“Great. It was nice meeting you, Mr . . . ?”
“All the tenants call me Harold and I’d be happy if you did too. Mr. Richardson’s women friends have always done so in the past. No reason to change now.”
Josie managed to keep a smile on her face. This was one of the things she had been dreading about visiting New York City. “Then I guess we’ll see you later, Harold.”
“You sure will. I’m on duty until seven.”
Josie followed Sam into the elevator and watched as he pressed the button to take them to the fourth floor.
“It’s good to have you here.” Sam folded Josie into his arms. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her head into his familiar chest, and wondered if she could survive the next week without going crazy.
TWO
SAM AND JOSIE had been dating for almost four years— ever since Sam retired from his job as prosecuting attorney for the City of New York, moved to the small barrier island about a hundred miles from the Empire State Building as the seagull flies, and bought a home to live in and a liquor store to run. During this time, Josie had heard a lot about his previous life and more than enough about his previous women friends. She had enjoyed none of these conversations.
And the ones about Pamela Peel had been the worst. Pamela Peel was beautiful, well educated, and rich. Pamela Peel was always flying off to spas in the mountains in Mexico, resorts in Thailand, or intimate little hotels in various capital cities in Europe. Pamela Peel was a successful decorator, a profession which, Josie just knew, she practiced while wearing elegant little designer suits, high heels, silk stockings, and, probably, French underwear. Josie was just guessing about the underwear; Sam had the good taste not to mention Pamela’s unmentionables.
Pamela Peel had been Sam’s last significant other. Josie knew that Pamela had been someone special. After all, he had let her decorate his apartment. The apartment they were entering now.
Josie hoped it would be horrible. She knew it would feel empty since Sam had brought thousands of books, his clothing, his computer, and a few paintings to the island along with what she had come to think of as The Chair. The Chair was cherrywood with a seat upholstered in rich brown suede. The Chair was a work of art, actually signed on the bottom by its maker. It had a place of honor in Sam’s living room on the island. It also had a connection to Pamela Peel. Josie wasn’t sure what the connection was but she hated it.
Sam opened the door and motioned for Josie to precede him into his apartment.
The foyer was lined with empty bookshelves. Josie followed Sam across a steel gray, handwoven wool runner into a large living room. A pair of charcoal suede couches bracketed a granite fireplace centered on the far wall. A mirror, framed in silver, hung above the fireplace and reflected the pale winter light coming through large windows to the left. There was a massive coffee table, fashioned from slate, in the middle of the floor. A built-in window seat, upon which numerous itchy-looking wool pillows in shades of gray were stacked, completed the furnishings in this section of the room. To the right, a slate-topped table encircled by six black leather chairs indicated that this part of the room was to be used for dining. Josie assumed that the folding doors centered in the nearby wall would lead to the kitchen.
“The bedroom’s that way,” Sam said, pointing. “So what do you think of this place?” he asked, picking up her small bag and leading the way. Sam had driven to the city, carrying the rest of Josie’s luggage in his trunk.
“It’s different from your place at home . . . I mean, your house on the island.”
“It looked better when my books and things were here, I guess. To be honest, I didn’t remember it being this bleak.”
“Maybe your taste has changed,” Josie suggested, entering the bedroom and gasping.
Sam chuckled. “This I did remember. Hideous, isn’t it?”
The bedroom, Josie assumed, would be called minimalist. A huge king-size bed, flanked by chrome nightstands, dominated the room. A large steel armoire stood on the wall opposite, its open doors revealing empty shelves where a television and tape machine had once been stored. A matching double dresser had been placed under the windows. A massive abstract oil painting hung over the bed. Gray, white, and black paint had been used to ruin a perfectly good canvas.
“Why did you ever buy this?” Josie asked, walking over for a closer look.
“It was a gift.”
“Good Lord, from who?”
“Pamela. Actually, she painted it.”
Josie looked up at his face. “So you had no choice but to hang it,” she guessed.
“Actually, I didn’t hang it. She did. Or one of her minions did. I doubt if Pamela actually ever picks up a hammer and smacks nails. She hires people to do that sort of thing.”
“People like me,” Josie muttered.
“No, Josie, not people like you. You are an independent contractor. Pamela usually hires illegals—men she can boss around and who have no recourse when she expects them to work long hours seven days a week. She avoids hiring young, independent women. She probably thinks they would cause trouble.”
Josie, who looked for women just like that when she was hiring her crews, didn’t respond. She never knew what to say under these circumstances. She knew Sam was too much of a gentleman to criticize the women he had been involved with before, so much as she would have enjoyed—hell, loved—to trash them with him, she resisted. On the other hand, that was one ugly painting.
“Maybe you should take it down before you try to sell the apartment,” she suggested.
“Oh, everything will be gone by then. What I don’t take to the island or Mother doesn’t want will be picked up by the Salvation Army.”
“Everything?”
“Everything. Unless there’s something you want?”
“I . . . What’s that?” she asked as a horrible squeal filled the apartment.
“That’s what happens when you’re not around to tip the superintendent at Christmas. He doesn’t take the time to properly fix your intercom.” Sam walked back to the front door, pressed the correct button and spoke into the grill on the wall. The voice that came back to him was garbled, but apparently Sam understood the message. “Send them up,” he ordered. He was smiling broadly when he turned back to Josie. “We’re going to have company. Betty and JJ are on their way up.”
“Look, Sam, isn’t he the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?” Josie asked.
“Without a doubt. Why don’t we go back into my apartment where we can admire him properly? The hallway can be drafty,” he added.
Betty wrapped her arms around her son and pulled him even closer to her chest. “Then let’s get inside. JJ seemed to be sniffling a bit this morning and I don’t want him to catch cold.”
Once safely out of the hallway, Sam relieved Betty of her bags of infant paraphernalia and Josie folded the baby blanket into a nest on the window seat while Betty released her son from his carrier. Once JJ had been settled down in his place, a green plastic elephant–shaped rattle firmly grasped in one hand, the women hugged again.
“You look incredible,” Josie cried, releasing her friend.
Betty ran her hands through her gorgeous blond hair and laughed. “You’re just being nice. I still have a few more pounds to lose and I need a trim and a facial. And look at my nails.” She held out what appeared to be perfectly manicured nails for Josie’s inspection.
“They’re beautiful!” Josie insisted.
“The polish is chipped.” And just as Josie was about to decide that her old friend had changed completely, Betty put her hands down and whooped with laughter. “Listen to me! I sound like one of those I-never-do-anything-to-chip-my-polish women that we were always laughing at on the island! Josie, you must think living in New York has turned me into an idiot!”
Josie grinned at the woman she had known for years. “Well, I was wondering just a bit.”
“It’s just that I’m nervous. You know, seeing you and Sam again and int
roducing you two to my little sweetie . . .” She paused long enough to smile down at her baby. “Oh, I’m being an idiot. I’m just so happy to see you again! I love New York and my life here, but I do miss the island.”
“What do you miss most? Working long hours at a dirty job for not much pay or living in a tiny little apartment over the garage of a rich person’s summerhouse?” Josie asked, laughing.
“I miss running on the beach. I miss seagulls screaming in the wind. I miss the way the salty air smells. I miss sunrise over the ocean. I miss those crumb cakes from the bakery. I miss you, Josie!”
“But you’ve made friends in the city, haven’t you?”
“I have—finally. Great friends from my natural childbirth classes. And JJ and I go to a playgroup. . . .”
“JJ plays with other children?” Josie asked, glancing down at the baby who was happily licking the end of his rattle.
“Well, no, of course, not yet. But early socialization is important and I enjoy talking with the other mothers. Actually, Josie, I do miss the island sometimes, but I love it here. Finally.”
Josie, who remembered how lonely Betty had been when she first married Sam’s friend and moved to the city, smiled broadly. “I’m glad. I can’t wait to see your apartment!”
“Tonight . . .”
“Oh, Betty, tonight we’re going to dinner with the father of the boy Tyler is staying with!”
“Why don’t we all get together for brunch tomorrow morning?” Sam suggested.
“We’re not leaving JJ with sitters yet. Why don’t you two come over to the apartment and I’ll feed you the best brunch you’ve ever eaten?”
“You cook?”
Betty laughed. “No, but I’m a New Yorker now. I do fabulous takeout!”
“Sounds great,” Sam said. “What time do you want us?”
“Around eleven?”
“We’ll be there,” Sam assured her.
“You know the address?” Betty stood up and began to gather her belongings.
“Sure do.”
“What are you doing? Betty, you just got here!” Josie protested.
“We have our baby yoga class in twenty minutes. Downtown,” Betty added, probably noting the surprised expression on Josie’s face.
“Baby yoga?”
“Yes. I know it sounds a little silly, but JJ thinks it’s such fun and he usually takes an extra long nap after class so that Jon and I get a few minutes to ourselves when he gets home from work. So it’s worth going to class for a few reasons.”
“And he does seem to be remarkably flexible,” Sam said, looking down at the baby who was happily chewing on the chubby big toe on his left foot.
“Isn’t he amazing?”
Sam and Josie could both agree with that. “I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Josie said, picking up the baby chair.
“Great!”
“And I guess I’ll answer that phone,” Sam said, as its ringing interrupted him.
“See you tomorrow then,” Betty said, tightening the last buckle on her son’s pack and lifting him up.
The two women walked toward the door. “What do you think of the apartment?” Josie asked her friend before they were even out the door.
“Great apartment. Awful decorating! Didn’t you tell me one of Sam’s girlfriends did it?”
Josie felt the flood of relief that one woman feels when she discovers that her friends and she are in accord. “Yes. God, she has horrible taste, doesn’t she?”
“Hideous! Sam must have been nuts to let her decorate his apartment.”
Josie smiled uncertainly. “Or maybe he was nuts about her. . . .” The arrival of the elevator put an end to this depressing thought and to their conversation. With kisses, hugs, and promises to continue their conversation over brunch tomorrow, the women parted.
Sam was hanging up the phone as Josie returned. “Mom just called,” he said. “She wants to meet us at some café she’s just discovered.” He walked over to Josie, put his arms around her, and rested his chin on her head. “I was hoping for a romantic afternoon, but I guess that will have to wait.”
“We have lots of time,” Josie assured him. “A whole week. We’ll see your mom this afternoon, Tyler and Tony and Tony’s father tonight, and Betty and Jon tomorrow morning. Then, except for a few meetings with realtors, we have seven whole days with nothing to do.”
Sam kissed her unruly hair. “I just hope you’re right.”
Josie wondered why he sounded so sad.
THREE
INDOCHINE WAS ALMOST empty when Sam and Josie arrived. Sam explained who had made the reservations to the hostess who greeted them rather languidly.
“Oh, he generally arrives a bit later than eight, but I’ll show you to the table he usually prefers. If you’ll follow me.” She strolled between the empty tables and huge palm trees, offering them rattan chairs on the far side of a large round table in the dead center of the room. “Perhaps you’d like something to drink.”
“Yes, of course . . . ,” Sam began.
“I’ll send your waiter over then.” The woman turned her back on them and continued her stroll toward the rear of the restaurant.
Sam chuckled. “I guess we’re just not famous enough for her to bother with.”
“Is this a place where famous people eat?” Josie asked.
“Every place in New York City would like you to believe it attracts the rich and famous, or the rich and infamous, and a table like this is usually reserved for them.”
“Why?” Josie looked around. There were smaller tables and there were larger tables, but this one didn’t seem so very special.
“This is right in the middle of the room. We can see. And, more important, we can be seen.”
“What about the famous people who don’t want to be seen? The Woody Allen types?”
“They get a table behind one of the palm plants. And the waiters let the diners know that someone famous, someone who prefers some privacy, is eating in the restaurant tonight. They get their privacy and the restaurant gets some status. Works for everybody.”
“May I help you? My name is Kirk and I’ll be your wait-staff tonight. Drinks? Perhaps something to graze on while you wait for the rest of your party?” Their waiter, a tall, thin young man all in black with his hair caught back in a pony-tail hanging almost to his waist, had appeared.
“Is there a house specialty?” Sam asked.
“We have a delicious house martini, an unusual rum punch, a mango gin and tonic—”
“I’ll have the rum punch. What about you, Josie?” Sam asked, interrupting.
“The rum punch sounds delicious,” she agreed.
They had eaten lunch at one of Sam’s mother’s new discoveries. “Just like Paris,” Carol had promised. Josie hadn’t been terribly enthusiastic. She’d never been to Paris, but if she ever got there, she had no intention of looking for restaurants “just like New York City” or “just like the Jersey Shore.” When she was in Paris, she would look for Parisian restaurants. In New York City, she wanted to eat in New York restaurants. Looking around at the palm frond wallpaper while Sam ordered a selection of appetizers, she wondered at the motif.
“It’s Indonesian-French,” he explained when they were alone together again. “Fusion cuisine is very trendy right now.”
“Not very New York City,” she said.
“Very New York City. New York is a place that has taken the best from the rest of the world and adopted it as its own. But we’ll go to the Four Seasons, the Hudson River Club, or maybe the Gotham Bar and Grill later in the week. They’re all very New York.”
“I’ll gain a ton!”
“So we’ll go for long walks in Central Park and burn lots of calories. I really want us to have fun. Remember, the next time we’re in the city, we’ll be staying in a hotel . . . or at my mother’s place.”
“I think a hotel sounds just fine.” Josie’s smile widened. So he was planning another trip here—another trip with her. The
n she frowned a bit. But was that what she really wanted?
“If you don’t like this, we can order something else.” Sam’s offer interrupted her musings.
Josie realized that a tall glass filled with a caramel-colored liquid and lots of ice cubes had been placed in front of her. “No, it looks just fine!” A straw piercing a slice of star fruit was stuck in the glass and she picked it up and sucked. The drink wasn’t fine; it was exceptionally fine—sweet, delicious, and strong. Carol had insisted that Josie try the salade nicoise for lunch. It had been excellent too, but small. Josie felt the alcohol swim into her brain and blinked. “Wow.”
“I hope that means you’re having a good time.”
“It means I may be drunk before Tyler arrives. And I don’t think I want that to happen.”
“Sip slowly. And I’ll ask for some water as soon as our waiter returns. Besides, it looks like you’re not going to have time to get drunk. That is Tyler walking through the door, isn’t it?”
Josie looked up. It was Tyler and Tony. She didn’t know what surprised her more: that they were both wearing black from head to toe or that they were accompanied by a willowy blond woman. Tiny gold earrings interrupted the black theme that she seemed to have adopted as well. Sam waved and the dark threesome headed toward their table. Tony and the young woman were smiling. Tyler was paying so much attention to the female member of their group that he ran into three chairs and a table on his way across the room. Josie gasped, feeling a pain in her chest. Tyler, her little Tyler, was in love!
“Hi, Ms. Pigeon,” Tony greeted them, a wide smile on his face.
“Hi, Tony. Hi, sweetie . . .” Before the endearment was fully formed, Tyler had begun to blush.
“You must be Tyler’s mother,” the tall blonde said. “I’m Toni. With an I, not to be confused with Tony with a Y. I’m Mr. Blanco’s assistant. He was held up on the set and asked that I accompany the boys here.”
“Aren’t you going to join us?” Tyler asked, still ignoring his mother.
“I would love to, but we’re having some problems with the caterers and I’ll probably spend the evening making sure everything is set up correctly tomorrow. Who knew that almost half of the local extras we hired would turn out to be either on a macrobiotic diet or vegetarians?” She sighed. “They survived on the fruit platters, salads, and breads today, but I’m trying to get in something with more protein tomorrow . . . but that’s not your problem. And I do have something else to do here before I dash.” She turned to Tyler. “Do you want to ask your mother or should I?”
A Fashionable Murder Page 2