MURDER ON A DESIGNER DIET

by Shawn Reilly Simmons

  Penelope held her breath and remained frozen in place.

  The man leaned across the desk, propped his bulk on one thick fist, and pointed angrily at the woman, rage etched across his face. “I knew the minute I married you I’d regret it and I was right. You’re a common tart. A trollop,” he sputtered.

  Penelope could see the director around the corner from the elevator alcove, sitting in a chair and staring intently into a monitor, his face lit blue from the screen. He apparently hadn’t noticed the elevator door opening, or he did and didn’t want to cut the scene. Penelope hoped she was out of camera range.

  “Now darling, you mustn’t say such things. I’m a good wife to you, and you’d do well to remember that,” the woman said, standing her ground against her much larger costar.

  The man’s face reddened and he spat, “I should have known marrying a showgirl would bring a life of misery. What was I thinking? You won’t get one more dime out of me if I find out you’ve been cavorting with that Frenchman.” He glared at her and retook his seat, unbuttoning his jacket and straightening his lapels.

  “And cut!” the director yelled from his chair. “Great work, guys.”

  “Can you tell him not to spit so much?” the actress shouted. Her voice had changed from vintage and sweet to modern and grating.

  “Sorry. I was just feeling the moment,” the man said, smiling widely at her.

  The actress swiped at her cheeks with her hands and glared at him. A few crew members moved in to reset the scene, picking up scattered papers and sweeping up broken glass.

  “Everyone take five,” the director said. He walked through the set, pulling his phone up to his ear and ignoring the key grip who attempted to speak with him.

  “Five minutes people!” the assistant director yelled. He waved enthusiastically at Penelope, who was still waiting in the elevator. “Catering can set up lunch over there today.” He nodded towards a cluster of tables draped in white at the far end of the room, then started talking to someone on his headset, shaking his head as he walked away. Penelope let the elevator doors close and rode back down the basement.

  After they’d set up lunch in the penthouse, the smell of their soups filled the air and revived the crew. The actors and crew members swarmed the table, ladling the chili and soup into their bowls and tearing off big pieces of French bread to go with it.

  When everyone had been served, Penelope sent Francis down to bring up the desserts and coffee urns from the basement.

  “We have Red Carpet S’mores coming,” Penelope announced to the room. A few members of the crew glanced up from their bowls, mild interest on their faces. “And lots of coffee.”

  “Everyone give Penelope a hand,” the director said, leading the room in a smattering of applause. Penelope smiled and helped clear a space when Francis returned with the desserts.

  Penelope’s phone buzzed in her back pocket and she pulled it out, glancing at the screen. “Hi, Arlena. You’re up late.”

  “I wanted to check on you to make sure you’re okay over there.”

  “Yes, I’m making my way through,” Penelope said. She watched a few crew members wander up to the table and fill their plates with sweets.

  “I’m sending a car for you when you get off,” Arlena said.

  “Thanks, but I can get a cab,” Penelope said.

  “No, it will be easier. I told the driver to wait for you outside. He’ll be there at five and wait for you until you get off.”

  “I appreciate it. How’s Max doing?”

  “He’s been sleeping a lot. He’s in the bedroom now, passed out. Daddy and I have been up talking with the lawyer about his case, but we’re about to turn in too.”

  “Did he say anything about what happened at Christian’s?” Penelope asked.

  “He keeps saying he will, but he isn’t ready to talk to us right now. He says he’s too traumatized and needs time to think.”

  The assistant director yelled from behind her. “Twenty minutes, people!”

  “Can I stop by in the morning and see him?” Penelope asked. She looked at Francis and he nodded, understanding she wanted him to begin clearing the tables. He signaled the others and they began wrapping up the leftovers.

  “Of course you can,” Arlena said. “Maybe he’ll talk to you.”

  Chapter 29

  Penelope made it back to her hotel room just after seven in the morning. The movie’s director had insisted on running through the previous night’s scene eighteen times, and when they were all done, the crew was exhausted. They had burned through several three-gallon coffee urn refills and all of the desserts before he called a wrap on the final take. Penelope was glad she wasn’t the main actress, getting spittle sprayed by her costar for hours on end.

  Penelope hopped in the shower, removing the splint from her wrist. The swelling had gone down, but it was still tender to the touch and she’d need to be careful with it. She stepped out of the bathroom, her hair wrapped in a towel, and looked around the room for some clothes. She didn’t find anything in her gym bag, and pulled open the drawer next to the wall unit. She found a selection of clean clothes from her closet back in New Jersey. She smiled as she pulled out a pair of jeans, figuring Arlena must have sent for her things and unpacked them for her. The Madisons were wonderful, even though their lives contained a greater amount of drama than the average family.

  Penelope dressed and dried her hair awkwardly with one hand, then took the elevator up to Arlena’s suite. She was dying to talk to Max about Sienna, and the night of Christian’s murder. She knocked on the door and heard Randall say, “Yeah, I’m coming,” came from the other side.

  “Good morning,” Penelope said when he opened the door.

  Randall smiled at her, but his eyes were heavy with sadness. “Come in, Pen.” He led her through the foyer and into the living room, where he must’ve been resting on the couch. A blanket had been tossed aside and the television was set to the local news channel on mute. “Arlena’s up. She’ll be out in a minute.”

  “How’s Max doing?”

  “Okay, I guess. Jail scared him. He looked terrible when he got out.” Randall walked to one of the bedroom doors and knocked loudly. “Maximilian, time to get up.”

  Arlena came out from the opposite hallway, tucking a t-shirt into the waistband of her jeans. “Pen, you look like you feel better today.”

  “Max, get up,” Randall yelled again. He turned to look at Arlena, concern darkening his face. He tried the doorknob, but the bedroom door was locked. “Max,” Randall shouted. “Open the door, son.”

  Randall gripped the doorknob and tried to force it. When it didn’t budge, he braced his shoulder and butted the door, popping it open. Penelope and Arlena stood behind him as they all looked inside the empty bedroom. The bed had been made, the sheets pulled up over the pillows. There was a folded note on the comforter, and Randall hurried inside to snatch it up. “Sorry, Dad, I messed up. I hope you can forgive me. Max.”

  Randall’s arm fell to his side and the note slipped from his hand onto the floor.

  “How did he get out without anyone noticing?” Penelope asked. “I thought you had a security person.”

  “He must have slipped past me when I fell asleep on the couch,” Randall said. “We have a guy down in the lobby, but he’s just looking to keep the press out. He wouldn’t have stopped Max from leaving.”

  “And he could have deliberately avoided the security person or used a different exit,” Penelope said, thinking out loud.

  “Where do you think he’s gone?” Arlena said. They stood in the living room, not moving.

  “I have no idea,” Randall said.

  “He can’t go to his apartment,” Penelope said. “The security team there has instructions to keep him out.”

  Arlena nodded. “He mentioned that last night. He was pretty upset about t
hat, about everything really.”

  “Let’s call him,” Randall said, looking around the living room for his phone. He found it under the blanket on the couch and dialed Max’s number. He shook his head. “It’s just ringing. He’s not picking up. Max, it’s Dad. Give me a call. We just want to know that you’re okay.”

  “What do you think he meant by his note, that he messed up? You don’t think he did this?” Arlena asked, her voice going up an octave.

  “Of course he didn’t,” Randall said tersely.

  “He could be talking about everything going on,” Penelope said. “Maybe he’s depressed, or overwhelmed. Who wouldn’t be? What exactly did Hannah say happened?”

  Randall scoffed. “She’s claiming Max shot Christian in a jealous rage after he caught them together at the apartment.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense, does it? Didn’t they all go over there together?” Penelope pulled her phone from her back pocket and scrolled through her pictures until she found the ones of Mrs. Sotheby’s ledger on the night of the murder. “The lady next door keeps a record of the comings and goings at Christian’s apartment, or at least what she could see when she was awake and looking out the window. Based on this entry, Max, Hannah, and Christian arrived together.”

  “Why is the neighbor keeping tabs on the place?” Randall asked, squinting at the photo.

  “She’s noticed a lot of suspicious activity over there, strangers visiting all the time. The police tell her she needs specific complaints for them to do anything, so she takes notes. I think she’s a little lonely too. It gives her something to do.”

  “We have to get Hannah to tell the truth somehow,” Arlena said. “Let’s go talk to her.”

  “I’ve been to Max’s building and it’s pretty secure. If she doesn’t want to see us, it won’t be easy to get upstairs to talk to her,” Penelope said. “I suppose we could wait for her outside.”

  Arlena sighed. “That doesn’t sound practical. I’m just going to go there and insist she talk to me.”

  “Maybe Jimmy, the security guard I’ve become friendly with, would call me when he sees her leave. You could run into her that way.”

  “Maybe,” Arlena said doubtfully. Penelope recognized that Arlena struggled at times when she didn’t immediately get what she wanted.

  “You should stay here in case Max comes back to the hotel,” Penelope said to Randall. “I’m going to pay another visit to Mrs. Sotheby and confirm she saw them all arrive together.”

  “Aren’t you tired? You’ve been up all night,” Arlena said, taking a closer look at Penelope’s bruised face. The purple had faded a bit, and her eye had taken on a more orange hue.

  “I can rest this afternoon. I’m too amped up now to sleep, anyway.”

  Chapter 30

  Penelope rang Mrs. Sotheby’s bell and glanced through the glass windows of her front door. She hadn’t called first, taking a chance she would be home. She saw movement in the back of the house, then Mrs. Sotheby appeared in the hallway, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She smiled when she saw Penelope at the door.

  “I’m glad it’s you and not some salesperson,” Mrs. Sotheby said, welcoming Penelope inside. “They always seem to ring the doorbell when I’m doing my baking. How are you feeling?”

  Penelope followed Mrs. Sotheby into the foyer, instantly soothed by the scents of vanilla and sugar. “I’m doing better. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time,” she said as they entered the kitchen.

  “No, it’s a good time. I’m baking cookies for the church social tonight. It’s a senior singles party.”

  “I see,” Penelope said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. It and the matching chairs were vintage red Formica with cushions lined with silver piping. They would be perfect in a diner from the 1950s. “That sounds fun.”

  Mrs. Sotheby fussed over her cookie pans, opening the oven to check on the batch inside. “Well, I suppose. It’s always the same old people though. But we do have fun talking together. There’s usually one man for every four ladies. Sometimes I think they just come for the cookies and punch, not to really meet anyone.”

  Penelope smiled when Mrs. Sotheby sat a plate full of cookies on the table in front of her. “How about some tea, Penelope?”

  When Penelope nodded enthusiastically, Mrs. Sotheby turned back to the stove to light the flame under the kettle. “What brings you here today?” she said over her shoulder from the sink as she filled the red teapot. “I know it’s not just to chat with me over tea and cookies.”

  “I was hoping to get another look at your ledgers,” Penelope said. “To check on the timeline of when you saw my friend and his girlfriend coming and going.”

  “I’m happy to help if I can,” Mrs. Sotheby said. “Are you feeling well enough to go upstairs and get them? We can look at them down here at the table.”

  “Sure,” Penelope said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Penelope made her way up the wide staircase slowly, looking at a few of the photos that Mrs. Sotheby had hung on the walls. She noticed there were several family pictures, a few of her as a young woman with what must have been her parents. There were some casual shots with Mrs. Sotheby and her husband, who Penelope could tell was quite handsome. She entered Mrs. Sotheby’s office and went to the desk, running her finger across the leather spines of the ledgers lined up under the window. She pulled the one they had already looked at and the one next to it, which contained some older entries.

  A flash of movement outside the window caught her eye, and she looked down at the courtyard. Sinay had come around from the back of the house, pulling a rolling cart stacked with laundry bags. She paused at one of the tables and glanced around, appearing to be looking for something. Just then a young man entered the courtyard through the iron gate. He was carrying some plastic shopping bags with yellow smiley faces on them in one hand. He walked closer to her and placed them on the table. Penelope recognized the bags as the same ones Sinay unloaded in the kitchen the day before.

  Penelope watched them speak to each other for a moment, noticing that Sinay seemed relaxed and happy around him, much different from how she remembered her being when they spoke. He leaned down and kissed her on the lips. Sinay stood on her tiptoes and kissed him back, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  They suddenly jerked apart and he turned to go, hurrying out of the courtyard just as the side door opened. Joyce leaned out, motioning for Sinay to come inside. Sinay gathered up the shopping bags and climbed the stoop, leaving the laundry in the courtyard. She pulled the door gently closed behind her.

  Penelope walked back downstairs to the kitchen, the ledgers tucked under her arm. She’d decided to keep her splint off this morning, and gently moved her wrist back and forth, testing the edges of her pain. She had more mobility today, but she still didn’t want to put any pressure on it.

  “Oh, you found them, good,” Mrs. Sotheby said. “What kind of tea would you like?”

  Penelope looked at the choices and chose English Breakfast. She was starting to fade from her long night of work and decided a jolt of caffeine would do her good. “I usually drink herbal tea, but I need to stay awake.”

  “I don’t have too many of those. I’m a purist, I suppose. Give me a nice strong English tea any day,” Mrs. Sotheby said, filling her mug with hot water.

  “I’ve been drinking ginger tea lately. It seems like everyone is,” Penelope said, dunking her tea bag in the water.

  “Oh, I haven’t had that in years,” Mrs. Sotheby said. “I can’t stand the taste of it. It reminds me of being sick. It does help the nausea, though.”

  Something clicked in Penelope’s mind, and she made a mental note to mention it to Arlena. She opened the ledger to the page from the night of the murder. “This entry here is when you saw Max and Hannah go inside the apartment with Christian. Correct?”

  “Yes, they all arriv
ed together. Then I fell asleep, so I don’t have any notes until I heard the shots and saw all of the commotion with you shortly after,” Mrs. Sotheby said.

  “Good. That’s at least one potential lie Hannah is telling.”

  “Who is Hannah?”

  “She’s Max’s girlfriend, the one who was there with them that night. And you said you didn’t see the man who pushed past me.”

  Mrs. Sotheby nodded slowly, blowing on her tea. “I had left my glasses downstairs, but I didn’t get a look at his face either way. I just remember his bright red running shoes.”

  Penelope turned back a few pages. “What are all of these entries that say YHF?”

  “That’s Young Hispanic Female,” Mrs. Sotheby said. “Christian had a type. So many girls like that coming and going from the building.”

  “Maybe they were part of his groups of models, who he brought around to the different clubs he was promoting,” Penelope said.

  “I don’t know…some of the girls I’ve seen, I think they’re too young to go to clubs,” Mrs. Sotheby said doubtfully.

  Penelope put her chin in her palm and stared at the ledger. After a minute she said, “Do you have any sugar? I don’t usually take it but I’m feeling kind of woozy again.” Penelope remembered Mrs. Sotheby’s sugary tea and how it had revived her the day before.

  “Sure, help yourself,” Mrs. Sotheby said, jumping up to turn off the buzzer on the oven and pull another batch of cookies from inside.

  Penelope went to the door next to the refrigerator and pulled it open. Instead of a pantry stocked with dried goods and cans, she saw a staircase leading down. She gazed down the darkened stairway, confused. “I thought this was your pantry.”

  “No, that leads to the basement. The pantry is out in the hall, but you can just use the sugar bowl on the counter.”

  As Penelope gazed into the darkness, her mind slipped back to the day before, standing in the kitchen talking to Sinay. She pictured the red door next to the refrigerator, and she remembered the padlock she thought was being used to keep people away from the food. “Can I take a look downstairs?” Penelope asked.