New Year's Eve Murder (15 page)

“Well, I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.” Lucy’s eyes met the agent’s. “Sitting in a hospital room with a sick child does tend to concentrate the mind. I’ve been over that session in my mind a million times, dredging up every detail.”

“Hindsight isn’t always accurate,” warned Christine. “Your emotions can color your memories.”

“I know,” admitted Lucy. “But you’ve probably been talking with lots of people. You’re trained to filter out the personal reactions to get to the truth.”

“Absolutely.”

“So what have you learned so far?”

Christine’s unkempt eyebrows shot up and she pursed her mouth. “Any information relevant to this case is strictly confidential and I am not at liberty to divulge it,” she said.

There it was again, that darn FBI manual. “Just thought I’d try.” Lucy shrugged.

“I don’t think I need to keep you any longer,” said Christine, crumpling her napkin and tossing it on the table. “But I do think I ought to warn you that obstructing a federal investigation constitutes a felony.”

“Felony? That seems kind of harsh. Are you sure it’s not a misdemeanor?”

For a brief second Christine seemed confused. “A felony,” she snapped, dropping a couple of dollar bills on the table. “Let me make this very clear,” she said. “Mind your own business and leave the investigating to the professionals. We don’t want you to get hurt.”

Having delivered a warning, Agent Christine turned on her heels and sped out of the coffee shop.

Darn, thought Lucy, she hadn’t even gotten a chance to share her theory about Arnold or her questions about Camilla.

L
ucy remained at the table after Agent Christine left and pulled her cell phone out of her purse, eager to check on Elizabeth.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Okay.”

“Did you find the things I left you?”

“Yeah, thanks, Mom.”

“Is there anything else you need? I’m on my way over.”

“Right now?” Elizabeth didn’t sound eager to see her.

“Yeah,” said Lucy. “Is there a problem?”

“Uh, well, Lance is coming. He’s bringing me lunch.”

“Okay.” Lucy sighed. “I’ll catch you later.”

“No rush, Mom. I’m fine. Really. Come tonight, okay?”

Well, that certainly didn’t take long, thought Lucy, ending the call. Already she was a third wheel. She wasn’t needed, she was superfluous. That’s how it was with college-age kids. One minute you were bailing them out of a crisis and the next you were getting in their hair. She might as well have another cup of coffee. So when the waitress came over with the coffee pot and offered to refill her cup, she accepted and sat, staring into the black liquid, thinking over her conversation with Agent Christine.

The FBI agent was right about one thing. It was ridiculous to think she could identify Nadine’s killer. For one thing, she was a fish out of water in the city. Back home in Tinker’s Cove she knew her way around, she knew the people. But that certainly wasn’t the case here; she’d only been in the city for a few days and hardly knew anyone. And then there was the matter of the murder weapon: anthrax. She hardly knew what it was and didn’t have a clue where the killer could have obtained it. It seemed the very last thing that people in Nadine’s world of society and fashion could access.

Nevertheless, leaving it to the FBI was like staring at the slick, oily surface of the coffee hoping that a face would magically appear or the steam rising from the cup would take the shape of letters spelling out a name. It was no good. There was no way she could sit around waiting for the official investigation to produce the sicko who had killed Nadine and poisoned Elizabeth. After all, government officials hadn’t succeeded in solving the original anthrax attack, and that was years ago. She might not have any better luck, but she had to try.

Investigating was the only thing she knew how to do. She couldn’t administer drugs or conduct lab tests to make Elizabeth better; she had to leave that to the doctors and nurses. But as a mother she still wanted, no,
needed
, to help. Even if she only turned up one tiny clue, it would be better than doing nothing.

Besides, if Agent Christine was the best the FBI had to offer, Lucy didn’t have a lot of confidence the agency would ever solve the case. She didn’t know much about the FBI, but she was aware that its reputation for infallibility had suffered after Oklahoma City and 9/11. Even so, the conversation with Agent Christine had seemed a bit odd. Lucy chewed on her lip. Maybe Agent Christine was new to the job.

Lucy took a sip of coffee and pulled a pen out of her purse. She plucked a paper napkin from the chrome holder on the table and started making a list of names, all possible suspects.

Nadine’s husband, Arnold, topped the list. It was a sad but indisputable fact that the husband was always the prime suspect when a wife was murdered, and from what she knew of Arnold he certainly deserved that dubious honor. She clucked her tongue, remembering the pass he made at her at the gala, even while his wife was dying. What a slimeball. She underlined his name and added an exclamation point.

Of course, the fact that he had a roving eye didn’t necessarily make him a murderer. Plenty of men felt they had to make a pass at every attractive woman they encountered; it was almost expected, like all men were supposed to love sports. Those who didn’t, the guys who’d rather spend Sunday afternoon at the ballet than in front of the TV watching football, were judged as less than manly. Maybe she was placing too much emphasis on one little pass. It had been a clumsy attempt, almost cartoonish, with his talk of champagne and caviar. Maybe he had only been joking and she was such a rube that she didn’t get it. Maybe it was some sort of New York compliment.

But that didn’t explain his reaction to her at the funeral. You would have thought he suspected
her
of poisoning Nadine, which was patently absurd since Nadine was already sick when they met. Lucy scratched her chin thoughtfully. It could be a smart ploy, however, if he wanted to turn suspicion away from himself. She supposed it could be argued that Elizabeth got sick administering the anthrax to Nadine. It wouldn’t hold up for long, of course, but it might give him time to hide evidence or flee to the Bahamas or whatever he might be planning.

And what about Camilla? Lucy wasn’t at all convinced that her show of grief at the funeral was genuine. In truth, from what she’d seen of Camilla, it seemed the woman had ice water in her veins. She was essentially interested in only one person—herself. And what had Pablo meant when he’d said Nadine wasn’t as good a friend to her as she thought? Had Nadine been angling to get Camilla’s job? It was possible; she certainly seemed to have plenty of ideas about how to run the magazine. Everybody knew the magazine was in trouble—did that mean Camilla was in trouble? Camilla was an ambitious woman, and Lucy had no doubt that if she found herself pressured by the publisher on one hand and her old friend on the other, the old friend would have to go. But why not fire her? Did Nadine have some hold on her, some information, that made that option impossible? You didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to know that Camilla was driven to succeed. Lucy had no doubt she would do whatever it took, even murder, to maintain her status as New York’s most influential magazine editor.

After Arnold and Camilla, the name that came to mind was Pablo, the photographer. He must certainly have resented Nadine’s influence at the magazine, where Camilla ignored his ideas in favor of her half-cracked notions. Lucy knew from her own experience how frustrating it was to see her byline on a story she didn’t believe in. An example that came to mind was a puff piece Ted had insisted she write about the visit of an aspiring pop star to the outlet mall last summer, even though she had argued that her time would be better spent on a story about the school budget. He’d overruled her, insisting that the story would appeal to younger readers. She’d been embarrassed when it appeared, and she couldn’t imagine that Pablo had been very happy about attaching his name to a photo spread of homeless people modeling priceless gems. If he had any artistic integrity at all he must have been mortified to have his talent employed to mock those unfortunate souls.

Pablo’s buddy Nancy was no fan of Nadine’s either, thought Lucy, adding her name to the list. Nancy certainly seemed eager to comfort Arnold; she’d been all over the man at the funeral. Perhaps she saw herself as the next Mrs. Arnold Nelson and decided the road to matrimony would be a lot smoother if she got rid of the first? From her point of view it would be a win–win situation: even if she failed to snag Arnold, she would have the benefit of getting Nadine out of the way at work.

Phyllis was another
Jolie
employee who benefited from Nadine’s demise: she got her job. Was that reason enough to kill the woman? After all, Phyllis had seemed devoted to Nadine. If the woman told her to jump, Phyllis jumped. That was how it appeared anyway, but Lucy knew that appearances could be deceptive. Maybe Phyllis resented Nadine every bit as much as Pablo did but had been better at masking her emotions. Lucy decided she’d love to know Phyllis’s true feelings.

And then there was Elise, the fashion editor who didn’t seem all that interested in fashion. She seemed to be working at the magazine only because her old college friends Camilla and Nadine were there. It reminded Lucy of a favorite saying of her mother’s: “Three’s a crowd.” To her mother’s way of thinking, people naturally tended to pair off, and not just matrimonially. Two could walk abreast comfortably on a sidewalk, but if there were three someone had to walk alone. Two could sit together at a theater and chat while waiting for the show to start, but not three. Two could ride together in the front seat of a car, but the third had to take the backseat. What if Elise had gotten tired of sitting in the backseat? Would she kill to ride shotgun? Lucy remembered how she had supported Camilla at the funeral, and she added her name to the list, which was growing rather long without even considering the makeover winners.

Most of them could be dismissed, she decided, because they’d had no contact with Nadine before they arrived in New York. There were a couple of exceptions, though. Cathy, for example, had a history of sorts with Camilla and Nadine, having encountered them through her work at Neiman Marcus. And Maria lived in New York. Maybe she’d had some sort of run-in with her. But where would Cathy or Maria, or any of the other people on her list for that matter, get anthrax? And how could they handle it without getting sick themselves?

Lucy reached for her coffee cup and took a sip, but the coffee was cold. She’d been so absorbed in her list of suspects that she’d forgotten to drink it. Coffee had a way of cooling off, and so did investigations, if you let them sit too long. Lucy knew that time was not on her side if she was going to catch the anthrax poisoner, but she didn’t know how to begin. Back home she’d simply grab her reporter’s notebook and start asking questions, but it wasn’t that simple here in New York, especially since she’d been officially warned off by the FBI. She needed to find a way to investigate that wouldn’t rouse suspicion: she needed to fly below the radar. But how she was going to do that was anybody’s guess. She got up and shrugged into her coat.

Outside, on the sidewalk, it occurred to her that emotion was clouding the issue. As a reporter she’d conducted plenty of investigations in Tinker’s Cove and she’d always been more or less personally involved, but not like this. This time it was her daughter who’d been attacked, and she was determined to do everything in her power to bring the poisoner to justice. The hell with justice, she thought, striding along the sidewalk; she’d like to strangle whoever did this to Elizabeth, or even better, she’d like to give this heartless villain a taste of his own medicine. Or hers. She’d like to inject a big fat horse syringe of deadly microbes into his bloodstream and see how he’d feel then.

Walking along the sidewalk in the direction of the hospital, Lucy passed a newsstand and stopped to read the headlines: “Martha Stewart’s Jail Décor,” “Rosie’s New Weight Loss Plan,” “What I Saw in Michael’s Bedroom” and “Scott Peterson’s Girlfriend Talks.” Taking a
New York Tattler
off the pile and paying for it, Lucy looked for the story about Nadine’s death, but didn’t find anything. Tucking it in her bag she came to a decision. There was one surefire way she knew to ignite an investigation, and she was going to do it. She hailed a cab and gave the address of the
Tattler
. After all, what she had to tell them was a lot more sensational than Rosie’s latest diet.

The
Tattler
encouraged tips from readers and once Lucy had cleared the metal scanner and her bag had been checked for guns and explosive devices, she was sent straight up to the newsroom to talk to the news editor, Ed Riedel. Her spirits climbed as the elevator chugged upwards; it was such a relief to be doing something positive. She could hardly wait to tell this Ed Riedel the inside story of Nadine Nelson’s death.

But when the elevator stopped and the doors ground open, she found she was not the only person in New York who wanted to spill their guts to Ed. She would have to take a number. There wasn’t even room on the long bench in the hallway; she would have to stand.

Just as well, decided Lucy, waiting would give her a chance to organize her thoughts. So she unbuttoned her trusty plaid coat and leaned against the wall, alternately shifting her weight from one foot to the other and wishing she’d worn her duck boots. It wasn’t long, however, before a seat opened up. The line was moving along briskly. She hoped that was a good sign. Probably none of the others had a story that was as important as hers.

“Seventy-six,” called the receptionist, and Lucy hopped to her feet.

“That’s me.”

The receptionist cocked her head toward a door, and Lucy trotted in to tell Ed Riedel all about it.

He was sitting at a worn, gray steel desk, leaning on one elbow. His chin was resting in one hand; the other hand was busy doodling on a big pad of foolscap. He looked like an old, tired bloodhound, and no wonder, thought Lucy. The things he must have heard.

“Whatcha got?” he asked, getting right to the point.

“Anthrax poison at
Jolie
magazine. Nadine Nelson died of it and my daughter also has it, but she’s getting better,” said Lucy, making it snappy.

Riedel’s bleary eyes suddenly became sharply focused. She felt as if they were lasers, burning right through her.

“Anthrax?”

“That’s what the doctors say.”

“And Nadine Nelson is…?”

“The beauty editor, wife of real estate developer Arnold Nelson. Her funeral was this morning at Frank Campbell’s.”

“Rich broad, huh?”

Lucy nodded. “Somebody sent her a powder compact loaded with anthrax. My daughter got some on her skin. She’s in the hospital.” Ed seemed to be losing his focus so Lucy added, “The FBI is investigating.”

“Your daughter works at the magazine?”