Murder is a Girl's Best Friend

by Amanda Matetsky

  “Roscoe? Roscoe took you there?” She looked kind of panicky now.

  “Yes . . . Is there something wrong with that? I just wanted to get a feel for the crime scene.”

  “Did you tell him who you are?”

  “Well, no. I put down a phony name and address on the application.”

  She turned quiet for a few seconds, mulling over what I’d just said. Then she took one last drag on her cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray. “I wish you hadn’t done that, Paige. You should have spoken to me first.”

  “But why? What’s the problem?” I was feeling kind of panicky now myself.

  “After you left my place yesterday,” Elsie began, frowning as she spoke, “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said: that Judy was probably murdered—on purpose—by somebody she knew. And I was going nuts wondering if that was true. So, instead of just sitting there like a stump, staring into space and trying to figure out who the killer could be, I decided to get up off my buttocks and do a little detective work on my own.”

  Bubble, bubble, here comes trouble . . .

  “So I went down to the realty office and had a little talk with Roscoe,” Elsie continued. “I asked him why he went to Judy’s apartment the night she was killed and what time he found the body.”

  “And what did he say?” I interjected, panting like a high-strung poodle. I had been wanting to know the answers to those very same questions. Hey, maybe it won’t be so bad having John Wayne as a deputy after all!

  “He said he went to Judy’s place around eight-thirty to check her radiators. She had complained she wasn’t getting enough heat. When she didn’t answer the door, he opened it himself—it wasn’t locked—and went inside. He found her dead body lying in a pool of blood in the sitting room. The blood was still warm.”

  “He touched it?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “That little weasel gives me the creeps!”

  “Ditto,” I said, putting out my cigarette and lighting another. “Did you ask him anything else?”

  “I asked him for Gregory Smith’s real name.”

  “Did he give it to you?”

  “No. He told me to go jump in a lake. He said he already told the police everything, that I should butt out and leave the detective work up to them.”

  I hated to admit it (even just to myself!), but Roscoe Swift was beginning to sound a heck of a lot like Dan Street. “So, was that the end of your conversation?” I asked her.

  “Not exactly,” she said, slumping her shoulders and casting her eyes down at the tabletop.

  Ugh! . . . “You mean there was more?”

  “I realize now I shouldn’t have said anything,” Elsie muttered, “but at the time it seemed like the right thing to do.”

  A squirt of adrenaline shot up my spine. “What seemed like the right thing to do?” I was trying to keep my voice calm and steady, but I probably sounded like Ralph Kramden in the throes of a roaring hissy fit. “What did you say?”

  Elsie raised her eyes and gave me an apologetic look. “I told Roscoe about you.”

  I couldn’t speak. A cat had its claws in my tongue.

  Elsie nervously cleared her throat and went on. “I thought Roscoe would be more communicative if I told him what was really going on, made him feel like an insider in the investigation,” she explained. “So I told him everything I knew about you. That your name was Paige Turner and you were a friend of Judy’s brother Terry. That you worked for Daring Detective magazine and were trying to help Terry prove that his sister had been intentionally murdered, not killed by chance during a burglary. That you were a very nice person who really cared about Judy Catcher and was determined to find out the truth about her death.”

  “And how did Roscoe react?” I stammered, freeing my tongue and flapping it frantically. “Was he surprised by what you said? Did he show any concern? Did he give you any more information?”

  “No,” Elsie said, embarrassed. “All he showed was anger, and all he said was, ‘Get lost, Elsie, you’re bugging me.’ ” She paused and gave me a sad little smile. “I’m really sorry, Paige,” she added. “I was trying to help you, not hurt you.”

  She seemed distressed so I hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry about it, Elsie,” I said. “You may not have hurt me at all. Maybe Roscoe never put two and two together. Maybe he never realized that Paige Turner and Phoebe Starr were the same person.”

  “Phoebe Starr?” She popped me a questioning look.

  “My alter ego,” I explained, “the name I put on the rental application.” I stubbed out my cigarette and took a few sips of coffee, brooding over the possible ramifications of this unexpected development. And after several more seconds of silence, I sucked up my optimism and proclaimed, “Even if Roscoe does figure out the Phoebe/Paige connection, what does it matter now? I don’t intend to see him again or ask him any more questions, so it really doesn’t make any difference. He never would have given me any significant information anyway.”

  I was trying to convince myself as well as Elsie that Roscoe’s knowledge of my real name and occupation posed no threat to me or my investigation. And, for Elsie’s part, I succeeded. Convincing myself, however, turned out to be a hopeless objective. Because no matter how hard I tried to banish a certain unpleasant thought from my muddled, maniacal mind, it kept coming back to haunt me: If Roscoe Swift had anything whatsoever to do with Judy’s murder—or even just knows somebody who did—then I’m up poop creek without a paddle.

  Chapter 17

  HAVE YOU EVER WISHED THAT YOU COULD just pack up your life and leap out of your body and become somebody else entirely? Well, that’s the way I felt that cold, dark, disturbing winter evening. All the way home on the subway (Elsie insisted on splitting the check with me, so I had plenty left over) I kept thinking about how great it would be if I could just go to sleep, or fall into a brief coma or something, and wake up as Esther Williams. Then I could swim all my days away, in a graceful aquatic ballet, doing the backstroke in a vast pool of sparkling turquoise water, wearing a dazzling silver bathing suit and pointing one strong, tanned, shapely leg straight up toward the sun.

  Okay, so that was a pretty dopey fantasy, but it sure beat the other vision that kept fighting to take over my mind, the one where I was drowning in a murky sea of doubt and suspicion, arms and legs thrashing, with my head being held under by a nameless, faceless killer who was never, ever, ever going to let me come up for air.

  Luckily, Abby saved me from both engulfing illusions. As soon as I let myself into our building and began the climb to my apartment, she appeared at the top of the stairs, holding what looked like a whiskey sour—complete with orange slice and bright red cherry—in her left hand. “Hurry up!” she called, dangling the drink toward me like a carrot. “Whitey and I have been waiting for you, and we’ve got news!”

  I was up the stairs in a millisecond.

  “What is it?” I spluttered, taking the drink in my gloved hand and lunging into her apartment. “Did you find out something about the diamonds?” Cocktails and clues—they’ll get me every time.

  “Yeah,” Terry said, “but we’re not sure what it all means.” He was sitting at the kitchen table smoking a Pall Mall and slurping his own whiskey sour. He didn’t look like a Hasidic Jew anymore. Now he looked like his normal clean-shaven white-haired self, except for the brown shoe-polished fringe around his ears and neck.

  I plopped down at the table—coat, purse, lunchbox and all—and took a big swig of my drink. “So what happened? What did you learn?”

  A wry smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, one thing we learned is that a couple of detectives have been sniffing around the exchange, looking for me. They were there again this afternoon, in fact, going from booth to booth, asking the dealers a lot of questions, then telling them to be on the lookout for a young man with white hair who recently stole some diamond jewelry and may now be trying to sell it.”

  “Oh, brother!”
I croaked, thwacking the tabletop with my still-gloved hand. “Sweeny and his boys are working much harder to recover the diamonds than they ever did to find Judy’s killer. That really burns me up!”

  “You and me both,” Abby chimed in, joining us at the table. “But you know what really fries m y tush?” she added, talking to me but focusing her gaze and full attention on Terry. “They wouldn’t even know about the diamonds if Whitey hadn’t found them and taken them to the station!” Flames of indignation (and, if you ask me, infatuation) were blazing in her beautiful brown eyes.

  “And if you hadn’t designed such a great disguise for me,” Terry said to her, “I would have been arrested today.” He was staring at Abby with a look of sheer awe and gratitude on his face. And what was that glow I saw spreading across his cheeks? Was that a blush? I studied it more closely and decided it was. No doubt about it. Terry was smitten. He had finally flipped for Abby. I had known it would happen eventually and, frankly, I was surprised it had taken so long. Abby’s potent charms—like her powerful cocktails—usually took effect immediately.

  “But what about the diamonds?” I said, hating to spoil the magnetism of the moment, but dying to know if there were any new keys to the crime. “Did any of the dealers recognize the jewelry or know where it came from?”

  “Every single piece came from Tiffany’s!” Abby piped, happily jumping from one source of rapture to another.

  “Aunt Dora identified the settings immediately. She said each item came from the same line—a rare and much sought-after Tiffany design that originated in the early thirties. And because of this, Judy’s jewelry is worth even more than thirty thousand. Aunt Dora says the true value is in the vicinity of thirty-six to thirty-eight grand!” She was thrilled to the point of hyperventilation.

  I mulled over Abby’s news for a moment, then fired off a few burning questions: “Did your aunt or any of your other relatives ever see these particular pieces before? Do they have any idea who the original owner could be? Have they ever heard of Gregory Smythe?”

  “No to all of the above.”

  “Do they know if the diamonds were ever stolen? By somebody other than Terry, I mean.”

  “They haven’t heard anything about that,” Abby said. “And that’s the point, you dig? My cousin Mitchell says if a collection of beautiful vintage jewelry like this had been reported stolen, then every dealer in the exchange would know about it—either through the police or industry gossip. So, since nobody there has heard even a whisper about any such heist, you can pretty much bet it never happened.”

  “Or was never reported,” I amended.

  “But that’s a crazy idea!” Abby cried. “Who in their right mind wouldn’t report a robbery that big? You’re talking thirty-eight thousand dollars worth of diamonds! Nobody’s going to take that kind of hit sitting down. And what about the insurance? You can’t collect the insurance if you don’t report the theft.”

  “Yes, but . . . oh, I don’t know . . .” Abby’s words made perfect sense to me, but I still had my doubts—vague misgivings I couldn’t explain.

  And Terry had some doubts of his own. “You can’t report a theft if you’re dead,” he said, growing sad, obviously brooding about what had happened to his sister.

  I put my hand over his and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “That’s certainly true, Terry,” I said, “and it’s entirely possible there could be other deaths connected to these diamonds. But we have no way to check that out right now, so we can’t waste our time speculating. We have to focus on the only two facts we know—that the jewelry came from Tiffany’s and was given to Judy by Gregory Smythe—and then follow the trail from there.”

  “Did you get Smythe’s address or phone number yet?” Abby asked

  “No,” I admitted, downing the rest of my drink. “Roscoe wouldn’t blab.” I gave Abby and Terry a full account of my latest excursions—to the Chelsea Realty office and Judy’s apartment and the Green Monkey—sadly acknowledging my total failure to unearth any new leads, and ending my dismal tale with the alarming revelation that Elsie had told Roscoe my real name. “She told him where I work, too!” I said (okay, shrieked). “And all he needs is a phone book to find out where I live!” To say that I was beside myself is putting it rather mildly. I was beneath myself and above myself as well.

  “What the hell was that woman thinking?!” Abby cried, eyes blazing again.

  “The problem is that she wasn’t thinking,” I said.

  Abby gave me a sidelong look and snarled, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that!”

  Her vehement demeanor brought me up short. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean who is this old dame anyway? And how do you know she really was like a mother to Judy? All you have is her own word for it! For all we know, she could be in cahoots with Roscoe Swift. Or even teamed up with Gregory Smythe! She could be a crazy cat burglar . . . or a deranged killer. Or both rolled into one!”

  Abby’s wild conjectures almost made me laugh out loud. Almost, but not quite. Because as amused as I was trying to visualize a beastly murderer with Toni-waved blue hair, or a large ungainly cat burglar with a sprig of holly pinned to her hat, I didn’t find it so funny when a more common image sprang suddenly to mind. An image I’d seen many times before. A wide-screen technicolor close-up of John Wayne firing a gun.

  But the Duke was always the good guy, right?

  “Oh, I don’t think Elsie had anything to do with it, Abby!” I protested. “In the first place, Vicki Lee Bumstead confirmed that Judy and Elsie were very close. She said Judy told her that Elsie was the mother she’d always wished for. And in the second place, Elsie doesn’t seem to have any idea how much Judy’s diamonds were worth. She thinks they were made of paste.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s what she says, but do you always believe everything anybody tells you?” Abby’s right eyebrow was hoisted so high you could’ve parked a Chevy under it.

  “Well, no, but . . .”

  “I agree with Paige,” Terry broke in, giving Abby a penetrating look. “I only had one conversation with Elsie,” he said, “and even then we weren’t alone. Sweeny was there, too.” He pronounced the not-so-diligent detective’s name with a drawl of disgust. “But Elsie struck me as a solid citizen,” he said with passionate intent . . . “a woman of very strong character—and a true friend to my sister.”

  Well, that was all Abby needed to hear. One word from her smoldering new flame, and she was ready to capitulate—arched eyebrow and all. “Then consider the subject dropped,” she said, leaning toward him in sultry obedience. “Any true friend of your sister’s is a true friend of mine.”

  (Translation: “I’m yours. Do what you will with me.”)

  It was time for me to leave.

  “Okay, kids, I’m splitting,” I said, grabbing my purse and the shopping bag and standing up from my chair. “I’ve got to go call Vicki, see if she got the dope on Smythe.” I was glad I was still wearing my hat and coat and gloves. The less to pick up and carry, the better. (When you’re the third wheel in an amorous encounter on the verge of its first encountering, it is—in my opinion—a good idea to wheel out of the vicinity as quickly and efficiently as possible.)

  My speedy retreat was uncontested. A grateful glance from Terry, a happy wink from Abby, and I was gone.

  AS I WAS LETTING MYSELF INTO MY OWN apartment, I remembered the diamonds. I had left them next door. I thought of going back to get them—so I could return them to the clever concealment of their oatmeal box hideaway—but I quickly decided against it. I figured they’d be much safer at Abby’s place now—now that m y place was as incognito as the Chrysler Building.

  As soon as I had set down my shopping bag and shucked off all my outerwear, including my snowboots, I sat down on the couch/door/daybed, tucked my cold feet up under my bottom, and dialed Vicki. She answered the phone herself.

  “Hi, Vicki,” I said. “This is Phoebe. Phoebe Starr.” I would have told her my real name (since everybo
dy else knew it), but I didn’t want to take the time to explain all my complicated reasons for having first used a fake one.

  “Oh, hi, Phoebe,” she said. “I’m glad you called. I got that information you wanted.” Her rough, husky voice was music to my ears.

  “Really?” I yelped, too stunned to let myself believe it. “You’ve got Gregory Smythe’s address and phone number?”

  “Not his home address or phone,” she said apologetically. “Just his place of business. All of his Macy’s purchases were charged directly to his office.”

  “Oh, that’s okay, Vicki! Any address and phone number will do. All I need is some way to get in touch with him. Hold on a sec! Let me get something to write with.” I dropped the phone down on the daybed and dashed to the kitchen table for a piece of typing paper and a pen. Then I bounded back to the living room, yanked the phone back up to my mouth, and cried, “Shoot!”

  “He works at a place called Farnsworth Fiduciary,” Vicki reported. “The address is 647 Fifth Avenue, Suite 600, and the phone number is Oregon 6-8000. That’s all my friend could find in the files.”

  “Well, that’s more than enough, Vicki!” I said, scribbling the info down and working to keep myself from squealing. “Please thank your friend for me.”

  “I will,” she said, turning silent for a moment. “But I’m still not sure I should have gotten this information for you,” she went on. “I mean, how are you going to use it? You’re not going to give Mr. Smythe any grief, are you? He’s one of the sweetest men I’ve ever met, and if anything bad happens to him because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.” She sounded truly concerned.

  “I’ll be very careful, Vicki,” I said. “And if it turns out Gregory Smythe had nothing to do with Judy’s murder, then he’ll get no trouble from me.”