“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.”
“You told this to the police?”
“Of course I did! I told them a lot more, too. They just chose not to listen.”
“Who did you speak to?” I nervously inquired. “Who was the detective in charge?” Since my homicide detective boyfriend’s precinct didn’t encompass West 26th, I was certain it wasn’t Dan Street, but I held my breath and mentally crossed my fingers anyway.
“Sweeny,” Terry said. “Detective Sergeant Hugo Sweeny. ”
Whew! My relief was palpable. I was eager to help Terry if I could, and I was raring to pursue the story of his sister’s murder, but if Dan had been working on the case, I would have had to decline. I would have had to bow out completely—or at least pretend to. Even with Dan not directly involved, I’d have a lot of pretending to do . . .
“What makes you so sure Detective Sweeny is wrong?” I asked, snatching my cigarettes out of my purse and lighting one up. “Maybe the burglar shot Judy the minute she saw him, before she could put up a struggle, or react in any way to what was happening.” I offered Terry a smoke, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“I could believe that if the shooting had been sloppy,” he said, becoming more agitated, “if at least one of the bullets had missed the heart and hit her shoulder, say, or her leg. But both slugs hit dead center, and they were fired at close range. Judy wasn’t killed by a burglar,” Terry insisted. “Whoever shot her stole her purse and watch just to make it look like a burglary!” His face wasn’t as white as his hair anymore. Now it was chili-pepper red.
“Was her apartment ransacked?” I asked, keeping my tone as calm and professional as possible.
“The place was a mess,” he said. “At least that’s what the police told me. They said everything was turned upside down. And I believe them, since the apartment was a wreck when I got here. The police were responsible for some of the disorder themselves, of course—they had rummaged through everything looking for clues—but they weren’t the cause of the major destruction. That was the murderer’s handiwork.”
“Was anything else taken?” I asked, still exploring the burglary angle.
“I don’t know for sure, but I doubt it. Judy never owned anything worth stealing. She was a salesgirl in the lingerie department at Macy’s, and she didn’t make much money at all. I don’t even know how she could afford to rent her own apartment. She used to room with two other girls down on 19th Street, but she moved out and took her own place a few months ago.” Terry pulled a paper napkin out of the table dispenser and dabbed it over his perspiring forehead.
“Anyway,” he went on, “it doesn’t matter if anything else was stolen or not, because if it was, it was taken just for show. This was no burglary, I’m telling you! Judy was intentionally murdered! And her apartment was trashed because the murderer was looking for something specific—something he never was able to find.”
Terry was so adamantly convinced of his theory, I found it hard to argue with him. “What do you mean by something specific?” I asked, crushing my half-smoked cigarette in the glass ashtray. “Do you know what the murderer was looking for? And how do you know he never found it?”
“Because I found it myself!” Terry declared. He locked his eyes onto mine and pierced me with his pure blue stare.
“Go on,” I coaxed. “Tell me everything.”
“I’ve been living in Judy’s apartment for the past three weeks,” he began, speaking very slowly and intently now. “I had to come into town to identify her body . . . then I stayed on to make her burial arrangements . . . sell off her furniture and stuff . . . pack up her clothes for Goodwill . . . clean all her blood off the carpet . . .” His chin started trembling again. “I had to dispose of the food and pack up the dishes—c
lear everything out of the apartment for the landlord. That’s when I discovered it, when I was sorting through the stuff in the kitchen cabinets.”
“Discovered what?” I urged, acting as solemn as Madame Curie, but feeling as sleazy as Hedda Hopper. I probably shouldn’t admit this to you (or anybody else, for that matter), but rather than shrinking from the horror of the things Terry was telling me, I was yearning to know all the dirty details. The truth is always lurking in the details. “What was it you found?” I asked again.
Terry sat up straight, lifted his chin, and squared his wide, muscular shoulders. “The buried treasure,” he announced in a deep, resounding, pirate-like voice. “I found the buried treasure.”
I thought my ears weren’t working right. “What did you say?”
“I found it yesterday afternoon,” he went on, “wrapped in tissue paper and buried in a box of Quaker oatmeal.”
“Oatmeal?” I asked, suddenly wondering if, along with his courage, Terry had lost his marbles in Korea, too.
“I took everything, including the oatmeal, straight to the police first thing this morning,” Terry rattled on, “but they still don’t believe me. They said this doesn’t prove anything. They’re so damn sure Judy was killed during a random robbery, nothing’s ever going to change their minds!” His face was turning purple now.
“What—exactly—did—you—find?” I pronounced the words calmly and carefully, as though speaking to a hysterical child.
“Here! I’ll show you!” he cried, in a voice so clamorous the fat gray-haired woman sitting to our right looked up from her macaroni and cheese and gaped openly at us, her heavily rouged cheeks sagging in surprise. She continued to stare as Terry shoved his hat and gloves aside and slid the Thom McAn shoebox into the center of our small table. He untied the twine, lifted the lid, and pulled out a cylindrical cardboard Quaker oatmeal container.
Murder is a Girl's Best Friend Page 3