Murder at the Museum Paints a Picture

The gray steel elevator doors opened with a soft thud, and Dr. Jessica Shepard stepped out into the dusky light of the hotel’s top floor. As she turned halfway down the corridor into the entrance of the penthouse restaurant, she was immediately met by a single beam of light coming from an overhead gilded lantern in front of her. The rays hit her smack on and, for a moment, disoriented her. But that was usually the case whenever she was unsure of what lay before her. Taking some time to look around, she noticed that the illumination refracted off intricately carved, mahogany wood dividers, which partitioned the Asian eatery into intimate dining spaces, and she knew, without a doubt, that they would offer the seclusion Tom Martine had obviously felt necessary for the luncheon.

            As she accustomed herself to the conflicting tones of dark and light, a hostess approached her out of the recesses of the restaurant. The woman wore a formfitting scarlet-red dress. Jessica wondered if the provocative attire was another reason Tom had selected this particular environment for their meeting. He liked to enjoy himself—whatever the circumstances. The satiny fabric the hostess wore was punctuated in strategically scattered points by gold-threaded embroidery, most noticeable around the daringly low, scooped neckline.

Jessica instinctively looked down at her own ensemble to compare it; the contrast was striking. Unlike the hostess, Jessica was clad in muted colors, as was her custom. The light gray slacks complemented her trim figure, as did the ivory silk blouse—its cross-body form kept in place by a pale blue cashmere sweater that cascaded down softly from her shoulders.

Although her garments did not provide the aura of exotic mystery of the hostess’s garb, vibrant color was not lacking, as it was provided by the healthy shine of Jessica’s dark brown shoulder-length hair that fell about her neck. Happily for Jessica, any insecure thoughts, which might have been at odds with her habit of valuing mind over body, were shattered by noticing that all the hostesses she saw in the restaurant were clad in the very same outfit; she was consoled that her own appearance, however less dramatic, was at least her own.

            “Good afternoon,” the hostess said in a surprisingly brisk and efficient diction. The sound of the woman’s voice shattered any illusion of mystery; it was an accent clearly belonging in any of the five boroughs of New York City.

            “Hello, I’m Jessica Shepard. I’m lunching with Tom Martine today. Has he arrived yet?”

“Welcome. Mr. Martine has already arrived and is seated in the back. He asked me specifically to keep an eye out for you and bring you to him as soon as you got here. He’s quite a regular, so we have his routine down pat. We keep the recessed booth in the back on the ready whenever he wants it.”

            “Well, I guess that’s convenient. If you lead, I will follow.” Jessica walked behind the hostess, twisting and turning around the various eating spaces, as the sheen of the woman’s scarlet dress provided a guiding beacon to follow. The few other patrons eating at this time of day—too late for lunch and too early for dinner—took no notice of them as they passed by. Jessica wondered what Tom could possibly want to discuss with her that would merit such intimacy. He had refused to give her any hints when he had contacted her by phone.

She had known Tom Martine for the past few years. She met him at a Saturday evening cocktail party for a charitable event that a Connecticut neighbor had championed. It was held in her neighbor’s pied-à-terre, a private penthouse residence in New York City, not far from where she was now meeting Tom. At that time, she had been admiring the Manhattan skyline, illuminated at night, and marveling at how such a grand city apartment could possibly be anyone’s pied-à-terre. Tom had approached her and graciously offered her a flute of champagne.

            Tom was a freelance investigative journalist, and he had been so for enough good years to make him a presence in his own profession. He was known for his honesty and for his ability to get the bare facts. He was not one to shy away from politically incorrect truths and seemed to take pride in ruffling feathers—the particular pigeon didn’t matter; in fact, the fatter the bird, the more likely he was to go after it.

But that night he had seemed out of place, as she had. And he had obviously sought out another duck in a pond of swans. Her first impression of him was that he would have looked more comfortable holding a pint of beer rather than a flute of champagne in his large fingers; those digits were more likely to be used to clack out syntax on computer keys. She also noticed his fingertips were darkened by cigarette stains. That had bothered her medical instincts, but she had held her tongue.