“Incredible, isn’t it?” Gayle asked.
“The view, the apartment, or the uniformed staff?”
“All of it, I suppose.”
“Then I agree with you.”
“The snow seems to be coming down more quickly, doesn’t it?”
If Josie had had more experience of the upper classes, she would have recognized the accent and tenor of a fine prep school education in Mrs. Henderson’s voice.
“Yes, it does,” Gayle agreed, turning around with a smile on her face, a smile that faded when she saw Shep’s mother.
Josie turned. The woman standing in the doorway of the room had gray hair sweeping across her high forehead before coming to an end in a shoulder-length pageboy. There were faint lines around her eyes and lips; otherwise her skin was unmarked. Her eyes were the same pale blue as her son’s. And she was dressed entirely in black. Even without knowing the situation, Josie would have recognized formal mourning attire.
“Good afternoon, Gayle, it’s nice to see you again. And you must be Josie Pigeon.”
“Yes, I am. Thank you for seeing me,” Josie added as Mrs. Henderson drifted into the room.
“I’m glad to do anything I can to help. Please sit down. My maid will be here with coffee and tea. Unless you would like something stronger?” She waved toward a dark chestnut bar standing in the corner. Dozens of gleaming decanters stood upon its mirrored surface.
“No, I think we’re just fine,” Gayle answered.
“Yes, fine,” Josie echoed.
“Then why don’t we sit down? I’ll light a fire.” She reached out and turned a switch above the travertine marble mantel and flames leapt up between pristine birch logs. “So much easier and less messy than a real fire. But I do miss the crackle and the divine scent.”
“Uh, yes.” Josie sat awkwardly in an embroidered wing chair facing the chintz love seat where Mrs. Henderson perched ramrod straight, not allowing her back to rest against the piles of needlepoint pillows arranged behind her.
“It was nice of you to see us on such short notice,” Gayle began.
“Such a sad occasion,” Mrs. Henderson said. “I haven’t heard when the funeral is to be, have you?”
“Well, the police have to release the body first,” Josie explained. She had been unprepared for Mrs. Henderson’s reaction. She seemed far more upset by Pamela’s death than her son had been.
“Oh, yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of that. We’re not . . . well, to be frank, we’re not accustomed to being involved in these hideous police matters.”
“No one is,” Gayle said.
Josie decided this was no time to disagree. She merely nodded and remained silent about the murder investigations in her own not so distant past.
“Of course, the entire family is devastated. Such a dreadful loss. She was so young, so vibrant, so warm, and so talented. We all loved her.”
Josie wondered if they were all speaking about the same person. Apparently Gayle had the same question—only she asked it. “This is Pamela Peel we’re talking about, yes?”
“Yes, dear, dear Pamela. We had our differences, of course.”
Josie resisted the urge to ask for more information and Mrs. Henderson continued uninterrupted.
“You see, Sterling and I didn’t totally agree with our son’s choice of career. We were hoping he would grow into his father’s position at Henderson Investments. Shepard always was so good at money and numbers. But dear Shepard had other plans. I fear we blamed Pamela Peel for a while there. We simply could not understand why Shep would rather pick out furniture instead of stock for our friends. But, of course, we came around to his way of thinking in time. My husband and I are rather set in our ways, I’m afraid. But we understand that the younger generation must go their own way. Are you a mother, my dear?”
Josie realized the question was being addressed to her. “I . . . yes. My son is seventeen. He’s a student at . . .” Josie mentioned the prep school Tyler attended and was pleased to see Mrs. Henderson’s eyebrows raise a bit and the expression on her face soften. Josie didn’t add that his tuition and expenses were paid by a small legacy from an old friend, supplemented by a scholarship for his expenses.
“Then you understand what I mean.”
Josie nodded. She did understand now that Tyler seemed determined to become a movie producer. She had always imagined him surrounded by computers, not starlets. But this was no time for a philosophical discussion. “You blamed Pamela Peel for the fact that your son became a decorator?” she asked.
“I’m afraid we did, yes. Of course that was Shep’s fault.”
Josie was mystified. “Why?”
“Oh, Shep has always said that without Pamela Peel as his partner, he would have been forced to work with another, less talented, decorator. He would have hated that. And his father and I always believed that he would have preferred to go to Wharton or Harvard Business School rather than work as a gofer for some no-name decorator on the Upper West Side.”
“How did they happen to become business partners?” Josie asked, realizing that this woman, at least, blamed Pamela Peel for Shepard’s decision to become a decorator.
“Oh, she came after him. Women are always coming after Shep. Well, why not? He’s good-looking, talented, educated. . . .” She took a breath and continued. “And wealthy, of course.” She had turned slightly and was staring at the evenly burning flames in the fireplace.
“Do you happen to know if your son’s money was used to finance Henderson and Peel?” Josie asked. She knew the answer to this question, but she wondered if it was possible that Shepard Henderson had kept his parents in the dark when it came to his financial situation.
For the first time, Mrs. Henderson paused before answering. “I was brought up not to discuss money in public. You understand.”
Actually, Josie did. But, although her own parents would agree with Mrs. Henderson’s statement, she had spent the last eighteen years discussing money with everyone—her small family, her friends, her crews, her landlady, the people for whom she worked. She repeated the question. “So you think that your son’s money was needed to begin Henderson and Peel.”
“I am quite sure of it. Pamela was talented. Even I will admit that. But, to be quite honest, she certainly did not have the resources at her command that my son had—and has.”
“Mrs. Henderson, if your son’s money was used to create Henderson and Peel—”
“And I believe it was,” Shep’s mother interrupted, making her point again.
“Then why is he so worried about the future of the company now that Pamela is dead? I mean, doesn’t he own most of the company?”
“Who do you think will use a company whose background is stained by an unsolved murder? My friends are not any more accustomed to this sort of thing than I am, I can assure you. Some people who don’t know what happened may hire Shepard. And he may be sought out by people who are dreadful enough to want to be near any sort of notoriety.” She shuddered. “But in time an unsolved murder will seriously damage if not destroy Henderson and Peel.”
Josie leaned forward. “I want this murder solved too,” she admitted. “And anything you can tell me about Pamela Peel . . .” She left the sentence unfinished. Something had passed across Mrs. Henderson’s face. Was it fear? “They say the victim is always the key,” she ended, fearful that anything she could add would prevent this woman from continuing.
“But that’s just it. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to kill Pamela. My son and I were just talking about this over cocktails last night. He feels, as I do, that Pamela was the victim of a random killing. There are so many of them in this city, I’m afraid. It is possible that the person who killed her moved out of the dark wasteland of the slums, murdered, and then moved right back out of our lives.”
“But she was found in . . . ,” Gayle began.
“In an apartment Henderson and Peel had decorated,” Josie jumped in before Gayle had an opportunity to ment
ion Sam’s name.
“Sheer coincidence. She must have been there for some reason; the murderer was there for some other reason. They met. And . . . and tragedy.” Mrs. Henderson lowered her eyes.
Josie was suddenly reminded of something her mother used to say when she was growing up: “Just because you say it doesn’t make it true.” She wanted to repeat this phrase right now. But she knew it would only stop Mrs. Henderson from talking. “That could have happened, but do you know why Pamela would have been in that particular place at that particular time? I mean, I understood that Henderson and Peel decorated it years and years ago. Did Pamela or your son ever return to the places they had worked for any . . . any professional reason?”
“Oh, my dear, there’s a simple answer to that question. Pamela was desperately in love with the man who owned that apartment. Everyone knew that. She was probably meeting him there. . . .” There was a rustling sound and Mrs. Henderson looked over Josie’s shoulder at the door. “Oh, Sterling, you’re home.”
Josie and Gayle turned around to see an elderly man standing in the doorway. He was tall, thin, and elegant. His hair was gray, but his eyes were as blue as his son’s.
“Gayle, you, of course, know my husband. But this is Josie Pigeon, dear. She’s interested in helping the police . . . well, in helping someone find dear Pamela’s killer.”
“May I ask exactly why you’re involved, my dear? Since Francesca obviously does not know.”
“I . . .” Josie glanced at Gayle, but the other woman was silent. “I’m good friends with the man whose apartment she was discovered in. I’m afraid the police might make a mistake, that they might suspect him.”
“But then . . . ,” Mrs. Henderson began and then stopped, looking to her husband for guidance.
“Pamela’s death is probably exactly the sort of murder that happens all too frequently in these uncivilized times,” Sterling Henderson stated. “An animal, a monster, had access to an apartment in a good part of the city and simply killed whomever he discovered there. My wife, my son, and I were discussing this just the other day.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Henderson added quickly, “so dreadful.”
Josie glanced out the window into the storm and then back into the elegant, warm room and shivered.
TWENTY-SIX
THE SNOW HAD increased while Josie and Gayle had been talking with the Hendersons and they had used that as an excuse for their hasty exit when Josie realized they were going to learn nothing more. After Josie had assured Gayle that she could find her way back to Mentelle Park Apartments and thanked her for her help, Gayle had taken her packages and headed for the closest subway entrance. Josie had started walking.
Josie loved snow. The flakes reminded her of sledding on the highest hill in town when she was a child, of making snow angels and forts. Having stayed in good shape building and remodeling, shoveling show wasn’t hard on her back and walking the beach in the winter was one of the special charms of living off-season at the seashore.
But, like so much else this week, a snowstorm in New York City was an entirely new experience. She had noticed before how the tall buildings channeled and increased the wind, but now the snow whipped around corners, momentarily stretching out in long tongues on the overhangs of buildings before falling to the ground in sharp chunks. The bitter cold stung her face, almost taking her breath away. There were already about six inches of snow on the ground. She passed a few industrious shop owners shoveling their walks, but the snow they shoveled into the street was almost immediately thrown back by a plow dashing by. Deep drifts were forming across cars parked at the curb. Their cabdriver hadn’t been alone in his opinions; there seemed to be fewer cabs on the streets than at any time since her arrival in the city.
All the pedestrians were in a hurry. Some wore tall, fur-lined boots, and some were completely unprepared for the onslaught and slipped on the icy mess in thin high heels. She spied a man, sockless in his Gucci loafers, striding through the blizzard as though he was immune to cold. A white-coated waiter opened the door of a coffee shop and suggested she come inside and warm up with a cup of hot chocolate—for free, he added when she refused. But Josie hurried on, counting the blocks, anxious to get home, hoping Sam would be there to greet her.
And he was there, actually waiting in the lobby, chatting with Harold, looking very worried. Josie began to dash across the floor and fling herself into his arms, but she slid on the damp marble and, after a few seconds spent grabbing in the air for something to hold on to, crashed onto the floor, smacking her head against a marble pillar. Looking up, she saw Sam and Harold, surrounded by tiny colored, twinkling stars. She closed her eyes; the faces disappeared, the stars remained.
“I’ll call nine-one-one.”
“No. No. I think I’m okay.” Josie tried to struggle to her feet, but firm hands held her down.
“This is all my fault, Mr. Richardson, I’d really feel better if you’d let me call for an ambulance.”
“I’m okay,” Josie repeated.
“I don’t think an ambulance will get through this snow easily,” Sam pointed out.
“But Lenox Hill is just a few blocks away. Maybe we could walk her there.” Harold seemed determined to get Josie to the hospital.
“I’m okay. Really,” Josie added when no one seemed to believe her.
“Perhaps we could walk her upstairs and let her lie down for a while,” Sam suggested.
“Good. Yes. That’s what we should do,” Josie agreed. She would have shaken her head, but it really was incredibly painful.
“If she has a concussion, we should see the signs in the next few hours,” Sam continued.
Well, that was a relief. “I do have a slight headache,” Josie admitted.
“Look at her eyeballs,” Harold suggested. “They shouldn’t be dilated.”
“Can we do this someplace else?” Josie asked. “This floor is awfully hard.”
“Of course! Do you think you can walk or should we carry you?”
“I’d rather walk,” Josie said very honestly. “If you could just help me get up.”
It would have been much easier for her to get up by herself since Sam and Harold seemed to be under the impression that she was made of some sort of thin, fragile china. But she was on her feet in a few minutes. Harold insisted on putting a chair in the elevator so she didn’t have to stand while she rode. Finally, a few minutes later she was lying on the couch in Sam’s apartment, wondering if her mild headache actually might turn into something serious.
“Josie? I’m just going to put this on your forehead.”
She sat up and the towel-wrapped bag of ice slid onto her chest. “What are you doing? That thing’s freezing! Get it off me!” She grabbed it and tossed it onto the floor. “I was just beginning to feel warm.” She sighed, sinking back into the couch cushions.
“Josie . . .”
Sam didn’t continue and Josie looked up into his concerned eyes. She remembered the worried expression on his face downstairs when she had finally made it to his building. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m fine, but I had to walk here from . . .” She suddenly realized she didn’t want to continue this part of the conversation. “It’s really very cold outside,” she ended.
“Did you leave Mother at her place and walk here?” Sam asked.
“I . . . yes. She should be home now,” Josie said. “Her hair color is fixed,” she added.
“Well, that’s a relief. Would you like a glass of brandy? Or maybe some tea?”
“No, thanks, I’m fine. I have a bit of a headache, but nothing serious.” She reached out for his hand. “I was so glad to see you when I walked in the door, Sam.”
If she had expected anything it was that he would reply in kind, expressing relief that she had returned safely, but Sam seemed distracted, getting up and walking toward the kitchen. “I think some herb tea,” he said, ignoring her.
“I really don’t want anything.” But Sam was filling the teakettle and Josie decided tha
t maybe he was right. Maybe a cup of tea would be a good thing.
“So where did you and Mother spend the day? It couldn’t have taken the entire time to have her hair done.”
“No. Of course not. We went to this incredible sale. It was almost all clothing down . . . over . . . on the pier. At the Spotlight Sale.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Mother is always talking about going there. What did you buy?”
“Oh, well, I didn’t get anything. I spent a lot of time looking . . . and holding clothing while your mother tried things on. It was the most fascinating place. Did you know that famous people, actresses and all, donate clothing and then their names are on the hangers?”
“And they charge more for those things?” Sam asked.
“I guess. To tell the truth, those things were designer gowns and they seemed incredibly expensive—thousands of dollars for some of them—and it never occurred to me that where they came from had much to do with it.”
“I’m glad you had a good day,” Sam said, returning to her side with a steaming mug with a tea bag hanging out.
“It was interesting,” Josie admitted. “How long do you think this snow is going to last?”
“I bought a small radio today. I was beginning to feel a little cut off from the world, frankly. It’s in the bedroom. I’ll go get it and we can listen to the news. A storm in New York pretty much captures the media’s interest . . . but I wanted to talk with you for a minute.”
Sam’s voice and expression were deadly serious and, suddenly, Josie was afraid of hearing his next words. He put down the tea and took both her hands in his. “Josie, how do you think Mother is doing?”
It was pretty much the last thing she thought he would ask and, for a moment, she wasn’t sure how to answer. “You mean, do I think she’s beginning to become senile or something like that?”
A Fashionable Murder Page 20