Madison Avenue Shoot

by Jessica Fletcher

  “And how old was this neighbor of yours? The one who passed away?”

  I could see he thought that Betsy was Clara’s contemporary.

  “Somewhere in her thirties, I guess.”

  “Yeah, well,” the tall one said, pulling Betsy’s door closed, “we’ll let the super know.”

  “May I?” I asked.

  “Sure, go ahead,” Clara said. “They’re not listening to me.”

  “Gentlemen,” I said. “Betsy Archibald, who used to live here, was murdered yesterday, and today someone claiming to be her sister ransacked her apartment. You may want to talk to the detectives who were here last night.”

  “Who were they?” the heavy policeman asked.

  I looked at Clara.

  “Never got their names.”

  “Okay, ladies, we’ll make out a report.” He looked at his partner, who shrugged. “We’ll ask around the station house for the detectives who were investigating your friend’s death. Okay? You go have your coffee. If they want to talk with you, we’ll tell them where to find you.”

  We heard them descend the stairs, muttering to each other.

  “You did the right thing,” I told Clara, “calling the police. You never can be too careful.”

  “My thought exactly,” she said. She shook her head. “What’d I tell you, Jessica? They didn’t care a hoot about what I said. I bet they never listened to their mothers either. Let’s have that coffee.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kevin Prendergast lived in a sleek high-rise on lower Fifth Avenue. The doorman used the house phone to announce me and, after a long pause, directed me to the bank of three elevators with instructions to press PENTHOUSE B.

  Kevin was standing in the doorway of his apartment when the elevator opened. His face was unshaven, his hair unbound, his feet were bare, and his button-down shirt was half-unbuttoned. “To what do I owe the honor of this unannounced visit?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry to barge in on you, Kevin,” I said. “I was just at Betsy’s apartment, and I had a few questions.”

  “How did you get in there?”

  “The door was open.”

  “Come on. That doesn’t ring true. Did you bribe Mike?”

  “I never actually met the superintendent, but I did wonder who else may have had the key to Betsy’s apartment.”

  “And you thought it would be me.”

  “That thought did cross my mind. May I come in?”

  He said no more but held the door open, sweeping his arm back in an overly dramatic gesture.

  The apartment had a wall of windows with a jaw-dropping view of the city looking north, the spires of the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building both silhouetted against the late-afternoon sky, together with other skyscrapers. Perhaps in deference to the tendency of New York City windowsills to collect soot, the custom-length sofa beneath the expanse of glass was a charcoal gray. Small decorative pillows in natural linen faced with silk-screened brown branches were placed at even intervals leaning against the back cushions. A mohair throw lay folded on one end of the sofa, its bright spring green color a surprise in the neutral surroundings.

  In front of the sofa was a coffee table made of a long slab of thick glass set atop two chunks of burled wood. Newspapers were strewn on the table. Several sheets had fallen to the floor. One paper was opened to the story of Betsy’s murder.

  I glanced around at the modern open kitchen that overlooked the great room. To one side was an elegant table surrounded by low-backed, cream-colored, upholstered swivel chairs on a beige and pale blue Oriental rug, the rug defining the dining room in the open space. A long mirror on the wall next to the dining area reflected the windows and the breathtaking view. On the other side of the kitchen was an open spiral staircase leading to another floor.

  “You’re looking for . . . ?” Kevin said.

  “I was just admiring the room.”

  “You came up here to talk about decorating?”

  “No. I came to offer my condolences. Is Anne home? Anne Tripper?”

  “I know who you meant. You’re sure you’re not moonlighting for one of those rags?” he asked, pointing at the newspapers.

  “I assure you I’m not,” I said.

  “Anne had an errand to run. I expect her back in a little while. Have a seat.”

  I chose to sit on a brown leather bench opposite the sofa. All the furniture in the room was low, allowing an unimpeded panorama of the spectacular cityscape from anywhere you sat or stood. I dragged my eyes from the view.

  “Has the press been calling you?” I asked.

  “Calling me, e-mailing me, dropping in on me, lying in wait for me. I stopped at the office this morning to talk to the staff and I had to leave to escape the reporters. We’re going to have to get better security. If I hadn’t had a car waiting, they would have chased me to the taxi stand.” He sat on the sofa and picked up the stray pages of newspaper, folded them, and dropped them into a pile.

  “The press can be very persistent,” I said.

  “You’re lucky they never got wind of your nephew or you’d be hounded as well. I heard he was found. That was one piece of good news at least. Even so, I told Howerstein never to have that grip work on one of my productions again. How is your nephew?”

  “Frank is my grandnephew,” I said. “He’s a little chastened by the experience, but I doubt it will dampen his natural good spirits for long. We told him about Betsy. He was very sorry to hear it. As we are, too, of course.”

  “Well, it had nothing to do with him, I’m sure.”

  “I’m happy to hear you say that,” I said. “I don’t think it had anything to do with him either. But I wondered if you had any ideas who it did have to do with.”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea. Why would anyone want to kill anyone? I don’t know. Unless they were unbalanced. I guess that’s a given.”

  “What’s a given?” I asked.

  He gave me a funny look. “That a killer is unbalanced,” he said. “You don’t see normal people going around killing other people.”

  “Sometimes emotions overwhelm even the most normal-seeming of people,” I said. “But on the whole, I think you’re probably right. Most of us can control the urge to kill even if we have a valid reason for our rage. I imagine you knew her better than most, so I thought I’d ask you who might have had a reason to kill her.”

  He was quiet for a long time, his eyes focused on an image in his mind. “She had a foul temper, as you saw. She was too much of a perfectionist. Stubborn as a mule. But a complete professional with a fabulous, creative way of seeing the world. She was a big factor in our success. I have to give her credit. She came from this little town in northern Ontario, from the back of nowhere. They don’t even have cable TV. Yet she had big-city sophistication, and this quirky mind. She always knew the best way to get a message out, had perfect pitch when it came to hearing what people want. She could charm the pants off you when she wanted to.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what we’ll do without her.”

  “Did Betsy have a sister?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Don’t believe so. In fact, I’m pretty sure she didn’t. I remember her telling me that she was an only child. Her father was a miner and her mother was a teacher. That’s all I know.”

  “You must know more than that,” I said softly. “You were her lover at one time, weren’t you?”

  “Who told you that? That biddy from across the hall? She just loves to gossip. You’ve been asking a lot of questions, Jessica. Now it’s my turn. What were you doing at Betsy’s apartment?”

  “Who was at Betsy’s apartment?” a voice said from behind me.

  I turned to see Anne Tripper descending the spiral staircase. She was dressed in a red velour jacket and matching pants with gold slippers, and wore multiple rings on her fingers, as usual. She strode to the sofa, putting her hand out for Kevin’s assistance as she stepped behind the coffee table. I wondered if she dressed on
purpose to contrast with the muted tones of the room, to make sure she stood out, to compete for attention with the view.

  “You changed?” Kevin said, rising to kiss her cheek.

  “Some jerk bumped into me on the street and I spilled coffee all over myself,” she said.

  “Get done what you needed to?” he asked.

  “Of course. I’m very efficient.” She turned to me. “And how are you, Jessica? I hope the cops didn’t keep you too late.” She dropped onto the sofa next to Kevin.

  I ignored her question. “How did you get in here?” I asked instead. “You didn’t use the front door. Were you here all this time?”

  “I rarely use the front door,” she said. “We have another door to the upstairs. Saves me from traipsing across the whole apartment to get to the bedroom.”

  “The outfit you spilled coffee on,” I said, “was it by chance a pink hooded sweatshirt?”

  She laughed. “I haven’t worn a hooded sweatshirt since high school,” she said, “and maybe not even then. Why do you ask?”

  “I saw someone coming out of Betsy Archibald’s building today. She was wearing a hooded sweatshirt. I thought it might have been you.”

  “I wasn’t anywhere near Sullivan Street today,” she said. “But there have to be other tenants in Betsy’s building who get visitors.”

  “I notice you’re not wearing your opal ring,” I said. “Did Lance’s comments about it at the meeting spook you?”

  She looked down at her hands. “I never listen to that jerk.” She flashed an ironic smile at Kevin. “Sorry,” she said to him, apparently not sorry at all. “I know what a big deal you made when Betsy got him for the campaign.”

  “He’s got a big show. We wanted a big name.”

  “My name wasn’t big enough for you?”

  “C’mon, Anne. Let’s not take up Mrs. Fletcher’s time with our quibbles.”

  “My career is a quibble?” She was not about to let go of her irritation.

  “The opal ring?” I asked. “It’s very beautiful. Aren’t you going to wear it again?”

  “Well, I would, but I can’t.”

  “Because of the bad luck?” I asked.

  “Well, yes. It’s actually quite bad luck. I lost it yesterday.”

  “The production company must have a lost and found,” I said. “Did you ask the women in the production office?”

  “As if anyone there would admit it. I left the ring in my handbag, which I left in the production office. One of them probably stole it.”

  “I’m sure it will be returned to you,” I said.

  Her face reflected her annoyance. “I doubt it,” she said. She turned to Kevin. “I met the Barkers in the elevator. The couple from downstairs? They invited us to dinner. I said yes for us. I hope you don’t mind.”

  He hesitated a moment. “That’s fine,” he replied. “Beats having to order in and have one of those reporters pretend to be a deliveryman from the Chinese restaurant.”

  “Can you be ready in a half hour?”

  “I think so,” he said. He rose and shrugged his shoulders at me. “I guess we’ll have to put off the rest of this conversation, Jessica.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “We can continue it tomorrow at the location.”

  “Will you be there?” Anne asked. “I thought your commercial was already finished.”

  “It was,” I said, “but Detective Chesny has asked that everyone who was at the location yesterday be there again tomorrow. The only exception he made, I believe, is for my grandnephew, Frank, who has to be in school.”

  Anne made a tsking noise. “I can’t wait for it to be over. I have so many other appointments to make. You’ll excuse me, Jessica, won’t you? I want to get ready for dinner.”

  “Of course,” I said, thinking that if she knew she was going to change for dinner, why get dressed in this outfit?

  Kevin opened the door and absently brushed his long hair behind his ear. “You might want to talk to Lance Sevenson,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Betsy knew him from Toronto. That’s how she was able to get him to agree to be in the spot. She told me she called in some favor. He might know if someone had a grudge against her.”

  “But she was killed while the commercials were being made. Wouldn’t that seem to indicate it was someone from your business, someone with a more recent motive for murder?”

  “Then try Howerstein. She had a big argument with him, too.”

  “When was that?”

  “After she got ticked off with the cook. He tried to calm her down and she blasted him. Then he went after her. Tonio and I practically had to pull them apart.”

  “Anyone else you care to accuse?”

  “I don’t know who, unless Stella Bedford’s manager killed Betsy for yelling at his client. He’s a pretty big guy, though. Given the opportunity, he probably would’ve punched her lights out instead. Too bad. That would have been a better outcome for Betsy. See you tomorrow.” He shut the door.

  I stood there perplexed. How could he make light of Betsy’s murder? In one moment he was saying he didn’t know how his business was going to go on without her, and moments later he joked about her death. I shook my head and rang for the elevator. I never got to ask him if he suspected that Betsy hoped to woo away his agency’s clients for her new agency. I’d save that for tomorrow.

  And Anne Tripper. Interesting that she was aware that Betsy’s apartment was on Sullivan Street. I wondered if they knew each other before this commercial shoot, or if she knew where Betsy lived because she knew Kevin had dated her.

  I got off the elevator at the lobby and the doorman opened the glass door to the vestibule. “Are the Barkers at home?” I asked him.

  “The Barkers?”

  “Don’t the Barkers have an apartment here?”

  “Never heard of anyone in the building named Barker,” he said. “And I know them all. We’ve got a single woman named Baker, but she’s away on a business trip.”

  “That must be it,” I said. “I must have misheard the name.”

  “You want to leave a message for her?”

  “No, thanks. I can try her again when she gets back.”

  It’s been my experience that when people lie about small inconsequential things, they’ll lie about big things, too. There was no need to pretend they had a dinner date to get rid of me. I was as happy to get out of there as they were to see me go.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “That was delicious, sweetheart. Nothing like a home-cooked meal.” Grady wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked around with satisfaction. A fleeting sad expression crossed his face, and I thought for a moment that he was going to tear up. But he blinked several times and smiled instead.

  “Can I go up to Michele’s, Dad?” Frank asked. “We want to put more songs on my iPod.”

  “Don’t you have any work to do for school, sport? You’ve been out for two days.”

  “No. Miss Lyons said I can make up my reading over the weekend. Right, Mom?”

  “Not exactly. She said you may have until Monday to catch up with your class, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to start it tonight.”

  “Aw.”

  “Sorry, son,” Grady said. “Schoolwork comes first; then you can play. But first, help your mother clear the table.”

  Frank sighed and made a long-suffering face, but obediently got up and began ferrying plates into the kitchen. I joined him and we had the table cleared in no time. Donna brought in a pot of coffee. I followed with our mugs. She looked at her watch. “If you finish reading the next chapter in your book, Frank, you may look online for another song for the iPod. But you’ll have to tell Michele you can’t see him until tomorrow. It’s getting late and you have school in the morning.”

  “Okay! I’m a fast reader. I know just what I want to get, too.” He excused himself and went to his room.

  “He doesn’t seem any worse for the experience,” I s
aid. “Has he talked about it at all?”

  Grady laughed. “He must have told everyone in the building what happened by now,” he said. “I think he looks on getting locked in the truck as an adventure, now that he’s free. I can tell you, it sure took a couple of years off my life.”

  “Mrs. Cranford from the third floor stopped me in the hall to say how happy she is that Frank is all right,” Donna said, suppressing a smile. “Most days, she barely says ‘Good morning.’ This afternoon, she told me how she had a nephew who got lost upstate in a snowstorm. The whole county turned out to look for him. They found him huddled in a hunter’s cabin two days later. He lost a toe to frostbite, but was otherwise okay.”

  “Everyone has a story,” Grady said. “I met Mr. Abbott at the mailbox. He told me that he and his wife thought their kids had been abducted when they stopped in a shop in Gallup, New Mexico. They’d gone into a side room to look at Indian jewelry, and the kids were gone when they came out front. They found them back at the trailer, sitting on the car’s bumper waiting for them. That was over thirty years ago, and he says when he heard about Frank, the memory and the fear came rushing back.”

  “The building is a little like a small town,” Donna said. “Word gets around fast.”

  “Has Frank mentioned Betsy at all?” I asked.

  Grady shook his head. “Not to me.”

  “Nor to me,” Donna added. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, but while he was excited about talking to Detective Chesny, the reason why seems to have slipped his mind.”

  “Speaking of shoes,” Grady said. “Frank has already put in his birthday order. He’d like a pair of cowboy boots like Jimbo’s.” He looked at Donna. “I told you about Jimbo Barnes. That’s Cookie—I mean Stella Bedford’s manager. He wears these fancy tooled leather boots.”

  Frank poked his head out the door of his bedroom. “And they’re this cool color, too. It’s called turquoise,” he said. “And he’s always polishing them with this big red handkerchief. Even in the bathroom.”

  “Have you been eavesdropping on our conversation, young man?” his mother asked. “What did I tell you about that?”