New Year's Eve Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Lucy thought he might be right. Underneath the fashionable clothes and make-up, there was a kind of slovenliness about Nadine. Her clothes didn’t fit well, as if she’d recently put on some weight. Her hair color had needed touching up, remembered Lucy, and her nails looked as if she’d just applied polish without bothering to file or shape them. She reminded Lucy of some women she knew in Tinker’s Cove who gave up trying to be alluring when they reached a certain age. They cut their hair short and donned elastic-waist pants and devoted themselves to golf or genealogy or anything except their husbands. “But she didn’t mind if he had it, as long as he got it from somebody else?”

  Pablo nodded approvingly. “In that way, she had a very European attitude.”

  Lucy was fascinated, but before she could continue the conversation the door flew open and Camilla marched in. Like Elise, she seemed to have recovered remarkably well since the funeral. There was no sign of the grief-stricken woman who had been clinging so pathetically to Elise for support. Today she was clearly in charge.

  “Do I have to remind you that we’re on deadline?” she snapped at Pablo. Turning to Lucy, she jabbed in her direction with a red-tipped talon. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

  “Just visiting,” said Lucy, all innocence. “I have a message from my daughter for Fiona.”

  “You can leave it with the receptionist, on your way out.”

  Lucy suspected security was on the way. “Okay.”

  “Now.”

  “Right,” said Lucy. “Nice talking to you, Pablo.”

  She was leaving when she saw Camilla point at the display of cosmetics Pablo was photographing. “Not like this,” she said, frowning and waggling her fingers.

  Pablo stepped forward, attempting to preserve the carefully designed arrangement, but Camilla stopped him with a glance. Then, with a sweep of her arm she knocked over the open tubes of lipstick and mascara and eyeliner, sending them rolling every which way and spilling the open bottles of nail lacquer. “Smash them. Break them,” she ordered, prying the little cakes of eye color out of their compacts with her nails and tossing them on the table. “Smear them all around. Show the colors. The colors!” She brought her fist down again and again until all that was left was a Jackson Pollock scramble of lurid hues.

  Chapter Seventeen

  FABULOUS FUN FURS FOR EVERY BUDGET!

  Wow, thought Lucy, as she rode the elevator down to the lobby, that was one image she wasn’t going to forget anytime soon. If she’d had any doubt that Camilla was crazy, really crazy, the sight of her smashing the cosmetics had convinced her that the editor was no more master of her emotions as an eminently successful fashion journalist than she was when she attempted suicide in college. Worst of all had been her voice, an eerie scream with which she spewed insult after insult at poor Pablo.

  The elevator landed with a thud and Lucy exited the building, gratefully inhaling the cold, crisp air. Even loaded with pollutants, it seemed much fresher than the overheated atmosphere in the Jolie offices.

  Lucy decided that walking the ten or twelve blocks to the hospital would do her good. She’d get some exercise and get rid of some of the tension she’d been building up; plus, she did her best thinking when she was in motion.

  And she had plenty to think about, given the rivalries and jealousies she’d discovered at the magazine. Pablo, though he made no attempt to hide his dislike of Nadine, she dismissed as a suspect. It was his sense of humor, which indicated a certain sense of detachment, that argued against him being the killer. He didn’t seem to take Nadine or Camilla all that seriously, viewing them as actors in an entertaining soap opera. His talent and standing as a photographer protected him; he could leave anytime he chose, which put him essentially above the fray.

  She was also tempted to cross Phyllis off her list of suspects. In theory she had seemed a likely candidate since Nadine’s death had meant a big promotion for her. But from what Lucy had seen of her, she didn’t seem to be reveling in her new position. If anything, she seemed to approach her new, powerful job as a continuation of her old job. In truth, Nadine’s death hadn’t meant big changes in the beauty department because Phyllis had really done the lion’s share of the work all along. So Phyllis went about her work as she always had, with no sense of self-importance or ego. She’d made a few minor changes, like sharing the samples, but Lucy hadn’t sensed any hint of triumphant self-assertion, which she was sure would have been the case if Phyllis had harbored a festering resentment of Nadine and finally decided to take action.

  She really couldn’t cross off Arnold and Nancy until she knew more about their relationship, but from what Pablo told her it didn’t seem as if that was a promising line of investigation. Arnold and Nadine had apparently worked out a relationship that suited them both: he got freedom to exercise his libido and she got money and status.

  No, from what she’d learned so far, Camilla was by far the likeliest suspect, especially if what Pablo had told her about Arnold’s plan to buy the magazine was true. From what she’d seen of Camilla, Lucy believed she had the most reasons to want Nadine out of her life, permanently, and was just crazy enough to do whatever it took to get rid of her.

  Elise, she was sure, would have been happy to do whatever was required to help eliminate her rival for Camilla’s friendship. Maybe she didn’t cook up the anthrax herself, but she could have had connections who had access to the stuff: an old professor, a fellow student, or perhaps even a colleague. The very fact that she’d jumped to the conclusion that Lucy suspected her of producing the anthrax could indicate a guilty conscience.

  Of course, the act of murder usually required a precipitating factor, and Lucy sensed that Arnold’s proposed purchase of the magazine was probably the issue that pushed Camilla over the edge. If only she could find out if the sale was really in the works or just a rumor.

  Lucy shoved her hands into her pockets and felt the business card Ed Riedel had given her when she visited him at the Tattler. Impulsively, she decided to give him a call.

  “You probably don’t remember me,” she began.

  “You’re the dame from Maine.”

  Lucy was astonished. “How’d you know?”

  “You talk funny.”

  After living for more than twenty years in Tinker’s Cove, Lucy guessed she probably did have a bit of a Maine accent.

  “Listen, I’ve turned up some interesting stuff in the anthrax death at Jolie magazine….”

  “Who did it?”

  “I’m not sure but I’ve got some promising….”

  The editor cut her off. “Call me when you’re sure.”

  Lucy wasn’t about to be brushed off so easily. “And I’ve got some scandalous inside stuff on Camilla Keith….”

  “Yeah, and the Pope’s Catholic.”

  Lucy’s spirits sank. “I thought I had a scoop.”

  “You and eight million other people. That woman has ripped into everybody at some point. The whole city’s got scars—taxi drivers, florists, interior designers, dog walkers, they all wanna get their story in print.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Keep on trying, kid,” he said.

  Disappointed at his reaction, Lucy replaced her phone in her purse. By this time she had worked her way over to Lexington Avenue and found herself passing the Melrose, her home for three days, where Cathy was still in residence. As an industry insider, she might have the information about Arnold that Lucy was looking for. Impulsively, she ducked into the lobby where she was greeted warmly by the man at the desk.

  “It’s nice to see you, Mrs. Stone. How’s your daughter doing?”

  “Much better,” said Lucy, surprised that he remembered her. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Are you coming back to stay with us?”

  “No, I’m staying with a friend, uptown. I am hoping to catch Cathy Montgomery. Do you know if she’s still staying here?”

  “As far as I know,” he said. “I’m not suppos
ed to give out room numbers but you can call her on the house phone.”

  In a matter of minutes Lucy was connected and heard Cathy invite her up to her suite.

  “I didn’t really think I’d find you here,” said Lucy, when Cathy opened the door. “I was sure you’d be out shopping, if you hadn’t already left for Texas.”

  “Too early for me,” said Cathy, waving her hand at the room service table set up by the window. “I like to take my time in the morning. Would you like a cup of coffee? There’s plenty and it’s hot.”

  “I would, thanks,” said Lucy, seating herself in a comfortable sofa. Cathy’s suite was a far cry from the cramped little room she’d shared with Elizabeth; the suite had a spacious living room as well as a large bedroom she could glimpse through an open door. She could hear a shower running, probably Tiffany, getting ready for another day of shopping.

  From the large number of boxes and bags scattered around the room it seemed there had been plenty of shopping. Lucy wondered if they’d left anything in the stores for other shoppers to buy. Not that most people would be competing for the same goods—they’d been shopping at places like Prada, Armani, and Ralph Lauren.

  “You girls have been busy,” said Lucy, accepting a cup of coffee.

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Just black.”

  “It’s appalling, isn’t it?” said Cathy, crossing her legs and clipping on a pair of pearl and gold earrings. She was dressed for the day in a cream-colored silk blouse and a beautifully tailored pair of mocha slacks. “All I can say in my own defense is that it’s mostly stuff for Tiffany. Her mother died quite a few years ago and there hasn’t been anyone to help her with clothes and hair and things like that.”

  “She’s lucky. You’re more like a fairy godmother than an evil stepmother,” said Lucy.

  “Don’t get me wrong—there are quite a few goodies for me, too.” She took a sip of coffee. “You sure can’t find stuff like this in Dallas—there’s no place like New York for serious shopping. Except maybe Paris. London’s good, too.”

  “It must be nice,” said Lucy, who had never been out of the country and longed to visit places she’d read about. As soon as she’d said it, she wished she hadn’t. She hoped there hadn’t been any hint of jealousy in her tone.

  “Believe me, honey, it is nice and I appreciate every cent I spend. I grew up poor, you know, and I don’t intend to set my foot in a Wal-Mart ever again, not if I can help it.”

  “I don’t blame you,” said Lucy, completely disarmed by Cathy’s frankness.

  “I tell you, my first trip to Paris was a real eye-opener: there was no pink polyester anywhere! You can be sure I reported on that fact for the folks at home. And I also told them nobody wore those enormous white athletic shoes you see everywhere here.”

  “So you traveled for your job?”

  “I sure did. I was like a yo-yo, back and forth across the Atlantic, so the folks in Dallas would know what was in fashion.” She paused. “Not that I’m complaining. It was great fun, but now that I’m a wife and stepmom my traveling days are pretty much over. We have a full social calendar, and my husband needs me to entertain and to accompany him to events. I’ll be running my feet off when I get home—Tiffany’s coming out this spring, you know, at the Yellow Rose of Texas Ball and I want her to be the Texas Belle of the Year.”

  “How lovely,” said Lucy, realizing that Cathy’s privileged life was work in its way, too. “You know, I was wondering about a few things and I thought you might have the answers.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” she said with a shrug. “Fire away.”

  “Well, I heard a rumor that Arnold was planning to buy Jolie magazine and make Nadine editor. Do you know anything about that?”

  “That rag is for sale, I can tell you that, and I’d bet my six-carat engagement ring that Camilla isn’t happy about it because the first thing any buyer is going to do is take a long hard look at the job she’s been doing. But I never heard Arnold named as a possible buyer.” She studied the ring, which sparkled in the sunlight coming through the window. “If he was thinking of buying it he certainly wouldn’t have put Nadine in charge—he’s too smart a businessman for that. Nadine would just drive it into the ground. Believe me, I know about men like Arnold. He wants to make money, that’s what he’s all about, and there’s no way he would throw his capital into a sinkhole like Jolie magazine.”

  “Not even as a payoff to Nadine for putting up with his affairs?”

  Cathy snorted. “He didn’t need to pay her off. If she didn’t like it, she could leave, right? And there was no sign she was planning to do that. Besides, from what I’ve heard, his money’s all tied up in his real estate projects. I don’t think he could afford Jolie.”

  “I thought he was enormously rich,” said Lucy.

  “Oh, honey, there’s rich and then there’s rich. These real estate guys are all the same. They’ve got lots of buildings and stuff, but cash flow is always a problem, which means they’ve got to borrow and put off payments, stuff like that.” Her eyes gleamed wickedly. “But now that Nadine’s gone, I imagine his position has improved.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Insurance, sweetie. I bet he’ll pick up a million or two, which should relieve his cash flow problems for a while, anyway.”

  “At least,” said Lucy, mentally kicking herself. Insurance. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Rich people had life insurance, too. They could afford lots of it. Arnold suddenly went from the bottom of her list of suspects to the top. You could never ignore the basics, and the husband was always the prime suspect. If only she could talk to Arnold one on one, but how was she going to do that? Considering the way he’d kicked her out of the funeral it was hardly likely that he’d agree to see her.

  “I’m ready, let’s go.” Tiffany was standing in the doorway, dressed in the teen uniform of tight jeans, tiny T, and shrunken blazer.

  “Mrs. Stone is here, Tiffany.” Cathy’s voice was gentle, almost a whisper.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” The girl was blushing. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Hi, Mrs. Stone. Good morning. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “I’ve got some. Actually, I should be going. I’m on my way to the hospital.”

  “How is Elizabeth? Say hi to her for me, okay?”

  “I will.” Lucy stood up and picked her coat off the back of the chair. “She’s doing fine. I think we’ll be able to go home soon.”

  “Wait for me, we can all go down together,” said Cathy, shoving her foot into a sleek ankle boot and zipping it up. “Get the coats, please, Tiffany.”

  Tiffany opened a coat closet next to the front door, a feature that Lucy hadn’t imagined existed in hotels, and pulled out a white parka for herself and a tawny full-length fur for Cathy. Lucy’s jaw dropped at the sight; she’d never seen anything so fabulous. Whatever it was, lynx maybe, it was a lot more glamorous than mink. She had to bite her tongue to keep from asking to try it on. Cathy, however, treated it just like any coat, shrugging into it as they left the suite and patting the pockets to check for her gloves.

  While they waited for the elevator Lucy broached her second question. “The other thing I was wondering about has to do with Elise.”

  “Ah, Elise,” said Cathy, raising her eyebrows.

  “What do you mean?” asked Lucy.

  “That woman is living proof that it’s who you know and not what you know that matters,” said Cathy. “Camilla pulled her out from nowhere about two years ago and named her fashion editor. It was weird, even for Camilla. I mean, that’s the sort of job people usually work into over many years. A good fashion editor knows the designers personally, she has relationships with them. She knows their histories, their muses, their influences.”

  The elevator came and they all got on.

  “Do you know what she did before she joined the magazine?” asked Lucy.

  “It wasn’t fashion, that’s for sure.” Cathy snorted. “I don’t think Elise could te
ll a Jean-Paul Gaultier creation from a Calvin Klein.”

  The elevator doors opened and Cathy sailed into the lobby, turning every head. The bellhops and desk staff all smiled and greeted her, and the doorman stepped smartly to open the door for her. Lucy and Tiffany followed in her wake as, smiling and waving at everyone, she swept through the door onto the sidewalk, where she suddenly stopped.

  Lucy watched, horrified, as a motorcycle with two helmeted riders dressed in gleaming black suits suddenly jumped the curb and came directly toward Cathy. She attempted to dodge the machine, and the doorman rushed to help her, but it was too late. She couldn’t avoid the bucket of red paint that drenched her beautiful fur coat.

  The driver wheeled the motorcycle around, attempting to escape, but the doorman heroically threw himself at the passenger. Lucy caught a glimpse of the driver’s shiny imitation leather suit, embellished with numerous zippers, as the motorbike roared off. She rushed to Cathy’s side and saw a uniformed cop pounding down the sidewalk to assist the doorman, who was struggling with the attacker he’d dragged off the motorcycle. The cop fumbled, attempting to handcuff the culprit, who took the opportunity to slip out of his grasp and dashed nimbly down the sidewalk and around the corner, leaving the two men bushed and breathing heavily.

  “Are you all right?” she asked Cathy, who was standing in the dripping coat, apparently in shock. Next to her, Tiffany was in tears.

  “I’m fine,” said Cathy. “Just a little stunned.”

  “Your poor coat,” wailed Tiffany.

  “I’m afraid it’s ruined,” said Lucy, who felt like weeping at the loss.

  “This old thing? I’ve had it for years. But why would anyone do something like this?”

  “Animal rights,” said the doorman, dusting himself off. “They don’t approve of wearing fur so they do stuff like this. They even picketed the Nutcracker performances this year. My granddaughter was in tears, all upset about the little bunnies that were killed to make fur coats.”