Betty’s face was a study in controlled rage. “Anything else I can do for you?”
Sensing that particular offer was insincere, I didn’t answer. Betty looked at her own watch and winced.
“The Pennistons will be landing at LaGuardia at two-thirty, and I’m supposed to pick them up.” She looked at me bitterly. “Boy, I really needed this.”
I grinned. “Sorry to be so much trouble. Oh, and don’t bother to see me to the door. I know the way.”
But Betty wasn’t about to take that chance, not with a treacherous type like me on the premises. She walked ahead of me in stony silence down the dark hall and through the door into the brightly lit reception area.
Nancy was as pretty and disorganized as ever. On the phone again, she tried to split her attention between it and us. It didn’t work any better than before. Donovan caught the drift of the conversation and stopped.
“But Mr. Goldstein, you were here just an hour ago, and I sent you back to see her! Haven’t you seen her yet? … You haven’t? What? You haven’t even been here? But —” She looked up at us in dismay as she continued talking into the phone. “But, I don’t understand, I saw you not more than —”
She took a second glance at me and her eyes widened. She said into the receiver, “Excuse me just a minute, Mr. Goldstein.” She pushed the hold button on her console and looked at me accusingly. “You told me you were Mr. Goldstein. Who are you?” She turned to her boss. “Who is he, Miss Donovan?”
Donovan had had her fill of dumb questions. “Hang up that phone, you idiot!” she hissed.
The girl mumbled something into the receiver and hung up. Betty Donovan marched me through the outer doors into the darkness of the nonmodeling world and headed back inside. I had a feeling Nancy was about to feel the sharp edge of Betty Donovan’s tongue.
“Don’t forget,” I called to Donovan’s back, “to call Miss Norville at eleven-fifteen.”
She made an obscene gesture at me behind her back without breaking stride.
20
Out on the street I looked around. My next step was to find someplace to sip some coffee, get what I’d learned into my notebook before I forgot it, and strategize. And hopefully clear my sinuses of all the nicotine they’d just been subjected to.
Halfway down the next block I popped into one of those long, narrow closets we call diners in New York. You know, a foot wide and a mile long, with a counter in front that barely leaves room to get by, and a long line of narrow tables in the rear. The California Diner. Good name. The steam, humidity and grease smoke gave it enough of a smog to put any Californian right at home.
It was the dead time between coffee break and lunch. No one there but the beefy counterman who gave me a glum look, straightened up respectfully and drew me a mug of coffee without being asked. Amazing the effect an expensive suit of clothes has on people. I sipped coffee for a minute as I considered what I’d just learned in the Penniston Associates conference room.
It had been a good morning. I’d found out that both Donovan and McClendon were users of illegal substances and nervous about it. I wondered if Penniston had been. Then I wondered if the killer had been. And if there was any connection between the substance abuse and the killings.
I’d also learned about a phone call Laura Penniston had gotten just hours before she died. And that no one knew where she’d spent the next few hours. I made a mental note to recheck the time of death; the papers had it at around one A.M. Could that be wrong? That phone call, I felt sure, had been the lead-in to the murder. The more I thought about it the more I realized how urgently I needed to get my morning’s activities in shape to report to Regan.
But even more urgently, I needed to get on the horn to one Sandra Norville. Assuming Betty Donovan didn’t blow it — and I didn’t think she would — Miss Norville was going to get a phone call at 11:15, now ten minutes away, giving her the good news about her back pay. To benefit from this event, I needed to talk to Sandra before it happened. It took me half a cup of coffee and about four minutes to think of an approach.
I went to the pay phone next to the front door (trusting that no one would need to get in or out of the diner while I was using it), inserted a quarter and punched out the number I’d memorized. In two rings I had a hello as warm, musical and feminine as any I’ve ever heard. My kind of office manager.
“Miss Norville?”
“Yes, what is it?” she snapped. The warmth had only lasted two syllables. She’d obviously been expecting someone else.
“My name is David Goldman, I’m an investigator, and I’ve got a proposition for you I think you’ll like.” I paused for a response. Got none. But at least she stayed on the line.
“It’s a sporting proposition, Miss Norville. I’ll bet you that within…” I looked at my Timex “…five minutes, you’ll get a call from Betty Donovan telling you your paycheck is on its way to you by messenger. That’s my bet.”
Silence. Finally, “Who the hell are you? How do you know anything about me?”
“Let’s just say I’m a person who doesn’t like to see people cheated out of what they’ve earned.”
She said a bad word. “Tell me who you are, or I’m —”
“Hey,” I cut her off, “I don’t mind telling you who I am or how I got involved. In fact, I think you’ll get a kick out of it. But do you want the bet?”
I suppose the desirability of getting her dough had some effect. She was beginning to sound a little less hostile. Even a little interested.
“What are the stakes?”
“Oh, you’re going to like them — Uh, excuse me a minute.” Two pretty young things were trying to wiggle past me into the diner. I took the receiver from my ear and flattened myself against the wall. Nice perfume. Even nicer friction. I resumed the phone conversation, brushing plaster dust off my expensive suitcoat.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Norville. They’re doing some work around my office. You were asking about the bet. Okay, the deal is if Betty calls and says what I said she’d say, I win. In which case you’ll have lunch with me today at a restaurant of your choice.”
“Who pays? Me, I suppose.”
“Oh no. I pay. Either way, I pay.”
“And if you lose?”
“I owe you a lunch at place and time of your choosing. It wouldn’t have to be today — of course, it could be, but that’d be your choice.” Silence. Then a click. For a scary moment I thought I’d been hung up on. Then realized it was her call-waiting.
“Just a minute,” she said. “May I put you on hold?” I opened my mouth to say it was okay, but she was gone. It was 11:12. Could Donovan be calling early? In just about a minute Norville was back.
“You still there? What did you say your name was?” Her tone had changed. She sounded slightly awed.
“David Goldman,” I answered. “And I’ll bet that was Betty Donovan.”
“It was,” she breathed. “She’s sending the money over to me by messenger. What did you do, seduce her? I haven’t even been able to get through to her!”
“See?” I pressed my advantage. “Maybe now you’ll be a little more trusting. You’ve lost your bet, so where do you want to have lunch?”
“I am very grateful.” Her tone was seductive.
“Good. That’s the way I want you. Now. Where shall we meet?”
A pause. When her voice came again, it had acquired another level of sexiness. “You do sound interesting. Are you as hard to resist in person as you are on the phone?”
“Hard? Try impossible! Look. You decide where and when, and I’ll be there.”
An even longer pause, but it was worth the wait. “Well, I suppose I could do lunch. Marty’s on Twelfth Street? One o’clock?”
“Right. Now where is…?” But she was gone. Along with a very sexy voice, this girl had a bad habit of asking a question and not waiting for the answer.
I scratched my head as I hung up. Would Norville be there? More important, where the hel
l was Marty’s? Did it even exist? I pulled out the Yellow Pages and found Marty’s Continentale, 129 W. 12th St.
Heading back for my coffee mug, I checked the time: eleven-nineteen. From Forty-eighth and Madison to Sixth Avenue at Twelfth this time of day should be about a fifteen-minute cab ride. So I had plenty of time. I decided the California Diner would be an adequate spot for some note-taking. Provided they didn’t kick me out when the lunch crowd started coming in.
To head that off, I slipped the counterman a sawbuck, rent for the stool I was using, in lieu of ordering. He agreed to the arrangement, though he wasn’t exactly jumping for joy over it.
I didn’t get full value for the tenner. Using my unique brand of shorthand, I managed to get the morning’s activities in the notebook by noon, by which time hungry people were on either side of me, rustling newspapers, asking me to pass salt and pepper, raising the noise level, and generally making my life miserable. I walked out at 12:04. The counterman ducked my eye as I left, probably to forestall discussion of a partial refund of the security deposit.
Outside, the weather had turned fine, warmer and sunnier than November has any right to be. Having an hour to kill, I decided to hoof it down to the Village.
A good idea, as it turned out. The sky was blue with scattered white clouds, the temperature crisp and autumnal. The lunchtime crowds were festive and most stores carried Thanksgiving decorations. Turkeys — feathered live ones and stuffed dead ones — were getting plenty of play. I was even approached by a pilgrim in black suit and buckled shoes. Wanted to sell me a pocket calculator or some damn thing.
I managed to resist that and all other appeals for money, and reached Marty’s just in time for my appointment with Sandra Norville — two minutes to one.
21
Marty’s Continentale maintained a low profile. The small brass plate beside the front door of the unobtrusive brownstone — Marty’s Continentale: Second Floor — was the only clue to its existence. Didn’t faze me: the brass plate outside the Bishop’s house is even smaller.
I proceeded through the unlocked front door into the foyer, climbed a curving flight of stairs and entered a dark, richly paneled room reminiscent of the Bishop’s chapel except for a lower ceiling and no stained glass windows.
The noise level was sedate and the twenty or twenty-five tables were about half-filled. I soon spotted a brunette sitting alone at a banquette for two and implored the gods that she be Sandra Norville.
Snapping dark eyes. Eyelashes longer than Nancy’s. Shiny black hair that danced with highlights every time her head moved. Elegant cheekbones and full, red lips.
She sighted me about half a second after I spotted her, and smiled. The smile finished me off. I didn’t care who she was, this was the girl I was spending the rest of my life with. Or at least lunch.
I’ll admit it up front. I’m the world’s worst interviewer of beautiful young women. My mind won’t concentrate on what it’s supposed to and I end up asking the wrong questions. And when I happen to ask the right ones I forget to listen to the answers.
My chances of getting any useful information out of Sandra Norville seemed to have gone up in smoke the instant I saw her.
I took the opportunity to check her out as I waved off the hostess and headed for the booth. Her tailored dark suit made an accurate appraisal of her figure a matter for later study, but what I could see of it told me that the surveillance wouldn’t be tedious. I smiled as I reached the table.
“I guess Betty must have sent the dough.”
She grinned impishly, beautiful eyes atwinkle. “Oh yes, indeed. Are you a miracle worker?”
I slid next to her in the banquette, feeling her warmth as our hips collided slightly, and got just a hint of perfume. I couldn’t tell if it was My Sin, but I hoped so. Settled, I found myself dazzled by her closeness.
“Congratulations. You’ve proved you’re a detective,” she said demurely. “No one but a detective could have found this place without directions.”
I waved grandly. “What’s to find? Any experienced CIA agent would have this place bracketed within a week, easy. Piece of cake. I’m just surprised they don’t have an unlisted phone number and a sliding panel in the front door.”
She leaned closer. “You’ve got to tell me how you got Betty Donovan to send that check,” she whispered. “And then you can tell me what reward you’d like.”
I glanced up at the young waiter hovering, trying to pretend he wasn’t paying attention.
“Not just now,” I grinned. “X-rated. Not meant for the ears of children.” Whether this lunch produced any information or not, it was sure starting out promising. We looked at each other after the waiter took off with our drink orders — Pouilly Fuissé for her, beer for me.
“Before we get into the matter of rewards, Miss Norville, maybe I’d better warn you — I’m after a murderer. And I’ll resort to anything to get him.”
“Umm,” she murmured. “Then you’d better call me Sandy. How vicious are you, Dave? Would you resort to torture?”
I sneered. “You kidding? Women I hold down and tickle till they tell me everything I want to know. Not a pretty sight, Sandy. Not a pretty sight at all.”
We were both smiling when the drinks arrived. Having had too many beers ruined by waiters who lack the foggiest notion of how to dribble it down the side of the glass to stop the head from forming, I insisted on pouring my own. To his credit, the lad didn’t pout. I told him to check back with us in five minutes. Sandy and I saluted each other and sipped. She eyed me speculatively.
“So. Who are you? You’ve proved you can find a carefully concealed restaurant and extort blood money out of Betty Donovan. And you claim you’re a sadist. Who the hell are you?”
I grinned at her. “It gets worse. I’m so unscrupulous, I’ll tell beautiful women I’m after their gorgeous bodies when all I really want is information.”
Sipping her wine, she gave me a sidelong glance that upped my pulse rate.
“Hmm. Pretty unscrupulous, if you ask me. Unprofessional, in fact. But go ahead if you must. Though I have to warn you, I’m ticklish in only one spot, and it might take you forever to find it.”
I shrugged. “Temptation won’t work, Sandy. It’s been tried by experts.”
I got serious. The fun and games — I hoped — would come later. We got rid of the still-hovering waiter by ordering lunch. Then I gave her my background in a sentence or two and explained about Dave Baker.
“He’s the attorney for this Jerry Fanning, the supposed strangler.” Sandy nodded, now as sober as I. “I’ve gotten into it enough to be convinced that Fanning’s innocent. But for a certain reason, I can’t take it to the cops. So I’m investigating to see if I can’t find something — anything — to get the guy out of jail.”
Sandy looked at me speculatively. “I’ll tell you all I can, Dave. But before we get into that, you’ve got to tell me how you got in to see Betty. And how you got her to cough up what she owed me. She’s not an easy mark; I’ve learned that the hard way.”
I told her how I’d inveigled my way in.
“So Nancy got you in there,” Sandy giggled, shaking her head. “If Nancy had the intelligence God gave a low-grade chimpanzee, she’d be the finest model in this town, I’ll swear. She’s gorgeous and slinky, with a perfect model’s body. I’d kill for that body! But when it comes to brains, well, I’ve got blouses that are smarter than her.”
I chuckled with her and surreptitiously admired the contents of one of those high-I.Q. blouses while the waiter put plates before us — chef’s salad for her, Reuben for me. I quit scoping the scenery and reached for the Grey Poupon.
“Anyway,” I said, slathering the mustard on liberally, “now you know why I went there. And why I want to talk to you. My theory is, the killer knew Laura Penniston. More importantly, she knew him. Which means I’ve got to talk to anyone that knew her. I suppose you’ve been all over this with the police?”
Sandy’s lips cu
rved slightly as she toyed with her salad.
“Well, I’ve been over it with them. I wouldn’t call it all over. Some officer named, uh, Blake, I think it is…”
I nodded. “He’s in charge of the investigation.”
“He questioned me for, oh, maybe six or eight minutes, you know?” Sandy took a small bite of salad, then seemed to take forever to chew and swallow. She studied her fork, twirling a small leaf of lettuce in the salad bowl. Finally she resumed.
“He asked about Laura, the party, where she might have gone when she left the party, and especially where she might have been from the time she left the party till the time she was killed.”
“Yeah? And what did you tell him?”
Sandy shrugged and took a sip of wine. She finally met my eyes. “The same as everyone else, you know? That I have no idea.”
I nodded.
“But he really didn’t ask me very much. He didn’t seem very interested in anything I knew.”
I pushed back my empty plate and looked down at the linen tablecloth with its intricate floral pattern. Without looking up, I asked, “Who do you think might have wanted her dead?”
Her answer was almost inaudible. “You don’t mess around, do you, Dave?” I looked up and our eyes locked. “So you don’t think it was a psycho that got her?”
I didn’t answer. She shook her head and looked away.
“I honestly don’t know anyone who’d have wanted her dead. But if someone I know did kill her, they’re no friend of mine. I’ll do anything I can to help you.”
“Okay. First of all, when did you start with Penniston?”
She sipped wine. “I arrived in New York six years ago. Laura’d come from Wichita two years before that, so she knew what I was going through, me fresh out of Omaha. I wanted to become a superstar model like her. But that was not to be.” She put down her glass, picked up her fork and resumed with her salad.
The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2) Page 13