Design for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Was that the bowl your grandmother bought in Italy?” Maggie asked.

  Sandy nodded until he realized the movement made his head ache. “Sorry, Mom. We’ll have to take a trip there to replace it.”

  “Oh, no. I never liked that bowl anyway.”

  The EMTs had arrived and Kopecky righted two more chairs so Sandy and Maggie could sit while they examined Sandy’s head wound.

  “His financial manager was a whack job in all senses of the word,” Kopecky told me with a wry smile. “What was he, some sort of psychopath?”

  “I’m not a psychiatrist—” I started to say.

  “No? I thought you were an expert on everything.”

  I playfully slapped at him. “And you’re not a psychiatrist, but that’s probably an apt description of him.”

  “Ah, but the real question is, are you hungry? After we book this bozo, we should go out and celebrate. I know this great place—”

  “I know you’re not going to believe this.”

  “But you’re already busy for dinner.”

  “Grady and Donna invited me to their home. It’s my last night in New York.”

  “And family comes first.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  My week in Manhattan had come to an end—thank goodness.

  Being able to spend time with Grady and his family had been my treat to myself, as limited as it was, and I wish I’d found more opportunities to enjoy it. The problem was that murder had intruded itself into what was to have been a leisurely visit to the Big Apple, soaking up the glamour of New York City’s fabled Fashion Week.

  My involvement with Detective Aaron Kopecky had introduced a complication I hadn’t anticipated. Not that I deliberately set out to befriend him, nor had it been my intention, at least initially, to involve myself in his investigations into the deaths of the teenage model Rowena Roth and supermodel Latavia Moore. But I would be less than honest not to admit that once my inquisitive genes were awakened, I was an active participant in trying to unravel what had happened to these two beautiful young women. I suppose you could say that our relationship, as brief as it was, defined a perfect negotiation—I got from him the opportunity to contribute to two NYPD homicide cases, and he got from me certain help in fulfilling his responsibilities. Both sides came out ahead, although his apparent personal interest in me had added an unwelcome dimension that I’m afraid I hadn’t handled with much aplomb.

  The detective had hoped to establish a romantic bond with me. When I made it clear that I wasn’t interested (but flattered perhaps), he’d reacted the way many people do. He was hurt, and put up a defensive shield to avoid further injury to his psyche. But once the pressure of solving the deaths of the two models had abated, he seemed to readily accept that I would not be the woman to replace his beloved wife, Mary, and we could enjoy each other’s company without that element muddling our relationship.

  My dinner with Grady, Donna, and their son, Frank, was on my final night in Manhattan. Donna greeted me when I arrived and excused herself to finish up preparations in the kitchen.

  Grady handed me a glass of wine and settled me in a lounge chair on their small terrace. “Donna needs my help in the kitchen, Aunt Jess. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Can I get you anything?”

  “Do you happen to have today’s paper? I never got a chance to buy one.”

  “Only the New York Post. I left the Times in the office,” he said, popping inside and returning with a copy of the tabloid.

  I took the paper and thanked him. A headline on the front page immediately caught my eye: “Scalpel to the Stars Cut Down to Size.” The article, by Steven Crowell, revealed that celebrity cosmetic surgeon Dr. Edmund Sproles was under investigation by medical authorities for doing unnecessary procedures on underage models, and selling them experimental substances as legitimate medicines. The piece went on to say that Dr. Sproles was the target of myriad malpractice suits from young women who broke out in rashes from his custom creams, prompting officials to launch an examination into his overall practices and procedures.

  “Isn’t that story something?” Donna said, sliding into a chair next to mine. “That guy was mixing poisonous plants into concoctions he used on his patients.” She gave a shiver.

  “You can find charlatans everywhere,” Grady said, joining us on the terrace.

  “I met Dr. Sproles this week,” I said, closing the newspaper and setting it aside.

  “You did? Where?” Grady asked. “Was he at the fashion party we attended?”

  “No. I went to his office to talk with him, and not about any procedures, I hasten to add.”

  “You certainly don’t need anything to make you prettier,” Donna said.

  “That’s very sweet,” I replied. “I just had some questions for the doctor about one of his patients, Rowena Roth.”

  “The model who died,” Grady said.

  “Yes. He had quite an operation going with a full waiting room.”

  “Did you see anything nefarious going on?” he asked.

  I laughed. “Not exactly, but he did have a large collection of exotic plants on display.”

  “You’ve had some exciting week in New York,” Donna said.

  “Certainly more excitement than I planned for.”

  “But you seem to thrive on excitement,” Grady suggested.

  “Do I? Oh, dear, what a dreadful reputation to have. My preference is for my peaceful life in Cabot Cove, where the biggest excitement is when someone has a little too much wine and has to be fished out of the harbor.”

  “But that’s not true, Aunt Jess,” Grady said. “People have been murdered in Cabot Cove. Not only that, but you’ve been involved in helping solve some of those murders.”

  “True, Grady, but it’s never been my intention to get involved.” I laughed. “Ask Sheriff Metzger about that. Sometimes I think he’d prefer to solve his cases all on his own.”

  “He ought to be thankful that you’ve been there to help,” said Donna.

  “Oh, I think he is, but his male pride occasionally gets in the way of acknowledging it. Dinner was delicious, Donna, as usual, and the conversation even better. But I’d best be getting back to my hotel. My flight tomorrow morning to Boston is an early one.”

  “Is Jed Richardson picking you up in Boston and flying you to Cabot Cove?” Grady asked.

  “That’s the plan,” I said. Jed runs our small airport and is my flying instructor.

  “Good old Jed,” Grady said.

  “How are you getting to the airport in the morning?” Donna asked.

  Before I could answer, Frank came bouncing to the terrace carrying something that he handed me. It was a copy of his short story bound in a blue plastic binder with the title written on it.

  “For you, Aunt Jessica,” he said proudly.

  “Open it,” Grady said.

  Frank had inserted an extra page at the beginning of the manuscript: “For my aunt Jessica. The best aunt anyone could have and the world’s greatest murder mystery writer.”

  “How sweet,” I said, hugging him to my side, “but I’m afraid it’s a gross overstatement.”

  “I mean it,” Frank said.

  I kissed his cheek. “I will treasure this,” I said.

  I was at the door and poised to leave when Donna again asked how I was getting to JFK Airport in the morning.

  “Detective Kopecky is driving me,” I said.

  “Really?” Grady said, stringing out the word.

  “He insisted,” I said. “I told him I’d be happy to take a taxi, but he wouldn’t hear of it. His daughter, Christina, will be with him.”

  “Interesting,” Grady said, glancing at his wife.

  “Interesting,” Donna echoed.

  I ignored the implied editorial comments and sa
id, “Let’s not let too much time pass before the next time we get together.” I hugged everyone good-bye and added, “I’ll expect to see you in Cabot Cove this summer if not before.”

  * * *

  I’d initially declined Kopecky’s invitation to drive me to the airport for my flight to Boston, but he was insistent. “Christina will be with me,” he said. “She’s staying overnight. She’ll never forgive me if I don’t let her at least meet you.”

  And so I agreed.

  Christina vacated the front passenger seat of his battered Subaru as I exited the Refinery Hotel. Kopecky also got out of the vehicle and gave me a wave. He’d parked away from the curb, making it difficult for other vehicles to pass.

  “Perfect weather to fly, huh?” he said as we shook hands. “This is the famous Christina I’m always talking about.”

  “What a pleasure to meet you,” I said.

  She grasped my outstretched hand and pumped it energetically. She was a pretty brunette, solidly built and with a wide, winning smile. “I am so thrilled to finally get to see you,” she said. “I’m a big fan and your books are my absolute favorites. I brought a couple with me for you to sign, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course it’s okay,” I said. “I’m very flattered.”

  Her father, dressed nicely in suit and tie, seemed unsure of what to say next. Finally he said, “Hey, we’d better get going. You never can tell about New York traffic.”

  A driver behind Kopecky leaned on his horn, causing the detective to glare at him. As I’d come to learn, Kopecky’s shield on the visor of his car gave him carte blanche when it came to parking, something he freely took advantage of.

  Christina climbed in the back, leaving me the front passenger seat. Kopecky put my suitcase in the trunk, slammed it shut, got behind the wheel, gunned the engine, and roared away from the curb, cutting off another car. “New York drivers are the dumbest,” he mumbled.

  I’d heard the same said about New England drivers but didn’t mention it.

  Christina chatted away and handed three of my books to me over the seat back. Signing was made difficult because of her father’s fast, aggressive driving, but I managed the task and gave them back to her.

  As we headed for the airport, Christina said less and her father became more talkative.

  “I’ll tell you, Jessica,” he said, “I’ve been a cop in New York for a lot of years, but this case with the models takes the cake. I mean, here’s this kid, this beautiful young model who decides to murder another model who’s competing with her to become—what do you call it, the ‘face’ of this guy’s cosmetic company? We tracked down her credit card and, sure enough, she bought the aconite that showed up in her homemade lipstick. And then she goes and ends up poisoning herself by mistake. Go figure.”

  “As they say, truth is often stranger than fiction,” I replied.

  “That’s for sure. I bet you’ll write one heck of a book about it.”

  “To be honest,” I said, “I’m not sure I want to write about the fashion industry.”

  He guffawed. “I get your drift, Jessica.”

  “You must be pleased that Latavia Moore’s murder has been solved,” I said as we left the city and entered the borough of Queens. “You suspected from the outset that her death wasn’t from natural causes.”

  “I got lucky with that one, but you played a big role, Jessica, learning from Mr. Sandy Black, or whatever name he uses, that the text message he got couldn’t have come from Ms. Moore. Couple that with the other guy on the security camera tape and we nailed Black’s so-called manager and financial backer. He cracked like an egg under pressure. Seems Latavia’s former husband was trying to pull a fast one by getting his ex to fire Verne so they could pocket the savings. Backfired on both of them. LAPD picked up the ex. They’ve been keeping an eye on him for years. He copped to the fact that he set up Black in the costume theft. He should’ve realized he was going to land up in jail one way or another.”

  “I’m just glad that it’s over,” I said. “And it’s a relief that the two deaths were not related.”

  He pulled up in front of the terminal, leaped out, and opened the doors for me and Christina.

  “Here you are, Jessica,” he said. “We made good time.”

  “I really appreciate the ride,” I said to him. I turned to his daughter. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Christina,” I said.

  “Me, too,” she said.

  “You have a wonderful father.”

  “I know it,” she said, sliding her arm around his waist.

  Kopecky smiled, disengaged from Christina, and gave me a hug. “I am wonderful.”

  I laughed.

  “Gotta admit, I was a little miffed that you weren’t as impressed with me as I was with you.”

  “I’m sorry, Aaron. I hope you’re not offended. It’s just that—”

  “Yeah, yeah. You don’t have to explain. The detective in England and all. You’re a classy lady, Jessica Fletcher,” he said, and planted a kiss on both my cheeks.

  “Ooh, very continental, Daddy,” his daughter said.

  Kopecky blushed and without another word he and Christina climbed back into his Subaru and drove away.

  * * *

  As Jed Richardson circled Cabot Cove prior to landing his single-engine plane at our small airport, I immediately felt at ease and thought of these lines from T. S. Eliot:

  We shall not cease from exploration

  And the end of all our exploring

  Will be to arrive where we started

  And know the place for the first time.

  It was wonderful to be back.

  The ensuing months passed quickly for me once I was again settled and had fallen into the welcome small-town routine Cabot Cove offered, but events conspired to remind me of my exposure to Fashion Week in New York.

  A postcard had arrived from male model Peter Sanderson announcing his role in a new situation comedy on television. A handwritten note on the bottom read “Don’t forget me when you’re making your next movie.” It was signed “Love, P,” an echo of another note written to a seventeen-year-old model with aspirations that, sadly, she would never achieve.

  A day later, my friend and our local real estate expert, Eve Simpson, had dropped off one of her fashion magazines for me. She had marked a page that contained photographs from the red carpet at several of the Hollywood award shows, among them a picture of the actress Jeanne Rogét in a form-hugging gold gown by Xandr Ebon. I thumbed through the rest of the magazine and was delighted to discover Isla Banning’s lovely face in a print ad for New Cosmetics.

  Maggie Black called me one day soon after to inform me that Xandr Ebon was going back to being Sandy Black. Her son had decided to abandon his high-fashion aspirations in New York and to return to Hollywood, where he hoped to reestablish himself as a costume designer. “I tried to talk him out of it,” Maggie said, “but there was no dissuading Sandy once my cousin, the lawyer, was able to get him out of that awful contract he signed with Jordan Verne. I just hope it works out better for him this time.”

  “I’m sure it will,” I said. “I’ll look for his credits whenever I see a new movie. By the way, I saw that the actress Jeanne Rogét kept her promise to wear one of his designs on the red carpet.”

  “Yes, she did, and he’s hoping that the good word she puts in for him, along with the discrediting of Latavia Moore’s husband’s accusations against him, will help him get back into the good graces of the studios.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” I said.

  * * *

  I’d not heard from Detective Aaron Kopecky or his daughter since they dropped me off at JFK. But a week after Maggie called, I received a note from Christina.

  Dear Mrs. Fletcher,

  I hope all is well with you and that you’re writing another wonderful book. I th
ought you’d want to know that my dad is getting married again. She’s someone he’s known since high school who is a widow, a really nice lady. And I just got engaged, too. Looks like the Kopecky family might have a double wedding.

  I smiled, dropped her note on my desk, raised my half-filled teacup, and said aloud, “Congratulations, Aaron Kopecky. May you and your bride have many happy years together.”

  I finished what was in the cup, turned to my blank computer screen, and started writing my next novel, which, by the way, has nothing to do with fashion.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Jessica Fletcher is a bestselling mystery writer who has a knack for stumbling upon real-life mysteries in her various travels. Donald Bain, the author of more than 120 books, collaborates with her and Renée Paley-Bain on this bestselling series.

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