Murder is a Girl's Best Friend (4 page)

“Paige?” he said. “Is that you?” His lean, clean-shaven face was burning with curiosity. And such a fiery intensity I wanted to back away from the heat.

“Terence?” I said. “Terence Catcher?” I didn’t stand up from the table. I was afraid if I tried to balance my jittery body on my numb, unsteady feet, they’d slip right out from under me, and I’d find myself flat on my back—or, worse, face down—on the speckled beige linoleum.

“Terry,” he said, sitting down and placing the Thom McAn shoebox on the table. He reached his gloved hand across the table and grabbed hold of mine. “Please call me Terry. ”

“Okay, Terry” I said, removing my fingers from his leathery grip. I peered into the depths of his big blue eyes, searching for some clue to his character, but all I could see was a keen, penetrating intelligence. And pain. A truckload of pain.

Terry returned my stare, then gave me a thin, crooked smile. “You’re even more beautiful than Bob said you were.”

“Thank you,” I said, quickly lowering my gaze to the tabletop. If the blazing temperature of my cheeks was any indication of reality, my face had turned as red as my beret.

(I’m what you might call a double blusher. First I blush because I’m embarrassed about something, then I blush again because I’m embarrassed by my own embarrassment.)

“I’m glad to finally meet you,” Terry continued, taking off his hat and gloves and putting them down next to the shoebox.

I was shocked when I saw his hair. It was thick and pure white—as white as the snow swirling past the window outside. Yet his slim, handsome face was unlined, and his eyebrows were as black as crow feathers. I guessed him to be about twenty-nine or thirty—around the age Bob would be now if he’d lived.

“I’m glad to meet you, too,” I said, though I wasn’t yet sure that I was. “Were you very good friends with my husband? He never mentioned your name in any of his letters.”

“That’s because Bob never used my real name. He called me Whitey. A lot of the guys did.”

“Oh, Whitey!” I cried, heart doing a happy flip-flop. “So
that’s
who you are! Bob wrote about you all the time! He said you were his closest friend.”

“I was. And he was mine. He saved my life. Twice.” Terry’s face turned serious and sad—very sad. “If only I could have saved his.”

I didn’t say anything. I was too choked up to speak. And so was Terry, who was now wringing his hands and staring into space like a zombie. I wondered if he might be suffering from shell shock.

We sat in silence for a few seconds, letting our emotions peak and subside, then Terry snapped out of his trance and directed his damp blue gaze at me. “I’ll never forgive myself, you know.” His tone was dead serious. “When Bob was shot, I was curled up on the floor of the foxhole, shaking and crying like a baby, hiding from the action like the miserable, disgusting coward I am. I didn’t even
try
to save him. Hell, I didn’t even know he’d been hit until two hours after he died.”

Terry’s words demolished me. I felt as if I were thrashing around in the dirt, squirming on my belly like a reptile, looking for a deep, dark hole to dive into.
Please don’t tell me any more!
I wanted to scream.
Please don’t make me think about the bullets ripping through my beloved husband’s lungs and heart. Don’t make me think about the unthinkable moment when his warm, sweet blood began spilling out of his warm, sweet body onto the blistered, bombed-out North Korean eart h . . .

“I tried to write to you after I got home,” Terry went on. “I wanted to tell you how brave and humane and heroic Bob was, how he had saved both my life and my sanity. I wanted to tell you how much he loved you, and missed you, and how proud he was that you were making your own way in the world. I wrote you about twenty different letters, but I never mailed any of them. I tore them to pieces and threw them away.”

“But why?” I asked, stifling a strong impulse to howl.

“Because I’m a gutless bastard, that’s why. I was so ashamed of myself I felt I didn’t have the
right
to communicate with you. If I had looked after Bob the way that he looked after me, he might still be alive.” Terry’s head dipped low between his wide shoulders, like a melon from a trellised vine. He looked as though he might start crying.

“That’s ridiculous!” I sputtered, reaching over to touch the sleeve of his jacket. “You aren’t responsible for Bob’s death. Nobody is responsible. There was a war going on. People get killed in a war. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

Terry raised his heavy head and looked me in the eye again. “Thanks for the kind words, Paige, but I don’t deserve them. I really
am
a coward, you know. How do you think my hair got so white? From fear—total fear. It turned white during my first few weeks of fighting.”

“It isn’t a sin to be afraid.”

“It is when you’re in the Army.”

There was so much pain in Terry’s eyes it hurt me to look at them. I shifted my gaze toward the table to our left, where two middle-aged businessmen in gray flannel suits were dining on meatloaf and mashed, not speaking at all. I was envious of their placid boredom. Knowing there was nothing I could say to heal Terry’s deep wartime wounds, or even just make him feel a little better, I fished around in my wretched brain for a gentle way to change the subject.

Changing the subject was easy, but the gentle part was hard. “Why did Bob let you read my letters?” I blurted out, screeching in spite of myself. I sounded like Ma Kettle reminding the lazy ranch hands that the barn was on fire. “The things I said to him were so
private,
” I gasped. “My letters were meant for Bob, and Bob
alone
. It really upsets me that he showed them to you.” My cheeks flared up in another hot blush.

“I don’t blame you for being angry,” Terry said, nervously fidgeting with the salt and pepper shakers. “But you should be mad at
me,
not Bob. He was just trying to help me save myself from myself.”

His words were a tad too cryptic for my comfort. “What in the world are you talking about?” I snapped. “And how do my letters enter into it?”

“It only happened once,” Terry said, giving me a pleading look. “The bombing had been real bad that morning, so bad that even after it stopped—after the shells stopped whistling and exploding all around us—I couldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t speak without stuttering, and I couldn’t breathe right either. Bob saw the shape I was in, and he pulled me into the brush, propped me against a tree, and splashed some water in my face. Then he gave me your letters to read. He said they would set me straight for sure, take my mind off what was happening and remind me of what we were fighting for—all the worried, wonderful, devoted people back home.”

I was too humiliated to speak. I felt like a petty, self-centered stooge—like Ralph Kramden always does when Alice finally makes him see the error of his thoughtless ways.

“See, I didn’t get many letters from home,” Terry went on, fanning the flames of my shame. “I didn’t have a girlfriend or a wife, my mother was dead, my father was a drunk, and my little sister Judy was just trying to get through high school and take care of our father at the same time. She wrote me a few times, but her letters were pretty dismal. All she talked about was how disgusting Dad was, and how crazy she was about her latest boyfriend, whoever he happened to be—she had a new one every week. So her letters weren’t very encouraging.

“But
yours
were,” he added, eyes begging me to understand. “They were so loving, and sensitive, and interesting, and hopeful. They actually calmed my fears and made me feel strong . . . for a little while, anyway.” Terry started fidgeting with the salt and pepper shakers again.” Your letters were Bob’s most prized possession, you know. He kept them with him at all times. He knew how special they were, and he only showed them to me because he believed they would bring me some courage and peace of mind. And he was right. So please don’t be mad at him. He was just being a good friend. The best friend I ever had.”

 

 

 

 

I melted faster than the snow on my eyelashes. “He was my best friend, too,” I said, writhing in the agony and ecstasy of having once been truly loved. Then, unable to endure even one more second of such open (okay,
naked
) emotion, I hastily excused myself and bolted for the ladies’ room.

Chapter 3

I STAYED IN THE BATHROOM FOR ABOUT five minutes. I would have stayed longer, but some woman (a rather tall redhead in a green wool dress, I soon found out) kept knocking on the door and asking if I was all right, did I need any help. I told her I was fine and that I’d be out in just one second. Then I flushed (even though I had no reason to), wiped the tears out of my swollen eyes, powdered my nose, and went back to the table.

“Are you okay, Paige?” Terry asked as soon I took my seat.

“I’m fine,” I lied, hoping the sight of my raw, puffy, mascara-smeared eyelids wouldn’t make him feel worse than he already did. “I just needed a little breather.”

“Then do you mind if I talk to you about something else? Something really important. Something that doesn’t have anything to do with Bob?”

“Not at all,” I said. Truth be known, I was desperate for a change of topic.

The expression on Terry’s face went through a series of dramatic transformations. First he looked bewildered, then horrified, then violently enraged. Then he reared back in his chair, heaved an enormous sigh, lowered his head, and sadly scraped his fingers through his ghostly white hair. “I hate to burden you with my problems like this,” he said, groaning, “but I really don’t know what else to do. You’re the only person I can think of who might be able to help me.”

“Me?” I said, in wonder. “Why me?”

“Because I trust you,” he said. “And because you’re brave and smart, you live in New York City, and you write for a national true crime magazine. I’ve read all your stories and I know how gutsy, clever, and driven you are. And I know that truth and justice are very important to you.”

His flattering words made me giddy. I was used to being ridiculed for these “unfeminine” traits, not praised. “What is it you need?” I said without hesitation. “I’ll help in any way I can.” The theme song of the
Superman
television series was swelling against the sides my cranium.

“I need somebody to believe me,” Terry said, clenching his teeth between words. “I need to be taken seriously, for once. I’ve tried everything under the damn sun! I went to the police again this morning—for the
third
time—and I begged and pleaded with them to continue the investigation, but they just won’t pay any attention to me. They keep insisting I don’t have any proof. They say the case is as good as closed.” His chin began to tremble.

“Police? Evidence?” I perked up like a puppy with a pork chop. “What case are you talking about?”

Terry’s face had turned almost as white as his hair. “My sister’s murder case.”

“Oh, my Lord!” I croaked, head spinning. “Your sister murdered somebody?”

“God, no!” Terry cried, looking at me as if I’d just sprouted fangs and fur. “Somebody murdered
her!
”

I was shocked into silence (a few moments too late, as usual). My stomach turned over and a new stream of grief spewed down my spine. Choking back another rush of tears, I reached across the table and grabbed Terry’s hand. “Oh, Terry, that’s so horrible!” I said. “I’m so, so sorry . . .”

“She was just a kid,” he moaned, shaking his head in despair. “She hadn’t even turned twenty . . . ”

“When did it happen?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“Where?”

“Here. In New York. Judy moved here about a year and a half ago,” he said, “soon after I got back from Korea. Well,
moved
isn’t really the right word. She sort of ran away from home.”

I was curious to know
why
Judy had run away, but other, more pressing questions were popping out of my mouth. “Where in New York did it happen?” I sputtered. “How was she killed?”

Terry’s pale face tightened up like a fist. “She was shot to death in her apartment on West 26th Street. Two .22 caliber bullets to the heart. Her watch and her purse were taken, so the police are convinced she was killed during a random burglary, that her death was in no way premeditated.”

Terry’s account jostled my memory. I recalled reading about the murder in the papers, cutting out the brief articles for our clip files, and asking Pomeroy if he wanted me or Mike to do a write-up for the magazine. He said no, it was a boring crime—that dispassionate, unplanned homicides were “as interesting as his Aunt Martha’s grocery list.” For obvious reasons, I chose not to relate Pomeroy’s remarks to Terry.

“And you’re not convinced it was a chance killing?” I asked Terry. “You don’t agree with the police?”

“You bet your sweet ass I don’t!—forgive my French. For one thing, there were no signs of breaking and entering. No smashed windows or locks, no jimmy scrapes on the door. And there were no signs of a physical struggle, either. Aside from the bullet wounds, Judy’s body didn’t have a mark on it. No cuts or scratches, not even a bruise. And, believe you me, Paige, if my little sister had caught somebody trying to rob her apartment, there would have been a
big
struggle—gun, or no gun. She wasn’t a coward like me. As young as she was, Judy was tougher than nails—and she loved a good fight.”