Murder is a Girl's Best Friend

by Amanda Matetsky

  Still, I was glad that they were going to the party with me tonight. So, as soon as they finished their tirade over the break-in—and after we’d exhausted our thoughts about the other new developments in the case—I brought up the subject of the impending Christmas Eve festivities. “What are we going to wear?” I asked, knowing this was the question most likely to grab Abby’s full attention. “The Smythe’s are very rich, and all of their guests will probably be rich, too, so we have to at least try to look elegant and wealthy as well.”

  “Oh, I have that all figured out already,” Abby said, eyes glittering with purposeful intent. She stood up from the floor and started pacing back and forth—like a maniacal movie director—in front of the couch. “Whitey can wear my Uncle Morty’s tuxedo. He gave it to me right before he died—which was a lucky thing for us, because otherwise he might have been buried in it. It’s a very old tuxedo, but it’s classic and it’s clean. And it looks to be just the right size.

  “I’ll be wearing my sexy black satin strapless with the white organza skirt,” she went on, still pacing. “And I have a pair of long, black, over-the-elbow gloves that’ll add a classy touch. And for you, Paige,” she said, stopping in her tracks and giving me a big red smile, “I have the perfect dress. It has a tight-fitting dark green velvet bodice, with a deep scoop neck and three-quarter length sleeves, and the full skirt is made of dark green taffeta. There’s a lighter green sash and bow at the waist. I bought the dress at a secondhand store over on Orchard Street, but it’s in pretty good shape.”

  Uh oh. “Pretty good shape? What does that mean?”

  “Well, there’s a button missing in the back, and there’s an ever so slight brownish stain on the sash. Looks like gravy to me. There was a big rip in the side seam, but I sewed that up so you’d hardly even notice.”

  “Jeez, I don’t know, Abby,” I whined, letting out a fretful groan. “This dress sounds a long way from perfect to me. I mean, how wealthy and classy can a girl look if she’s missing a button and sporting a gravy stain?

  “Oh, don’t worry about that!” Abby snorted, with a meaningful wink and a smirk the size of Texas. “Nobody will notice your dress when you’re wearing a dazzling, stupendously expensive array of antique diamonds around your neck.”

  I HAD TO ADMIT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA. OH, I protested at first—saying it was far too risky; that the necklace could be lost, or stolen; that it might be ripped right off my neck at the party. But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a shrewd thing to do. Both Gregory and Augusta Smythe were sure to recognize the necklace. And they would have to react in some way. And I would be sure to learn something from their reactions. What that something would be remained to be seen, but I was as eager as a fervent voyeur to get a glimpse of it. (I hoped they wouldn’t accuse me of being a thief and call the police! Was the Smythe penthouse in Dan’s precinct? I wasn’t sure.)

  Terry was against me wearing the necklace at first, too—not because he was afraid it might be lost or stolen, but because he was worried about me. He thought the mere sight of the diamonds might incite the murderer (if, indeed, the murderer happened to be at the party) to do something rash (i.e., kill me or something like that). But once Abby and I reminded him that he would be with me the whole time—standing close by my side as my husband, primed and poised to protect me—he withdrew his objections and threw himself into the spirit of the operation.

  It was almost party time, so we went upstairs to get ready. I wanted to go home to get dressed, where I could primp in private, but Abby and Terry wouldn’t let me. They thought it was too dangerous. Oh, great! I grumbled to myself. Now when I want to be alone, I can’t. They eventually let me go next door to remove my shin and knee bandages and put on a garter belt, stockings, and my dressy black suede pumps, but Terry insisted on going with me and standing watch at the kitchen door.

  Back in Abby’s apartment, we finished dressing and checked out each other’s appearance. Terry looked fantastic in Uncle Morty’s classic black tux. It fit him almost perfectly. The pants were just a tad too short, but with his glorious white hair and sparkling blue eyes it was a cinch nobody would be looking at his feet. Abby looked even more fantastic. She had swept her hair up in a sleek French twist and then coiled the long ends around the top of her head in a smooth ebony crown. Her face was beautiful, her black and white dress was beautiful, her long black gloves and her milky white shoulders were beautiful. She looked like Ava Gardner on a really good night.

  I, on the other hand, looked like Milton Berle in a hand-me-down prom frock. The dress fit me okay, but it was ugly. And heavy. I felt like I was wearing a bathmat with a skirt attached. And there was nothing “slight” about the gravy stain on the hideous pea-green sash. It was as big as my palm and in a very prominent place. I took one look at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of Abby’s coat closet door and shuddered in horror.

  “This is awful!” I cried, glaring at Abby. “I don’t believe this is the best thing you could come up with for me to wear. You’re just getting even with me for Muffy Gurch!”

  Abby laughed. “That’s crazy talk,” she said. “This is the only fancy dress I have that’s sure to hide your unsightly legs.”

  “My legs aren’t half as unsightly as this dress!” I exclaimed. “Quick! Get me the scissors!”

  Shooting me a questioning look, Abby took the shears out of the sewing kit sitting on the coffee table and handed them to me. “What are you going to do?”

  In the interest of cutting time (okay, cutting short Abby’s possible objections), I decided to show instead of tell. I slipped the open scissor blades down over the waistband of the sash and snipped clean through it. Then, grabbing the ugly thing by its big fat ugly bow, I yanked the whole darned gravy-stained sash free of the dress’s belt loops and tossed it on the couch. I cut off all the belt loops, too.

  “Oh, that’s so much better!” Abby cried, not the least bit upset by my violent attack on her dress. “Why didn’t I think of that? You look really groovy now. All that’s needed is the necklace.”

  She opened her pantry and took out the canister of sugar. Then she opened the canister and took out the tin foil-wrapped package of diamonds. Prying the edges of the tin foil apart and plucking Judy’s necklace from the jumble of Tiffany jewelry inside, she walked over to me and fastened the two-tiered string of oh-so-valuable gems around my oh-so-humble neck.

  Transformed, I wasn’t. I didn’t like wearing the diamonds any more than I liked being harnessed with the gravy-smeared sash. I may have been the only woman in the Western world (besides Judy) who would ever have felt this way, but I found the necklace to be garish and unseemly. I thought it made me look tacky and—strange to say—cheap.

  Abby couldn’t have disagreed more. “Ooooooh!” she squealed, practically passing out from the thrill of the glistening vision. “I’m kvelling all over the place! You look regal! Like a fabulous fairy-tale queen!”

  “Yeah, well . . .” I didn’t tell her that I felt like a royal ass. Do people really kill each other over this useless sparkly stuff?

  “You look beautiful, Paige,” Terry said, moving close to me, cupping my chin in his big warm hand. “I wish Bob could see you now. He would be so proud.”

  I was grateful for the compliment, even though I knew it wasn’t true. (Bob would never have been proud of me for wearing diamonds. As a man of very simple tastes, he’d been most impressed when I was wearing nothing.)

  “Thanks, Terry,” I said, blushing. I could feel the pink-ness wash across my face—and the sadness wash across my heart. Looking to change the subject before the mirage of Bob’s loving smile caused me to wash the floor in tears, I mumbled, “So is everybody ready? It must be time to go.”

  Abby looked at the clock on her kitchen wall and gave a start. “We’re running late, kids!” she cried. “Let’s goose it.”

  Chapter 26

  HEY, DID YOU EVER SEE THE MOVIE THE Thing? It came out about three years ago
. Actually, the whole title was The Thing from Another World, but everybody just called it The Thing. It was about a being from outer space, the pilot of a downed spaceship, who is found frozen in ice at the North Pole, and then thawed out—much to the horror and dismay of the isolated band of scientists and military personnel whose blood, it turns out, the hungry spaceman (actually he’s a hungry spaceplant!) must feed on.

  I mention this movie, not as a science fiction film buff who wants to bend your ear about the scientific—or, in this case, truly unscientific—details of a certain film, but as the pilot of a downed spaceship who wants to relate, as accurately as possible, her observations and impressions of the alien world in which she suddenly—at 9:06 P.M. on Christmas Eve, 1954—found herself defrosted.

  The Smythe penthouse occupied the entire top floor of the elegantly appointed twelve-story building. We stepped off the elevator, walked across a small beige marble foyer, and entered the apartment through two colossal, wide-open, hand-carved wood doors. A butler greeted us at the door and two maids helped us off with our coats, whisking them away to an unknown location down the gold-veined marble hall to the left. Not knowing what we were supposed to do next, we stood like sticks in the enormous entrance hall, gaping at the six-foot-high floral arrangements positioned around the marble walls, and gazing up at the colossal crystal chandelier, which hung down from the center of the cavernous ceiling like a cluster of shimmering stalactites. The large round gilded table in the middle of the entrance hall was topped with a beautiful gold Christmas tree. Its only ornaments were hundreds, maybe thousands, of perfect red rosebuds.

  We had definitely landed (okay, crashed) on a foreign planet. Due to the fragrant roses, and the tinkling crystal, and the celestial music wafting in from another room, I figured it was Venus.

  “Well, what are we standing here for?” Abby croaked, breaking us out of our collective spaced-out trance. “Let’s go find the booze.”

  “Down the hall to your right,” the butler announced, in a deep, echoing, butler-like voice.

  Terry and I followed Abby through the entrance hall into another hall, turned right, and then headed down that hall in the direction of the music. Eventually we came to the large arched doorway to the living room—the passageway to the party. Gregory Smythe was standing just inside the doorway talking to a lovely older woman in a navy satin gown, but ogling a much younger woman in red chiffon who was standing nearby.

  “Mr. Smythe!” I said, walking right up to him and holding out my hand. “How nice to see you again.”

  He grabbed my hand and started fondling it, even though he clearly didn’t remember who I was. “Oh, hello, Miss . . . uh . . . Miss . . .”

  “It’s Mrs. Turner,” I said quickly. “We met in your office yesterday, when I came to see you about a recent inheritance.”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Turner!” he exclaimed, bowing to kiss my hand. After he gave it one smooch, I snatched it away and hid it behind my back.

  As soon as he was upright again, I stuck my neck out (literally) and said, “We still have some unfinished business to discuss, Mr. Smythe. Do you think we might have a brief private talk later?”

  “By all means, Mrs. Turner!” he said, grinning lasciviously and giving me an overt wink. Smythe was the kind of fool whose feelings were always flashing on his face. I fingered the diamonds around my neck and watched for his reaction, but he gave no sign of even noticing the necklace, let alone recognizing it.

  The refined silver-haired woman standing next to him, however, looked as if she’d just been hit between the eyes with a two-by-four.

  “And you must be Mrs. Smythe,” I said, stepping toward her to give her a closer look. “It’s so nice to meet you! And may I present my husband, Terry Turner, and my cousin, Bathsheba Lark.” (Don’t look at me. That’s the name Abby wanted to use!)

  While the four of them were shaking hands and making small talk, I kept my eyes trained on Augusta Smythe. She was a tall, thin woman in her late fifties (I guessed) with a dainty smile, a perfect manicure, and a heavily hairsprayed hairdo. Her floor-length navy blue satin gown was sleeveless, but she kept her thin arms covered with a long, wide, matching navy blue satin shawl. Instead of diamonds she was wearing pearls. Though she seemed quite composed standing there, welcoming Terry and Abby—I mean Bathsheba—to her party, I could see that she’d been shaken by the sight of my (okay, her) necklace.

  “You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Smythe,” I said, taking my first look around the luxurious, crowded room we’d just entered. It was the size of a football field, but the many paintings on the pale yellow walls, the huge Oriental carpets on the polished teak floor, and the colorful multitude of chatting, smoking, laughing guests gave it a warm, intimate glow. “Can I persuade you to give me a quick tour later, after the rest of your company has arrived?” (Translation: Can I get you off in a corner somewhere and ask you a bunch of rude questions?)

  “Of course, dear,” she said, staring at the necklace again.

  “I’ll be happy to show you around in a little while. But first you must go inside and have some hors d’oeuvres and champagne.” She gestured toward midfield.

  I waited for Terry and Abby to finish their handshakes and small talk, then led them deep into the party crowd. I figured it was the best place for us to huddle without attracting undue attention (or suspicion). Surrounded by well-groomed men in tuxedos and transcendent women trimmed in fur, feathers, and jewels, we each grabbed a glass of champagne from a wandering waiter’s tray and stood drinking together in a tight little circle. The jazz ensemble in the far corner of the room was playing an absurdly perky version of “O Holy Night.”

  “Wow!” Abby said, keeping her voice down to a loud whisper. “This is atomic! We just passed right by a Cézanne. And there’s a van Gogh on that wall over there! I think it’s from his Arles period.”

  I didn’t have time for an art lesson. “How did you make out with Smythe?” I asked her, anxious to make the most of our Christmas Eve vigil.

  “Fine. I’m meeting him in his private study in twenty minutes. He wants to show me his piggies.”

  “His what?!” Terry sputtered.

  “His piggy banks,” Abby said, taking a swig of champagne, then giggling through her nose. “The man collects piggy banks. Isn’t that a scream?”

  “It’s a howl,” Terry said, looking disgusted. “But I don’t think you should be alone with this screwball. It isn’t safe. What if he’s the killer?”

  “Well, that’s what we’re trying to find out, Whitey! And I’ll learn a lot more if I can spend some time alone with him. We discussed all this before. Don’t get cold feet on me now!”

  “Okay, okay!” he grumbled. “But I’m going to be standing right outside the whole time, listening for trouble. If Smythe bothers you in any way, just give a shout. I’ll bust in and break the swine’s neck. And his piggy banks, too.”

  “Thanks, baby,” Abby said, fluttering her lashes and brushing her fingertips down his cheek. “It’s so good to have a brave boyfriend.”

  Had Terry ever confessed to Abby that he’d been a coward in combat? If so, it was a cinch she didn’t swallow it. She looked as though she wanted to swallow him up instead.

  “Break it up, kids,” I said. “I’ve got news.”

  “What is it?” Abby yelped, snapping her head in my direction. “What happened?”

  “Augusta noticed the necklace,” I told them. “She kept staring at it the whole time I was talking to her, and she looked like she was going to explode.” I threw my head back and sucked my champagne glass dry.

  As I straightened my spine and started looking around for a place to set the empty glass, I saw her. A strawberry blonde in a slinky pink dress with a tiny upturned nose and big hazel eyes that were gazing straight at me—or, rather, my neck.

  “Of course Augusta noticed the necklace!” Abby blurted. “It belonged to her for twenty years! She’d have to be blind as a bat, or totally demented, not to recognize it
.”

  “Shhhh! Keep your voice down!” I whispered. “And don’t look now, but there’s a young woman standing a few feet behind you who seems to have noticed the necklace, too. I wonder who she is. She keeps staring at me and . . . Oops! Here she comes! Be quiet! Don’t say anything!” I nervously raised my glass back up to my lips and took a sip of nothing.

  The young woman waltzed right over to us and wriggled into our little circle. “Hello,” she purred, patting a strawberry blonde wave over one eye and puffing on her cigarette (or, rather, the long slim ivory holder in which her burning weed was rooted). “I don’t believe we’ve met. And I thought I knew everybody at this dreary old party! I’m Lillian Smythe, the wayward daughter of the house. And who, may I ask, are you?” Her words were aimed at all three of us, but her eyes were aimed at the necklace.

  “I’m Paige Turner,” I said, offering my hand for a languid shake. I hated to give her my real name, but I didn’t have any choice. I’d given it to her father the day before, and there was some small chance he might remember it. “And this is my husband, Terry,” I added, quickly transferring her hand from mine to his, hoping the flurry of activity coupled with Terry’s startling good looks would keep her from paying attention.

  No such luck.

  “Paige Turner?!” she whooped. “You can’t be serious! That’s an utter riot!” She was talking and laughing so loud people were turning to look at us. Her laughter wasn’t real, though. It was the fake and showy kind—the kind that’s based on taut nerves instead of true amusement. “So, tell me, Paige Turner,” she said, stopping her laughter on a dime and tucking the tip of her ivory cigarette holder into the corner of her livid pink smirk. “How does a girl get a wacko name like yours? Were you born with it, or did you make it up yourself?”

  “I married it,” I said, as if it were any business of hers. Miss Lillian Smythe was starting to bug me big-time.

  Abby didn’t like her much either. “My name’s Bathsheba Lark,” she told her, conspicuously not extending her hand. “Are you going to laugh your silly head off about that, too?”