MURDER ON A DESIGNER DIET

by Shawn Reilly Simmons

  Officer Gomez snorted. “You two are playing detective, huh? I told you to be careful.”

  “Well, we’re not getting anywhere, except actually hiring some models.” Penelope watched an older woman turn the corner and head towards her on the sidewalk, pushing a metal cart full of shopping bags.

  “I gotta go respond to a call. You should go home and get into bed,” Officer Gomez said.

  “Can I call you again if I need to?” Penelope asked.

  “Like I can stop you?”

  “Wait, one more thing.” Penelope’s thoughts were fuzzy at the edges from the pain pill, but she had a sudden moment of clarity. “What was the name of the neighbor? The one who complains about the parties here?” Penelope watched the old woman stop at the neighboring brownstone and haul her cart up the stoop, one step at a time.

  “Mrs. Sotheby. Just across the courtyard,” Officer Gomez said. Penelope could hear her car’s siren and voices talking back and forth on her radio before she abruptly ended the call.

  Penelope pulled herself up with the help of the railing. She was relieved to find the pain in her side and head had lessened to a dull throb. Her nausea had passed as well, but had been replaced with a nagging hunger deep in her belly. She remembered too late Nurse Kurtz telling her she should eat something before taking her pain medication.

  She looked to the right and saw the bodega was open. There were wooden crates filled with fresh fruit by the front door, and she could probably get a sandwich inside. Penelope looked back and saw Christian’s neighbor had finally gotten her shopping cart to the top of the stoop and was digging around in her brown leather purse for her keys. Penelope walked over to her.

  “Excuse me,” Penelope said to the woman’s back. She wore two homemade looking cardigan sweaters, one shade of pink apart, and a tartan plaid skirt.

  The woman’s shoulders stiffened and she hurried to get her key into the lock. She didn’t turn around or respond.

  “Mrs. Sotheby? Hi, I’m Penelope.”

  Mrs. Sotheby turned around slowly, her expression wary.

  “I’m sorry to bother you.” Penelope paused, making a quick decision to tell a white lie. “I’m working with the police to find out more about what happened here last night.” Penelope glanced at the courtyard and back at Mrs. Sotheby. “I know you witnessed all the commotion. I saw you through the window.”

  Mrs. Sotheby cleared her throat. “I saw you too. You were under arrest, I believe.”

  Penelope smiled. “Yes, I was. That was a misunderstanding, as you can see.” She held up her hands to show they were currently free of handcuffs.

  “What happened to you? Were you hurt in the fall?” Mrs. Sotheby said, looking at Penelope’s splinted wrist.

  “No, I was in an accident this morning.”

  Mrs. Sotheby sighed. “What do you want with me?”

  “Right,” Penelope said, encouraged. “I was hoping you could answer some questions about what you saw.”

  Mrs. Sotheby hesitated, then said, “Okay, come on up. I was wondering when you all would get around to questioning the neighbors. These other ones,” she glanced at the large apartment building across the street, disapproval on her face, “they never get involved. All those windows are fused shut. They could be living anywhere, no concern at all for the neighborhood.”

  Penelope looked at the large modern building and made a sympathetic face before climbing the stoop and following Mrs. Sotheby inside. She helped get her shopping cart over the door jam, then parked it at the bottom of the stairs once they were inside. Mrs. Sotheby fussed with her sweaters, unbuttoning the top and then the one underneath as she led Penelope inside.

  “Do you live here alone?” Penelope asked, eyeing the walls of the living room. It was neat and tidy, but almost every spot was taken up by a piece of artwork or an antique mirror. Over the fireplace was a yellowing wedding picture in an oval frame, the glass bowed out to give it a fishbowl effect. A handsome young couple stared at something to the right of the camera, the man’s hand resting gently on his bride’s shoulder. She held a small bouquet of white flowers and smiled sweetly, happiness radiating from her face.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Sotheby said, glancing at the wedding picture. “My husband passed away over forty years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Penelope said.

  “Thank you.” She pointed to an antique settee with red brocaded material stretched across the backrest. Penelope moved a needlepoint pillow out of the way and took a seat. A white cat jumped up on the cushion next to her, purring loudly. “Can I get you anything? You look a little green around the gills, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I’d love some water,” Penelope said gratefully.

  “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  Penelope watched her go down the hallway and realized Mrs. Sotheby’s house had the same layout as the brownstone next door. Except this one hadn’t been broken up into apartments. Penelope looked again at the walls and saw a grouping of sabres hung in the corner, their sheaths ornately engraved and colorful tassels hanging from them. Several oil paintings hung around the room, in various styles from many different eras. Penelope pulled her phone from her purse and sent Arlena a quick text that she was next door, talking with the neighbor. Noticing she had no new calls or texts from Joey, she sighed, then slipped her phone back into her purse.

  Mrs. Sotheby came back a few minutes later holding a silver tray with a matching tea service. She’d included a selection of crackers and cookies and placed it on the table in front of Penelope. “I took a chance. I hope you like tea. You look like you could use a bit more than water right now, dear.”

  “Thank you,” Penelope said, accepting a cup of tea. Mrs. Sotheby plopped a sugar cube into Penelope’s cup. After it dissolved, Penelope took a sip and was immediately grateful. She couldn’t remember tasting a better cup of tea in a very long time. She began to relax, the pain in her head and side ebbing away even more.

  “Now, what would you like to ask me about?” Mrs. Sotheby asked, easing back in her chair, holding a matching cup. The cat jumped down from the settee and up into her lap, pawing her skirt and purring loudly.

  “Who do you remember seeing next door last night? Besides me and Joey, and the man who pushed me.”

  “Hmm. I’d have to check my notes but no one out of the ordinary,” Mrs. Sotheby said. “Just the usual.”

  “The usual?” Penelope asked.

  “Yes, the young man who lives there and his friends. They always come home late, shouting or playing music, as if no one else could possibly hear them.”

  “Mrs. Sotheby, did you know that Christian was killed?”

  Mrs. Sotheby looked momentarily stricken, and placed a hand over her heart. “I know, it’s terrible. I didn’t think he was the best neighbor in the world…but still, I was very sorry to hear he’d been killed.”

  Penelope placed her teacup on the table and took a sugar cookie. “Was he related to Joyce? The director of the agency?”

  Mrs. Sotheby shrugged. “They must be, don’t you think? They had the same last name, at least.”

  “When I spoke with her, she said he was her tenant and employee, didn’t act like he meant much to her at all,” Penelope said.

  “Well, I don’t know about that. But I know his name was Alves. He told me so on the street one day, and I came home and wrote it down in my file.”

  “Your file?” Penelope placed a half-eaten cookie on her saucer.

  Mrs. Sotheby smiled. “Yes, I keep a file on everything that goes on over there. I have a lot of notes. I keep a notebook on all the buildings on the street. The police told me I couldn’t keep calling them without any proof of wrongdoing, so now I keep a record of things that I see.”

  Penelope stared at her, her mouth hanging open. After a few seconds she said, “Where is this file, Mrs. Sotheb
y?”

  “It’s upstairs in my office. Would you like to see it?”

  Penelope looked out the window of Mrs. Sotheby’s office and down at the courtyard between the buildings. She had a clear view of the side door of Christian’s, nothing obstructing it except a few strands of twinkly lights. Daylight was fading, but she could see the broken window pane on the door had been covered with plywood.

  Mrs. Sotheby had an antique rolltop desk with various cubby holes for bills and other paperwork. Built-in bookcases lined the room in the same dark wood, filled with detective novels and books for the amateur investigator.

  Penelope noticed an antique set of Arthur Conan Doyle’s novels on one of the shelves. It took her a minute to realize it, but there wasn’t a computer anywhere in the office, just a series of ledgers lined up in a row on the desk.

  “Here it is,” Mrs. Sotheby said, pulling out a thick leather book. “This is volume three on that place. I’ve been keeping records on the comings and goings over there for over a year.” She placed the book on the desk and opened it, flipping to the most recently written pages. “Here are my notes from last night.”

  Penelope scanned the entry, trying to make sense of her shorthand. “What does TDM mean?”

  “Tall dark-haired man,” Mrs. Sotheby said.

  Penelope pulled out her phone, tapping on her picture file. Forgetting for a minute she had a new phone and hadn’t backed up her files yet, she scrolled over to the Google app and typed in Max’s name, pulling up the first image of his face. “Is this the man you saw?”

  Mrs. Sotheby pulled her glasses down her nose. “Yes, I believe that’s him.”

  Penelope looked back down at the ledger. “It says here he arrived at eleven forty-five with a SBF…short blond female?”

  Mrs. Sotheby nodded. “Yes, tiny little thing. I was on my way to bed, but they were laughing and being rowdy, so I made a note.”

  “Were they with anyone else?” Penelope asked.

  “No, just Christian.” Mrs. Sotheby began leafing through the ledger, paging back in time. “I’d seen that tall man before. I wrote it down here somewhere.”

  “And then you went to bed? Did you hear the gunshots?”

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Sotheby said, placing her hand over her heart. “I called the police to report it, but they just drove by, didn’t even get out of the car to check on the house. Then I saw you and…” She glanced down at her notes.

  “Joey, Detective Baglioni.”

  “I guess. I saw you two poking around. Then I called Officer Gomez directly. Told her everything I’d seen and heard.”

  “Did you recognize the man who ran past me? The one who shoved me into the courtyard?”

  “No, I couldn’t see his face with that hood pulled up. And he ran away so quickly,” Mrs. Sotheby said with regret.

  “Wait, did you see Max and the blond girl leave after you heard the gunshots?”

  “No, I didn’t. I went downstairs to use the phone in the kitchen after I heard those terrible sounds. My hands were shaking so bad, I had to get one of my heart pills from the drawer.”

  Penelope deflated a bit, realizing Mrs. Sotheby wasn’t a surveillance team, just a curious older neighbor who had partial notes and recollections of what might have happened. “Are there any other exits from the building apart from that door right there and the front door?”

  “Well, there’s the storm doors down to the basement, but they’re always padlocked from the outside. I suppose someone could climb down from one the windows on the other side of the house without me seeing them.”

  Penelope sat down in the desk chair and stared at the ledger in front of her. “Would you mind if I took some notes?”

  “Sure, there are a few pens in the drawer,” Mrs. Sotheby said, pointing to a row of wooden drawers by Penelope’s leg. She moved to the window and glanced down at the courtyard. “It’s been quiet over there since last night. Not much to report.”

  Penelope pulled open the middle drawer and grabbed a pen, nudging aside a dark wooden box. She heard something metallic rattling inside and opened the lid. It was an old handgun, small enough to fit in Penelope’s purse.

  “Is this yours?” Penelope asked, eyeing the gun.

  “It was my husband’s,” Mrs. Sotheby said. She leaned down and slid the drawer closed. “He was a private detective for an insurance company. Ironically, he didn’t have it with him when he…when he might have needed it most.”

  Penelope looked up at her. “What happened?”

  Mrs. Sotheby ran her hand across a nearby shelf, wiping away nonexistent dust. “He walked in on a robbery, by accident, at a convenience store up on the avenue. The robber killed the store clerk and my Richie. In just one minute, my life was changed forever. We’d only been married a short time when it happened.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Penelope said. “Did they catch your husband’s killer?”

  “That’s the thing, dear. They never caught the man who robbed that store. It’s been over forty years now. I doubt I’ll ever know who killed Richie.”

  Penelope looked again at the row of ledgers. She thought about all the time Mrs. Sotheby had put into recording the actions of others, and wondered if the police had worked as hard to find Richie’s killer. Her phone buzzed and she pulled it out of her purse.

  Arlena had texted, “In the car out front whenever you’re ready.”

  “I have to go,” Penelope said. She jotted down her name and number on a slip of paper on the desk. “Here’s my number. Would it be okay if I contacted you again?”

  Mrs. Sotheby wrote down her own number and handed it to Penelope. “Sure, that would be fine.”

  Penelope took some photos of the last few pages of the ledger with her phone. “I really appreciate you letting me see all of this. I hope it helps. I’m worried an innocent man is being framed for Christian’s murder.”

  Mrs. Sotheby shook her head sadly at Penelope. “I hate to tell you this, dear, but I haven’t seen many innocent people come in or out of those doors.”

  Chapter 23

  The Town Car sped away, heading back towards Tribeca.

  “That woman gives me the creeps,” Arlena said with a shiver.

  “What do you mean?” Penelope asked.

  “I don’t know. She’s just cold, I guess. She talks about her models like they’re clothing racks instead of people.”

  “Not to mention being so offhand about Christian’s murder. Even if he wasn’t related to her and really was just an employee, a normal person would have some kind of emotional reaction to someone dying in their home, right?”

  “You would think,” Arlena agreed. “I did find something interesting when I sent her to get cream and sugar for my coffee. I looked through a shoebox she had tucked up on the top shelf. It was so out of place—everything else in there was sleek, manuals and catalogues.” Arlena pulled a small stack of photos from her jacket pocket. “I grabbed a couple of photos from it.”

  Penelope looked at the pictures in Arlena’s hand. One was of a group of girls in mismatched outfits, smiling at the camera. A few of them had missing teeth, so she guessed they weren’t in their teens yet. “These are just kids. Where were they taken, I wonder?”

  “No idea. But they remind me of the kids from those commercials on TV.” Arlena flipped through a few more of them. “You know…those ads where they want you to sponsor a child from an impoverished country?”

  Penelope examined another photo from the stack. “This one looks like Sinay, the girl with the groceries, but she’s younger here.”

  “How old do you think she is now?”

  “She’s probably still in her mid-teens. Whatever is going on with her and Joyce seems off. One minute Sinay is afraid of her own shadow, and the next she’s hugging Joyce in the kitchen like she’s her mother.”

  “She seeme
d afraid and uncomfortable when she brought the coffee into our meeting.”

  “Maybe Joyce sponsors girls like Sinay, brings them to America and helps them find work. She said something about wanting to be a model.”

  “I suppose that could be it,” Arlena said. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I need to eat again if I’m going to stay on this schedule.”

  They rode in silence for a moment before Penelope spoke again. “What should we do next? After eating?” She pulled her phone out of her purse and stared at the blank screen.

  “I think you should get some rest. You look exhausted,” Arlena said. “I’m taking you back to the hotel and then I’m going to meet Daddy and find out what the plan is to help Max.”

  “I hope he gets released soon,” Penelope said.

  “Daddy said he’ll have to wait until tomorrow, that they don’t do bail hearings on weekends. That’s if he’s even granted bail.”

  “Maybe something in this ledger will point to another suspect in Christian’s murder.” She pulled open the picture and enlarged it on her screen, scrolling through Saturday’s page. She gave up trying to decipher Mrs. Sotheby’s shorthand when her eyes began to blur over from exhaustion.

  The car pulled up outside the Tribeca Loft hotel once again. Arlena helped Penelope to her room, ordering her a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a grilled cheese sandwich once they were inside. “And a pot of ginger tea, please. Can you also bring up a bed tray?”

  Penelope pulled off her clothes and stood under the shower, making the water as hot as she could stand, holding her splinted arm outward to keep it dry. She did her best to pile her hair on top of her head with one hand before getting into the shower. She intended to go straight to sleep after eating. She didn’t have the energy, and didn’t want to ask Arlena to dry her hair before collapsing into bed. She came out of the bathroom wrapped in one of the soft white robes that were hanging on the bathroom door just as the room service waiter was knocking on the door. She got into bed and Arlena situated the tray over her legs, placing the soup and sandwich on it and propping an additional pillow behind Penelope’s back to make her more comfortable.