Murder is a Girl's Best Friend (23 page)

“What the hell was that woman thinking?!” Abby cried, eyes blazing again.

“The problem is that she
wasn’t
thinking,” I said.

Abby gave me a sidelong look and snarled, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that!”

Her vehement demeanor brought me up short. “What do you mean?”

“I mean who
is
this old dame anyway? And how do you know she really
was
like a mother to Judy? All you have is
her
own word for it! For all we know, she could be in cahoots with Roscoe Swift. Or even teamed up with Gregory Smythe! She could be a crazy cat burglar . . . or a deranged killer. Or both rolled into one!”

Abby’s wild conjectures almost made me laugh out loud. Almost, but not quite. Because as amused as I was trying to visualize a beastly murderer with Toni-waved blue hair, or a large ungainly cat burglar with a sprig of holly pinned to her hat, I didn’t find it so funny when a more common image sprang suddenly to mind. An image I’d seen many times before. A wide-screen technicolor close-up of John Wayne firing a gun.

But the Duke was always the good guy, right?

“Oh, I don’t think Elsie had anything to do with it, Abby!” I protested. “In the first place, Vicki Lee Bumstead confirmed that Judy and Elsie were very close. She said Judy told her that Elsie was the mother she’d always wished for. And in the second place, Elsie doesn’t seem to have any idea how much Judy’s diamonds were worth. She thinks they were made of paste.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what she
says,
but do you always believe everything anybody tells you?” Abby’s right eyebrow was hoisted so high you could’ve parked a Chevy under it.

“Well, no, but . . .”

“I agree with Paige,” Terry broke in, giving Abby a penetrating look. “I only had one conversation with Elsie,” he said, “and even then we weren’t alone. Sweeny was there, too.” He pronounced the not-so-diligent detective’s name with a drawl of disgust. “But Elsie struck me as a solid citizen,” he said with passionate intent . . . “a woman of very strong character—and a true friend to my sister.”

Well, that was all Abby needed to hear. One word from her smoldering new flame, and she was ready to capitulate—arched eyebrow and all. “Then consider the subject dropped,” she said, leaning toward him in sultry obedience. “Any true friend of your sister’s is a true friend of mine.”

(Translation: “I’m yours. Do what you will with me.”)

It was time for me to leave.

“Okay, kids, I’m splitting,” I said, grabbing my purse and the shopping bag and standing up from my chair. “I’ve got to go call Vicki, see if she got the dope on Smythe.” I was glad I was still wearing my hat and coat and gloves. The less to pick up and carry, the better. (When you’re the third wheel in an amorous encounter on the verge of its first encountering, it is—in my opinion—a good idea to wheel out of the vicinity as quickly and efficiently as possible.)

My speedy retreat was uncontested. A grateful glance from Terry, a happy wink from Abby, and I was gone.

 

 

AS I WAS LETTING MYSELF INTO MY OWN apartment, I remembered the diamonds. I had left them next door. I thought of going back to get them—so I could return them to the clever concealment of their oatmeal box hideaway—but I quickly decided against it. I figured they’d be much safer at Abby’s place now—now that
m y
place was as incognito as the Chrysler Building.

As soon as I had set down my shopping bag and shucked off all my outerwear, including my snowboots, I sat down on the couch/door/daybed, tucked my cold feet up under my bottom, and dialed Vicki. She answered the phone herself.

“Hi, Vicki,” I said. “This is Phoebe. Phoebe Starr.” I would have told her my real name (since everybody
else
knew it), but I didn’t want to take the time to explain all my complicated reasons for having first used a fake one.

“Oh, hi, Phoebe,” she said. “I’m glad you called. I got that information you wanted.” Her rough, husky voice was music to my ears.

“Really?” I yelped, too stunned to let myself believe it. “You’ve got Gregory Smythe’s address and phone number?”

“Not his
home
address or phone,” she said apologetically. “Just his place of business. All of his Macy’s purchases were charged directly to his office.”

“Oh, that’s okay, Vicki! Any address and phone number will do. All I need is some way to get in touch with him. Hold on a sec! Let me get something to write with.” I dropped the phone down on the daybed and dashed to the kitchen table for a piece of typing paper and a pen. Then I bounded back to the living room, yanked the phone back up to my mouth, and cried, “Shoot!”

“He works at a place called Farnsworth Fiduciary,” Vicki reported. “The address is 647 Fifth Avenue, Suite 600, and the phone number is Oregon 6-8000. That’s all my friend could find in the files.”

“Well, that’s more than enough, Vicki!” I said, scribbling the info down and working to keep myself from squealing. “Please thank your friend for me.”

“I will,” she said, turning silent for a moment. “But I’m still not sure I should have gotten this information for you,” she went on. “I mean, how are you going to use it? You’re not going to give Mr. Smythe any grief, are you? He’s one of the sweetest men I’ve ever met, and if anything bad happens to him because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.” She sounded truly concerned.

“I’ll be very careful, Vicki,” I said. “And if it turns out Gregory Smythe had nothing to do with Judy’s murder, then he’ll get no trouble from me.”

“Can I have your word on that?”

“Of course.” My hand wasn’t on the Bible when I made this vow, but I felt sworn to it just the same. “And will you promise to call me if you think of anything else—anything at all—that might have some bearing on the murder?”

“Okay,” she said, sounding as hoarse as a high school cheerleader after the big game.

I gave Vicki my phone number and thanked her profusely, pledging to keep her informed of my progress in the case and to take her out to lunch just as soon as the holidays were over. Then I wished her a merry Christmas and hung up.

Half a heartbeat later I picked up the phone and dialed Dan’s office again.

It was 9:30 P.M.—prime crime time in the Midtown South Precinct—so I wasn’t at all surprised when they told me Dan wasn’t there. What I
was,
however, was devastated. I thought if I didn’t talk to Dan soon I would shrivel up in a ball and die. Can you believe that? I had seen the man just twenty-four hours ago—and he wasn’t even being
nice
to me at the time!—and here I was about to start bawling like a deserted wife (or, more precisely, like a colicky infant who had dropped her pacifier).

I jumped to my feet and started pacing around the living room, taking lots of deep breaths, doing my best to take control of my preposterous emotions. And I might have achieved this worthy goal if I hadn’t already been in a full-blown dither about Jimmy Birmingham and Roscoe Swift and Gregory Smythe. And if Abby hadn’t knocked me for a loop with her doubts about Elsie Londergan.

And if my buzzer hadn’t buzzed.

Leaping straight up in the air (and straight out of my skin), I actually went blank for a moment. I couldn’t remember who I was, or where I was, or why my legs were shaking. Then my buzzer rang again, which brought me back to myself, which brought me back to wondering which of the aforementioned possible murderers was at my door. I darted across to the living room window, pulled a big gap in the side of the shade, and peered down at the large, broad-shouldered figure standing one floor below, right in front of the building’s entrance.

One glimpse of the man’s face (which was entirely visible since his head was tilted back and he was looking straight up through the window at me) melted away all my fears and misgivings. It was Dan. And he was—miracle of all miracles—smiling.

I bounded ballet-style across the floor, buzzed him in, and stood waiting in my open doorway for him to climb the stairs to my apartment. I didn’t have to wait long. He took the stairs two at a time and reached the landing in a flash. Then he scooped me up in his arms, crushed me to his chest, and smothered my gasping mouth with the hardest, roughest, deepest, hottest kiss I’d ever experienced in my whole wide wishful life.

“I’m sorry, Paige,” he mumbled, after he’d sucked his way across my cheek and planted his panting mouth right next to my ear. “I shouldn’t have walked out on you the way I did last night. I felt bad about it all day.” His humid breath whooshed into my ear and streamed all the way down to my toes.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” I moaned. “I never should have . . .” I guess Dan wasn’t interested in hearing the rest of my apology because he gave me another big fat kiss right then, making it impossible for me to speak. And this effective silencing maneuver had—as you’ve probably already guessed—a profound effect on me.

When we finally came up for air, Dan stepped back and clasped his hands to my shoulders, holding me firmly at arm’s length. “I hate to kiss and run,” he said with a sexy smirk, “but I’ve got to go. We’re closing in on the Bradbury killer tonight.”

“Phwat? Phwoo?” My lips were free but they still weren’t functional.

“The Broadway producer who was stabbed at the Majestic,” Dan said, somehow understanding my questions. “We know who the murderer is and we’re on the way to arrest him now. My partner on this case is waiting for me in the car, so I’ve got to get a move on.” He dropped his hands from my shoulders, anchored his hat at a new angle, and turned toward the stairs. “I’ll call you tomorrow, babe.” He was down the steps and out the door before I could babble another word.

 

 

I SPENT THE REST OF THE EVENING FLOATING on a cloud. (The cherubs lolling on the fluffs of angel hair at Macy’s had nothing, and I do mean
nothing,
on me!) I sat at the typewriter for an hour or so, bringing all my notes on the murder up to date, without having a single anxiety fit. I wrote down every clue to the killing I could think of, never worrying—even for a second—about the danger the killer might pose to me. I drank one Dr. Pepper and smoked three L&M filter tips without once jumping up to peek through the shade to see if Jimmy Birmingham was hanging out at the laundromat. I was so cool I was downright cucumberal.

(It’s amazing what one little kiss—okay, two great big juicy ones—can do.)

When I finished my story notes I turned on the radio. Eddie Fisher was singing “Oh! My Papa.” Well, I was in far too sensual a mood to listen to
that,
so I kept turning the dial, searching for a better song, finally settling on “Make Yourself Comfortable” by Sarah Vaughan. Then I took my Santa Claus paper and red satin ribbon out of the coat closet and wrapped up Lenny’s lunchbox. After placing the wrapped package back in the shopping bag and setting it near the door (so I wouldn’t forget to take it with me to work in the morning), I turned off the radio and the downstairs lights and floated up to bed.

Chapter 18

I GOT UP FORTY-FIVE MINUTES EARLIER than usual the next morning, figuring I’d need extra time at the office to deal with the mess from the day before. I knew what the results of my one-day absence would be: a Coffeemaster full of burnt coffee grounds, a slew of dirty cups, a pile of unsorted mail, stacks of unfiled photos and unrecorded invoices, and several unopened deliveries from the typesetter and the printer, which would yield reams of unproofread proofs and heaps of photostats that should have—but no doubt
wouldn’t
have—been logged in and distributed to the art department.

And to top it all off, I knew I’d have to spend a good part of my lunch hour (assuming Pomeroy allowed me to have one) buying cookies and eggnog (and a bottle of bourbon, I hoped) for the office Christmas party, which had been scheduled for that same afternoon. And somehow—while juggling all the cup-cleaning and the coffee-brewing and the proofreading and the paperwork and the party preparations—I would have to find a way (preferably a
safe
way) to hook up with Gregory Smythe.

Trying to perk myself up for the difficult day ahead, I took an extra hot shower, applied an extra dab of red lipstick, and put on one of my favorite outfits—a deep green flare skirt and a white angora twinset with tiny pearl buttons. To add a festive touch, I tied a red chiffon scarf around my neck. Then—making a goofy Marilyn Monroe-style smoochy face at myself in the foggy bathroom mirror—I scrambled down the stairs, put on all my winterwear, grabbed my purse and the bag with Lenny’s Christmas present in it, and hurried to the subway.

The platform was unusually overcrowded, even for the rush hour. It seemed that everybody in the Village had decided to travel uptown at the exact same moment. Wanting to make certain that I was able to board the very next northbound train, I squeezed into the crowd at the south ernmost end of the station and worked my way up to the front line—to the extreme edge of the cement ledge overlooking the tracks. It was so cold the other commuters didn’t mind my heated intrusion. We all stood as closely and docilely together as cows in a too-small corral—breathing steam into the frigid air, stamping our feet to improve circulation, and straining our restless ears for the chug, clatter, and clank of the next string of stock cars.