New Year's Eve Murder. Leslie Meier

options and decided this was no time to pinch pennies by searching for a shuttle bus—if they were even running at this hour. You had to spend money to save it, or in this case, win it. “Taxi,” she said.

      The ride on the expressway was disorienting, as they sped along in a whirl of red and white automobile lights. The stretches of road that were illuminated by streetlamps gave only depressing views of the filthy slush and ice that lined the roadway, but their spirits brightened when they rounded a curve and there, right in front of them, was the glittering New York skyline.

      “Wow,” breathed Elizabeth. “It’s really like the pictures.”

      Lucy studied the ranks of tall buildings and looked for the familiar outlines of the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, the only two she could identify with certainty. Those and the twin towers of the World Trade Center, but there was only an empty gap where they had stood. The thought made her heart lurch and she was surprised at her reaction; she didn’t trust herself to speak about it for fear she would start crying. Instead, she firmly turned her thoughts to the promised “three days of luxury at New York’s fabulous Melrose Hotel.”

      New York must indeed be “the city that never sleeps,” thought Lucy, as the taxi pulled up to the hotel and the doorman rushed forward to greet them. “Welcome to the Melrose,” he said, opening the door and extending a hand to help them alight from the car.

      In no time at all they were checked in and whisked through the marble lobby to the elevators and taken to their room, which Lucy was delighted to discover was decorated in a French-inspired style with wrought iron filigree headboards and wooden shutters at the windows. It was also very tiny and she had to maneuver carefully around Elizabeth before she could collapse on her bed.

      “Did you know this used to be the Barbizon?” she asked, quickly leafing through the leather-bound book listing the hotel’s amenities.

      “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” demanded Elizabeth.

      “I guess not,” admitted Lucy, reminded yet again of the knowledge gap between generations. “It was a famous hotel for women.”

      “Like for lesbians or something?”

      “No. Girls who were coming to the city for careers would stay here until they got married. It was a safe, respectable address.”

      Elizabeth was regarding her as if she was speaking in tongues.

      “Times were different then,” she said, with a sigh. She’d hoped this trip would be an opportunity to spend some quality time with her oldest daughter but now she was beginning to think that three days with Elizabeth might be too much of a good thing.

      “We might as well unpack,” she said, getting to her feet and lifting her suitcase onto the bed. “Then we can sleep a little later tomorrow morning.”

      “This morning,” corrected Elizabeth, reluctantly dragging herself off the bed and pulling her nightgown out of her suitcase.

      They soon discovered, however, that the bank of louvered doors along one wall concealed heating ducts and other paraphernalia, offering only limited closet space that was quickly filled with their coats and boots. A chest of drawers was also a cheat—the drawers weren’t drawers at all but a trompe l’oeil door concealing the minibar.

      “Where am I supposed to put my stuff?” demanded Elizabeth.

      “We’ll keep our clothes in the suitcases and slide them under the bed.” Lucy’s cheery tone belied her displeasure. She hated living out of a suitcase. But when she dropped to her knees to investigate she discovered the bed was too low for the suitcases to fit. She sat back on her heels and sighed. “I’m getting the feeling that Jolie must have gotten the cheapest rooms in this joint.”

      Elizabeth was in bed, reading the breakfast menu conveniently printed on a cardboard tag you could hang on the outside doorknob. “I don’t think anything’s cheap about this place,” she said. “The continental breakfast is twenty bucks.”

      “Well, I don’t think we’ll be getting room service,” said Lucy, stacking the suitcases in a corner. “There’s no place to put the tray.”

      All too soon they were awakened by the shrill ringing of the phone. Lucy immediately panicked, thinking something terrible must have happened at home, but when she held the receiver to her ear and heard the automated voice, she realized it was only the wake-up call she’d ordered.

      “Up and at ’em,” she said, shaking Elizabeth’s shoulder, and heading directly for the bathroom. “Today’s our first day of beauty.”

      Lucy’s eyes were bleary from sleep, but from what she could see of her reflection in the bathroom mirror she was pretty sure the beauty experts had their work cut out for them. She quickly brushed her teeth, splashed some water on her face, added a dab of moisturizer, and grabbed her hairbrush. There was no time to spare; they were supposed to meet the other makeover winners in the hotel lobby at eight o’clock and it was already a quarter to.

      “C’mon, Elizabeth. We’ve got to hurry.”

      Elizabeth pulled the pillow over her head and rolled over.

      Lucy picked up the pillow, and Elizabeth pulled the sheet over her face. Lucy threw the pillow at her, but she didn’t budge.

      Lucy sighed and began brushing her hair. A hundred strokes later, Elizabeth’s breaths were regular and she’d settled into a deep sleep. Lucy sat down on the bed and dialed room service, ordering a pot of coffee for two at twelve dollars.

      The caffeine did the trick and they were on their way by eight-thirty. They’d missed the rest of the group and the limo, but the doorman hailed a taxi for them.

      “Better late than never,” said Lucy, looking on the bright side as they settled in for the short ride. “You’ll love Tavern on the Green. It’s beautiful.”

      And indeed it was, when the taxi turned into Central Park and pulled up at the landmark restaurant. A light snow had started to fall, transforming the park into a magical fairyland, and the trees around the restaurant were outlined in tiny white lights. The inside was warm and welcoming, and they could hear the hum of voices as they checked their bags and coats and hurried off to the ladies’ room. Lucy wasn’t about to appear before this crowd without checking her hair and lipstick.

      “Look,” said Elizabeth, pointing to a tray filled with bottles next to the sink. “It’s fancy perfume.”

      Lucy recognized the distinctive bottle of her favorite, Pleasures, and gave herself a generous spritz, then they hurried out to claim their empty places. Lucy squared her shoulders, prepared to do battle for the ten thousand dollars, and followed the hostess to their table. Polite smiles were exchanged as Lucy and Elizabeth sat down and unfolded their cloth napkins, but all attention was on the speaker standing at the podium.

      “That’s Camilla Keith, the editor,” whispered the woman next to Lucy, speaking with a Southern accent. “She’s just started speaking.”

      Even Lucy had heard of Camilla; she was a legend in the magazine business, and her name was always popping up on tabloid-style TV shows, usually in connection with a lawsuit filed by a disgruntled household employee claiming verbal abuse or unpaid wages. Lucy studied her with interest; as editor-in-chief of the magazine her opinion would probably be decisive in choosing who would win the ten thousand dollars. Camilla was a very petite woman with dark hair pulled tightly back from her face, emphasizing her sharply defined cheekbones and chin. She was wearing a white tweed suit that Lucy suspected was a genuine Chanel, and her lips and fingernails were painted bright scarlet. Lucy knew that imitation was the sincerest form of flattery, but she couldn’t for the life of her see how she could ever manage to look anything like the sleek and sophisticated Camilla.

      “As editor of Jolie magazine, it is my pleasure to welcome our twelve winners to our fabulous Mother–Daughter Winter Makeover,” she said, giving the group at Lucy’s table a nod. “This is a very accomplished group—they