A Fashionable Murder (10 page)

Josie nipped that one right in the bud. “No, I’m not. Did you find out how long the shoes have been in stock?”

“Oh, they’re quite new! Part of our early summer collection. Pat says they’ve been on the selling floor less than two weeks.”

“Really?”

“Pat is your department buyer?” Carol asked for clarification.

“Yes. And she’s just wonderful. We always carried the most amazing shoes, but since she came on board two years ago, well, let’s just say we don’t have those end of the season duds to get rid of.”

“And she’s sure that if anyone bought these particular shoes here, they did it sometime in the past two weeks.”

“Yes, definitely. Of course this model may be carried in other stores in the city and probably in Saks’s suburban branches. . . .”

“I think we can forget about the suburbs,” Carol said. “Do you happen to know if other city stores would have carried that style earlier than Saks?”

Her question seemed to offend the man. “Madam, Saks Fifth Avenue—”

“Of course, you always have the very latest,” Carol agreed with what he was about to say.

Meanwhile, Josie was still admiring her feet. Carol noticed.

“Those shoes really are lovely, dear.”

“Yes, they’d be perfect—except that I like to walk a bit and I can hardly hobble in these without my toes screaming in pain.”

“You’d be amazed how quickly you forget that.”

Josie sat down and removed the shoes. “I always notice when my feet hurt,” she stated flatly.

“We have many styles designed for comfort,” the salesman said, reaching for some examples on a nearby table. “These are from France and they’re known for their comfort. And the shoe on display just happens to be in your size.”

“They’re neat,” Josie admitted.

That was all the encouragement the man needed. He was slipping the shoes onto Josie’s feet before she could protest. “Stand up and walk around,” he suggested.

“They’re wonderful!” Josie said, walking to the mirror and back to Carol. The shoes were beige suede set on soft black rubber. They were as comfortable, maybe even more comfortable, than plastic flip-flops.

“We’ll take them in beige and black,” Carol said, opening her purse and reaching for her wallet.

“Carol . . .”

“They’re my gift to you, dear. And this isn’t really the time or place to argue.”

“But—”

But Carol was on to another thought. “Where are the personal shoppers located?” she asked their now beaming salesman.

“Oh, our One-on-One personal shopping service is on the fifth floor, but I could show you other models—”

“You’ve been wonderful and I can’t tell you how pleased we are with our shoes, but I would like to talk with someone about . . . about a new fur coat,” Carol concluded with barely a pause.

“Well, I’m sure they will be more than happy to help you up there. If you’ll just wait here a moment, I’ll be back with your purchases and your card.”

Josie watched the man as he walked away and then turned to Carol. “I really can’t let you buy—”

“We’ll discuss this later, dear. Right now we need to figure out a strategy.”

“What sort of strategy?”

“We need to find out if Pamela Peel used a personal shopper here. I don’t think we can just walk up and ask, but we do need to find out.”

“Don’t you think you might be becoming just a bit obsessed with that dress?”

“What dress, dear?”

“The one Pamela was wearing.”

“Oh heavens, I’m not thinking about that anymore. We know she was dressed up for a fairly formal event. So she must have been killed in the evening or getting ready for an evening event. It seems to me that we’ve learned something very significant.”

“So why are we looking for a personal shopper?” A dreadful thought occurred to Josie. “Carol, I don’t need anything else.”

“Oh, my dear, the shopper is for information. Not for you. Some personal shoppers know the most amazing things about their clients. Where they go. What they do. And, frequently, who they are going and doing with and when and where. This woman just might be a veritable font of information of the type we’re looking for.”

“Oh . . .”

“Of course getting her to share the information may be a bit difficult, but since when has that stopped two determined women like ourselves? Ah, here’s our nice salesman, back so quickly.”

Carol took the charge receipt and signed it, turning her back on Josie as she did so. “I am going to pay for my shoes,” Josie said.

“We can talk about that later, dear. Thank you so much. You’ve been a big help,” Carol added, smiling to the salesman and handing back the receipt. In return, she was given two big shopping bags. “If you’ll take one, I’ll handle the other,” she said, passing a bag over to Josie.

Josie looked down. “There are four shoe boxes.”

“Only two are for you. I just did a bit of shopping while you were admiring that first pair of shoes. Now let’s go on upstairs. I’ve had an idea that just might get us the information we need.”

Josie hurried after Carol, trying to remember when Carol had found the time to try on and purchase two pairs of shoes. They arrived at One-on-One, Saks Fifth Avenue’s shopping service’s offices, before she could figure out an answer.

“Okay, now just follow my lead.” Carol brushed her hair off her forehead, straightened her shoulders, and walked through the door, a wide smile on her face. “Good afternoon,” she said loudly.

A young woman with an immaculate shiny straight bob looked up from the work on her desk. “May I help you?”

“Yes, we have a special problem. Something I hope you might be able to solve.”

“Of course, helping customers here at Saks Fifth Avenue is my job. If you will just tell me what you need.”

“A friend of ours—a very good friend of ours—is having a birthday and we’re shopping for her present.”

“Helping people buy gifts for their family and friends is a large part of my job, so if you’ll just tell me a bit more about your friend. Her age. What sort of things she likes . . . I assume this is a woman we’re talking about?”

“Yes, but, you see, we thought you might be able to tell us what to get her. Since we understand she was . . . she is one of your clients. Pamela Peel.”

“I don’t believe I’ve worked with anyone with that name. But, of course, someone else in this department might have done so. If you have a moment, I can check our files.”

“Excellent. We would appreciate that.”

The woman turned to the computer sitting on a console behind her desk and began to type. “Peel with two e’s?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Her name isn’t here,” she repeated after a few minutes. “But you know, it does seem familiar for some reason. Perhaps I could check with my colleagues and—”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” Carol poked Josie in the side and nodded at a small coffee table near the door they had come in. The current copy of
New York
magazine lay there. On the cover was a photo of an attractive gamine blond woman smiling at the camera. She was sitting on a chintz couch in a room filled with antiques, artwork, and accessories. The headline identified her as the beautiful and talented Pamela Peel. So now they knew why Pamela’s name seemed familiar.

“I think we probably should stop taking up your valuable time,” Carol went on, tugging gently on Josie’s sleeve. Josie didn’t answer, but continued to stare at the photo.

“But I’d be happy to help you shop for a gift. If you would just tell me more about this woman, I’m sure we can find something suitable. . . .”

“No, we’re in a hurry. I’m sorry we wasted your time.” Carol grabbed Josie’s arm more forcefully and edged her out the door.

Josie waited until they were alone to speak. “So who are we going to see now?” she asked, when they were on the down escalator.

“Who?”

“Yes, there must be lots of people. Women friends. Boyfriends. Colleagues.”

“But, my dear, why would they tell us anything?”

“Because they will want her murderer to be found.”

“The police will probably arrest Sammy for her murder. He’s not a part of that group. I suspect most of them will be perfectly happy with that scenario.”

“You mean they’re the type of people who won’t care if the wrong person is arrested?”

“No, I mean they’re the type of people who will leave all that to the police. They’ll talk about it over lunch and dinner and in intermission at the theater. But they’ll talk among themselves. A stranger claiming to be investigating the murder will . . . well, I don’t know what they would think of you being involved. I, of course, will just be written off as a hysterical mother. You, well . . .”

“You don’t see me being accepted in Pamela Peel’s circle,” Josie said flatly.

“Frankly, my dear, I doubt if they would confide in you. And that’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it? You want them to talk to you about Pamela and her life. Of course, with that new hairdo and just a bit more shopping . . . You know, I have an idea. An excellent idea!”

“Does it involve buying more shoes?” Josie asked.

“My dear, this time we’re going to buy you a completely new look! But first I must call my dear friend, Sissy Austin. She was going to be interviewing Shep Henderson for a possible decorating job. If things go as I hope, this time tomorrow morning you’ll be meeting the person Pamela Peel has been working with for years. You’re going to interview Shep Henderson yourself!”

ELEVEN

CAROL REMOVED HANGER after hanger of slacks, shirts, sweaters, and jackets from walls lined with clothing, dumped the pile in Josie’s strong arms, and guided her to a nearby dressing room.

“Perhaps Madam needs some help,” a saleswoman suggested, dashing after them.

“No, I think . . ,” Josie began only to be interrupted by Carol.

“Yes, we do. Could you find a skirt to go with this sweater, a pair of pants—camel perhaps—that would blend in with the heather of the jacket, and a white cashmere turtleneck, hip length? Size eight.” She pushed Josie into a large dressing room before she could protest.

“Carol, I wear at least a twelve. . . .”

“That’s fine. If she actually finds what I asked for in an eight, we can always send her back for a larger size. I just didn’t want anyone hanging around, pestering us, and listening in on what we’re saying. Now, I think the black silk slacks and the red shirt first.”

“You could tell me about Pamela while I try on clothing,” Josie suggested.

“Yes. Not that I know all that much about her, but I’ll tell you what I know.”

“From Sam?”

“From Sammy and other things. You see, Pamela Peel had been on the edge of my vision for a while. One of my dearest friends, before she moved to La Jolla and became a New Age nut, had her apartment done by Henderson and Peel, and she used to rave about Pamela Peel. And I read
Women’s Wear
Daily
, the Style pages in the
New York Times, Vogue
. . . whatever. Let’s just say before I actually met her, I knew of her. And so I was very surprised when Sammy told me he and Pamela were dating.”

“Why? I thought Sam dated dozens of women.”

“Oh, my dear, he did. But none of them were celebrities and he never made a big point of introducing me to them. I mean, he would bring them over to my house for holidays, parties, whatever. He was never without a date. But he had never made a special point of me getting along with his dates. They were just dates. I knew from the very beginning that Pamela was different.”

Josie, her head inside a fabulously heavy silk pullover, appreciated the privacy the situation afforded. She knew Sam had loved Pamela. She was just a bit surprised at how painful it was to hear about it. “Why?”

“Well, he made such a big deal about us being friends.”

“What sort of big deal?”

“Well, he invited us both to the Rainbow Room one Friday night. The Rainbow Room is one of the only places in the city to still have ballroom dancing. I adore it. And Sammy knows I adore it. He said I wasn’t to bring a date along. That he wanted to have his two best girls to himself . . . Did you say something?”

“No. Go on. I was just trying to reach that tiny button behind my neck.”

“Turn around and let me help,” Carol ordered before continuing her story. “Well, it was an incredible evening. Vintage champagne, fabulous food, a view to die for . . . What more could anyone ask. We ate dinner and Pamela was at her best—gracious, charming, beautiful, and attentive to me. After dinner, we talked more over brandy. Sam took turns dancing with Pamela and me. It was such a special moment that it wasn’t until I arrived home—no, actually when I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, that I began to feel uncomfortable.”

“Why?”

“They didn’t belong together.”

“What?”

“Pamela Peel was using my son. Oh, I didn’t realize that right away, of course. But that night, when I thought it all over, I realized something was wrong. At first glance, it had all gone so well. Sammy was so charmingly attentive to me and to Pamela. And Pamela was so obviously making an effort to make a good impression on me. But something felt wrong. I just had a hint of it then. And I convinced myself that I was imagining things, making up problems where none existed. I had been waiting so long for Sammy to settle down. I wanted him married. I wanted grandchildren. But my instincts told me something was missing. I should have listened to them.”

“What happened?”

“For a while, nothing. Sammy and Pamela became a couple. You know the way that works. You’re seen together out in public. Then people begin to invite you both places. It was only a few months before there were hints about an engagement. I remember Sammy gave a huge party the week before Christmas. I think everyone he’d ever known was there. And I’m sure at least half of them were expecting an announcement of some sort.”

“What sort?”

“An engagement. Or maybe that they would announce their marriage. At Sammy’s age there’s no reason for a big wedding with the blushing bride all in white—unless the bride wants one,” Carol added hurriedly. “You know I think the bride should be the one to decide on these things.”