“Yes, I suppose that’s so.” Josie dipped a tekka roll in soy sauce and raised it to her lips. “But she really was a talented decorator, right?”
Sam didn’t seem surprised by the question. “Yes, definitely. Henderson and Peel won all sorts of major awards and they were getting many of the best jobs in the city.”
“Yes, but was that because of Pamela’s talent or Shepard Henderson’s? Or did they work together as equals?” Josie asked.
“The money was Shep’s and the talent was Pamela’s. She always said so and he was a little drunk one night when we were all having dinner together and he confirmed it. Said he couldn’t run the company without her. Why?”
“Because I think that’s why he killed her.”
“He . . . Josie, are you sure?”
“I think so. I just don’t have any proof.”
“Are you saying that Shep Henderson killed Pamela because he wanted to destroy his company?”
“No, of course not. He killed her because he was afraid she would destroy the company. In an odd way, he was probably trying to save it.”
“I’m sorry, Josie, but I don’t understand.”
“I don’t understand completely either. But I’m hoping that I will tomorrow. Can you wait that long?”
“What’s going to happen tomorrow?”
“I’m going to talk with some of the contractors who worked for Henderson and Peel. I’m hoping at least one of them will have a few answers.”
“Which you will pass on to me immediately.”
“Yes. I promise.” She put down her chopsticks long enough to reach across the table and squeeze his hand.
“Of course you’re going to have one big problem . . . just like the rest of the city.”
“What?”
“Getting from one place to another,” Sam said, staring out the window at the still falling snow.
It was a relief to be honest again. The next morning, Josie found herself smiling as she climbed over snowdrifts and squished through the gray slush-filled streets. Last night she had called the three contracting companies, and identified herself. She hadn’t pretended to be getting ready to go on a diet; she hadn’t claimed to want a different hair color. She was an out-of-towner, she owned a contracting company, and she was looking for information. She had been simple and to the point. And the answers had been too. The owner of the last company she had called seemed particularly amenable to talking about Henderson and Peel. All Josie had to do was be at their work site at seven A.M. Josie had agreed, set the alarm, and gone to bed, ignoring Sam’s protests that the city would be completely impassable in the morning. Finally, he gave up trying to talk her out of going and insisted on going with her.
Although it was still dark when they left Mentelle Park Apartments, the number of people on the streets amazed Josie. The storm had passed and a massive cleanup had begun. Snow was being shoveled from sidewalks and piled up wherever a few square feet could be found. Bulldozers were filling large dump trucks with snow, to be driven away and dumped into the rivers surrounding Manhattan, Sam explained. Cars whose drivers had ignored the No Parking Snow Route signs were being towed away. Corner coffee shops were open for business and Josie stopped and bought half a dozen cups of coffee and a dozen glazed doughnuts. “You’re not the only person who knows the way to a carpenter’s heart,” she explained, handing her purchases to Sam.
“Just as long as one of those cups of coffee is for me.”
“You can have as much as you want.” Josie was forced to watch where she was stepping on the slippery sidewalks, but at least her feet were now encased in familiar work boots. Her old clothing, which Carol had deemed so inappropriate for city wear, had turned out to be the only practical choice this morning.
The address she had been given was only a few blocks away. Josie had assumed they would be heading into yet another ornate lobby with yet another uniformed doorman, but this place turned out to be one of a row of brownstones. It was easy to find the one they were searching for. A gigantic snow-covered Dumpster stood on the street before it. The sidewalk had been cleared as well as the stone steps leading up to the doorway. As they mounted the steps, a young black man pulled one of the tall French doors open and exited, bumping one of Josie’s shoulders as he brushed by. “You better get upstairs with that coffee. She’s in a pisspoor mood this morning,” he said, without slowing down.
Josie looked up at Sam, grinned, and shrugged. “Sounds like we’re expected.” She walked into the house and immediately felt at home. The walls had been stripped down to their lath and plaster bones; the ceiling was in need of serious repair. More than one of the newel posts on the ornate stairway leading to the second floor needed to be pulled off, rerouted and put back in place. Drop cloths were on the floor and the dust in the air was that peculiar combination of plaster, sawdust, and ripped Sheetrock. It had been less than a week since Josie was on a work site. She was surprised how happy she was to return.
“We’re looking for Ava Edgar,” she said to two men struggling with a coping saw standing in the middle of what had once been the home’s formal parlor.
“She’s upstairs. Turn right when you reach the landing. And watch what you’re doing. Some of the steps are damaged, the handrail is a disaster, and God knows what might fall from the ceiling any minute now.”
Josie grinned and hurried up the stairs with Sam at her heels. They found a middle-aged black woman, her salt-and-pepper hair braided into dozens of tiny spikes barely contained by a bright orange bandanna. She was perched precariously on one sawhorse, her feet resting on another. She had a large sheath of papers in one hand, a pen in the other, and a frown on her face. She looked up when Josie and Sam walked into the room.
“Don’t suppose either of you knows anything about contract law,” she stated.
“Actually . . . ,” Sam began, holding out his hand for the papers.
“He does. He’s a lawyer,” Josie explained, a grin on her face. “You must be Ava Edgar.”
“And you must be Josie Pigeon. Do you always travel with your own personal lawyer?”
“Sam’s a good friend.”
“I also function as coffee and doughnut carrier,” Sam added, handing over the bags of goodies.
“Then you’re a gift from the gods,” Ava Edgar said, grabbing a cup of coffee and starting to peel off its lid. “Now what can I do for the famous Josie Pigeon?”
“I . . . why famous?”
“I just got the impression that you are a woman of many talents. At least that’s the way your son and his friend talk about you.”
“My son? How do you know Tyler?” Josie was completely confused.
Sam looked up from the documents he was reading and answered Josie’s question. “You’ve met him with his friend Tony, right?” He waved the contracts at Josie. “Ms. Edgar here is remodeling this house for Taylor Blanco. I gather he’s stopped in this week to see how things are going?”
“Actually, the big producer is too involved in professional problems to come look at what is going to be his wonderful new home. Seems the film he’s working on takes place in the early spring in New York City, but not in the middle of a major snowstorm. He has people running all over the city searching out indoor locations so they can keep working until the snow melts. But his fiancée—Toni with an I—has been over every chance she gets. And she brings the young men with her. The crushes those boys have . . . whew, it takes me back to my childhood to just see the expressions on their faces. But if you didn’t know I was working for Mr. Blanco, you’re not here to see me about him.”
“No, I’m looking for information about Henderson and Peel.”
“Well, Pamela Peel, to be a bit more exact,” Sam broke in.
Josie shook her head. “Actually, I have a few questions about both of them.”
“So have a doughnut and shoot. I can only break for a few here, so let’s not waste any more time.”
“Is the company good to work for?”
“Did you ever see them angry with each other? Arguing over anything?”
“Can’t say that I did, but they weren’t together too much of the time, at least not when I was around.”
“Did you like her?”
“I liked working for her. She knew what she wanted and she expected the people who worked for her to do what she asked. She was easy to work for as far as I was concerned. She wasn’t sweet. She wasn’t friendly. But she was professional. You know how it is.”
“Yes, I do.” Josie took a deep breath and asked the big question. “Was she stealing?”
Ava smiled. “Oh, so I’m not the only one who noticed.”
“Noticed what?” Sam asked.
“Things disappearing . . . well, maybe not so much disappearing as getting lost in the shuffle. Like . . . see that mantel over there?” She pointed to a heavily carved oak mantel leaning up against a wall. “We’re replacing that old-fashioned thing with a beautiful work of art, an amazing chestnut mantel, hand carved by an artist in Surrey, England.”
“And what will happen to that one?”
“It will be sold. May not be fashionable this year, but next year maybe that type of thing will become real popular and worth a whole lot of money. But that’s not my problem. The architect or decorator will take care of it. When Pamela Peel took care of that sort of thing, the owners never saw a penny of the profit from the sale. Same with furniture, I’d bet, although that’s not my field and I can’t say that I could prove it.”
“And did Shep Henderson know about any of this?”
“Oh, no. That man never had to worry about money and he gave the impression that he was above such things. Once I heard him disparage another firm, said they were always worrying about nickels and dimes and not paying enough attention to the big picture. So I think as long as he looked at the big picture, Ms. Pamela Peel could steal whatever she wanted from right out under his nose. Is that the type of thing you’re interested in?”
“Exactly what we needed to know,” Josie answered. “Thank you. We won’t take up any more of your time.”
“Yes, thank you,” Sam added. “I didn’t really have enough time to go through these papers, but I’d be happy to come back another time.”
“You’re a nice man. Tyler said you were, and he was right. Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll call my lawyer and he can just figure out a way to get through the snow from Riverside Drive and do what I pay him to do. Lord, you’d think we were living in the Alps instead of New York City to hear that man talk.”
Her cell phone rang and Sam and Josie thanked her again and made a hasty exit. Sam noticed the frown on Josie’s face as they made their way back down the precarious stairway. “What’s wrong?”
“Sam, you know how you always keep a copy of any contracts you go over for me?”
“Sure. Standard procedure. I want to make sure I have a copy available if any questions come up in the future.”
“Do you do that for everyone or just for me?”
“Everyone.”
“Pamela Peel too?”
Sam stopped walking and looked down at Josie. “Yes. What are you getting at?”
“Did you keep them in your apartment? In those file cabinets Pamela hated? Then in the window seat?”
“While I was living there, yes. Then I moved them to the basement when I moved, but . . .”
“. . . but Pamela didn’t know that,” Josie ended for him.
“She was looking for those old files when she was killed.” Sam spoke slowly.
“She was looking for them when Shep Henderson killed her,” Josie added. “And he probably came to your apartment to find the files as well. It was just bad luck that they happened to be there at the same time.
“Does this all make sense to you?” she asked when they were back on the street.
“You think Shep Henderson found out what was going on and killed her?” Sam answered her question with a question.
“You don’t think that’s possible?”
“I suppose. But there must have been a catalyst. Something must have changed. Something must have made Shep Henderson go from being ignorant of the situation to becoming aware of it, to feeling that he had to kill her before she destroyed Henderson and Peel.”
“Oh, that’s easy. It was that magazine article. Look carefully at the photograph on the cover. Pamela isn’t just surrounded by the things she loves, as the article says. She’s surrounded by the things she stole. And it’s entirely possible that the people she stole them from read New York magazine as well, don’t you think?”
THIRTY
“I HOPE YOU don’t mind me saying this, but Pamela Peel was an incredibly shallow woman.” Josie Pigeon picked up the pink drink their waiter had just placed on the table in front of her and sipped, glancing around at her companions. Sam, his mother, Jon and Betty, and Josie were having cocktails at the Rainbow Room.
Sam was studying a bottle of wine as though he had never seen one before. Carol was smiling in what she probably thought was an encouraging manner, her new (used) Hermès bag sitting prominently on her lap. Betty and Jon were both leaning forward, attentive expressions on their faces.
“You see, I thought she would be . . . well . . .” Josie suddenly discovered that she couldn’t go on.
Fortunately, Sam got the point. “You thought she would be more like you,” he said, nodding up at the wine steward as he handed back the bottle.
“Yes. I guess I did. Anyway, once I realized how much she cared about money, I started seeing things more clearly.”
“Fine, but what exactly did you see?” Jon asked.
“She was making money on the side, selling off furniture from various decorating jobs out of her apartment, skimming money off various contracts, even doing work on her own using Henderson and Peel’s name to get those jobs.”
Betty looked up. “You’re kidding!”
“Nope. Sam’s desk was in her apartment. That was the first clue. Sam said she hated that desk so she certainly wasn’t planning her own decorating scheme around it. And Ava, a contractor Sam and I met this morning, verified what I was thinking.” Josie paused and looked out the window at the twinkling skyline. “She said Pamela sold off bits and pieces from decorating jobs. She also said that Shepard Henderson paid very little attention to the day-to-day running of the company. Apparently he didn’t know anything about what was going on. Or not until he saw the photograph on the cover of New York magazine.”
“Shepard Henderson killed Pamela Peel because she was stealing some of the profits of a very profitable business?” Jon asked, sounding doubtful.
“No, he killed her because he was afraid she was going to destroy Henderson and Peel with her need for extra money. He knew that he might not be the only person who noticed that Pamela’s eclectic décor was a mélange of their clients’ possessions. And some of the other people who noticed just might be the clients to whom those possessions once belonged. And Henderson and Peel is a very small company. When one person is a problem, it reflects on the entire company.” She paused for a moment and remembered the discussion about this very thing during her pedicure earlier in the week. “Besides,” she continued, “this
wasn’t the first time—”
“Mother and Betty are both looking confused, Josie, and Jon . . . well, Jon doesn’t know you as well as the rest of us and he’s not used to your rather convoluted way of thinking. Perhaps you should start at the beginning of the story,” Sam suggested.
“I don’t know where the story begins. I do know that Pamela was the talented one and Shepard Henderson had the money and the contacts—and that they both were desperate for the company to be successful. Pamela because she wanted all that success can bring in this city. And Shepard because he was trying to prove to his parents that he didn’t have to follow in his father’s footsteps to be a credit to the family name.
“Owning your own company is wonderful and frightening,” she continued, talking about something she knew well. “Shepard Henderson and Pamela Peel had to depend on themselves to get where they wanted to be. But they didn’t define success in the same way. For Shepard Henderson it was being a successful company. He didn’t seem to need more money. But for Pamela it was money, money, money. She wanted to live in expensive buildings, eat in the right restaurants, go south in the winter and to Europe in the summer. She wanted her hair and nails done weekly whether she could afford to tip or not.
“I got the first clue about what could be going on when Sam explained how decorators make money. Their billing practices leave a lot of loopholes for someone to add on extra charges, skim money off the top, whatever. And I think Pamela took advantage of this from the very beginning.”
“I don’t understand why you think so,” Jon said.
“Because Pamela Peel, according to everyone who worked with her or for her or knew her, never got up on a ladder in her life.”
“I’m sorry, but I think you lost me there, Josie,” Sam admitted.
“Not long after Henderson and Peel was founded, Shep Henderson gave Pamela Peel a gift certificate for two months of twice-weekly sessions with a personal trainer. He told the company that provided the trainers that Pamela had hurt her back in a fall off a ladder. But everyone agrees that Pamela never climbed ladders, never did the physical work that many decorators do. The made-up fall was just an excuse to give her a present that would keep her at home for a certain amount of time each week while he examined the company’s books without her interference. And I think he discovered that she was stealing from the company and insisted that it stop. And, for a while, it probably did. Pamela was smart; she didn’t want to go back to working for people who took advantage of her looks and not her talent. She needed Shep Henderson.
A Fashionable Murder Page 23