So then I might have gotten into bed and gone to sleep like a normal person, instead of pacing around my apartment for the rest of the night, from the kitchen to the living room and back, again and again, drinking a jillion Dr. Peppers out of the bottle and filling every ashtray I owned to the brim with squashed cigarette stubs.
WHEN I CAME OUT OF MY SUGAR- AND smoke-induced stupor it was nine-thirty in the morning, and I was flopped out in a crumpled heap on my living room daybed (a weird but very modern-looking contraption I made myself from an old wooden door, a set of six wooden screw-on legs, and a single-bed mattress tucked into an orange madras bedspread. Poverty is the mother of invention!). I was still dressed in my black skirt, black scoop-neck sweater, and black stockings, and my eyelids were spackled shut with several thick, crumbling layers of black mascara.
When I finally pried them open and took a look at the clock on the table next to the phone, I saw that I was an hour late for work.
Groaning loudly and pulling myself to a seated position, I fell back against the couch cushions (or, rather, the pillows I keep piled against the wall to make the daybed look like a couch), wondering what evil stroke of fate had determined that I should have to work like a slave for a living, and still live like a slave in the process. Madly searching my addled brain for a good excuse for being late, I finally picked up the phone and dialed the office, hoping against hope that Mr. Crockett was in a forgiving mood.
When Lenny answered, I was so relieved I almost kissed the mouthpiece.
“Zimmerman!” I said, exhaling loudly. “Thank God it’s you. I’m so late it isn’t funny. I just woke up and I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll tell you what to do,” he sputtered, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Stop working on whatever ghoulish story you’ve gotten yourself involved in, and start paying attention to your real job. Otherwise, you’re gonna lose it.” His critical tone reminded me of the way my mother used to sound, when I would come home way past my curfew, or forget to clean up my room.
“Is Mr. Crockett upset? Did he say anything to you?” I wasn’t worried about Brandon Pomeroy because I knew he wouldn’t be in for another two hours at least.
“Crockett hasn’t come in yet. There was some kind of emergency at the typesetter.”
“Really?” I cried, stifling a loud wahoooo! “I don’t believe it! How lucky can a girl get?”
“Not very,” Lenny said, dropping his voice even lower, cupping his hand over his mouth and around the receiver (at least that’s what it sounded like he was doing). “Mike and Mario arrived right on time this morning, and they’ve been having unholy seizures because the mail isn’t sorted and the coffee isn’t made. Mario’s so furious he said he was going to call Mr. Crockett at the typesetter and tell him you didn’t show up.”
“What an unspeakable creep he is!” I said, wiping chunks of mascara out of my eyes and nervously lighting up another cigarette. It made me gag, so I put it out right away. “You’ve got to cover for me, Lenny,” I pleaded. “Tell them I was trampled by an elephant or something.”
“You mean you’re not coming in?”
“No,” I said, suddenly deciding to take the whole day off. “It’ll be better if I don’t show my face at all. That way you can tell them I called in sick, and they’ll all just have to accept it. This will be only the second sick day I’ve taken in all the time I’ve worked for Daring Detective, so I think I deserve a little leeway. I’ve earned it, right?”
Lenny was audibly exasperated. “Pull your fat head out of the sand, Paige!” he scolded. “Pomeroy won’t give you any rope, and you know it.”
“Maybe that’s just as well,” I said, trying to smile. “The way things have been going for me lately, I’d probably just hang myself with it.”
A SHOWER AND CLEAN CLOTHES LIFTED my spirits a bit. Terry Catcher’s mood, on the other hand, was sunk in a hangover of oceanic proportions.
“I should have been killed instead of Judy,” he moaned, rubbing his pale, handsome face with both hands, then raking his long, shaky fingers through his thick white hair with a vengeance. “I’m a coward, and a drunk, and no use to anybody on earth.” Terry was sitting, slumped over, on Abby’s little red couch, in the same spot and position he’d been in several minutes before, when I’d ventured next door to see how he and Abby were doing.
“Listen up, pretty boy,” Abby called from the kitchen. She was toasting bagels and stirring Tabasco into the three large Bloody Marys sitting on the counter. “You can forget that ‘no use to anybody’ crap right now. I’ve got a use for you, you dig? And you’re gonna love being used by me. I guarantee it.”
I laughed and sat down next to Terry on the couch. It felt good to be among friends. “And I’m really glad you’re still here, Terry,” I said, patting his poor, hunched-over back.
“Now you can tell me more about Judy and help me figure out the truth about what happened to her. I’ve made some headway in my investigation, but I still feel as though I’ve been locked in a windowless basement without a flashlight.”
“Well, I feel like I’m dying,” he croaked, slowly turning his head and looking at me—for the first time since I’d entered the apartment. His bright blue eyes were thoroughly outshone by the bright red rims of his lids. “What is a Mai Tai anyway?” he asked. “A mixture of arsenic and chloroform?”
I laughed again. “Abby’s known all over the Village for her dynamic cocktails. It’s rumored she laces them with gunpowder. ”
“I can assure you the only explosive I use is booze,” Abby said, walking over to the couch with a Bloody Mary in each hand, “and in this case it’s just a dinky little spritz of vodka.” She handed the drinks to us. “Bottoms up, kids! You’ll both feel better in no time. And when you’re able to walk, come on over to the table for bagels and coffee.” She turned and whisked back into the kitchen area.
Terry eyed his drink suspiciously. “Coffee sounds good,” he said, forcing himself—with a loud groan—to his feet, then wobbling—glass in hand—toward the kitchen. I took two big gulps of my firewater (Abby uses a lot of Tabasco), and followed him to the table.
FINALLY, AFTER THE BLOODY MARYS, bagels, and coffee had been consumed, we got around to discussing the murder. I told Terry and Abby about all my investigative excursions thus far: my little tea party with Elsie Londergan; my talk with Vicki Lee Bumstead at Macy’s and my follow-up phone conversation with her, when she told me about Gregory Smythe and said she’d try to get his address and phone number for me; my midnight jaunt to the Village Vanguard, where I’d met the cat with the dog and learned that his name was Jimmy Birmingham. I didn’t tell them that Jimmy had followed me home and, therefore, knew where I lived, because I didn’t want them to flip out and start worrying about me. (Okay, I also didn’t want them to know how incredibly stupid I’d been to allow—all right, cause—the whole thing to happen the way it did.)
“I can’t believe how much you’ve accomplished so far,” Terry said, lighting a Pall Mall and taking a drag. Some color had returned to his lean, narrow face and his hands weren’t shaking anymore. “I’m so grateful to you, Paige. I just wish I could talk to Bob, tell him how swell you’ve been and how much you’re helping me.”
My soul shivered. I wished I could talk to Bob, too.
“What’s next on the agenda?” Abby asked, urging me onward as usual. Without taking a breath, she cried,
“You’ve got to find Gregory Smythe!” Like Edward R. Mur row, she liked to answer her own questions.
“I know, I know,” I said, sighing heavily. “I know what I have to do, but I’m not sure I have the energy to do it.”
Abby was unhappy with my lethargic response. “You’re not going to just sit around and wait for Dagwood’s sister to get Smythe’s address, are you? What if her friend in bookkeeping refuses to search the files? Then you’ll be up poop creek without a paddle!”
I smiled at her sanitized version of the cautionary cliché. It wasn’t often
that Abby sanitized anything. “No, I’m not going to wait for Vicki. I have an alternate plan. But first,” I said, turning to look at Terry, “I was wondering if you ever heard of Gregory Smythe. Did Judy ever mention him, or bring him up in any of her letters?”
“No. This is the first I’ve heard of Smythe or Birmingham. Judy never told me about either of them. She used to write me about her boyfriends when I was in Korea, but after I came home and she moved to New York, she didn’t write very often. And when she did, all she talked about was her job. She was so proud to be working at Macy’s.” As Terry spoke of his sister, his voice grew soft and his face turned pale again.
“So what’s your alternate plan?” Abby badgered. “How are you going to track down Judy’s daddy-o? Are you going to ask Dan to help you?”
My heart flipped over at the mention of Dan’s name, but I pretended I hadn’t heard it. I didn’t want to think about (or have to explain) our recent romantic run-in. “I have a different scheme,” I said. “I’m going to pay a visit to Judy’s landlord today. According to Elsie Londergan, Gregory Smythe signed the lease on Judy’s apartment, so the agency’s sure to have his address. If not his home address, then at least his business address. And if I can get the landlord in a chatty mood, maybe he’ll have even more to reveal about the randy old coot’s living arrangements.”
“Do you know who the landlord is?” Abby asked.
“No, but you do, right?” My words were directed at Terry.
“Sure do!” Terry said, delighted to have some concrete information to offer. “His name is Roscoe Swift and his office is on 27th Street, right around the corner from Judy’s apartment. Chelsea Realty. Wait!” he said, jumping up from the table to grab a crumpled newspaper out of the duffle bag sitting on the floor near the couch. “The exact address is printed here, in the classifieds. I saw it yesterday.” He folded the newspaper open to a certain page and handed it to me. “See the item circled in ink? It’s an ad for Judy’s apartment. Swift’s already put it up for rent.”
I scanned the ad and, with Terry’s permission, tore it out of the paper. “Thanks,” I said, sticking the scrap of newsprint in the side pocket of my skirt and giving Terry a big grin of approval. “That’s all I need to know.”
“Maybe not, Paige,” Terry said, his proud smile fading to an uneasy frown. “Swift strikes me as a sleazy kind of guy. Slick and tricky. You may not get anything out of him but a fast runaround and a quick pat on the fanny. I’d better go with you.”
“No, Terry,” I protested. “I don’t want him to know that I’m connected to you or Judy in any way.”
“Then I should be the one to go,” Abby broke in, angling her head and arching one black eyebrow to the hilt. “If there’s one thing in the world I’m good at, it’s dealing with tricky guys like Roscoe. If they gave out an Oscar for Best Manhandler, I’d win it every year.”
I had no doubt of that, but I was still determined to meet—and interview—Roscoe Swift on my own. And to see Judy’s apartment for myself. “Actually, there’s something else I was hoping the two of you might do today.”
“What?!!!” they cried in unison. A girl couldn’t ask for two more eager assistants.
“I thought you could take Judy’s jewelry—or some of it, anyway—uptown to the Diamond Exchange and show it around to some of the dealers. Maybe one of them will recognize the stones or the settings. Maybe someone there will know where the jewelry came from, or who bought it, or if it was stolen. I would do this myself, but I’m afraid to walk around town all alone with a bag full of diamonds. I’d just be asking for trouble. But if the two of you . . .”
“Say no more!” Abby chimed in. “I’m so perfect for this job it’s silly! In case it slipped your mind, I’m Jewish! And every Jew on earth has relatives who work at the Diamond Exchange. Three of my cousins work there, and my Uncle Sam and Aunt Dora do, too! If they can’t give us the lowdown on the ice themselves, they’ll probably know somebody who can.”
I gazed at Terry, trying to gauge his reaction to Abby’s religious revelation. If he showed any signs of anti-Semi tism (as so many white Christian males I knew often did—Brandon Pomeroy and Mario Caruso, to name but two), I’d be so disappointed in him I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I wouldn’t turn my back on him, or stop looking for his sister’s killer, but I’d continue my investigation with drastically diminished zeal—and a very heavy heart.
Not to worry. Terry showed no prejudice at all. If anything, he was excited about Abby’s family connections. “That’s great, Abby!” he cried. “Let’s get the diamonds and go over there right now!” His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were glowing. And though he didn’t look a bit like Mickey Rooney, I still half expected him to add, “And let’s get all the kids together and put on a show in the barn!” Abby looked at me and smiled. Her big brown Judy Garland eyes were glowing, too. As if reading my thoughts, she winked at me and said, “Your wish is our command, Paige. Give us the rocks, and we’ll be off to see the wizard.”
Chapter 14
“WOW!” ABBY EXCLAIMED, STARING DOWN at the glittering mound of jewelry I’d just removed from the oatmeal container and placed on my kitchen table. “Nice little stash of sparklers.” She poked her index finger into the pile and—with the uncanny precision of a Geiger counter—plucked out the most desirable piece (i.e., the one with the most diamonds). “Now that’s what I call a necklace,” she said, quickly clasping the double string of gems around her throat. “Mind if I try it on?”
I told you she was going to do that, remember? Self-restraint was not one of Abby’s specialties. I only hoped it didn’t bother Terry that she was suddenly prancing around my kitchen like the Duchess of Windsor, sporting his poor dead sister’s necklace—and now her earrings, too!—with such unbounded glee.
“Do you think you should take all the jewelry with you, or just some of it?” I said to Terry, hoping to divert his attention to more serious matters. “I suppose it’s important to have each and every piece checked out . . . but if you happened to get robbed, or anything like that, it would be terrible to lose all the evidence.”
“I’m not worried about getting robbed,” Terry said. “I’m just worried about getting arrested.”
“What?!! What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that I stole these diamonds from Detective Hugo Sweeny’s office, and he probably thinks I’m trying to sell them now, so he—or one of his bloodhounds—may be sniffing around the Diamond Exchange, looking for me.”
“God! I hadn’t thought of that!” I said, head spinning. “But what makes you think the police are looking for you here in New York? It’s far more likely they’re in Pittsburgh, sitting in an unmarked car outside your father’s house, waiting for you—and the diamonds—to come home for Christmas.”
“You’re right about the last part,” he said. “Two dicks are sitting in a car outside my father’s house. But neither one of them is Sweeny. They’re two of Pittsburgh’s finest, doing a little freelance surveillance work for their fellow flatfoots in New York. I know this because they paid my dad a visit yesterday. They grilled him about where I was, and when I was coming home, and they—or two other jokers like them—have been watching the house ever since.”
“So you’ve spoken to your father.”
“Yeah, twice. Yesterday, when I called to tell him I couldn’t get home because the buses weren’t running, and again this morning, when I called to find out how he was doing and if the cops were still there.”
“See? I told you they’d be looking for you,” I said. “Thank God for the snowstorm! If your bus had left on schedule, you’d be in jail right now—and you wouldn’t be getting out until you turned the diamonds over to the police . . .” I had a disturbing afterthought, and added, “. . . which means you would have had to turn me over to them, too.”
Oh, lordy, lordy, lordy! I shrieked to myself, heaving my breast and rolling my eyes like Hattie McDaniel. Why hadn’t I foreseen t
his possible consequence before? Was I a selfless and fearless defender of truth and justice—or just a stupid fool? (Don’t answer that!) When I thought how furious Dan would have been to learn about my willing (not to mention illegal) participation, I almost wet my pants.
“Hey, what are you two gabbing about?” Abby broke in, finally waking from her diamond-studded daydreams. By this point, all of Judy’s jewelry—the necklace, the earrings, the pin, and both bracelets—was draped, or screwed, or clipped to Abby’s body in the customary places. She looked like a goddamn chandelier. “Am I missing anything?” she asked.
“Just a tiara,” I snapped. “But if we ever find Smythe, maybe he’ll buy you one.”
“That’s not what I meant!” Abby squawked, giving me a dirty look. “I was talking about your conversation with Whitey, and you know it!”
“Oh, that!” I teased, smiling, glad that Abby had returned (sort of) to the realm of reality—and that I hadn’t been thrown in jail (yet!) for tampering with evidence. “We were just discussing whether or not it’s too dangerous for Terry to go to the Diamond Exchange today. One or more of the detectives involved in Judy’s homicide investigation may be casing the joint, looking for him.”
“Why would they be doing that?” she wanted to know.
Terry explained the situation to her, and she grasped it quickly. She even came up with a possible solution to the problem.
“You can wear a disguise!” she whooped, getting excited by her own idea. “Something that will hide your white hair and help you meld into the crowd.” She wrinkled her brow in thought for a few seconds, and then the light bulb over her head flashed about a thousand watts brighter. “I’ve got it!” she cried. “The perfect camouflage, you dig? And I think we have everything we need to put the getup together. Hey bobba ree bop! C’mon, Whitey, let’s go across the hall. I’ll round up the stuff and you can try it on. You wait here, Paige. When we’re all finished, we’ll come over and you can be the judge of the results.”
Murder is a Girl's Best Friend Page 13