  “Well, they must have changed their mind. It was on WCBS this morning. They didn’t have many details, but the announcer did say that an eyewitness saw him at her apartment building the night she died.”

  “Oh, dear, his mother, Maggie, must be frantic. I’d better call her right away. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Aunt Jessica, that really wasn’t why I was calling. I know that you’re busy, but you’ll be going back home soon and Donna and I—and Frank, too, of course—want to see you again before you leave. Are you free for dinner tonight?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” I said, “and I’d love to spend the evening with you. What time?”

  “Six?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  My mood at the anticipation of spending the evening with Grady and his family was upbeat but tempered by the news that Grady had just delivered about Sandy Black. Until that moment my thinking about a model dying had been focused on Rowena Roth. I knew that Detective Kopecky was working both cases but had limited my questioning of him to Rowena.

  But things had obviously changed.

  The emphasis was now on the much more famous and successful model, Latavia Moore. There was no doubt that Sandy knew her. The photo of them together taken in Los Angeles proved that, as did his mother’s acknowledgment of their relationship. Had he maintained contact after they moved to New York and she became a top model? If the unnamed eyewitness was correct—although eyewitnesses were notorious for being mistaken when identifying someone—Sandy could still have been seeing her.

  I considered abandoning my plans to visit Sandy’s studio but changed my mind. I wanted to know more about his having been taken in for questioning, and what better place to gather information than his workspace?

  As might be expected, the scene at the Thirty-fifth Street studio was subdued. Sandy’s investor and business manager, Jordan Verne, was on the phone in Sandy’s office. Sandy’s assistant and a few others on his staff worked quietly at the long table against the wall. To my relief I saw Maggie Black sitting in a yellow director’s chair by the smeared windows that overlooked a blackened brick wall.

  I went to her. She looked up and I could see that she’d been crying.

  “Oh, Jessica. Can you believe it?” she said in a cracked voice. “They’ve arrested Sandy.”

  Correcting her semantics as I had done with Grady would accomplish nothing, so I said, “I’m sure that the police will soon realize that Sandy had nothing to do with Latavia Moore’s death.”

  She grabbed my hand. “Jessica,” she said, “you know the detective who is handling the case. Would you call him and see how Sandy is doing? I asked to visit him, but they wouldn’t let me.”

  “Does Sandy have an attorney?” I asked.

  “Only for his business, but he’s not a criminal lawyer. Jordan is trying to find one now.”

  “I’m not sure that Detective Kopecky will talk to me about Sandy being held for questioning.”

  “But would you try? Please. I’ll never ask you for anything again.”

  I didn’t have any choice but to agree.

  Maggie left me as I dug out my cell phone from my purse and dialed Kopecky’s number.

  “Kopecky here,” he answered sharply.

  “It’s Jessica Fletcher.”

  “What can I do for you?” he said coldly.

  “I’m here at Sandy Black’s studio with his mother. She asked that I try to check on him.”

  “He’s fine,” he said. “We stopped using rubber hoses years ago.”

  I looked at the phone in surprise. Had I dialed the wrong number? “May I ask what evidence you have against him?”

  “He’s seen on surveillance tape entering Latavia Moore’s apartment building the night she died.”

  “But the police said her death was not suspicious.”
<
br />   “We don’t always make our suspicions public. The fact is the autopsy showed she had been strangled.”

  “You certainly led me to believe that her death was from natural causes.”

  “I never lied to you. I told you about the petechial hemorrhages I saw.”

  He pronounced the word “petechial” perfectly now, and I began to wonder whether I’d completely misjudged Aaron Kopecky. Were his amorous advances all an act to solicit information from me, knowing that I would be interested in the mystery surrounding the deaths of the two models?

  “Will his lawyer be given a copy of the surveillance tape to review?” I asked.

  “If we decide to give him one,” he said curtly. “We’re only required to turn over all the evidence we have against him if he’s charged with a crime. So far, we haven’t charged him with anything. He’s just here as a guest of the NYPD so we can hear his side of the story—and to explain what he was doing there when she was killed.”

  “Of course,” I said, still grappling with the change in his tone toward me.

  “Anything else, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Did he say why he was at Ms. Moore’s apartment building?” I asked, not expecting an answer.

  I was right. Kopecky replied, “What a suspect tells us during an interrogation isn’t for public consumption, Mrs. Fletcher, even for someone like you who makes a living snooping into police matters for the sake of writing a book.”

  Oh, my, I thought. I’d received a lecture from Mort Metzger, our sheriff back home in Cabot Cove, and now I was on the receiving end of another one from a New York City detective. I was poised to ask what had led to his stern admonition when he said, “Anything else, Mrs. Fletcher? We’re busy here.”

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Detective Kopecky,” I said, fully aware that we were on strictly formal footing. “But one more question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Since Mr. Black hasn’t been charged with a crime, I assume that he’ll be released sometime later today.”

  “If he is, you can ask him your questions. Nice talking to you.”