Murder is a Girl's Best Friend

by Amanda Matetsky

  Especially the color of blood, I thought, walking into the room and staring down at the carmine carpet, searching for the section I knew poor Terry had soaked and soaped and scrubbed with his own hands. It was faintly visible in the center of the floor, midway between the sitting room and the bedroom. A dusky oblong stain the size of a bathmat. The very spot where Judy’s soul had left her bleeding body.

  The location of the stain didn’t actually prove anything, I realized, but it did indicate that the killer had been admitted to the interior of the apartment before the murder took place. (Okay, okay! I may have been jumping to conclusions. Yes, Judy could have been shot in the kitchen when she opened her door to the killer, and then she might have stumbled halfway to the bedroom before she fell. But it was far more likely that the two bullets fired straight into her heart would have killed her instantly—i.e., kept her from stumbling anywhere.)

  “The apartment’s the right size for me,” I said, carefully bypassing the barely discernible bloodstain and heading into the bedroom. “And the location couldn’t be better. But my major concern is safety.” I walked over to the bedroom window, raised the worn shade and looked out at the rusty, partially snow-covered fire escape. “Do you have many break-ins here?”

  “Never had a single one!” Roscoe swore, lying through his little brown teeth (the police had, after all, declared that Judy was shot during a random burglary). “This is the safest building in the whole goddamn city!” he insisted. “The neighborhood’s safe, too.”

  Pretending to test its workability, I unlocked the bedroom window and raised it a couple of inches, checking both the frame and the glass for signs of a forced entry. There were no scratches or scrapes to speak of, and the glass panes were uniformly filthy, suggesting—if not proving—that none of them had been recently replaced. A blast of cold air prompted me to close the window and relock it.

  “Next to safety, privacy is the most important thing to me,” I said, shivering, turning to look Roscoe right in the eye. “I don’t need any new friends or enemies. And I can’t stand gossips or busybodies. I’m an unmarried woman with a liberated lifestyle, and I want to live in a building where all the residents keep their noses in their own behinds.”

  Roscoe let out a horsey laugh. I was speaking a language he understood. “Then you’ve come to the right place, toots,” he said, snorting and winking suggestively. “The last renter of this apartment felt exactly the same way you do and was very satisfied with the accommodations.”

  “You mean the single gal who just moved out?”

  “No,” he said.” Wink, wink. Snort, snort. “I mean the married guy who was paying the rent for the single gal who just moved out.”

  “Aha,” I replied, lifting one eyebrow to a peak—letting Roscoe know, with a salty smile, I had gotten his message.

  “And how did the neighbors react to this scandalous situation?” I asked. “Did they cause the illicit lovebirds any trouble?”

  His scrawny chest puffed out with pride. “I never had one complaint from any of the other tenants.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, “but what about the lovebirds themselves? Did any of the residents ever bother them? Were they ever hissed at, or spat on, or bombarded with rotten tomatoes?”

  Roscoe laughed again. “I don’t know where you been livin’, sister, but here in Chelsea, we don’t do things like that.”

  “Well, that’s good to know,” I said, trying to turn on the charm again—i.e., look alluring and bat my lashes. “But you know what would really help me make up my mind about this apartment, Roscoe?”

  “What?” he said, jutting both his chin and his pelvis in my direction.

  “If I could just talk to one of the lovebirds—either the guy or the gal—and ask a few questions, find out what it’s like to live here. I’m sure everything you’ve told me about the apartment and the area is true, but I’d still like to get a firsthand report. Nothing speaks like experience.” I paused and gave him a flirty smile. “And I don’t mind telling you,” I added, flapping my eyelids like a vapid fool, “if I get the good review I expect to get, then you’ve got yourself a brand new occupant!”

  I was hoping he’d clap his hands and jump for joy, and then whip out pen and paper to write down Gregory Smythe’s unlisted phone number for me. But he didn’t . What he did was stiffen his puny spine, cock his lizardlike head to one side, narrow his steely eyes to the thinnest of slits, and start breathing fire through his nostrils again.

  “Forget it, sister,” he growled, his swarthy, pockmarked skin turning a puky shade of puce. “You’re not getting any goddamn names or numbers from me! My other renters—even the ones who don’t live here anymore—happen to like their privacy just as much as you do.” He didn’t punch me in the face or kick me in the shin or anything like that, but he looked like he wanted to.

  “Easy, Roscoe,” I soothed, keeping my voice steady and low, striving for a smooth recovery. “I didn’t mean to upset you. And I didn’t really want anybody’s phone number, either. To tell the truth, I was just testing you—trying to find out if you were the kind of landlord who would give out information about your tenants. I really couldn’t live with that. But I see I shouldn’t have worried about you! You passed the test with flying colors!” (Okay, I admit it. If Roscoe and I had been vying for the top chameleon crown, I’d have won it hands down.)

  He was mollified but not convinced. He thrust out his jaw, crossed both arms over his chest, and studied me suspiciously. “Look, sister, do you want the damn apartment or not? I got other people comin’ to look at it.”

  “I don’t know yet,” I demurred. “Can I think about it and call you later?”

  “It’s a free country,” he said, glowering. Then he turned on his heels and stomped toward the door, treading over the scarce remains of Judy’s plasma in the process. “But don’t think I’m gonna hold it for you,” he grumbled over his shoulder. “Somebody else wants it, it’s gone.”

  “I understand,” I said, holding back for a moment, taking one last mournful look around the unbearably sad apartment where my dear late husband’s best friend’s little sister had lived and died, and laughed and cried, and dreamed her girlish dreams, and loved her pitiful little heart out. And as I slowly trailed Roscoe to the door and followed him out into the hall, I realized I was praying.

  Chapter 16

  WHEN ROSCOE AND I REACHED THE STREET and parted company—thereby ending the threat that Elsie might bump into us and blurt out my real name—I said another silent prayer (of thanks, this time). Then I walked back to Seventh Avenue and headed south, away from the Chelsea Realty office, looking for a coffee shop or a candy store or any kind of store where I could slip inside, get warm, and make a phone call. Though I hadn’t wanted to see Elsie before, I needed to talk to her now—to find out when and where she wanted to meet for dinner.

  The first shop I came to was Henry’s Hardware, and I was so cold I went right in. The short, balding man standing behind the waist-high counter in the middle of the store was wearing a red flannel shirt and an enormous I’m-so-glad-to-see-a-customer smile. “Well, hello there!” he said, propping his elbows on the counter and craning his plump round face in my direction. “What can I help you with today? I’m having a big sale on electric fans.” He let out a hearty laugh to show that he was joking.

  I smiled and walked up to the counter. “I’m not shopping for anything specific,” I told him, “but I’d like to look around a bit, if that’s okay. And do you have a public phone I can use?”

  “I’ve got a phone, but it’s not public.”

  “I’d be happy to pay for the call.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that!” he said, pulling a battered old black telephone up from behind the counter and placing it down right in front of me. “It’ll be a frosty day in Hawaii before Henry Thaddeus Hancock makes a nice young lady like you pay for one lousy phone call. It will be just one call, won’t it? A local?”

  “That’s ri
ght,” I said, smiling. “Just one local call.”

  “Then go right ahead, young lady,” he said, sliding the phone even closer. “Be my guest. I’ll go price some items over in the housewares section so you can have some privacy. ”

  “Thank you, Henry,” I said, touched by his kindness and generosity. After my dealings with with Jimmy Birmingham and Roscoe Swift, Henry Thaddeus Hancock seemed like the world’s most considerate man. Not wanting to tie up his line any longer than I had to, I snatched Elsie Londergan’s number out of the zippered side pocket of my purse and dialed it quickly. She answered on the third ring.

  “Hi, Elsie!” I said. “This is Paige Turner, and I . . .”

  “Hi, yourself,” she interrupted. “I was wondering if you would call. And I’m sure glad you did. I’ve got a real han kerin’ for a hamburger and a beer right about now.” (I hadn’t noticed it before, but even her vocabulary was similar to John Wayne’s.)

  “Good,” I said, “because I’m in the neighborhood and I’m hungry. Just name the place and tell the time.”

  “There’s a pub on 23rd between Sixth and Seventh called the Green Monkey. I’ll meet you there at five-thirty.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  I hung up and went looking for Henry. He was in the rear of the store, squatting down next to a cardboard carton full of plastic ice cube trays—the new twist-and-pop kind— removing them one at a time and stamping each with a price of forty-five cents.

  “I’m off the phone now, Henry. Thanks so much!”

  “Don’t mention it, young lady.” He gave out a grunt and stood up like a true gentleman, his plump round face pink with exertion. “Glad to be of service to you!”

  “I have a few minutes to kill before I meet my friend for dinner,” I said. “Mind if I browse around?”

  “Please do! I know you’ll find something you need. Everybody always does!”

  I wasn’t intending to buy anything, but I didn’t tell him that. He looked so proud and hopeful I didn’t have the heart to admit that all I wanted was to soak up some more heat before I hit the frigid streets for the Green Monkey.

  Henry walked back to the sales counter, and I took a stroll down the next aisle over, surveying all the rugged, “manly” items in that section—the fishing rods, tackle boxes, hunting knives, boat paddles, lanterns, and inflatable life vests so indispensable to life in the wild on the untamed isle of Manhattan. The adjacent lane featured more of the same: tents, sleeping bags, tool boxes, hand pumps, saws, axes, flashlights, and lunchboxes.

  A lunchbox! I squealed to myself, struck with a sudden happy inspiration. Stooping to inspect the three different models displayed on a lower shelf, I picked up the nicest one and examined it closely. It was made of steel—black enamel outside, white enamel inside—and it had a rounded top, a sturdy handle, two lock clasps, strong hinges, and a pint vacuum bottle with a screw-on aluminum cup top.

  It was perfect! The ideal gift! I couldn’t wait to wrap it up and give it to Lenny—who, as I’ve mentioned before, was so intent on avoiding the office elevators he brought his lunch to work every day in a brown paper sack.

  Delighted with my serendipitous and timely find (there were only two shopping days left until Christmas), I merrily hugged the lunchbox to my breast and carried it up to the sales counter. “May I pay for this by check?” I asked, knowing I didn’t have enough cash to buy Lenny’s gift as well as Elsie’s dinner.

  “Of course!” Henry gushed, pink cheeks glowing. “That’ll be two dollars and twenty-nine cents.”

  I made out the check, and Henry put the lunchbox in a shopping bag. “See? I knew you’d find at least one thing you need,” he said, handing the bag over to me. “Henry’s Hardware has something for everybody!” If he had let out a loud “Ho, ho, ho!” I’d have found it entirely appropriate.

  THE GREEN MONKEY WAS FIFTY PERCENT full (or fifty percent empty, depending on your point of view), and most of the mostly male customers were sitting or standing at the long walnut bar, jabbering noisily. I yearned to join the boisterous, laughing crowd and throw down a fast highball or two, but I took a seat in a booth instead. It was the ladylike thing to do. (No nasty remarks, please!)

  Before I even had a chance to light up a cigarette, Elsie Londergan breezed in. She hooked her coat on the rack near the door, waved to the bartender, and slid into the booth across the table from me. “Brrrrrr!” she said, removing her green wool gloves but leaving on her green felt hat, which had a sprig of fake holly pinned to the brim. “I’m wearing thick wool stockings, a heavy wool skirt, two slips, and two sweaters, and I’m still freezing! I think I’ll have a hot buttered rum instead of a beer, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure,” I said, nervously adding up the extra cost in my mind. I’d have enough, I figured, if I didn’t order a drink. I hoped there’d be a dime left over for the subway.

  “So, Paige Turner,” Elsie said, craning her chiseled John Wayne chin over the scarred wood tabletop and speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “Have you dug up any dirt? Do you know who killed Judy?”

  “No,” I said, suddenly feeling very tired and dejected. “I don’t have a clue. But I have spoken to a few . . .”

  I cut my sentence short when the waiter appeared to take our order. Elsie ordered a hot buttered rum and a hamburger with a side of fries. I asked for a hamburger and a glass of water.

  As soon as the waiter left, Elsie leaned over the table again. “Hey, why the water?” she wanted to know. “Are you a teetotaler or something?”

  “No,” I said, grimacing at the horrible thought, “I’m just trying to keep a clear head.” I didn’t tell her that my head hadn’t been clear since 1951.

  Elsie patted the fringe of blue-gray hair sticking out beneath her hat and smiled sympathetically. Then she turned her attention back to the murder. “So, who did you speak to? Have you learned anything important?”

  I gave her a quick summary of everything that had happened since I’d seen her the day before, relating the highlights of my conversations with Vicki Lee Bumstead and Jimmy Birmingham. “Gregory Smith’s real name is Gregory Smythe,” I told her, “and Judy knew it all along. And since she always told you everything, I’m surprised she didn’t tell you that.”

  “Me, too,” Elsie said, pausing, looking perplexed, obviously giving the matter further thought. Then suddenly her eyes popped wide. “I bet I know what happened!” she sputtered. “I bet Judy did give me his real name, but just didn’t say it right! She wasn’t very well-educated, you know, and she was always getting her words mixed up. She probably thought ‘Smith’ was the right pronunciation.”

  Elsie’s explanation seemed possible—even plausible—to me. “Did she ever give you his personal address or phone number?”

  “No, but she probably didn’t have that information herself. Cheating sidewinders like Smythe like to keep that kind of stuff secret.”

  “What about Jimmy Birmingham? Did Judy ever mention him?”

  “Yeah, he was her boyfriend before Smythe. She said he was a poet or a sculptor, or something arty-farty like that.”

  “Did he ever visit her in her apartment? Did you ever see him in your building or around the neighborhood?”

  “Can’t say. I never met the man, so I don’t know what he looks like.”

  I took the picture of Judy and Jimmy and Otto out of my purse and handed it to her. She held it up toward the light for a couple of seconds, then slapped it down on the tabletop. “Yes!” she cried, getting excited. “I did see this joker around the neighborhood a couple of times! I remember because he was carrying that little dog under his arm. Had it wrapped up in a towel. Do you think he’s the one who . . .”

  Elsie stopped talking when the waiter reappeared with our food and drinks. And after the waiter left, she was too busy chomping fries and guzzling rum to speak. And when she started chewing on her hamburger with the gusto of a famished fullback, I realized our conversation wouldn’t be resumed until she had fini
shed eating. So I took a sip of my water, slathered ketchup on my bun, and tackled my own hamburger—matching Elsie bite for bite.

  Our plates were clean in under five minutes. “You want coffee?” Elsie asked, popping the last french fry in her mouth.

  The jig was up. I could actually hear my wallet groaning. “Yes, I do, Elsie,” I said, sighing, “but I can’t have any. And neither can you.”

  “Huh? Why not?”

  “Because I don’t feel like washing the dishes.”

  “You mean you don’t have enough money?”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “Well, why the hell didn’t you say so?” she cried. “I can kick in for the java. I got lucky at bingo last night.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Java would be swell.”

  The waiter cleared our dishes and brought us two steaming mugs of coffee. Then we both lit up cigarettes and returned to more homicidal concerns.

  “Did Smythe give Judy any expensive gifts?” I probed, wanting to find out if Elsie knew about the diamonds. “Any furs or jewels or anything that might have attracted a burglar or a killer?”

  “He gave her a bunch of jewelry, but I bet it was just paste.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Smythe strikes me as a world-class cheapskate, that’s why!”

  “But he paid Judy’s rent . . .”

  “Yeah, but that didn’t set him back much. Only sixtyfive bucks a month. You’ve seen my apartment! Well, Judy’s was just like it—a small dark railroad with no doors and lots of cockroaches. Not exactly the Taj Mahal.”

  “Yes, I know,” I admitted. “I was there this afternoon.”

  “You were?” Elsie said, taken aback. She braced her broad shoulders against the wooden backrest of the booth and looked at me suspiciously. “And how did that little event come about?” Was it my imagination or was she upset about something?

  “I saw an ad for Judy’s apartment in the paper so I went to Chelsea Realty and asked to see it, pretending I was looking for a new place to live. I wanted to see the place firsthand. Your landlord took me over.”