New Year's Eve Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Why not?” asked Lucy, placing the last stem in the vase and setting it on the window sill, where Elizabeth could see them.

  “I’m here on a work visa and when the job ends I’ve got to go.” She drummed her fingers nervously. “Is it true what they say? That Nadine had anthrax?”

  Lucy stepped close to the bed and took Elizabeth’s hand. “You had a close call but you’re going to be fine.”

  “Elizabeth, too?” asked Fiona, her eyes widening.

  “That’s what the doctor says.”

  “Well, I’ll be gob smacked,” said Fiona. “You mean Nadine didn’t have the flu, she had anthrax? And everybody at the magazine was exposed?”

  “If a lot of people were exposed, they’d already be sick,” said Lance. “Of course, they’ll close the offices and bring in the hazmat crews and there’ll be a big investigation, but it’s really just bureaucrats covering their behinds.”

  “But who would do such a thing?” asked Fiona, staring out the window. “Who would send anthrax to a fashion magazine? Why would they do it?”

  They all fell silent, baffled by a new world order in which ideological and religious beliefs were used to justify violence and atrocities against innocent people going about their daily business. These days taking a train or airplane, sitting in a café, or riding a bus to work had suddenly become dangerous.

  Lance finally broke the silence. “You know, I don’t think this is terrorism,” he said.

  Fiona snapped her head around to look at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Only two people have gotten sick, right?”

  Fiona nodded. “Just Nadine and Elizabeth.”

  “A lot more people would’ve gotten sick if it was really a terrorist attack on the magazine. And like you said, why would terrorists attack a fashion magazine, anyway? There’s lots of better targets, like the subway.”

  “But if it’s not a terror attack, what could it be?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Murder,” said Lucy.

  “Murder!” Elizabeth’s eyes were huge. “Who’d want to murder me?”

  “Nobody. But I can think of at least one person who wanted Nadine out of the way,” said Lucy, remembering Arnold’s pass at the AIDS gala.

  “So, just for the sake of argument, let’s say somebody sent anthrax to Nadine, how could Elizabeth have come in contact with it?” asked Lance.

  “However it was delivered, Nadine must have received a lot more than Elizabeth,” said Lucy.

  “And she must have inhaled it,” said Lance. “The inhalation type is a lot more serious. Elizabeth probably only touched it, which is why she got the cutaneous type.”

  “But what did she touch that Nadine also handled, but that other people didn’t?” asked Lucy.

  Elizabeth looked thoughtful, going over her actions at the magazine. “The compact!” she exclaimed.

  “That’s right! Nadine was powdering her face and she dropped the compact and Elizabeth picked it up,” said Lucy.

  “That would fit,” said Lance. “If the anthrax spores were in the powder, they would have been released when she pressed the puff against her face and she would have inhaled them. When Elizabeth picked up the compact, some of the spores must have gotten on her hand.”

  “Oh, I remember the compact.” Fiona’s mouth was a round O. “It came a week or two before she got sick. It was lovely, shaped like a pansy with enamel decoration. It just screamed ‘spring’ and everybody noticed it.”

  “Where did it come from?” asked Lucy. “Was it a gift? Was there a tag?”

  “I doubt it.” Fiona shrugged. “Stuff comes in all the time. New products, samples, gifts—there were boxes and boxes arriving everyday from cosmetics manufacturers hoping for a mention in the magazine.”

  “It must have been addressed to Nadine,” insisted Lucy. “It would have been too dangerous otherwise. Anybody could have taken it.”

  “Believe me, anybody who’s messing around with anthrax isn’t thinking too carefully about the consequences,” said Lance.

  “That’s not necessarily true,” said Fiona. “Nadine was known for grabbing everything that came in.”

  “Wasn’t that her job?”

  “Up to a point,” said Fiona. “As beauty editor she got to decide what products to feature, whether it’s something new and exciting that readers will want to know about or a product that fits in with a story idea like fresh new scents for spring, that’s her decision. But at most magazines extra products are given to the staff. That way, even if the product doesn’t get included in the magazine, it’s likely that people will use it and talk about it, give it a little boost.”

  “But not at Jolie?”

  “Oh no. Nadine hogged it all and everyone knew it. It was kind of a company joke. An industry joke, really. People used to wonder where she kept it all. Her apartment must have been stuffed with it.”

  “And the murderer took advantage of it to kill her,” said Lucy.

  “That’s cold,” said Elizabeth. “I mean, I can’t say I liked her. She was kind of weird and she made it pretty clear that she was only interested in herself, but that’s not a reason to kill someone, is it?”

  “The only reason a murderer needs is a strong desire to get rid of someone,” said Lucy.

  “I can think of quite a few people who fit that category,” said Fiona. “There’ll be a lot of gloating at her funeral tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Isn’t that awfully fast?”

  Fiona nodded. “It sure is. Phyllis said Nadine was Jewish and they have some religious rule about burying the corpse within 24 hours.”

  “I’m surprised the medical examiner went along,” mused Lucy.

  “I’m not,” said Lance, drily. “Arnold raised a ton of money for the mayor’s reelection campaign.”

  “That’s politics for you,” said Elizabeth. “Money talks.”

  “There’ll be a lot of talk at that funeral, that’s for sure,” said Fiona. “Everybody at the magazine will be there. We all got a voice mail message from Camilla pretty much ordering us to go. She’s actually having the invitations delivered by messenger tonight.”

  “You need an invitation?” Lucy had never heard of such a thing.

  “Oh, yeah. Otherwise homeless people would come in just to get warm and that wouldn’t do at Frank Campbell’s. It’s terribly toney.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Lucy. “I’d love to go.”

  Fiona’s eyes widened. “You would? Why?”

  “To pay my respects,” said Lucy, sounding as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  Elizabeth wasn’t fooled. “You mean you want to snoop around.” She turned to Fiona. “At home, Mom’s the local Miss Marple.”

  “Are you really?” asked Fiona.

  “Not exactly,” said Lucy, “but I am a reporter for the local newspaper.”

  “She’s solved quite a few mysteries in Tinker’s Cove,” said Lance, speaking to Fiona. “Couldn’t she go with you?”

  Just then there was a knock at the door and two extremely fit and clean-cut men in dark gray suits walked in. It was obvious to Lucy that the FBI was wasting no time.

  “Excuse us for barging in like this,” said the taller agent, a black man. “I’m Special agent Isaac Wood, and this is Special Agent Justin Hall.” He indicated his companion, who was shorter and had red hair. “We’d like to ask a few questions.”

  “We were expecting you,” said Lucy. She introduced herself as well as Elizabeth and Lance, but when she turned to Fiona, she discovered that Fiona had slipped away.

  “That’s all of us,” she said, covering the momentary awkwardness with a smile. “Fire away.”

  “Actually, we’re here to interview Elizabeth,” said Agent Wood.

  “Alone,” added Agent Hall, pointedly opening the door and holding it.

  Lucy didn’t like this one bit. “I don’t know,” she began.

  “It’s all right, Mom,” said Elizabeth.

  Lucy was doubtfu
l. Being interviewed by the FBI was serious business. “I can call Brad,” she said. “Remember, he’s a lawyer.”

  “Trust me. That’s not necessary.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy. She and Lance left the room reluctantly and the door was shut firmly behind them.

  “I hope she knows what she’s doing,” said Lance, looking worried.

  “Me, too,” agreed Lucy.

  Chapter Eleven

  BEST BOUTIQUES: WHERE YOU CAN FIND YOUR OWN LOOK

  It was after ten when Lucy left the hospital. She started to hail a cab, then remembered it was only a few short blocks to her hotel. The walk would do her good. But when she reached the corner, she discovered a welcoming coffee shop that was still open and ducked inside, climbing up on one of the stools and ordering the 24-hour special of two eggs any style, toast, home fries and choice of bacon or sausage. She ate it all, even the sausage.

  Leaving, she passed one of the newsstands that seemed to sit on every corner, noticing that tomorrow’s early edition had already been delivered. The proprietor was busy opening the bundles and arranging them. She paused for a moment to check the headlines, amused by the tabloids’ preposterous exaggerations about Jen and Brad, Liza and Martha. She also bought a copy of the New York Times, curious as to whether the anthrax attack had been reported.

  She flipped through it quickly when she got back to the hotel, but all she saw was an obituary. The funeral, she noted, was scheduled for ten in the morning. It was too late to call Sam, so she took a quick shower and then slipped between the crisp, clean sheets, expecting to fall right to sleep. That didn’t happen, though. Her mind was too busy with all that had happened and all the things she needed to do. Her top priority was Elizabeth, of course—making sure she got the care she needed to continue getting well.

  Now that she knew for sure it was anthrax, with the possibility that the whole city could be at risk, she found Camilla’s reaction to her warning simply unbelievable. Why hadn’t she taken immediate action? And, come to think of it, why was she still at the office when Lucy called? You’d think she would have been too upset by Nadine’s death to stay at work.

  Her reaction seemed awfully weird, thought Lucy, reminding herself that you had to make allowances for the bereaved. Grief took everyone differently; some were immediately blown over, others took a while to acknowledge their loss. Furthermore, doctors prescribed all sorts of drugs to help people manage their emotions nowadays, and those drugs often produced odd behavior, like poor Angie Martinelli who had laughed hysterically at her mother-in-law’s funeral last month in Tinker’s Cove. Though some people said it wasn’t the drugs at all, Lucy was willing to give Angie the benefit of the doubt, figuring that if she really had been thrilled at the old woman’s death she would have taken pains to hide it. Then again, she had to admit, a lot of folks in Tinker’s Cove actually suspected that Angie had something to do with old Mrs. Martinelli’s death.

  Of course, the fact that Mrs. Martinelli died after eating a cannolli at Angie’s house did seem to cast some suspicion on Angie, even though the cause of death was officially a heart attack. Admittedly, Angie was a nurse and she did have access to all sorts of medications and she could have spiked the fatal cannolli, but how could someone like Camilla get access to anthrax? No, Lucy told herself, apart from the lack of outward grief there was absolutely nothing to indicate that Camilla was a murderer, any more than Angie’s hysterical laughter proved she had killed her mother-in-law.

  After an hour or so of such unproductive thought, Lucy got up and took a Sominex. She finally fell asleep, listening to the constant hum of city traffic, punctuated by sirens.

  The wake-up call came promptly at seven, just as she’d requested. Still groggy from sleep, she panicked when she saw Elizabeth’s empty bed. Then it all came back to her and she dialed the hospital, learning that Elizabeth had a comfortable night and was continuing to improve. Reassured on that score, she started on the business of dressing and packing. At eight she figured Sam would be awake and called, immediately receiving an invitation to stay at her apartment. Then, after making a quick call to touch bases with Bill, she went downstairs for breakfast.

  Cathy and Maria were sitting together in the restaurant and waved her over, inviting her to join them. “Tell us all about Elizabeth,” said Maria. “How is she?”

  “She’s much better, thanks,” she said, taking a seat.

  “That’s great news,” drawled Cathy, her huge diamond ring flashing as she signaled the waiter to bring coffee. “I was awfully worried about her, considering what happened to Nadine.”

  “And now they say her death is suspicious,” said Maria, her big black eyes bigger than ever. “It was on the news.”

  “I never heard of such a thing,” said Cathy, crossing her silky legs and letting an excruciatingly fashionable stiletto shoe dangle from her toes. “How can they investigate the flu?”

  Lucy had to bite her tongue, even though she knew it would be irresponsible to break the news; soon enough all the makeover winners would be contacted by public health officials. She certainly didn’t want to start a panic so she changed the subject.

  “Are you guys going home today?”

  “Tiffany and I are staying a few extra days, but I think everybody else is leaving. I figured that if I was going to come all the way from Dallas I wasn’t going to leave without taking in the town. Maria’s taking us shopping. She knows all the best places.”

  “Everything from designer boutiques to sidewalk peddlers,” said Maria.

  “Which is why we’re getting an early start. Tiffany wants people to think she’s a fashionista and Carmela’s upstairs, helping her decide what to wear. It’s a lengthy process.” Cathy gave the waiter a big smile. “My friend needs a cup of coffee and we’d like a refill.”

  “Decaf for me. I’m already feeling wired,” said Maria.

  “So what happened at the magazine after I left?” asked Lucy, as the waiter set a cup down and filled it.

  “It was crazy!”

  “All the staffers were running around like chickens with no heads,” said Cathy. “We weren’t sure what to do; we were all standing around like little lost lemon drops, you know, not part of it really and not sure what to do. Nancy finally remembered us and told us we should leave.”

  “She was very nice. Very apologetic.” Maria’s hands were everywhere—she was one of those people who spoke with their hands. “But she said they had to cancel the final dinner party and the holiday show at Radio City Music Hall.”

  “No Rockettes?”

  “I guess they felt it wouldn’t have been right, under the circumstances.” Cathy stirred her coffee.

  “But the girls were disappointed,” said Maria.

  “We all ate here, at the hotel. It was fine.” Cathy furrowed her beautifully arched brows and leaned forward. “Camilla stopped by and presented the ten thousand dollars to Lurleen and Faith. No surprise there.”

  Maria rolled her eyes. “It was ‘hallelujahs’ all night.” She shrugged. “You can’t blame them for being excited but everybody else was pretty down. When you and Elizabeth didn’t show we were all worried.”

  “And, of course, people were upset about Nadine.”

  “So young!” Maria shook her black curls. “And a woman like her! One who could afford the best care, the best doctors.”

  “Maybe she had a heart condition,” speculated Cathy. “Like those athletes who are fine one minute and drop dead the next.”

  “But your little girl, well, not-so-little girl, will she be all right? We heard she was in intensive care?”

  Lucy suddenly felt guilty. What was she doing sitting around gossiping? She needed to get moving if she was going to check out of the hotel and get her bags moved to Sam’s apartment before going back to Elizabeth in the hospital.

  “She’s feeling much better,” she said. “Thanks for asking. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get something to eat.”

  When she returne
d with a plate loaded with pancakes and sausage, the conversation continued.

  “What are they doing for her?” asked Cathy.

  “Just fluids and antibiotics.” Lucy took a big bite of syrup-drenched pancake.

  “Antibiotics?” Maria’s brows shot up. “They don’t do anything for the flu.”

  Lucy suddenly wished she hadn’t been so open.

  “I know about flu,” continued Maria. “I had it last year. I begged for an antibiotic but the doctor wouldn’t give it to me. He said it wouldn’t do any good. He told me to rest and take chicken soup.”

  “They actually think it’s a reaction to a spider bite,” said Lucy, spearing a sausage, “but they’re not sure. It’s probably not the same thing that Nadine had.”

  “Spider bite?” Cathy was doubtful. “Now if it were me or Tiffany, I’d say that was a possibility, since we live in the South, but you guys come from Maine. Aren’t your spiders hibernating?”

  “I would have thought so,” said Lucy, licking the last bits of syrup off her fork and placing it carefully on her plate. “I don’t really care what caused it, I’m just glad she’s on the road to recovery.” She stood up. “Now I’ve really got to go. I don’t want to stay away from the hospital too long.”

  “Have you got a place to stay?” asked Cathy. “I have a suite and we’ve got plenty of room.”

  “You could have the couch at my place,” added Maria.

  Lucy was amazed; she hadn’t expected such kindness. “Thanks, that’s awfully sweet of you, but an old college friend is letting me stay with her. She’s got an apartment on Riverside Drive.”

  “That’s good,” said Maria. “In times of trouble, it’s good to have a friend.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Lucy, marveling that she’d received three invitations when she’d been worried about finding a place to stay.

  Headed uptown in a taxi, Lucy felt lighter, as if sharing her worries with Cathy and Maria had made them less burdensome. Everything was going to be okay. Elizabeth was getting better, she had a place to stay, and she had friends in the city who would help and support her. These were all good things.