New Year's Eve Murder. Leslie Meier

from Tinker’s Cove, isn’t it?”

      “It sure is,” said Lucy, suddenly finding herself speechless.

      “Are you having a good time?”

      “We sure are,” said Lucy, nodding and smiling for all she was worth.

      Norah turned to Elizabeth, who had suddenly gone pale. “Me, too,” she managed to squeak, and Norah gave them each a parting hug before moving on. Lucy heard Norah proclaim that Cathy was from Texas, but the rest was a blur as she concentrated on collecting herself. Who would have thought that a brief moment on the small screen would have such an effect? Lucy’s head was swimming, her heart was pounding, her mouth was dry as cotton, and her hands were sweaty. She reached over and took Elizabeth’s hand; it was ice cold. “Whew,” she whispered, hoping they were out of camera range.

      “That was intense,” said Elizabeth, also whispering.

      The show went to commercials after Norah finished introducing the others—at least that’s what Lucy assumed was going on as Norah settled herself in a chair and was immediately surrounded by hair and make-up technicians who made minute adjustments to her appearance. Sidra also appeared, escorting a nattily dressed man in his mid-fifties and seating him in the guest chair.

      Then, Norah was sitting up straighter and talking into a camera.

      “Have I got something amazing for you,” she began, introducing a video clip. “Just you watch, you won’t believe this.”

      The audience was directed to a series of video monitors that hung from the ceiling where a model was demonstrating a state-of-the-art kitchen. Norah hadn’t overstated the case; the kitchen was equipped with an oven that could hold a dish at refrigerator temperature all day until signaled by telephone to begin cooking and a refrigerator with a digital display that warned when milk and other staples were getting low. When the video was over, Norah introduced her guest, real estate developer Arnold Nelson.

      “Now, Arnold, is this stuff for real?” asked Norah. “I mean, I want it, we all want it, don’t we?” The audience, including Lucy, responded by clapping enthusiastically. Norah continued, “But where can we get it?”

      “Well, Norah, these are the kitchens that we want to put in our new City Gate Towers, which we hope to build right here in New York on Governors Island.”

      Lucy leaned back, half dozing, as Arnold described the luxury condominiums that were going to be located on an island in New York harbor formerly used as a Coast Guard base.

      “You’re joshing me! You mean I can actually get a kitchen with all this space-age equipment right now?”

      “In a year or two,” answered Arnold, “if things go according to schedule. As you know, a citizens’ committee is currently considering a variety of proposals for the island, and we’re awaiting their recommendations. We certainly hope that City Gate Towers will be part of the final plan.”

      A second video began to run showing architects’ drawings of the towers rising from the green and wooded island. The camera appeared to swoop around the towers, showing them in relation to landmarks including the Verrazzano Bridge, the Statue of Liberty, and the skyscrapers of Wall Street.

      “That is a magnificent setting,” cooed Norah. “Imagine waking up every morning to that view.”

      “And freshly prepared hot coffee, too, at the push of a remote button.”

      Norah’s eyes bugged out, and the audience burst into applause.

      “Our residents will have the whole city at their feet,” continued Arnold, “but they’ll also have the charm—and the security—of island living. It’s absolutely unparalleled. There’s nothing like it anywhere in the world.”

      “Well, sign me up,” gushed Norah. “All that—and remote control coffee. It doesn’t get better than that, does it?”

      The audience jumped to their feet, clapping, and the cameras turned to pan them in preparation for another commercial break. Seated once again, Lucy found herself wondering about Norah’s choice of Arnold as a guest. The segment had been little more than an infomercial for his development, but perhaps he was the best they could find as a last-minute substitute for Nadine.

      “Do you believe it?” whispered Cathy.

      “Some amazing kitchen,” said Lucy, keeping her reservations to herself.

      ‘No, I mean about Arnold.”

      “What about him?”

      “He’s Nadine’s husband.”

      Lucy considered the implications of this. “At home, everybody knows everybody, but I didn’t expect it to be like that in New York City.”

      “It isn’t,” said Cathy, lowering her voice as the house lights went down. “Here it’s only everybody who’s anybody.”

      As the show continued, Lucy wondered how the last-minute switch had been arranged. Had Nadine made a quick call from the bus when she realized she was too sick to go on? Lucy hadn’t noticed if she had; she only remembered seeing her sleeping. Maybe she’d given a message to Phyllis, while she was helping her get settled on the bus, and she’d made the arrangements from her office. It all seemed less than entirely square to Lucy, who was used to following Ted’s strict rules at the Pennysaver about keeping advertisements separate from editorial policy. She shrugged mentally. Maybe TV had different standards from newspapers; she really didn’t know.

      Then Beyoncé was singing, and then the show was suddenly over; everybody was on their feet, applauding madly. Even Lurleen and Faith had forgotten their earlier disappointment and were smiling and clapping.

      The high spirits engendered by the show continued as they all boarded the waiting bus for the ride to the hotel, where they would have an hour to rest and change for dinner and a promised Broadway show. Petty jealousies and rivalries were forgotten as Maria treated everyone to a medley of songs about New York, finally getting them all to join in for a rousing chorus of “New York, New York.”

      A wave of tiredness overcame Lucy as she disembarked from the bus and crossed the hotel lobby, but she was surprised when Elizabeth’s steps dragged, too. She was beginning to wonder if she was coming down with the flu when the desk clerk called her name.

      The others, who were gathered by the elevator, watched curiously as he presented her with a couple of square, white envelopes. Lurleen, whose eyes were practically popping out of her head, couldn’t restrain herself. “What’s that?” she demanded. “How come we didn’t all get them?”

      Lucy examined the envelopes, which were addressed to her and Elizabeth in calligraphic script. “I don’t know,” she said, turning them over. Seeing the name and address of the sender, she smiled. “It’s nothing to do with the magazine,” she said. “It’s from my friend who lives in New York.”

      “They look like invitations,” said Cathy. “A wedding, maybe?”

      “I don’t think so. I haven’t heard anything about a wedding.” Lucy was wondering what was keeping the elevator. She wanted to open the envelopes in private, in her room.

      “Goodness, we’re all forgetting our manners,” said Ginny. “Lucy doesn’t need to share her private mail with us.”

      “I think it’s some sort of joke,” said Lucy. “Probably one of those funny greeting cards.”

      The arrow next to the elevator was alight, signaling it was on its way down.

      “I could use a joke,” said Cathy.

      “Oh, all right,” said Lucy, slipping her finger under the envelope flap and pulling out an engraved cardboard square. The others were clustered around, craning their necks and reading over her shoulder.

      “Oh my,” she said, breaking into a big smile. “It is an invitation. To a ball at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Tomorrow night.”