A Fashionable Murder (24 page)

“Beautiful, isn’t it? That particular dress was donated by a very famous actress.” The middle-aged woman who had approached Josie picked up the manila tag tied to the hanger on which the dress hung. The name printed there confirmed the woman’s claim.

“Were these all worn by famous people?” Josie asked, looking down the long rows of dresses.

“No, and, of course, some of the women, some very prominent women, who donated some gorgeous items preferred to remain anonymous so we cannot guarantee the provenance of each and every gown. But I could show you something that I’m told belonged to Anne Bancroft . . .”

“I think I’ll just wander around by myself. If that’s okay with you.”

“We encourage you to look. The larger sizes are toward the rear of the room.”

Josie realized the gown she was admiring was a size four. “I’m shopping for a friend as well as myself,” she lied.

“Oh . . . well . . . I hope you find something for you both. Dressing rooms are to the left. Cash registers to the right. And we take all major credit cards. And some of the women who pay by check make a donation to our cause as well. We are tax deductible, you know.”

“Yes, thank you very much.” Josie moved away, looking for Gayle as she skimmed through the gowns. A lot of women had gray hair, she thought, and almost instantly realized it wasn’t true. Very few women here had allowed themselves to go gray. Feeling a bit more confident, she resumed her search for Gayle.

And found a woman who fit Dawn’s description of her looking through the size eight gowns. She took a deep breath and asked, “Are you Gayle?”

“Yes. Josie Pigeon?” Gayle asked without looking away from the dresses.

“Yes.”

“I only have an hour to find something to wear to my idiot cousin’s formal wedding, so we’re going to have to talk while I shop.”

“Of course. I . . . I don’t know where to begin.”

“You could tell me if you think I’ll look like a green bean in this thing.” Gayle held a jade gown up in front of her.

“Well, I like green . . .”

“But not this dress. Well, you’re honest and tactful. That’s good. Now let’s put this back and find three or four things for me to try on. We’ll chat while I’m dressing. I’m a size eight and hate sequins or beading. And I don’t like this particular cousin and don’t want to spend a whole lot to see her get married to her trophy fiancé. The only good thing to be said for him is that he went to Princeton and didn’t flunk out. But, if you knew my cousin, you’d know that for her, he is a real catch. Now let’s get busy.” Without waiting for a response, she began flipping through the dresses.

Taking a moment to regain her bearings, Josie joined her. Within ten minutes Gayle had four dresses slung over her arm and Josie had, rather tentatively, chosen four more.

“Let’s go. The dressing tent over there seems to be the least crowded.”

Working hard to prevent the dresses from dragging on the floor and to keep up with Gayle, Josie trotted after her. She liked this blunt woman; she only hoped she could convince her to feel the same way about her. But how was she going to impress her in a small dressing room?

It wasn’t size that was going to be the problem, she realized, as she followed Gayle into the large tent. There were no small dressing rooms. Everyone was trying on clothing in the large open area. Josie had never seen so many matching bras and panties in her life. A dozen full-length mirrors on the far side of the tent were almost invisible through the crowd gathered in front of them peering at their reflections.

“You hold. I’ll dress,” Gayle suggested.

Josie grabbed the dresses eagerly. “Fine. Ah . . .” She didn’t know how to begin.

“You want to tell me why I should introduce you to the Hendersons,” Gayle reminded her.

“Yes. I’m trying to figure out who killed Pamela Peel. She was Shepard Henderson’s partner. In Henderson and Peel,” Josie added. Gayle was pulling her sweater over her head and didn’t answer immediately.

“You think Mr. or Mrs. Henderson did it?” she asked when she was free.

“I . . . oh, of course not!”

“Are you so sure they didn’t?”

Josie realized what Gayle was saying. “Why? Would they have? Did they hate her?”

“They couldn’t stand her. On the other hand, they are probably too civilized to actually kill someone.”

“Do you think Shepard Henderson knows how they feel?”

“Actually, I doubt if they shared their thoughts on that subject with their son. The Hendersons are a close family in some ways but not in others. As Mrs. Henderson would say, ‘We don’t intrude on each other’s lives.’ They certainly wouldn’t criticize the professional opinion of their only beloved son.”

“Really? Doesn’t sound like my family,” Josie commented, trying to help Gayle close the zipper on the gown she was wearing without dropping anything.

“Mine either. Unfortunately. And I’ll have to run a gauntlet of questions and suggestions at this damn wedding next week. Mainly concerning my status as a single woman.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Josie said, frowning.

Gayle turned and smiled at her. “Okay. We’ve bonded. Tell me, why do you think one of the Hendersons killed Pamela Peel?”

“Oh, I don’t. I mean, I’d be happy if one of them did. Because I’m looking for suspects, not because I have anything against them. The man I’m involved with is the main, maybe the only, suspect at the present time,” she explained.

“Dawn told me. How about the black one?” Gayle handed Josie the green gown and reached out for another.

“Oh, okay.” Josie handed Gayle a silk sheath. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to the Hendersons because I wanted to hear what they thought of Pamela. I was hoping to learn more about her.”

“You’re hoping to discover that she was dating a homicidal maniac.”

“Exactly.”

“Can’t quite imagine her doing anything like that, at least not from what I’ve heard about her.”

“Have you heard much?”

“Oh, tons. Most of it completely biased, you understand, but, yes, while Sterling Henderson was a patient of mine, he talked about her endlessly.”

“Why?”

“He and Mrs. Henderson thought she was after their son and, in turn, their money. What do you think?”

“Well, just because you’re involved with someone doesn’t mean you end up with any of their parents’ money.”

“No, I mean about this dress.” Gayle was wearing a long black column of silk topped with a short jacket.

“It’s a little . . . uh, severe, isn’t it?” Josie asked.

“Too nunlike?”

“Just a bit. Or more like you’re in mourning. You don’t want to give that impression, do you?”

“Oh no! I want everyone to think I’m happy, happy, happy.”

“Try the red,” Josie suggested, untangling the sleeves of two different gowns and passing a red number over to Gayle. “So, are you telling me that Pamela and Shep Henderson were romantically involved?”

“That’s a good question. . . . Oh . . .”

“Wait . . . Let me . . .”

It took a few minutes for Josie to figure out how a hook and eye had become wound up in Gayle’s hair, then a few more minutes for both women to realize that this size eight was more like a size six. “Too bad. The color is terrific.”

“Alas. Well, let’s try the silver. Brocade isn’t usually my thing, but I’m desperate. Now where were we?”

“You were going to tell me whether or not Pamela and Shep were dating.”

“Not dating. No. Well, not that I know of. According to Mr. Henderson, his wife was obsessed with the possibility that they might get together.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea. I do know that Mrs. Henderson desperately wanted her son to marry the daughter of one of her friends. And I do know that she didn’t want him to marry Pamela Peel. But why she thought that might happen is beyond me.”

“But something must have happened in their professional life for her to even consider the possibility.”

“Oh, not that I know of. This was years ago. They were just forming Henderson and Peel.”

“Really? Do you know how his parents reacted to that?”

“I sure do.” Gayle paused, took a deep breath, and zipped up the silver dress. “This much I can tell you. Shep Henderson was supposed to follow his father to Harvard or, if he really wanted to prove his independence, to attend Yale. Instead he chose to go to Brown.” She grinned at the expression on Josie’s face. “Okay, it’s not running off to join the foreign legion or a cult, but, remember this is a very conservative family. And then, instead of investment banking, the field that had made his parents very, very wealthy, he decided to become an interior decorator. They were horrified.”

“Were they concerned about his . . . lifestyle?”

“I know what you’re thinking. Mrs. Henderson insisted that her son was not gay and, although I’m sure that in many cases the mother is the last to know, Shep apparently provided her with proof.”

“Proof?”

“They paid for abortions for more than one of his girlfriends when he was young. At least that’s what Mr. Henderson told me. ‘Damn fool kid,’ he called him, but I think he was proud of him in a way.”

“How male.”

“Very. Anyway, although he decorated rich people’s homes instead of investing their money, his parents always seemed proud of him. They were constantly talking about him and they never said anything negative.”

“But that didn’t hold true for Pamela Peel.”

“No, they said a lot against her.” Gayle stopped speaking and drifted over to the mirrors. Josie followed, clothes in hand.

“Perhaps you don’t want all these items?” The woman who had rushed over to them had a stern look on her face.

“No, we don’t want this . . . or this . . . or this.” Josie handed over the rejects and then hurried off to find Gayle.

“What do you think?”

“You look beautiful. I love the silver with your hair color.”

“Okay. Sold. I’ll just pay for this and we can get going.”

“Where to?” Josie asked, confused.

“To see Mrs. Henderson. Where else?”

TWENTY-FIVE

CAROL REFUSED TO accompany Josie on her visit to Mrs. Henderson. “You’ll be fine without me and I have another lead that I’d like to follow up,” she had answered when asked. Josie suspected that it was another shopping opportunity that was tempting Carol, so she hurried on alone only to find that Gayle had made her purchase and was anxious to be on the way.

“How are you going to explain my presence?” Josie asked as they got into one of the cabs that had just unloaded a group of women at the entrance to the pier. Snowflakes were beginning to fall as the taxi drove onto the Henry Hudson Parkway.

“I already did,” Gayle answered after announcing their destination to the driver.

“When?”

“I called her right after Dawn called me.”

“You were going to introduce us without meeting me?”

“Yes. In the first place, I trust Dawn’s judgment and she felt that helping you was worthwhile. And, of course, I did need someone to help me hang on to dresses while I tried on others. Put something down in that place and it’s lost,” Gayle admitted.

“So where are we going?”

“To the Hendersons’ home. They live on the East Side.”

“What did you tell her about me?”

“Just that you were looking into Pamela Peel’s murder.”

“And that I wanted to ask her some questions?”

“No, she said right away that she would like to speak with you.”

“Really? Did she tell you why?”

“No, but she will. This family is very up-front. When the worst thing that’s happened to you is that your son chose the wrong career to be successful in, there’s little reason not to be,” she added.

“I guess.”

The sky, visible between the tall buildings, was ominously dark and Josie wondered if this was the beginning of a full-scale snowstorm.

“Gonna be ten inches by tomorrow morning,” their driver said. “I’m going home as soon as you’re dropped off.”

“But don’t people need cabs in bad weather as much, or more, than in good weather?” Josie asked.

“They need cabs. But not my cab.” He hit the accelerator and Josie and Gayle were thrown against the backseat, ending their conversation.

“I haven’t heard a weather forecast since I arrived in the city,” Josie said, looking out the window.

“There was something about a storm moving in from Canada on the
Today
show this morning,” Gayle said. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t paying much attention. I don’t worry about these things a whole lot. You know those guys on TV. They’re forever making a big deal out of storm systems that turn out to be absolutely nothing.”

“I hope you’re right,” Josie said as the cab swerved over to a curb and flung her against the door.

“This is it, ladies. This is as far as I go in this snow.”

“I guess we get out here,” Gayle said, paying the driver the amount on the meter and no more. Either in retaliation for the loss of his tip or because he was in such a hurry to get away, their driver took off in a spin of wheels causing filthy water and slush to run up their legs and soak the hems of their coats.

“Damn! First he doesn’t take us the whole way and now this. I don’t suppose you got his license number?”

“No, I never even thought to look.”

“Oh well, let’s get going. We don’t want to be late and now we have three blocks to walk,” Gayle informed her, striding across the street.

Josie followed, deciding that she was too wet to worry about more water. The flakes were becoming larger and the sky seemed darker. They hurried down 75th Street, past small specialty shops, dry cleaners, doors with brass plaques identifying the services available within. Josie noticed that some of the town houses had only one mailbox and wondered briefly about the people who could afford such a large chunk of New York real estate. When they stopped, Josie realized they were at the river.

“The Hudson?”

“Wrong direction. That’s the East River. You’ll have a great view of it from the Hendersons’ place. Come on.”

Shep Henderson’s parents’ duplex had river views from every window, Renoirs and van Goghs on the walls, antique Oriental carpets on inlaid marble floors, and staff to open the doors for guests. Josie found herself working hard not to find it all incredibly intimidating. The maid led them into a sitting room and explained that she would inform Mrs. Henderson of their arrival. Gayle and Josie headed straight for the large bay window.