Murder is a Girl's Best Friend

by Amanda Matetsky

  “Can I have your word on that?”

  “Of course.” My hand wasn’t on the Bible when I made this vow, but I felt sworn to it just the same. “And will you promise to call me if you think of anything else—anything at all—that might have some bearing on the murder?”

  “Okay,” she said, sounding as hoarse as a high school cheerleader after the big game.

  I gave Vicki my phone number and thanked her profusely, pledging to keep her informed of my progress in the case and to take her out to lunch just as soon as the holidays were over. Then I wished her a merry Christmas and hung up.

  Half a heartbeat later I picked up the phone and dialed Dan’s office again.

  It was 9:30 P.M.—prime crime time in the Midtown South Precinct—so I wasn’t at all surprised when they told me Dan wasn’t there. What I was, however, was devastated. I thought if I didn’t talk to Dan soon I would shrivel up in a ball and die. Can you believe that? I had seen the man just twenty-four hours ago—and he wasn’t even being nice to me at the time!—and here I was about to start bawling like a deserted wife (or, more precisely, like a colicky infant who had dropped her pacifier).

  Help! Somebody save me!

  I jumped to my feet and started pacing around the living room, taking lots of deep breaths, doing my best to take control of my preposterous emotions. And I might have achieved this worthy goal if I hadn’t already been in a full-blown dither about Jimmy Birmingham and Roscoe Swift and Gregory Smythe. And if Abby hadn’t knocked me for a loop with her doubts about Elsie Londergan.

  And if my buzzer hadn’t buzzed.

  Leaping straight up in the air (and straight out of my skin), I actually went blank for a moment. I couldn’t remember who I was, or where I was, or why my legs were shaking. Then my buzzer rang again, which brought me back to myself, which brought me back to wondering which of the aforementioned possible murderers was at my door. I darted across to the living room window, pulled a big gap in the side of the shade, and peered down at the large, broad-shouldered figure standing one floor below, right in front of the building’s entrance.

  One glimpse of the man’s face (which was entirely visible since his head was tilted back and he was looking straight up through the window at me) melted away all my fears and misgivings. It was Dan. And he was—miracle of all miracles—smiling.

  I bounded ballet-style across the floor, buzzed him in, and stood waiting in my open doorway for him to climb the stairs to my apartment. I didn’t have to wait long. He took the stairs two at a time and reached the landing in a flash. Then he scooped me up in his arms, crushed me to his chest, and smothered my gasping mouth with the hardest, roughest, deepest, hottest kiss I’d ever experienced in my whole wide wishful life.

  “I’m sorry, Paige,” he mumbled, after he’d sucked his way across my cheek and planted his panting mouth right next to my ear. “I shouldn’t have walked out on you the way I did last night. I felt bad about it all day.” His humid breath whooshed into my ear and streamed all the way down to my toes.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” I moaned. “I never should have . . .” I guess Dan wasn’t interested in hearing the rest of my apology because he gave me another big fat kiss right then, making it impossible for me to speak. And this effective silencing maneuver had—as you’ve probably already guessed—a profound effect on me.

  When we finally came up for air, Dan stepped back and clasped his hands to my shoulders, holding me firmly at arm’s length. “I hate to kiss and run,” he said with a sexy smirk, “but I’ve got to go. We’re closing in on the Bradbury killer tonight.”

  “Phwat? Phwoo?” My lips were free but they still weren’t functional.

  “The Broadway producer who was stabbed at the Majestic,” Dan said, somehow understanding my questions. “We know who the murderer is and we’re on the way to arrest him now. My partner on this case is waiting for me in the car, so I’ve got to get a move on.” He dropped his hands from my shoulders, anchored his hat at a new angle, and turned toward the stairs. “I’ll call you tomorrow, babe.” He was down the steps and out the door before I could babble another word.

  I SPENT THE REST OF THE EVENING FLOATING on a cloud. (The cherubs lolling on the fluffs of angel hair at Macy’s had nothing, and I do mean nothing, on me!) I sat at the typewriter for an hour or so, bringing all my notes on the murder up to date, without having a single anxiety fit. I wrote down every clue to the killing I could think of, never worrying—even for a second—about the danger the killer might pose to me. I drank one Dr. Pepper and smoked three L&M filter tips without once jumping up to peek through the shade to see if Jimmy Birmingham was hanging out at the laundromat. I was so cool I was downright cucumberal.

  (It’s amazing what one little kiss—okay, two great big juicy ones—can do.)

  When I finished my story notes I turned on the radio. Eddie Fisher was singing “Oh! My Papa.” Well, I was in far too sensual a mood to listen to that, so I kept turning the dial, searching for a better song, finally settling on “Make Yourself Comfortable” by Sarah Vaughan. Then I took my Santa Claus paper and red satin ribbon out of the coat closet and wrapped up Lenny’s lunchbox. After placing the wrapped package back in the shopping bag and setting it near the door (so I wouldn’t forget to take it with me to work in the morning), I turned off the radio and the downstairs lights and floated up to bed.

  Chapter 18

  I GOT UP FORTY-FIVE MINUTES EARLIER than usual the next morning, figuring I’d need extra time at the office to deal with the mess from the day before. I knew what the results of my one-day absence would be: a Coffeemaster full of burnt coffee grounds, a slew of dirty cups, a pile of unsorted mail, stacks of unfiled photos and unrecorded invoices, and several unopened deliveries from the typesetter and the printer, which would yield reams of unproofread proofs and heaps of photostats that should have—but no doubt wouldn’t have—been logged in and distributed to the art department.

  And to top it all off, I knew I’d have to spend a good part of my lunch hour (assuming Pomeroy allowed me to have one) buying cookies and eggnog (and a bottle of bourbon, I hoped) for the office Christmas party, which had been scheduled for that same afternoon. And somehow—while juggling all the cup-cleaning and the coffee-brewing and the proofreading and the paperwork and the party preparations—I would have to find a way (preferably a safe way) to hook up with Gregory Smythe.

  Trying to perk myself up for the difficult day ahead, I took an extra hot shower, applied an extra dab of red lipstick, and put on one of my favorite outfits—a deep green flare skirt and a white angora twinset with tiny pearl buttons. To add a festive touch, I tied a red chiffon scarf around my neck. Then—making a goofy Marilyn Monroe-style smoochy face at myself in the foggy bathroom mirror—I scrambled down the stairs, put on all my winterwear, grabbed my purse and the bag with Lenny’s Christmas present in it, and hurried to the subway.

  The platform was unusually overcrowded, even for the rush hour. It seemed that everybody in the Village had decided to travel uptown at the exact same moment. Wanting to make certain that I was able to board the very next northbound train, I squeezed into the crowd at the south ernmost end of the station and worked my way up to the front line—to the extreme edge of the cement ledge overlooking the tracks. It was so cold the other commuters didn’t mind my heated intrusion. We all stood as closely and docilely together as cows in a too-small corral—breathing steam into the frigid air, stamping our feet to improve circulation, and straining our restless ears for the chug, clatter, and clank of the next string of stock cars.

  After just a few minutes I heard a loud whistle. Leaning slightly forward, I craned my neck to the left, peering southward, hoping the approaching choo-choo would be coming from that direction. It was. Due to a wide curve in the tunnel, I couldn’t actually see the train, but the glare of the engine’s headlight foretold its imminent arrival. Stepping back from the ledge a bit, I straightened my shoulders and prepared myself for the big push forward�
��when the train would pull into the station and screech to a stop, and all the prospective passengers would try to crush through the open doors at once.

  But the big push came before the train arrived, and I was the only one who moved forward. Way too far forward. So horribly and hideously far forward that my feet flew off the platform and I sailed out over the tracks like a clown shot from a cannon. Then I plummeted six feet down to the train bed, landing on my hands and knees in a layer of jagged gravel, both shins thwacking—like slender tree limbs—against a steel-hard metal rail.

  The pain was so great and the shock so severe that I almost passed out. I surely would have, too, if the train whistle hadn’t shrieked again, and if the glare of the madly onrushing headlight hadn’t grown much brighter, filling me with terror and making any kind of blackout—however beckoning—next to impossible. The train was coming around the bend at the speed of sound. I had to move!

  I vaulted to my feet, leapt back over to the crowded platform, lifted my arms, and grabbed hold of the ledge. Then I jumped as hard and high as I possibly could, desperately trying to swing my weight up onto my arms and haul the rest of my body back up to the floor of the boarding deck.

  I couldn’t make it. The cliff was too high. And the train was bearing down fast. The people right above me began screaming and crying and scrambling to get out of the way. I guess they didn’t want to get splattered. For lack of a better idea (or any idea at all), I flattened the front of my body against the side of the platform, held my arms up over my head (I thought they’d be safer up there), squeezed my eyes shut, and sent a frantic mental telegram to Bob, telling him to meet me at the pearly gate, I’d be there in a minute.

  But my train trip to heaven was canceled abruptly. By a large muscle-bound Negro wearing a tan wool jacket, a black porkpie hat, and the world’s sweetest smile—details I didn’t discover until several harrowing moments later, when I finally found the courage to open my eyes.

  Since I didn’t actually see what happened, I can’t describe it firsthand. All I can tell you is what one of the breathless eyewitnesses told me (while I was still lying on my back in a near stupor on the platform floor): that the huge, strapping Negro kneeling over me in such sweet-faced concern had risked his own life to save mine. That he had leaned out over the edge of the boarding deck (thereby placing his own head and shoulders in the direct path of the incoming train) and grabbed both of my wrists in his big meaty paws. Then he had pulled me—like a sack of potatoes—up and over the ledge of the platform, onto the dirty, cold cement floor of the loading area. A split second later, the train had streaked in . . . and come to a dead stop for a moment or two . . . and then streaked out again, loaded to the gills with new passengers—most of whom hadn’t (like the engineer himself, apparently) even caught a glimpse of what had just happened to me.

  “You mean I’m still alive?” I asked, not sure that I believed it. It seemed far more likely that I had come face to face with Saint Peter, who just happened to be a smiling Negro wearing a porkpie hat.

  After being assured that I was, indeed, still a resident of Earth, I pulled myself up to a sitting position on the floor and began thanking (and rethanking and rerethanking!) the man who had lifted and dragged me to safety. I choked and sputtered and spilled out my heartfelt gratitude. I kissed his enormous hands and patted his sweet cheeks and showered him with a thousand blessings. And then I looked around for my purse. I wanted to give my rescuer a cash reward, and though I knew all I had with me was some loose change, I wanted to write down his name and address so I could send him a substantial gift later. (From the holes in his thin tan jacket, I could tell he needed it.)

  I didn’t see my purse or shopping bag anywhere, and I didn’t have the slightest idea what had happened to them, so I asked one of the concerned eyewitnesses (several of whom had stuck around to make sure I was all right) to see if he could find them. The first place he looked was down on the tracks, but neither of the bags was there, so he walked up and down the length of the platform, looking under benches and around the trash bins.

  He never found the shopping bag, but he did find my purse, right near the spot where I had fallen, wedged under the bottom rim of a large, standing, sand-filled ashtray. I figured I had dropped it when I fell; that it had been inadvertently kicked under the ashtray by one or more of the frantic onlookers. I took my notepad out of my purse (all diligent detectives carry one, you know!) and wrote down my savior’s name and address: Elijah Peeps, 248 East 139th Street. Then I thanked the brave, shy (and, luckily, very strong) man yet again and told him he’d be hearing from me soon.

  They helped me to my feet and asked me if they should call a doctor. I told them no, I was okay—which wasn’t exactly the truth. Though my palms were fine (they had been protected by my gloves), my knees were scathed and bloodied and embedded with bits of gravel, and both of my gashed shins were beginning to swell and hurt like hell. Still, I could tell that no bones were broken. And the last thing in the world I needed was to waste the whole morning having my wounds cleaned up in a doctor’s office when I could do that perfectly well myself, in the ladies’ room at my own office, using the first aid kit I kept well-stocked and on hand in the supply closet. My nylons were ripped to shreds, but I had a spare pair in my desk.

  They asked me if they should call the subway authorities, or a lawyer, or the police. Did I want to report the incident, or file some kind of claim? I told them no; that nobody was to blame but me; that the accident was entirely my own fault since I had been standing too close to the platform’s edge.

  I was lying, of course. I knew I had been pushed. I also knew that the monster who’d pushed me had—for some utterly unfathomable reason—stolen Lenny’s lunchbox.

  AS SHAKEN AND BRUISED AND BLOODIED AS I was, I insisted on boarding the next uptown train, which pulled into the station a few minutes later. (If you fall off a horse, blah, blah, blah . . .) Elijah Peeps and my other new friends and protectors got in the same car with me. We all had to get to work (except for Elijah, who was on his way home from work), and we were glad to go together. I was the gladdest of all, to be sure. The comforting presence of my band of kindly caretakers kept me from having a nervous breakdown when the train lurched forward—or passing out when the shrill whistle blew.

  Two members of our group got off the train before I did—one at 14th Street, the other at 23rd. Two others got off with me at Times Square. As soon as we had squeezed our way out of the crowded car, I turned and peered back through the train window, fastening my eyes on Elijah Peeps’s bashful brown face.

  I smiled and waved at him; he smiled and waved back. I folded my hands in a prayerful gesture in front of my heart for a second, then blew him a soulful kiss. He gave me another shy smile and then bowed his head in embarrassment (certain unwritten racial restrictions prohibited him from blowing me a kiss). I waved again and so did he. And several highly emotional eons later—long after the train had whisked away, spiriting my incomparable hero totally out of sight—I was still waving.

  Chapter 19

  THE SECOND PART OF MY MORNING WENT a bit more smoothly than the first. (All evidence to the contrary, I am not completely incapable of understatement.) I got to work on time (it’s astonishing how brief a full-blown brush with death can be!), so I was able to clean up my knees and shins, as well as all the coffee cups, before Harvey Crockett stomped in.

  “Glad you could make it,” he scoffed, hanging his hat and coat on the tree. He didn’t ask how I was feeling or anything, which was just as well, since—not knowing what ailment Lenny had used for my sickday excuse—I wouldn’t have known how to respond. “Coffee ready?” he asked.

  I could hardly believe my ears. It was a polite (for Crockett) inquiry instead of a gruff demand.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, wondering what had caused this odd outbreak of civility.

  “Then bring me some, please,” he said, stomping away toward his private office.

  Please? Did the man actuall
y utter the word please? Either Crockett had suddenly been struck with the holiday spirit, or he had really, really missed me (his morning coffee, that is).

  After I’d taken the boss his newspapers and caffeine and returned to my desk, Lenny stumbled in. He hooked his hat and coat on the rack and—lunch sack in hand—hurried right over to me, still red-faced and out of breath from his nine-flight climb.

  “All right, out with it, Paige!” he said between loud intakes of oxygen. “You can’t keep me in the dark forever. I want to know what you’re up to, and I want to know right now. ”

  “Good morning to you, too,” I said, pretending to be insulted by his discourteous greeting.

  “Yeah, okay, good morning. Now tell me what’s going on. Where were you yesterday? I called your apartment at least three times. You’ve gotten yourself in deep trouble again, right? I can tell by your shifty eyes.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” I said, stalling, still pretending to be miffed. “I never had a shifty eye in my life!” It wasn’t that I didn’t want Lenny to know about Judy’s murder and my efforts to find out who killed her. It was just that it was all so complicated and would take me so darn long to explain. And then, afterward—after I’d rehashed all the ugly details till I was blue in the face—I’d still have to listen to all of Lenny’s dreadful death warnings, not to mention his dire predictions that I was going to lose my job. Ugh. I simply didn’t have the time (or the stomach) to deal with Lenny’s anxieties. I could barely handle my own. “Look, Lenny, you really can’t . . .”

  I was interrupted (okay, saved) by the office entry bell. And for once in my life, I was really glad to see Mike and Mario.

  “Hello, boys!” I said, flirting, doing my best Jayne Mansfield (which meant I probably looked and sounded just like Francis the Talking Mule). “How’s tricks?” I was trying to engage them in a bout of spicy banter, so that Lenny would get embarrassed and sulk away and stop badgering me.