Murder is a Girl's Best Friend (25 page)

As you might imagine, I stood way, way,
way
back from the edge of the platform while I was waiting for the train. And when I changed trains at Times Square, taking the BMT up to 57th Street, I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure no murderers were behind me (which was a big fat waste of energy since I still didn’t have a clue who killed Judy—or even a teeny-weeny little inkling who had tried to kill me).

Exiting the subway, I heaved a big whoosh of relief, and then sucked up my stamina again for the next stage of my lunch hour operation—the foray to Gregory Smythe’s office.

I walked east on 57th from Sixth to Fifth, then—passing right by Tiffany’s, of all places!—headed south toward 54th, hoping against hope that Smythe wouldn’t have gone out to lunch yet. The sidewalks of this ultra elegant stretch of Fifth Avenue were completely free of snow and ice (God forbid a
rich
person should slip and fall down!), but so crowded with lunchgoers and partygoers and Christmas shoppers that the going was still pretty slow. Smythe’s office was just three blocks away, though, so it didn’t take me too long to get there.

The building was large and imposing, with a façade of glistening pinkish sandstone blocks, and a pair of heavy glass doors that led to a sleek yellow marble corridor. One side of the corridor was lined with potted trees and marble busts of the twelve Caesars, the other with elevators of gleaming aluminum. Despite the fact that many people were in the hallway, walking down the passage to the exit or milling about waiting for an elevator, the overall atmosphere was hushed and quiet.
Very
quiet.

I pushed the UP button on the closest elevator and stood waiting with a small group of men and women who were so perfectly primed and polished they looked as if they were on their way to have lunch with Ike and Mamie at the White House. Every hair was in place, every cheek was in bloom, every fingernail was manicured, every trouser leg was sharply creased, and every stocking seam was as straight as the edge of a ruler. The silent air was thick with the mingling aromas of aftershave and Chanel.

I felt conspicuously out of place—like a barn swallow in an aviary of exotic birds. My coat was camel’s hair, not mink. My neck was adorned with red chiffon instead of pearls. My purse was leather, not lizard, and my snowboots were designed for a working, walking woman—not a lady of leisure and limousines. Most conspicuous of all was the fact that I was unescorted—i.e., by myself, all alone—
not
draped on the expensively tailored arm of a well-fed man wearing burnished wingtips and an onyx pinkie ring. (And, considering the fact that I live on top of a fish store, I don’t even want to
think
about what kind of fragrance
I
might have been casting into that rarefied air.)

One of the well-tended women was staring at me—looking me over from beret to snowboots with a grimace of shock and horror on her face. Luckily, my green flare skirt was extra long—long enough to cover my mangled and swollen knees and shins. Otherwise, she might have fainted.

When the elevator doors swooshed open, I swept inside and swished to the back, telling the handsome young operator in his spiffy maroon uniform (complete with brass buttons and gold braid epaulets) to let me off on six. I wasn’t sure that was the right floor, but where else would suite 600 be?

Good guess. As soon as I stepped off the elevator, I saw the entrance to Farnsworth Fiduciary. I couldn’t have missed it if I’d tried. The enormous hand-carved wooden door was positioned directly across from the elevator, and the name of the company was spelled out in large, raised, gold metal letters. Looked like
real
gold to me. I walked across the wide marble hall and went inside.

The dignified young woman sitting at the receptionist’s desk—a colossal wooden structure situated at least thirty feet from the entrance—looked up when I walked in. She smiled and nodded, but she didn’t say anything to me until I had made my way across the vast lawn of ankle-deep moss green carpeting and arrived in front of the desk. Then she smoothed her champagne-blonde chignon, raised her ice blue eyes, widened her scarlet smile, and said, in a voice so soft it fairly whispered, “Welcome to Farnsworth Fiduciary. How may we help you today?”

She was beautiful and perfect. A dead ringer for Grace Kelly.

“I’m here to see Gregory Smythe,” I announced, in the strongest, steadiest voice I could muster. I was trying to
look
strong and steady, too, which wasn’t at all easy since—standing there in front of that beautiful blonde bird of paradise—I felt reduced to the meekest depths of barn swallowdom.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“No,” I said, squaring my shoulders, straightening my spine to its fullest extent. “But please tell him Paige Turner is here. I think he’ll want to see me.” Given the possibility that Roscoe Swift, or Elsie Londergan (or anybody
else,
for that matter) had told Smythe about me, I figured my most judicious and effectual approach would be to use my real name.

“Paige Turner?” the receptionist repeated. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows were raised in amusement and disbelief. I could tell from the way her lips were twitching she was struggling not to laugh.

“Yes, that’s right,” I said with a cocky toss of my head. I was determined to stay strong, to stand tall and proud in spite of my silly name. And I might have accomplished this goal, too, if, when I tossed my head, my beret hadn’t flown off and flopped to the floor like a misflipped flap-jack.

Well, that did it. Grace Kelly totally lost her cool. She started laughing like a horse. And, though I’ve never actually heard a horse laugh, I’d be willing to bet the sounds produced by such an equine outburst would mimic exactly the loud snorts and whinnies then emanating from the nose and mouth of Farnsworth Fiduciary’s refined receptionist.

Face burning with embarrassment, I picked up my errant beret and repositioned it on my head. And then, when I turned back to look at the receptionist’s contorted face, I started laughing, too. What else was there to do? Besides, I found the whole scene really funny, like a skit straight out of
Your Show of Shows
—with me in the Imogene Coca role. And Grace Kelly’s horsey laugh was a scream.

When we finally settled down, the ice had been thoroughly broken. Our pretensions had crumbled, and our shared crack-up had made us pals. “I’ll see if Mr. Smythe is in,” she said, giving me a collaborative wink and picking up the phone. She punched a button on one side of the phone and, taking a quick glance at the gold-plated clock on her desk, said to the person who answered, “Hello, Margaret. Please tell Mr. Smythe that his twelve-thirty appointment is here.” After a short pause, she said, “Yes, that’s right. Her name is Paige Turner and Mr. Smythe is expecting her.” She pronounced my name carefully, with a perfectly straight face.

Hanging up the phone, she let out a little giggle, then returned (reluctantly, I thought) to her well-mannered receptionist’s routine, and her whispery receptionist’s voice. “Please take off your coat and have a seat, Miss Turner,” she said, gesturing toward the brass coat rack and long green leather couch at the far side of the room. “Mr. Smythe’s secretary will be out in a moment to show you to his office.”

I gave her a very polite and refined (okay, gushing and effusive) thank-you and waded through the carpet to the waiting area.

 

 

THERE’S NO PLAINER WAY TO SAY IT: GREGory Smythe was a fool. A very tall, handsome, distinguished-looking, silver-haired fool, to be sure, but a fool nonetheless. I knew it the minute he stood up and welcomed me into his office by grabbing hold of my hand—and caressing it and fondling it and patting it passionately!—and then raising it to his mustached lips for a prickly kiss.

“So good of you to come, Miss Turner,” he said, rolling his big, hazel puppy-dog eyes in ecstasy. “And right on time, too!” The man was obviously accustomed to covering up forgotten appointments.

“It’s
Mrs.
Turner,” I blurted, and not a moment too soon. I could tell from his daft, voracious expression he was about to start nibbling on my fingers.

“Oh,” he said, deflated, lowering my hand and letting it go with a look of sheer bereavement on his face. He seemed so sad I actually felt sorry for him. (Who was being the fool
now?
) Luckily for both of us, Smythe’s recovery was speedy.

“Please have a seat, Mrs. Turner,” he said, slinking his arm around my back and giving my shoulder a stealthy squeeze. He guided me over to the leather chair at the side of his marble-topped desk and gently helped me into it. Then he sat down in his own chair. “Tell me, what can I do for you, my dear?” he asked, splaying his elbows on the desk and leaning so far forward I thought he might be attempting to touch the tip of his nose to mine.

This was the hard part: trying to figure out a surefire yet
safe
way to get him to talk about the murder. I was convinced that Smythe didn’t know who I was, that he’d never even heard my name before. And he didn’t show the slightest sign of suspicion—either of me or my reasons for being there. All he showed was a taste for silk ties and platinum cufflinks. And a tendency to forget all about a business appointment (whether he actually had one or not). And a fawning, drooling, hands-on devotion to members of the female sex (whether they were married or not).

Taking all of these things into account, I sat up straighter in my chair, pushed a long wave of hair down over one eye, and—giving Smythe a bold come-hither smile—crossed one leg over the other. I would have raised my skirt up over my knees if they hadn’t, at that unfortunate point in time, resembled two lumps of raw hamburger.

“I’m here on a highly personal financial matter, Mr. Smythe,” I said. “Can I trust you to keep it confidential?” From the name of the company, I figured Farnsworth Fiduciary had something—if not everything—to do with personal financial matters.

“Of course you can trust me, Mrs. Turner,” he said, staring at me as a little boy with a sweet tooth stares at a piece of fudge. “Farnsworth Fiduciary is, after all, a
trust,
and I am its primary
trustee.
” Beaming with pride (the foolish variety), he fingered his silver-streaked mustache and straightened his royal blue tie.

“Then I’ll tell you why I’m here.” I fluttered my lashes and took a deep, breast-enhancing breath of air. “My favorite aunt,” I said, pronouncing the word in the upper crust way (so that it rhymed with gaunt), “died recently and left me a fortune in diamond jewelry—several Tiffany-designed pieces from the late thirties which have been appraised, collectively, at thirty-five to forty thousand dollars.” As I said these words, I kept my eyes fastened on his face, watching for a telltale reaction.

“Yes . . . go on,” he said, reacting, as far as I could tell, to nothing but the way my white angora sweater hugged the contours of my bosom.

Realizing that my naughty charade was merely slowing my investigation (and that my lunch hour minutes were ticking away far too fast), I decided I’d better change my act. Exit Zsa Zsa Gabor, enter Shirley Temple.

“So could you please advise me on how to handle my inheritance, Mr. Smythe?” I raised my voice to a childish octave, and widened my eyes in girlish innocence. “I just don’t understand how these financial things work. Should I keep my aunt’s beautiful jewelry or sell it? There’s a necklace, a pair of earrings, a brooch, and two bracelets. What should I do about taxes and insurance?”

Smythe
still
showed no interest in the diamonds. I couldn’t believe it! Here I was, claiming to have come into possession of a collection of vintage jewelry that matched exactly the jewelry he gave Judy Catcher—extremely valuable diamonds that, as far as he might know, had been
stolen
from his girlfriend’s apartment the night she was
murdered
—and he didn’t bat an eye. Either he was a stone-faced, cold-hearted thief and killer, or an exceptionally good actor covering up for somebody else, or he was even more of a fool than I’d originally thought.

“I’d like to answer all your questions for you, Mrs. Turner,” he said, “and help you in any way I can. But I’m very pressed for time right now.” He brushed his hand over his wavy silver coif and glanced at his solid gold watch. “I have a very important luncheon engagement in ten minutes, and the lady doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Lunch
dates he remembered.

“May I come back to see you later this afternoon? Or tomorrow?” I cajoled, leaning as close to him as I dared and giving him my hand to pat. “I won’t be able to sleep a wink until I’ve decided what to do with my aunt’s diamonds. And you’re so smart and wise and handsome, I know you’re the very best man to help me.” I was doing Zsa Zsa again. It seemed the only way to get his attention.

But I got more than I bargained for. Just touching my skin sent Smythe into a state of total bliss. He stroked my hand repeatedly and pressed my palm to his quivering lips. He pushed the sleeve of my sweater up higher on my forearm and kissed the underside of my wrist. “Yes, yes, I must see you again soon,” he gasped, eyes rolling in rapture as he began kissing (and licking!) his way up my arm. “But I won’t be back this afternoon . . . and the office is closed tomorrow . . . so you must come to the penthouse tomorrow night,” he moaned, hot breath blasting into the crook of my elbow. “We’re having a party.”

“Penthouse? Party?” I hadn’t been expecting this. I sat back in my chair and removed my moist arm from Smythe’s hungry grasp.

He looked like a dog who’d just lost his bone. “It’s our annual Christmas Eve party,” he whimpered, adding, unnecessarily, “we have one every year. A lot of Farnsworth clients will be there, so my wife won’t even notice if I invite one more. It’ll be very crowded, and Augusta will be so busy taking care of our guests, I’m sure you and I will be able to grab a few minutes alone in my study.” This thought perked him up considerably, and he lunged for my arm again.