Jolted by Abby’s impertinence, Lillian turned and gave her a snotty look. Then she took a step back, sucked on the end of her cigarette holder, and gave her a very slow and studied look. “Bathsheba?” she said, wrinkling her tiny upturned nose as if she were standing downwind from a fetid sewage facility. “Isn’t that a Jewish name?”
At that moment I fully understood how a fairly well-adjusted, nonviolent person like myself might be moved to commit murder. Kaboom! I bellowed to myself, blasting Miss Lillian Smythe off the face of the earth with my imaginary A-bomb.
Terry wasn’t content with a fantasy killing. He preferred the verbal variety. “You’re a stupid, narrow-minded cow, Miss Smythe,” he said in a most polite and gentlemanly manner. “You’re not fit to shine Bathsheba’s shoes.” With that, he stepped into the middle of our little circle, turned his back on Lillian, put one arm around Abby’s waist and the other around mine, and escorted us toward the opposite side of the room, where the full-sized built-in bar was located.
“God!” I said to Abby, after Terry had parked us a few feet from the bar and gone to get our drinks. “What a ferocious little snot she is! But Terry really gave it to her, didn’t he? I’m so glad he did.”
“He’s my hero,” she said, lips trembling. “You’d think I’d be used to the anti-Semitic crap by now, but I’m not. I guess I’ll never get used to it.” She took a cigarette out of her purse and lit up. “Still, it wasn’t very smart of Whitey to mouth off at her the way he did.”
“Smart? No. Cool? Yes!”
“But now she won’t talk to you anymore . . . You won’t be able to ask her any sneaky questions, or find out what she knows about the diamonds.”
“Oh, she’ll be talking to me, all right!” I said. “She’s dying to know how I got this necklace. She’ll be coming to ask me about it. I predict she’ll be crawling all over me, apologizing her bigoted little head off and acting like my best friend, as soon as you and Terry take off for Smythe’s study. ”
Abby laughed. “You’re probably right. And speaking of Smythe’s study,” she said, looking at the watch she was carrying in her purse, “I’m supposed to be there right now. Where’s Whitey?”
“You rang?” Terry said, suddenly appearing at our side with the brandy Alexanders we had asked for.
“Oh, there you are!” Abby sputtered, smashing her cigarette in a nearby ashtray. She took a big slug of her drink, linked her arm through Terry’s, and began to tow him in the direction of the hallway. “C’mon, baby, let’s go!” she urged. “Mustn’t keep the big shot piggy banker waiting!”
Chapter 27
PART OF MY PREDICTION CAME TRUE. LILLIAN Smythe came marching through the crowd and over to me before I’d taken the third sip of my brandy Alexander. She wasn’t the least bit apologetic, though. And she was acting a whole lot more like my real worst enemy than my fake best friend.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming to this party tonight,” she said, blasting the words out of her mouth like shrapnel. “Get out! You’re not welcome here.” People were turning to look at us again.
“What do you mean?!” I said, in shock, working to hold onto my composure. “I was invited, you know. Your father asked me to come.”
“Oh, I’m sure he did! That’s just the kind of thoughtless, selfish, brainless thing he would do. But he had no right to invite you here. And you had no right to come.
I was confused. Was she mad about the necklace, or just angry that I had come to the party? “I don’t understand,” I said. “Your father’s the host. Why can’t he invite anybody he wants?”
“He can,” she said. “Anybody but you.” Her hazel eyes were burning with hatred.
“But I’m a client of his,” I persisted, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. “Why can’t he invite me?”
She was near the end of her rope. Her contorted face was turning blue and she was having trouble breathing. One more word from me, and I thought she might crumble. So, in the interest of science (i.e., just to see what would happen), I delivered several more words. “I have as much right to be here as anybody else,” I said, squaring my shoulders and stretching my spine to its ultimate height. In my long, heavy, sashless green dress, I felt (and, no doubt, looked) as turgid and plant-like as The Thing.
She didn’t crumble. She didn’t even wobble. “You filthy whore!” she screeched. “How dare you come into our home, wearing that necklace and prancing around like the goddamn Queen of England! Have you no shame? You aren’t the first tramp my father’s had an affair with, or pilfered my mother’s jewels for, and you won’t be the last. You are the oldest, though,” she added, with a perverse gleam in her eye. “Daddy usually buys himself much newer toys.”
So that was it. She thought her father had stolen her mother’s necklace and given it to me in return for sexual favors. And she thought I was now rubbing both the affair and the necklace in her mother’s face! Under those circumstances, I didn’t blame Lillian for being mad at me. And if she hadn’t been such a prejudiced, nasty, snotnosed shrew, I would have felt quite sorry for her. And very, very sorry that I’d worn the diamonds to the party.
As it was, though, I just felt tired. Tired and disgusted with the whole blam case. Was I ever going to unravel any clear-cut clues? Would I ever stop running in circles and dashing into blind alleys? Would I ever, ever, ever find out who killed Judy Catcher?
And what should I do right now? Should I tell Lillian the truth and give the necklace back to Augusta? Or should I stick to my guns and stay saddled on the lie I rode in on?
It didn’t take me long to decide. I had to keep lying. It was all too possible that Lillian had had something to do with the murder. She must have been just as mad at Judy then as she was at me right now. And she must have been busting to get her mother’s diamonds back. Maybe she had found out where Judy lived and tried to kill two birds with one stone.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, standing even taller than I had before (which wasn’t easy, since all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball on the closest Chip pendale sofa and go to sleep). “I never even met your father until yesterday, and this necklace was not pilfered. It was willed to me by my dear Aunt Rosemary, who just happened to be one of the sweetest, most generous angels who ever walked the earth. I only wear these diamonds to honor her memory.” (Okay, okay! So I was laying it on a little thick—but desperate times call for double helpings.)
Lillian narrowed her eyes and swept a clump of salmon-pink hair off her face. “You’re lying through your teeth, Paige Turner. I know who you really are. And if you don’t round up your nasty little friends and get out of here right now, I’m going to call the cops and have you thrown out!”
I had no reason to doubt what she was saying. And I had no desire to spend the rest of the night explaining things to (okay, hiding things from) the police. I guzzled down the rest of my brandy Alexander and started looking for my nasty little friends.
HEADING FOR THE DOORWAY THROUGH WHICH Abby and Terry had disappeared, I bypassed a long, narrow dining table topped with the most beautiful and tempting array of food I’d ever seen in my life. Caviar, smoked salmon, chilled oysters, baked clams, sliced beef with horseradish sauce, shrimp cocktail, lobster thermi dor, asparagus vinaigrette, deviled eggs, stuffed tomatoes and mushrooms—oh, god, was I hungry! I didn’t stop to eat anything, though, for fear Lillian would cause another scene—or call the cops to do it for her.
Exiting the living room, I turned left and started walking down the mile-long Oriental carpet that stretched—unbroken—from one end of the long, wide hall to the other. A dozen or so people were milling about in the hall, smoking cigarettes, looking for the restrooms, admiring the paintings on the wall. Straining my eyes down to the far end of the corridor, I finally spotted Terry. He was leaning against the wall, his left shoulder planted three inches from a closed door, with both hands in his pockets and one ear cocked, like a small radio receiver, toward the hinged spin
e of the door.
I was just about to wave to him and hurry down to the end of the hall where he was standing, when I saw Augusta Smythe coming out of a different door and gliding, swan-like, up the corridor toward me. Now realizing that the sight of me and my necklace would probably cause the poor woman a good deal of pain, and wanting to save us both from such an ordeal, I quickly turned my back on her approaching figure and veered over to gaze at one of the pictures on the wall.
“It’s a Seurat,” she said, gliding up behind me, the skirt of her long satin dress swooshing against the carpet. “A portrait of Madeline Knoblock, the artist’s mistress. Do you like it?”
Oh, great! There were at least six other paintings on that particular expanse of wall, and I had to stop and stare at the mistress? You really can’t take me anywhere.
“It’s okay,” I said, not wanting to show any enthusiasm for that particular work, “but I much prefer the van Gogh in the living room.” I sucked in my breath and slowly turned to face Augusta. “It’s from his Arles period, isn’t it?” I asked, suddenly grateful for Abby’s brief course in art appreciation.
“Yes, it is,” she said, offering me a thin, dry smile. “You have a very good eye, my dear. Gregory and I consider the van Gogh to be the prime piece in our extensive art collection.” She was staring at the necklace again. Had she considered it to be the prime piece in her jewelry collection?
“I see you’re looking at my diamonds,” I murmured, wishing to heaven I had never set eyes on them myself. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are, dear. They’re exquisite. Have you had them long?”
“Not very long at all. I didn’t acquire them until last month. They were left to me by my dear Aunt Rosemary, may she rest in peace. (This could have been true, you know! The necklace was part of a Tiffany-designed line, after all, so it definitely wasn’t one of a kind.) “Actually, these diamonds are the main reason I’m here tonight,” I went on. “I was hoping your husband could appraise the necklace for me and offer some advice on how I should handle this and the rest of my inheritance, what I need to do about taxes and insurance and so forth.”
She raised her eyebrows and gave me a questioning look. “Gregory?” she said. “You want Gregory to give you financial advice?” I couldn’t tell what she was doubting the most—my motive for being there or her husband’s financial judgment.
“Yes, I really do need his help,” I said. “I heard that Farnsworth Fiduciary was the place to go for economic guidance, so I went to your husband’s office yesterday and spoke to him for a few minutes about my situation. He said he would be glad to advise me, but he couldn’t do it right then because the office was closing early. So he very kindly invited me to your party tonight, saying he’d try to find a few minutes to devote to my concerns.”
Was it my imagination, or was Augusta giggling? “I’m sorry, dear,” she said, trying, but failing, to wipe a sardonic smile off her pale, powdery face. “I don’t mean to laugh at your inheritance concerns. It’s just that . . . well, how can I put this? Gregory is not the expert financial planner you seem to think he is. He barely knows the difference between a dollar and a dime. I’m the one who owns and controls Farnsworth Fiduciary—as I have for fifteen years, ever since my father died. My husband is just a guest there. I gave Gregory his own office just so he would have an address to put on his business card—and a place to take his afternoon nap.”
So that’s the way it was. The Smythe millions were really the Farnsworth millions. I can’t say I was surprised. It was hard to imagine the foolish, forgetful Smythe running a successful financial enterprise. It was quite easy, on the other hand, to conceive of him renting cheap apartments for a string of impressionable young girlfriends, then nipping gems from the family vault—or from his wife’s jewelry box—to keep them impressed.
And it was easy to see how a smart, wealthy business woman-cum-art collector-cum-socialite like Augusta Farnsworth Smythe might choose to overlook her husband’s petty thefts and affairs rather than bring shame to her father’s name and to her own family. It was even easy to see how being the ultra-privileged (and no-doubt ultra-neglected ) daughter of such a spurious pair could have driven Lillian Smythe to become so nasty and aggressive.
The question was, just how nasty was she capable of being? Nasty enough to fire two .22 caliber bullets into Judy Catcher’s young, unsuspecting heart?
Hoping to gather more clues to Lillian’s character (and hoping that Augusta would continue to be so revealing!), I probed a bit deeper into the Smythe family profile. “I met your lovely daughter Lillian a few minutes ago,” I told her. “Do you have other children?”
“No, just the one.”
“Does Lillian work for Farnsworth Fiduciary, too?” I asked. “She seems to have a sharp, decisive head on her shoulders.”
“Lily?” Augusta said, raising her eyebrows again. “No, Lily doesn’t work at all. Unless you call being cross and causing trouble work.” Her face grew even paler and she glanced off to the side, letting her sad gray eyes go out of focus. “She’s sharp and decisive as you say, but about all the wrong things.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant by this, but I felt I’d just heard something important. Something Augusta had said— or maybe it was just the way she’d said it—had set off a flickering signal in my brain. But what the heck was that signal trying to tell me? I didn’t know! It kept flickering and flickering, but I couldn’t get the message. It was driving me insane. I wanted to dart off by myself somewhere—to some quiet, secret corner—where I could close my eyes, let my thoughts settle, and then try to sort them out.
The bathroom. When in doubt, go to the bathroom.
“Please excuse me, Mrs. Smythe,” I said, “but I need to powder my nose.” (What I meant was take a powder, but I couldn’t very well say that!) “Would you mind pointing me to the little girl’s room?”
“Not at all, dear,” she said, looking relieved. She was glad to be getting rid of me. “It’s right across the hall, second door down.”
“Thank you.”
As I was hurrying down the corridor toward the designated doorway, I saw Abby emerge from Smythe’s study and rejoin Terry in the hall. They embraced and kissed each other (completely forgetting, I suppose, that Terry was supposed to be m y husband), then began strolling, arm in arm, up the Oriental carpet in my direction.
The flickering signal flickered out. I couldn’t even remember what had set it off in the first place. All I could think about was hooking up with Abby and Terry and getting us all out of that apartment before Lillian lost her cool and called the police.
Rushing to meet my fellow aliens halfway, and telling them we had to split, I urged them onward to the penthouse entrance hall, where we retrieved our coats and took the elevator down to Earth. A mad, freezing-cold dash to the subway, then we hopped inside our trusty underground spaceship and zoomed back to the Village—a more familiar and forgiving planet.
“GREGORY SMYTHE IS NOT THE MURDERER,” Abby insisted. “I’d stake my life on it.” Still dressed in her sexy black and white strapless, she was standing in her stocking feet at her kitchen counter, stirring up a pitcher of martinis.
“What makes you so sure?” Terry asked, taking off his bow tie and loosening his collar. “He looks like a real degenerate to me.”
“He is a degenerate,” she said, “but he’s not a killer.” She set the martini pitcher down on the kitchen table, then brought over three glasses. “He has no conscience and he has no soul . . . but he has no brain, either! The man simply isn’t smart enough to plan and carry out a murder, you dig? He has the IQ of a chimp.”
I agreed with her on that score. “Were you able to get him to talk about what happened? Did you pick up any new clues, or learn anything about his relationship with Judy?”
“No, no, and no,” she said, sitting down and pouring our drinks. “All I learned is that he’s a slobbering, gooey-eyed old Romeo who isn’t happy unless he h
as some part—any part!—of the female anatomy to suck on. Look! He gave my elbow a hickey!”
Terry laughed. “Did the earth move?”
Abby snickered and gave him a playful slap on his shoulder.
Uh oh! I cautioned myself. If I don’t steer this conversation in a more serious direction, they’ll be hitting the sheets in no time! “Daddy Smythe may not be the murderer,” I interjected, using my most serious and solemn tone, “but his darling daughter could be.”
“What?!” Abby cried, tearing her attention away from Terry and plastering it on me. “Did you talk to her again? What did you find out? What did the little Nazi slut have to say?”
I filled them in on everything that had happened after they left the living room. I gave them a dramatic description of Lillian’s violent outburst, and a detailed account of my hallway chat with Augusta. I told them how Lillian had jumped to the conclusion that I was her father’s new mistress and ordered me to leave. I related my surprise that Augusta, the picture of upper crust propriety, had so willingly revealed—to me, a perfect stranger!—her total disdain for both her husband and her daughter. And then I told them that Augusta, not Gregory, controlled the family fortune, and that Lillian was the couple’s only heir. I mean heiress.
“That cinches it!” Abby cried, slapping her hand down on the tabletop so hard our martinis shook. “Lillian did it! Lillian Smythe killed your sister!” She was staring into Terry’s eyes with a look of sheer certainty on her face.
“What makes you so sure?” Terry asked, befuddled (and, I thought, a bit bemused). “You have any proof?”
“She’s the only heir, Sherlock!” Abby stressed. “What more proof do you need?”
Terry wasn’t convinced. “So what? Lots of people are heirs and heiresses,” he said, “that doesn’t make them murderers.”
Murder is a Girl's Best Friend Page 25