A Fashionable Murder by Valerie Wolzien Page B

Sam be? Who are you calling?”
    “The person we should have called first. My husband. He’s one of Sam’s best friends and he’s a defense attorney. Sam’s a smart man. If the police are going to arrest him, he would have called Jon first. . . . Damn!”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Battery’s dead. Give me your phone.” It was in Betty’s hand before the words were out of her mouth. “Damn,” she repeated, staring at the keypad.
    “What’s wrong now? Why aren’t you dialing?”
    “I can’t remember his cell phone number. It’s on my auto dial at home and on my cell and I . . . wait, let me think for a second . . . Okay, got it, I think . . . at least . . .”
    Just when Josie had decided that she could no longer resist screaming, Betty got through.
    “Jon . . . Yes, hi . . . Yes, we heard . . . At Elizabeth Arden . . . Oh, well, that’s a huge relief. . . . Yes . . . Why not? Oh . . . well, okay, but I don’t think she’s going to be very happy about it. . . . Okay, we’ll wait at home. Love you. Bye.”
    “He’s seen Sam?”
    “He just left him at the police station and he says everything is okay.”
    “What? Why were they at the police station? Why did he leave him there?” Josie shrieked, backing into a woman carrying three large bags from Bergdorf Goodman. “I’m sorry!”
    “Why don’t you watch where you’re going? You could hurt someone!”
    “She said she was sorry!” Betty grabbed Josie’s arm and pulled her to the side of the sidewalk. “Listen, Josie, our information’s wrong; Jon says Sam wasn’t arrested. He was asked to come down to the police station and make an official statement. That’s what he did—after calling Jon. No smart lawyer is going to be questioned by the police without another lawyer present. Anyway, Jon stayed with him during the questioning and then left. Sam was waiting around for his statements to be typed up and then, after checking them over, he’ll leave. Let’s go back to my place. We can figure out what to do when we get there.” She raised her arm to flag a cab.
    “I think I should go back to Sam’s. I want to be there when he comes home.”
    “Josie . . .”
    “Betty, I’m going to go back to Sam’s apartment.” Josie had been Betty’s boss for almost a decade. She knew the tone of voice to use to get her point across.
    “But you’ll call me the second you hear anything,” Betty said.
    “Of course.”
    “And, Josie . . .”
    “What?”
    “Your hair looks wonderful.”
    “I just hope Sam gets to see it.” Josie’s answer was grim. She turned and walked up Fifth Avenue. Her mind was as chaotic as the midday traffic. At Fifty-fifth Street a taxi, swinging around the corner, almost ran over her toes. Josie scowled and continued on. The sign said Walk; she had the right of way. She stomped down the sidewalk, ignoring shopping bags that nicked her legs, brushing by women in full-length furs and men in immaculate trench coats, Burberry scarves wrapped around their necks, briefcases firmly tucked under their arms. She detoured around an elegant young couple in matching black leather staring at the display of diamonds in Cartier’s windows. The woman already sported a pretty large diamond—pierced onto her left eyebrow. A block later a group of noisy high school students had taken over the sidewalk; giggling, pushing, and shoving one another despite their teacher’s attempts to convince them to line up for a group photo beneath a sign indicating that they were at Fifty-seventh Street. Josie passed them all, pausing only when she came to FAO Schwarz.
    There was very little about New York City that she remembered from family vacations when she was growing up, but a visit to this store was printed on her mind. She had wanted—desperately wanted—a massive stuffed St. Bernard. Her parents, always practical, had refused to spend hundreds of dollars on such a thing and she had gone home with a red plastic pencil case; it had fallen apart