A Perfect Manhattan Murder

by Tracy Kiely

  Copyright Information

  A Perfect Manhattan Murder © 2017 by Tracy Kiely.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2017

  E-book ISBN: 9780738750705

  Book format by Cassie Kanzenbach

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Cover illustration by Kim Johnson/Lindgren & Smith, Inc.

  Editing by Nicole Nugent

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Kiely, Tracy, author.

  Title: A perfect Manhattan murder / by Tracy Kiely.

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2017] |

  Series: A Nic & Nigel mystery ; #3

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016047685 (print) | LCCN 2016055161 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738745244 (softcover) | ISBN 9780738750705

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3611.I4453 P47 2017 (print) | LCC PS3611.I4453 (ebook)

  | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016047685

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

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  Midnight Ink

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Dedication

  Once again, to Matt.

  Acknowledgments

  Once again, I have many people I need to thank: Barbara Poelle, who is not only an amazing agent, but one of the funniest people I know; Terri Bischoff, my very patient editor, who along with keeping me on track, stoically puts up with Linda Joffe Hull and my truly terrible ideas for cat-themed mystery titles, and Aimee Hix and me in general; Dan Brown, who kindly explained to me that not all scotch is created equal; Barbara Kiely, my international rebel of a mother-in-law, who always reads my drafts; Matt Kiely, my always amazing husband; and Jack, Elizabeth, and Pat, three of the greatest kids any parent could ask for. Thank you all!

  one

  “Nigel, darling,” I said as I readjusted the beaded strap of my bias cut gown, “if you poke me with that thing one more time, I’m going to beat you over the head with it.”

  Nigel arched a black brow and regarded the item in question. “That would certainly give housekeeping something to talk about,” he conceded as he twirled the gold-tipped cane in his hand.

  “I believe Skippy already accomplished that,” I replied with a pointed nod at the giant Bullmastiff currently sprawled across our bed. At the sound of his name, Skippy opened one sleepy brown eye and gazed at me a moment before closing it again. “Speaking of which,” I continued, “remind me to send flowers to that poor girl from room service this morning. What on earth made you order bacon, anyway?” I asked as I tugged a silk white glove up and over my elbow. “You know what the smell does to him.”

  “A momentary lapse of judgment,” Nigel agreed absentmindedly, his attention on tossing and tapping the cane.

  I watched in silence as he nearly took out the desk lamp. “Don’t you think that it’s time to retire that thing?” I finally asked.

  “You heard the doctor. I busted my ankle.”

  I crossed my arms and stared at him a beat. “You sprained your ankle,” I reminded him. “Three weeks ago.”

  Nigel waved his hand at me. “You say potato, I say …”

  “Poser?” I offered.

  Nigel laughed. “Me? A poser?”

  “Yes, you. Ever since that nurse told you the cane made you look dashing, it’s become a third appendage.”

  Nigel pulled his brows together as if trying to place who I meant. “What nurse?” he finally asked.

  “You know. The blonde.”

  Nigel stared at me vacantly.

  I sighed. Spreading out my hands, I cupped them in front of my chest to pantomime her other memorable feature. “She also had really …”

  Nigel frowned. “Bad arthritis?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Cleavage, Nigel. Cleavage.”

  His face cleared. “Ah, yes. I remember her.” He paused. “Wait. She was a blonde?”

  I smiled sweetly as I picked up an empty water glass and threw it at his head. Nigel let out a bark of laughter as he neatly caught it. “Now, darling,” he said, as he crossed to me, “as much as I love it when you get jealous, you know I only have eyes for you.”

  I turned my back to him and picked up my lipstick tube from the dressing table. As I uncapped it, Nigel leaned down and kissed my neck. Lightly tracing his fingers down my exposed back, he added, “I like your dress.”

  “I thought you might,” I said as I applied more color to my lips. “Consider it my atonement for accepting Harper’s invitation to dinner.”

  Harper and I went to school together. Nigel and I were in town to attend the opening night of a new Broadway show written by another schoolmate of ours, Peggy McGrath. When Harper had called to suggest that we join her and her husband, Dan, for dinner before the show, I assumed that it wouldn’t just be the four of us. I assumed wrong. I had forgotten that most of our college friends found Dan just as odious as I did.

  Nigel didn’t respond. Instead he kissed my neck again. I peeked over my shoulder at him. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” I asked.

  Nigel shook his head. “Nope. You’re still in the penalty box. However, I have it on good authority that the ref is not averse to bribes.”

  “Oh, really?” I turned around and leaned in close. Lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, I asked, “What’s his weakness?”

  “Martinis and lanky redheads with wicked jaws.”

  “As long as you reverse the order, we may be able to come to some sort of an agreement,” I told him.

  “Oh?”

  There was a polite knock on our door. I stood on my tiptoes and lightly kissed his mouth. “I called down to room service for a pitcher of martinis while you were in the shower.”

  “You’re a wily woman, Mrs. Martini.”

  “I know, dear. Now, put some pants on while I answer the door.”

  two

  Most hotels provide various family care services, and the Ritz is
no exception. However, based on the startled look on the fresh-faced young woman who now stood uncertainly in our sitting area, I gathered that Nigel had not made it clear that the “little guy” who needed a sitter for the night was canine and not human.

  “I was told that you needed a babysitter for a three-year-old boy,” said the woman, who had only moments ago cheerfully introduced herself as Maureen, adding that she “just loved kids.” Skippy had bounded off the bed at her entrance and now sat politely before her, his paw raised for her to shake.

  “That we do,” Nigel agreed cheerfully as if there was no confusion. “Skippy here is a good boy, for the most part, but like most three-year-olds, he needs supervision.”

  Maureen regarded Skippy warily. Skippy stared back, his large fawn-colored head coming nearly to her waist. Shifting the pile of coloring books and crayons to her left arm, she gingerly shook Skippy’s paw with her right. Skippy barked happily.

  “We might be late,” I said apologetically. “Please feel free to order anything you’d like from room service.”

  “I highly recommend the martinis,” Nigel added as he fetched my coat. “Just don’t let Skippy have more than one. They tend to put him in an amorous mood.”

  “That’s you, dear,” I corrected.

  Nigel paused. “Right you are,” he agreed after a moment. “Still,” he added, turning to Maureen, “just to be on the safe side, I’d limit him to one.”

  three

  Outside, there was a hint of fall in the cool, crisp September air. Given that the restaurant was a scant mile away, Nigel suggested that we walk. Given that I was wearing four-inch heels, I suggested he think again. Nigel saw my point. We took a cab.

  Aureole’s is located in the Bank of America Tower on 42nd Street. We entered to find the bistro-like lounge mobbed with pre-theater attendees. I spotted Harper and Dan almost immediately. It wasn’t hard. At the large, perpetually boisterous bar they were conspicuous in their isolation. Dan didn’t appear to mind the snubs, but I knew Harper did.

  “There’s Harper and Dan,” I said jerking my chin in their direction.

  Nigel glanced over. “I see that I am not alone in my estimation of Dan’s social graces. Poor Harper.”

  “Well, you know what they say. You can’t marry the devil and not expect to get burned.”

  Nigel looked down at me. “Who ever said that?”

  “My grandmother,” I replied.

  “Oh,” he said after a moment. “Pithy.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Before we go over,” Nigel said, “I think we should agree on a safe word.”

  “A safe word?”

  “Yes, you know. A special word that lets the other know we need to leave.”

  I stopped and stared up at him. “Why do you think you might need to leave?”

  “Dan.”

  “Dan,” I repeated.

  “Yes. He makes me want to punch him in the face. Repeatedly.”

  “That would be awkward,” I agreed.

  “Exactly. Which is why we should have a safe word.”

  I tried to suppress a smile and failed. “Fine. What’s your safe word?”

  “I was thinking of ‘We-need-to-leave-right-now-or-I’m-going-to-punch-Dan-in-the-face.’”

  “You forgot ‘repeatedly.’”

  “I won’t when it counts.”

  I laughed as I grabbed his hand and began to pull him toward Harper. “First off,” I said, “that’s a sentence, and second, I think they might be able to crack the code.”

  Nigel reluctantly followed me to the backlit bar. “Fine,” he grumbled before muttering something about schadenfreude. I ignored him and focused on Harper.

  Harper had been my first real friend on campus freshman year, despite the fact that on the surface we had very little in common. She came from a prominent, moneyed family who expected nothing but the best from their only daughter. I came from a blue-collar family who couldn’t understand why I wanted “some fancy pants education.” Harper took me under her wing and taught me about wines, opera, and the difference between Monet and Manet. In return, I introduced her to boilermakers, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and the difference between Ramen Noodles and Cup Noodles. It was a mutually beneficial alliance.

  After graduation, Harper moved back to New York and took a job at Vanity Fair as a society columnist. It was an easy fit for her as she was mainly reporting on the lives of her family and friends. It was also there that she met Dan Trados, a young staff writer known for his fierce ambition—both social and professional—and caustic wit. After a whirlwind courtship, they were married. Within a year, Dan was running the drama desk and directing his barbs at Broadway. Within two years, he had earned himself the nickname The Bastard of Broadway. Within five years, the moniker had been shortened by half.

  I hadn’t seen much of Harper over the last few years, mainly because Nigel and I moved to LA. But even before that, our get-togethers had become infrequent at best. My career as a detective for the NYPD was about as far away as one could get from the glittering world in which Harper moved. The fact that Dan didn’t exactly encourage our friendship hadn’t helped either. Dan preferred to surround himself with the artistic and literary elite, and a detective from a working-class family simply did not fit into his preferred social circle. I couldn’t fault him for this. A pompous narcissist didn’t fit in with my social circle, either.

  “Harper!” I said now, pulling her into a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you!” She returned the hug, holding it a little longer than normal. With her wavy dark blond hair, perennial dewy skin, and lithe build, Harper is one of those women blessed with a kind of effortless beauty. I’d seen her roll out of bed after three hours of sleep looking better than most women did after a day of pampering at a spa. However, when she finally pulled back from the hug, I noticed faint purple shadows under her normally bright hazel eyes.

  “You’ve no idea how glad I am to see you,” she said simply. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder gown. The silk bodice was a bright salmon; the gauzy full skirt was a swirl of teal, coral, and green. It was a different look for Harper, who usually gravitated to more conservative colors, and I wondered if the gown wasn’t intended to detract from her apparent fatigue.

  “It has been too long,” I agreed as Nigel leaned down to hug Harper as well. We then both turned and exchanged a far less enthusiastic greeting with Dan.

  I’d once described Dan as a police sketch artist’s nightmare, as he was a collection of unremarkable features. A little under six feet, he had a slim build that was the result of a high metabolism rather than any exercise routine. Nigel said he looked like a consumptive on the mend. His dark brown hair was neither thinning nor receding, his light brown eyes were framed with an appropriate number of lashes, and his mouth was neither wide nor thin. Perhaps to offset this blandness, he’d recently grown a beard. The wispy salt-and-pepper Van Dyke certainly made an impression; however, probably not in the way he’d hoped.

  On the plus side, he was intelligent, could be charming when he wanted, and (according to Nigel) had excellent taste in scotch. Actually, Nigel would rank those traits in reverse order.

  I turned my attention back to Harper. “How’s Gracie?” I asked.

  Harper’s round face lit up at the mention of her little girl. “She’s amazing. She just turned six months. She’s so perfect that I don’t even mind that I can’t seem to lose the baby weight.” She paused, lightly patting her new curvier frame, and added ruefully, “Well, most of the time, anyway.”

  I lightly smacked her arm. “Don’t be silly, you look as gorgeous as ever,” I said. “I can’t wait to see her.”

  Nigel seconded my opinion before turning to Dan and asking, “So how are you enjoying it?”

  Dan, who had been eyeing the shapely backside of a passing waitress, blinked at Nigel in confusion.
“Enjoying what?” he asked.

  “Fatherhood,” Nigel replied with deliberate patience.

  “Oh, right,” Dan idly stroked his chin as he considered the question. “It’s been fine,” he finally said, “for the most part. I mean, obviously, there have been some changes.” His eyes unconsciously drifted to Harper’s hips. “But we’re adjusting. I did end up renting an apartment near the Theater District to use as an office on the weekends. I don’t know if Harper told you, but I’ve been asked to put together a kind of anthology of my best reviews along with some of my personal experiences and insider knowledge.” He paused for us to congratulate him. We didn’t. “Anyway, it was quite an unexpected honor and, of course, this is the time of year when the Broadway machine cranks up again. So far it’s looking like it will be a busy season. And as I’m sure you can imagine, it’s hard to write with a crying baby in the next room.”

  I stared at Dan for a beat while Harper busied herself with the catch on her pearl bracelet. “You stay in an apartment every weekend?” I finally asked.

  Dan nodded absently. “It’s really more of a grubby weekend office, but I find it’s much more conducive to my way of working.”

  “How very nice for you, then,” I said.

  Harper knew me too well to miss the edge that had crept into my voice. She quickly raised her eyes to mine; in them was a silent plea not to comment. With effort, I bit back my retort. Harper let out a small breath of relief. Pasting a bright smile on her face she said, “Enough about us. I want to hear all about that Hollywood scandal you two dug up. I thought you’d retired from the force, Nic.”

  “So had I,” I admitted with a sigh.

  “Well, go on then,” Harper pressed eagerly. “Tell me all the juicy parts that the papers left out.”

  “There’s not much else to tell, really,” I said.

  “Nic’s just being modest,” Nigel said, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “She was brilliant. The police never would have solved it if it weren’t for her.”