“Sort of. Have you noticed any changes in her?”
Josie chuckled. “Besides her hair color?”
“I know I sound like a worried son, but this could be important, Josie. You’ve been with her almost every day since you came to the city. Think. Has she seemed strange? Or said anything strange to you? Anything at all?”
Josie thought. Carol and she had talked about Sam, about Pamela Peel, about decorating and clothing and hairstyles. She decided to tell the truth, some of it. “She is very worried about you,” she answered.
“About me? In what sense?”
“Because Pamela Peel’s body was found here. She . . . we’ve been thinking that whoever killed her wanted you to be the major suspect. And you know how Carol worries about you even when there’s nothing to worry about.”
“And she thinks that this time there is something real to worry about.”
“Yes. Yes, she does,” Josie said. “Sam, we’re both really worried about you.”
“I’m fine, Josie. It’s Mother I’m worried about now.”
“But there’s no reason—”
“There is. I can’t tell you everything, but there really is. Really,” he repeated.
She didn’t know what to say.
“Josie, you know Mother didn’t like Pamela.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, Mother thinks she keeps her feelings hidden, but she’s an open book to me. I always know how she feels about the women I date.” And he smiled gently at her. “I knew how much she liked you the first time she came down to the island.”
Josie smiled back. “It wasn’t me she liked. She was crazy about Tyler and I was his mother, so she had to accept me.”
“Well, whatever. But I am very, very worried about Mother. It may be only a matter of time before Mother is the primary suspect in Pamela’s murder.”
For just a moment, Josie wondered if this entire conversation was a hallucination caused by the concussion Sam was so worried about. Then she regrouped. Sam thought his mother had killed Pamela Peel. That’s why he was acting so strangely. And, of course, his mother was acting strangely— because she was worried that Sam was the only suspect. She began to giggle inanely. “Oh, Sam, you won’t believe . . .”
“I’m sorry, Josie. I don’t see what’s so funny.” He leaned down and picked up one of her eyelids and peered inside. “Are you feeling okay? Maybe you should lie back down.”
“No, I’m fine. It’s not funny really. I guess I’m just a little relieved.” She took a deep breath and regained her composure. “It’s just that your mother is worried about you. That’s why she’s acting so odd. Well, odder than usual.”
Sam rested his head in his hands. “Why? Why is she worrying about me this time?”
“She thinks you might be arrested for killing Pamela Peel.”
Sam looked up and into her eyes. “She is the one person who knows I didn’t kill her. She’s the one person who can prove I didn’t kill her. So why should she be so worried?”
“How . . . I don’t understand. Why is Carol the one person who can prove you didn’t kill Pamela? And, if that’s true, why is she in such a panic that you might be arrested?”
“Josie, the only answers I have don’t make any sense,” Sam answered quietly. “At least,” he added, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, “at least I hope I don’t understand their meaning.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
EVERY BABY HAS bad days, days when he cries for no apparent reason, days when he won’t sleep, days when he makes the lives of those around him absolutely miserable. And those days almost always happen at the least convenient time.
JJ was having a really bad day.
So was his mother.
“Josie, I’d put him down, but he screams even louder,” Betty said into the phone. “I hope you can hear me. I spent hours calling everyone on the list Carol made—before JJ began to act up—and I have three different companies who have worked for Henderson and Peel and seem to be willing to talk.”
“What do you mean, seem to be willing?”
“I couldn’t just ask what they knew about Pamela Peel. I mean, that would have been a little strange when I introduced myself as a prospective client, right? Oh, wait, JJ’s taking his teething ring. . . . You know he’s quite young to be teething.”
“He’s completely amazing in every way. Now tell me about these three contractors,” Josie insisted. She had finally convinced Sam that it was perfectly safe to leave her alone and he had wandered into the bedroom to listen to the radio for news of the storm. The last time she’d checked, he was dozing on the bed. But Sam’s restlessness would likely prevent him from sleeping too long and she wanted to talk to Betty without an audience.
“Well, I told all the companies that I would be hiring Henderson and Peel for a big job and I wanted to be sure that they were used to working with them.”
“Good thinking.”
“Thanks for that. There are days when I think my brain is beginning to bear a strong resemblance to Pablum.”
Josie decided not to tell her friend that it was only going to get worse as JJ got older. “So give me the list and I’ll let you go. Maybe JJ will fall asleep and you can take a long bath and get to bed early.”
“Oh, Jon and I are thinking of bundling JJ up and going for a walk in Central Park. JJ loves being in his backpack and the city is so gorgeous in the snow.”
“You must be talking about a different city from the one I was just walking in—the one where there’s absolutely no place to put all this snow, where there are no cabs, where . . .” She remembered the waiter who had offered her free hot chocolate to warm up, and stopped complaining.
“I know. But look out the window when you get a chance. It really is gorgeous this evening. Oh, damn, JJ’s losing interest in his teething ring. Listen, I faxed the list over to your place. It should be downstairs at the front desk. But don’t hang up without telling me everything you’ve learned.”
“That will be easy because I’ve learned almost nothing.”
“That’s not possible. You’ve been so busy.”
“Well, not nothing exactly. I know a lot about how hairdressers stay in business; I know a little about how interior decorators work. I can tell midtown from downtown. And, thanks to Sam’s mother, I am damn near intimate with some of the departments at Saks Fifth Avenue. But, as for finding out who killed Pamela Peel . . . well, that I don’t know. But I am sure that Carol thinks Sam is going to be arrested for Pamela Peel’s murder and Sam is afraid Carol will be.”
“You’re kidding!” Betty’s words could barely be made out as her son’s expression of unhappiness moved into high frequency.
“I’ll call you as soon as I check out these contractors,” Josie assured her and hung up without a formal good-bye. Sam was still snoring and she decided she could dash down to the lobby and be back before he noticed her absence. She rummaged in her purse for the keys Sam had given her. Then, locking the door behind her, she hurried toward the elevator.
Harold was wiping the floor with a huge fluffy mop and he looked up when the elevator doors opened and she stepped out. “Ms. Pigeon! Should you be walking around on your own? Symptoms of a concussion can appear hours after the initial injury.”
“I’m fine. Really. But I was just talking on the phone with a friend of mine and she said she had faxed something here.”
“Tell you the truth, I’ve been too busy to check the machine, but it’s right in that room there if you wanna look for yourself. Your name will be on it, right?”
“I guess so,” Josie answered, heading toward the heavy brass-covered door Harold had indicated.
It was his office, she realized once inside. Unlike the lobby, designed and decorated to impress, in here everything was unadorned and functional. There was a large computer sitting on an old gunmetal desk. Packages from FedEx, United Parcel, and the U.S. Mail were stacked on a bench in one corner. A huge bulletin board, covered with no
tes and diagrams, hung crookedly on one wall. A large coffeepot steamed away on top of a trio of filing cabinets. The scent of pepperoni wafted from old, greasy cartons squashed into an overflowing, black plastic wastebasket. A fax machine had been placed on upturned plastic milk cartons; its messages slid out onto the floor underneath.
“Welcome to my world.” Harold stood behind her. “Did you find what you were looking for in the mess?”
“I think they’re probably on the floor under the machine,” Josie said, surprised by his presence.
“Well, don’t bend down. You might get a head rush; don’t want you passing out. I’ll get them for you.”
“Oh, thank you.” Josie would have preferred to do this herself, but she didn’t see how she could protest.
Fortunately, Betty had written both Josie and Sam’s names across the top of the list of names and phone numbers.
“Mr. Richardson looking to remodel instead of move?” Harold asked, handing over the faxed message.
“No. I’m a contractor, you know,” she added.
“No, I didn’t. Who do you work for?”
“I own my own business,” Josie said, feeling, as usual, the pleasure that statement gave her. “Island Contracting.”
“Then why the list?”
“I’m looking for a . . . a carpenter who worked for me last summer,” Josie improvised.
“And you think he may be with one of those companies now?”
“It’s possible. A friend of mine who is living in the city now made the list. She thinks these companies are likely candidates.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost seven P.M. “Thanks for letting me in here. I don’t want to keep you from leaving for home, though.”
“Oh, I’m not leaving anytime soon.”
“I thought you went off duty at seven.”
“Not tonight. Tonight I do an overnight. The night doorman lives up in the Bronx. Trains aren’t running so he’s stuck there and I’m stuck here. Not that I mind. These residents are my friends as well as my employers. I like to help them out in emergencies.”
“Emergencies like murder investigations?” Josie asked, suddenly realizing that Harold could be an untapped wealth of information.
“This is a first for me, to tell the truth. Not for Mentelle Park Apartments though,” he added. “There was a man who found his wife in bed with his business partner. Shot them both dead and then turned himself in to the police. That was back in the fifties, though, before my time.”
“Oh.” Josie was quiet for a minute, looking down at the list Betty had sent and counting six contracting companies. “Do you know anything about any of these companies? Have any of them worked here?” she asked, remembering Betty’s comment about the list kept by the building where she lived.
Harold took the list from her and read through it with a frown on his face.
“Well, I don’t know about this carpenter you’re trying to find, but I do know two of these contractors. Seems to me both of them have worked here.” He scratched the back of his neck and continued. “Remodeling is big, real big, these days. Not like when I first came to work here. Back then, when someone didn’t like their apartment, they moved. Then we became a condo building. Most of the buildings around either went condo or co-op, and it wasn’t just a matter of finding a new place and getting your deposit back anymore. Now people had to buy and sell and they had to be approved by new boards and new residents had to be approved by the board here. It got harder and harder to move and it seemed a whole lot easier to just remodel what you had. Of course, remodeling always looks easier than it’s going to be.”
“You can say that again,” Josie said, leaning against the desk. “My company works down at the shore, primarily on individual family homes, and a lot of the time we work off-season on summerhouses so the residents aren’t directly bothered by our work. I can’t imagine working on a small apartment like Sam’s while someone is living there.”
“It’s not easy, I can tell you. Of course, there are people who manage to get their work done while they’re at their summer homes up in Connecticut or out on the Island, but lots live with the dirt, dust, and workmen for the entire job. Never know with some of those people whether they’re happy the job is done or just real glad to be alone again.”
Josie chuckled. “I can’t imagine Sam was happy to have the work going on while he lived here.”
“Well, he always worked long hours and ate out a lot anyway. And he was dating that dead woman then and he stayed with her a lot too, I’d imagine.” Harold looked down at the floor.
Josie was about to feel uncomfortable with this statement and then she considered that it might be significant. Was it possible that Pamela Peel had wanted it that way? Could she have given Sam the decorating job as a Christmas present hoping the angst of work would force him to move in with her, and possibly never move out?
“Although Mr. Richardson’s job wasn’t like most jobs,” Harold continued.
“What do you mean?”
“Ms. Peel was real insistent that Mr. Richardson not see the job until it was complete, I remember that.” He chuckled. “She had that work done in record time. Came in one day with a moving company that packed up his personal stuff and then took every damn piece of furniture out of the apartment. Got rid of it one, two, three. I always wondered what happened to the big old desk he had in the living room. Good-looking piece, made of real chestnut and inlaid like with a darker wood. It probably went off to Goodwill or the Salvation Army with everything else.”
“Did the job take a long time?” Josie asked, thinking that if Pamela had wanted an excuse to keep Sam at her place, she might have been able to arrange for the decorating to take longer than was usual.
“Nope. Shortest job on record that I remember. Day after the place was emptied, it was all gutted. The actual construction took only a few days. She had so many workmen in there that they were complaining about bumping into one another. Then the decorating began. Those walls took four days to paint, I remember that.”
“Are we talking about the gray walls that are there now?” Josie asked.
“Yup. There’s an undercoat, of course. Then two layers of some special flat paint from the Netherlands, I remember that. Thought to myself back then that going to the Netherlands for that particular color paint was a real waste of time. Could of gone over to the Brooklyn Navy Yard and bought a few cans of the stuff they used to use on battleships, same dull gray. Anyway, there are two different glazes on the top of that foreign paint. Didn’t turn out to be anything special is my own personal opinion, but you’re the only one I’m sharing it with. . . . Sorry, I’ll be right back. Someone’s ringing the buzzer to get in.”
Josie stared down at the names of the contractors, wondering if one of them might have worked for Henderson and Peel when they decorated Sam’s place. She had just decided to ask Harold about that when he returned, a big smile on his face.
“It’s the Hoges in Three-B. One or the other of them is always losing their key. This time they did it together. Gotta get the spare and hand it over.” And he unlocked what Josie had thought was a fuse box on the wall. Three or four dozen keys hung there, all named and labeled. Notes hung from some hooks as well as keys. Josie stared. Betty hadn’t known about this when she had checked on Mentelle Park’s security arrangements!
Harold was barely back in the room when Josie asked her next question. “Who has access to those keys?”
If Harold was surprised by her blunt question, it didn’t prevent him from answering. “I’ll tell you what I told the police detective who asked about access to the apartments the morning that Pamela Peel was discovered. There are three doormen. We have access to this room, which is usually kept locked, and we all three have a key that opens the key box and gives us access to those keys. We three are the only people who can let anyone into his place. Period.”
“So the police thought someone might have used a key from here to get into Sam’s place an
d put the body there,” Josie said.
“They thought it, but I told them I doubted it.”
“Why?”
“Look, Mentelle Park Apartments is not some fly-by-night developer’s dream. We’ve been here a long time and we’re gonna remain here a long time—by the grace of God— and it’s not just the tenants who don’t move. The employees hang around too. I’ve been working here for over twenty-five years. The night guy was here when I came. The morning man is our newest employee and he’ll have been with us for a dozen years come summer. We do hire cleaners—companies to do the windows, someone who cleans the lobby twice a week—but no one has access to this room, or to these keys. And those outside people are bonded and never left alone. Mentelle Park Apartments is as secure as you can get in this city.”
“What if I came here without Sam and told you I needed to get into his place?”
“I’d tell you the same thing I told that pretty young friend of yours. You don’t get in without a key. Everyone knows keys are not given out by any employees. Now, as I told the policeman, you never know what residents might do.”
“You mean who they might give keys to.”
“Yup. That’s exactly what I mean. They’re not supposed to, but some of them have keys made for their significant others and sometimes those others don’t stay significant for too long.”
Josie reached into her pocket, pulled out the keys Sam had given her, and examined them. “It says do not copy. The words are printed right into the key.”
“Yeah, and marijuana’s illegal, but anyone can walk a few blocks and get that and most other illegal drugs as well. If you can make money selling it in this city, you’ll find it sold somewhere. Might have to look, might not. But you’ll find someone to copy that key easy. Most door keys have that message printed on them. Suspect most people just ignore it.”
“What about Sam’s tenant? Is it possible that he had keys made for other people?”
“I suppose so, but, to tell you the truth, Mr. Richardson’s tenant was a real quiet guy. Worked long hours. Always came home alone as far as I knew. They checked with the night man, too, and I happen to know he said the same thing. Can’t imagine that any keys were left around by him. Guess you’ll have to look someplace else for the person who had a key to Mr. Richardson’s place.”
A Fashionable Murder Page 21