A Fashionable Murder (21 page)

“It’s a wonderful studio,” Josie agreed.

“It is, but it’s the clients I like best. This place attracts people who want to change their lives. I don’t buy into all the spiritual stuff that’s taught here, but the people who are interested in that type of thing don’t believe the way to all happiness is in whittling an inch off your hips.”

“Was Pamela interested in spiritual stuff?” Josie asked.

“Pamela wasn’t interested in anything but Pamela,” Dawn answered, repeating Carollynn’s earlier statement. “She stalked down the halls, with her arms wrapped around her as though she was afraid of catching something from the walls—or the other students. I was rather surprised that she came here to be honest.”

“But you had worked with her before.”

“Oh, yes. I was her personal trainer for almost a year.”

“I don’t know what a personal trainer is exactly. Did she come to your studio for . . . sort of private lessons?”

“I went to her apartment and worked with her there.”

“Really? Do a lot of people have personal trainers?”

“Yes. It’s a business that sprang up in the late eighties when there was lots of money around. I quit college in the middle of my sophomore year and came to New York to be a star. Star of what I wasn’t sure, but I was determined. I ended up being an aerobics instructor at a big midtown athletic club like lots of determined but untalented and untrained young women.”

“Did you like it?”

“It was okay. Those places are all alike. Tons of new members sign up in January and February. Most drop out in March. And by December the numbers working out are just about the club’s optimum capacity. Then New Year’s Eve rolls around and it all starts again.”

“So you left.”

Dawn nodded. “After three years of it, I’d had enough. And I was qualified to move on. So I found a job with a company that provides personal trainers and started going out to work in rich people’s homes.”

“Only rich people?”

“Mostly rich people. Not because it costs so terribly much to hire a personal trainer, but because you have to have lots of extra room in your apartment to spread out. In New York, extra rooms are as rare as spreading chestnut trees. Besides, the company I worked for was located on the Upper East Side, in the eighties. Lots of money up that way.”

“When did Pamela hire you?”

“Actually, she didn’t. Her partner at Henderson and Peel did. Shepard Henderson.”

“Weird.”

“Not really. He gave her two months of twice-a-week sessions for her birthday. She had hurt her back sliding off a ladder or something and he thought a personal trainer might help. I went to her home twice a week before work. And then, when her gift certificate ran out, she started paying herself.”

“So you helped her back?” Josie had had more than a few back problems.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much about her back. Maybe it was feeling better by the time I started working with her. But I do remember how thrilled she was to lose an inch and a half around her waist. She did it in record time. Say whatever you will against her, Pamela Peel was a very hard worker.”

But Josie wasn’t interested in Pamela Peel’s work ethic at the moment. “What was her apartment like?”

“Fabulous. Really, really fabulous. It was a big, prewar two bedroom right around the corner from the office. She had converted one of the bedrooms into a combination walk-in closet and exercise space. The entire thing was bigger than my place, including my kitchen and bathroom. And she had the most incredible bathroom, simple but expensive. Watery aqua walls, white and gray marble floors. Jacuzzi, a walk-in shower that half a dozen people could fit in, two big windows. There were always lots of candles around. My guess is that it was a very romantic, and sexy, spot.”

Josie didn’t reply immediately. She was thinking of her tiny closet and her bathroom, which, while fairly large, was old, ugly, and worn. No one, she was sure, would ever describe her bathroom as a “sexy spot.” For the first time, she found herself wondering if Sam had missed not just Pamela’s good looks, education, money, talent, or sophistication but also her lifestyle. But she had reserved only half an hour of Dawn’s time; she didn’t want to waste it. “Sounds very modern. How was the rest of the place decorated? In what style?”

“God, I don’t know. It was just gorgeous. Not modern exactly. The main colors were black, taupe, white, and this creamy off-white. The furniture was big, upholstered, and mainly made out of some sort of dark woods. There weren’t a lot of accessories and nothing at all ditzy or feminine. Even the bedroom was elegant, but somewhat neutral. I’m not explaining at all well. It’s just that it was perfect in an impersonal sort of way. Like the bedspread—it was made from heavy, natural raw silk, and the stitching was geometric rather than curvy. The artwork was modern, abstract.” Dawn stopped talking and smiled. “I liked it a lot. And it looked a lot like Pamela—expensive, well dressed, and . . . well, sort of impersonal. She was not,” Dawn concluded, “the sort of woman who had little notes and photos attached to her refrigerator.”

Josie grinned. “Sure doesn’t sound like my place.”

“Mine either.”

“And it doesn’t sound like the place where she was photographed for
New York
magazine,” Josie added.

“It wasn’t. I always wondered why she moved.”

“She did?”

“Yes . . . oh, I’m sorry. I thought you knew. She moved a few years ago. Around the same time I decided I was tired of going to people’s homes and started working here.”

“Did you ask her why?”

“Yes. And she just told me it was time to make a change. Pamela was not one to answer questions. She talked about herself when she wanted to, and, when she did, she chose the subject. Other than that, employees—and I’m sure she put me in that class and looked down on me for belonging to it—were not allowed into her life.”

“Is it that way with most of your clients?”

“Oh, no! Of course, when I was working in people’s homes, I knew a bit about them. If not their actual income, how much credit they were allowed to accumulate to get their big mortgages. But most people I work with tell me all sorts of things about their lives.”

“Men as well as women?”

“Yes. But the women are more interesting. They tell me about their hopes and dreams. Whether they’re married or who they’re seeing if they’re not. They talk about their kids, their vacations, their jobs—you know the type of thing. The men talk more about their work and careers than the personal stuff. It’s a cliché, but it’s true.”

“And did Pamela tell you about her personal life? Who she dated and all?”

“Sometimes. Mainly she talked about her work. She didn’t name-drop. In fact, she made a big deal out of not name-dropping. Said over and over that her clients demanded confidentiality.”

“As though she was a priest or a psychiatrist.”

“Yeah, but I think she was trying to make the point that they were important and famous people. And that she was famous and important because she worked for them.” Dawn laughed. “And I suppose you could say that if she was famous and important because she worked for famous and important people, I was famous and important because I worked for her. Not that she would ever suggest such a thing. Pamela was not the most generous person when it came to sharing the credit.”

“Or her money,” Josie muttered, remembering the comments about Pamela’s tipping practices at Elizabeth Arden.

Dawn caught on immediately. “Yeah, she was a lousy tipper. But some people are. What can you do?”

“Did she talk about the men in her life?”

“Some. She talked about her partner once in a while. I could never tell if she liked him or not. She didn’t exactly complain about him, but she implied that he didn’t pull his own weight in the partnership.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she’d talk about having to rush off to an appointment that she really wished Shep would have taken. Or she would mention that he didn’t bring as many clients into the firm as she did. I think that one really galled her.”

“Because she mentioned it more than once?”

“That and the fact that Shep was the one with the society background.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. The Hendersons were big deals in New York society back when there really was society.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I still see their photos in the society pages. Listening to Pamela, I got the impression, more than once, that their partnership had a lot to do with his family.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“He was the connection, maybe the initial connection, to the people Pamela wanted to work for.”

“That’s interesting. So she used him.”

“Or maybe he used her. Maybe he had all the connections and she had all the talent.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Josie admitted slowly.

“How did you come to so dislike a woman you have never even met?”

“She dated the man I’m in love with. Before I dated him. Before I even met him,” Josie answered.

“You’re jealous.”

“Yeah, I guess so. She was everything I’m not. And I’ve wondered about her for years. I almost didn’t come on this trip because I didn’t want to meet her. On the other hand, sometimes I think I came here because I didn’t want Sam to see her when I wasn’t along.”

“Sam is your significant other?”

“Yes.”

“And he doesn’t live in the city anymore.”

“Nope. He left almost three years ago. That’s when I met him. When he left the city.”

“Did he plan on coming back?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“Are you sure?”

Josie thought for a moment, surprised by the question. “Yes, I’m sure. He has a house and a business now. He came back to the city in order to put his condo on the market, not to reestablish contact with anyone here.”

“He’s rich.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Sam? No. He has more money than I do, but he’s not rich.”

“Then you don’t have to worry about him . . . well, maybe you do have to worry about him. He might be interested in Pamela, but she couldn’t have been seriously interested in him.”

“Why not?”

“Because Pamela Peel was only interested in marrying a rich man.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope. She made no bones about it. She said she had expensive tastes and she wanted someone who could indulge them.”

Josie frowned. “Didn’t she make a lot of money?”

Dawn laughed. “She spent a lot of money. She didn’t wear shoes; she wore Manolo Blahniks or Pradas. She didn’t buy suits; she bought Armanis. She didn’t want a mink; she wanted a Fendi fur. And you should have heard her when she talked about decorating. She hung modern art on her walls because it was less expensive than the Monets and Manets that she coveted. Let me tell you, unless your boyfriend has lots of bucks, he was just a passing fancy in Pamela Peel’s life.”

“They dated for over two years.”

“The lawyer, right?”

“Yes, Sam was a prosecuting attorney before he left the city.” Josie leaned closer to Dawn. “Did she talk about him to you?”

Dawn frowned and looked at the floor.

“Please, I really need to know. Sam . . . the police may think he killed her. He didn’t, of course, but . . . well, anything you know might help him.”

Dawn didn’t speak for a moment. “I don’t have real conversations with clients. At least not with clients like Pamela. I listen to what she says, but I don’t ask . . . well, I don’t ask anything you could call a piercing question. Mostly I ‘uh huh’ and ‘yes’ and ‘you’re right.’ Clients like Pamela really only want affirmation. Not intrusion into their lives, certainly nothing like advice or criticism.”

“But she did talk to you about him!”

“Yes, she did.”

“What did she say?”

Dawn hesitated. “You’re sure he wasn’t rich when he was living in the city?”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. Please tell me what you know.”

“Well, either he was rich and you don’t know about it, or she was sincerely in love with him because that’s what she used to say. That your Sam was her chance to get everything she wanted out of life.”

TWENTY-TWO

IT WAS THE last thing in the world Josie Pigeon wanted to hear. And now she was going to have to ask for the details. She sipped her herb tea, reminded herself that Pamela’s feelings for Sam might not have been reciprocated by him, took a deep breath and said, “Tell me about it.”

“I can tell you only what she told me—and only what I remember.”

“That’s fine. Just do the best you can do.”

“She wasn’t dating him when I began working with her. I remember her telling me about the first time she met him.”

“Go ahead,” Josie urged, feeling this was going to be painful.

“It was at his mother’s apartment,” Dawn said.

“She told me about that,” Josie said. She took a breath and asked another question. “Was it love at first sight?”

Dawn shrugged. “Who knows? I figured he was just a rich, single, society lawyer—a catch and Pamela was beginning to get old enough to be looking for a catch.”

“I guess. Go on. When did they next meet? Did Sam ask her out?”

“I don’t think so,” Dawn answered slowly. “I think they had some mutual acquaintances and they were both invited to a dinner party.”

“That’s a coincidence!”

“Oh, it wasn’t a coincidence. One of them must have set it up. I just don’t remember which one, if I ever knew. Anyway, I don’t remember the details, but Pamela, who was always obsessed with her appearance, became something of a fanatic at that point. She doubled her workout schedule and lost a few pounds. And, of course, bought an entire new wardrobe. How that woman could spend money . . .” She looked at Josie. “Maybe Sam gives the impression of being rich?”

“How would he do that?”

“Wear Armani suits. Drive a Porsche. Stuff like that.”

“I’m not sure I’d recognize an Armani. Besides, he’s more chinos and docksiders. And he drives an MGB. It’s older than my truck.”

“Restored?”