Murder Is A Girl’s Best Friend

Chapter 20

I HAD HOPED TO EXPLORE TIFFANY’S ON my way back to the subway, but I didn’t have time. I didn’t have time for lunch either. I had to rush back across town to the bakery for cake and cookies, to the dime store for paper plates and napkins and plastic forks, to the grocery for eggnog and soda, and to the liquor store for a bottle of bourbon (half of which I planned to consume, single-hand edly, before the party even began). Then I had to cart all the stuff up to the office.

Brandon Pomeroy was sitting at his desk when I staggered in, so loaded down with heavy packages my arms were breaking. He didn’t lift a finger to help (big surprise!). He just sat there like a sheik, sucking on the stem of his Dunhill pipe, and staring at me through the glinting lenses of his high-priced horn-rims.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Turner,” he said, in a voice so cold I decided to keep my coat on. “It is now two-fifteen P.M., and your lunch hour ended at one P.M. Either your watch has stopped working, or you have.”

“Sorry to be so late, sir, but I had to go to four different stores to get everything for our Christmas party this afternoon, and they were all very crowded. Especially the liquor store,” I added, figuring the realization that one of the packages in my arms contained a bottle of booze would soothe his angry soul.

I’m a genius. Pomeroy actually got up out of his chair, walked over to me, and took two of the packages into his own arms. Then he carried them over to the table where the coffeemaker was set up and began to unpack them! It wasn’t that he was being gentlemanly, of course. He was just looking for the hooch. Still, it was nice to have a little help for a change. And the fact that he had stopped crabbing about my too-long lunch hour was a welcome boon.

I unpacked the other two bags, took off my hat and coat, and made everything nice for the party. (Well, tried to, anyway. When the only Christmas decorations you have to work with are a stack of red and green paper plates and a batch of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer cocktail napkins, your creative goals are limited.)

At the stroke of three, Harvey Crockett emerged, groundhog-like, from his office to announce that our workday had ended and our Christmas vacation had officially begun. He made a very short (but not the least bit sweet) speech about how it had been a pretty good year, and we all had done a pretty good job putting out a not-too-bad magazine. Then he pushed his fingers through his thick white hair, wished us a happy holiday, and huffed his way around the office, passing out the Christmas envelopes.

My envelope contained my normal weekly paycheck for seventy dollars-without the ten-dollar deduction Pomeroy had promised-and a bonus check for fifty bucks. It was a bit short of the million I felt I deserved, and probably only half as much as my male coworkers received, but I was very happy to get it. (When your bank account is sitting on empty, and all you have in your purse is a dribble of dimes and nickels, a fifty-dollar windfall makes you feel rich as Rockefeller-John or Nelson, take your pick.) Trouble was, the banks had already closed for the day-and they would remain closed the following day, Christmas Eve-so I wouldn’t be able to deposit or cash either one of the checks until Monday. If I lived that long.

After we’d thanked Mr. Crockett and put our envelopes away, we all gathered around the goody table, helping ourselves to cake, cookies, and eggnog-except for Pomeroy, who shunned all the sweets and filled his coffee cup to the brim with straight bourbon. I might have done the same, but I was so hungry I ate a huge piece of cake and four cookies. And I mixed my whiskey with eggnog to make it more filling.

It was a sad little affair. No happy toasts or handshakes. No friendly hugs or backslaps or gaily wrapped gifts. Mike and Mario were being as quiet and boring (i.e., well-behaved) as they always were in Mr. Crockett’s presence, and Pomeroy just stood off to the side by himself, focusing his full attention on his drink. Lenny was too shy to talk to anybody, and Crockett didn’t have anything to say either. I tried to jazz things up by asking what everybody was doing for Christmas, but that sparked as much merriment as the sight of a corpse in an open casket.

I was dying to break out of there-to hop the subway back to Tiffany’s, take a look around the famous store, talk to an employee or two about certain diamond settings and designs, and then ride the rails straight home to have drinks (and hopefully some dinner) with Abby and Terry. Maybe Dan would have time to drop by. But I knew I couldn’t leave until everybody else had gone and I had cleaned up after the party.

So I was thrilled when, after just a few more minutes of strained non-conversation, Mr. Crockett sidled over to the coat tree, put on his hat and coat, tucked a couple of the afternoon newspapers under his arm, bid us goodnight, and scuttled away like a giant sand crab. And I was ecstatic when Pomeroy downed the dregs of his drink, mumbled an almost inaudible “Merry Christmas,” and followed in Crockett’s wake.

Hoping Mike and Mario and Lenny would hit the trail, too, I began the cleanup, making a big show of the fact that-in my humble (okay, servile) opinion-the festivities had come to an end. I tossed all the dirty paper plates and plastic forks in the wastebasket and packed the leftover cake and cookies up in one of the shopping bags. I screwed the top on the half-empty bottle of bourbon and put that in the bag, too. Then I lugged the Coffeemaster down the hall to the ladies’ room, washed it out, refilled it with water for Monday morning, and carried it back to the office. As I was gathering up all the dirty coffee cups for another trip to the washroom, Mike and Mario were putting on their hats and coats.

“Hey, look what I found!” Mario cried, pulling something out of his coat pocket and holding it up high in the air.

“What is that?” Mike asked, gazing up, looking befuddled.

“Can’t say for certain,” Mario said, snickering, marching over to me and holding the object up over my head, “but it sure looks like mistletoe to me!” With that, he grasped the back of my neck, yanked my head forward, and-craning his wide clammy face over the assemblage of dirty coffee cups I was trying to balance in my arms-slapped a sloppy wet kiss on my startled mouth.

Ugh! First Jimmy Birmingham, then Gregory Smythe, and now Mario Caruso. I was getting really sick of all these surprise smooch attacks (except for Dan’s, of course). And when Mario pulled his lips away and sputtered, “Hey, Mike! Wanna jump on the same Paige? Better take your Turner while the mistletoe’s still hot!”… well, let’s just say I dropped a few crumbs of my composure. Oh yeah, I dropped all the coffee cups, too.

Mike and Mario didn’t stick around too long after that. Giggling and guffawing like the juveniles they truly were, they slipped out the door and scurried down the hall before I’d even stooped down to start picking up the cups (or, as was the case with the two that had broken, the pieces). Red-faced with rage over our coworkers’ childish behavior (and embarrassment over his own feelings of impotence), Lenny shuffled over to where I was stooping and-muttering curses under his breath-got down on his knees to help me.

“They’re cretins,” he said. “They should be kept in a cage.”

“Yeah,” I said, adding nothing. I was too pressed for time to start griping about Mike and Mario. Tiffany’s would surely be closing soon.

“I’m glad they’re gone, though,” Lenny went on, picking up bits of the broken cups and pitching them into the nearest trash can. “Now you can tell me about the story you’re working on.”

Desperate to avoid a long explanation and discussion about the Judy Catcher murder (and my own life-threatening involvement in the case), I spit out a quick “Hold on a sec!” and snatched up the unbroken coffee cups. Then I whisked them off to the ladies’ room to wash them, thereby avoiding Lenny’s looming inquiries. And the very minute I brought the clean cups back into the office and set them down next to the Coffeemaster, I launched a discourse on a totally different (and, I hoped, totally diverting) topic.

“I bought you a Christmas present yesterday,” I said, giving Lenny a big, toothy, Dinah Shore smile.

“Really?” he said, eyes wide with surprise. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because I wanted to, silly.”

“But I didn’t get you anything.”

“I know. I didn’t expect you to.”

“So, then, why’d you get something for me?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I already answered that question.”

He was blushing even redder now. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose and blotted his perspiring upper lip on his shirt sleeve.

“It’s the perfect gift, too,” I added. “Something I know you’ll really like.” I took my coat off the rack and put it on. “Too bad I can’t give it to you.”

“Huh? Why can’t you give it to me?”

“Because I don’t have it anymore.” I donned my gloves and beret and tucked my purse under my arm. “I was in such a tizzy to get to work on time this morning, I left it on the subway.”

Lenny laughed and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. “Maybe somebody will take it to the Lost and Found. What was it, anyway?”

“I’ll never tell!” I said, picking up the bag containing the cake, cookies, and bourbon and propping it on my hip.

“I’m going to get you another one just like it-just as soon as I cash my Christmas bonus.”

“That’s really nice of you, Paige,” Lenny stammered, staring down at his feet, “but you don’t have to do that! You work so hard for your money, I don’t want you spending one more penny of it on me!” His face was as red as a Santa suit.

It was time for me to make my move. While Lenny was standing there, blushing, too self-conscious to make eye contact, I stepped up close to him and sprang a surprise smooch attack of my own, landing a loud and loving smack on his ever-so-rosy cheek. “Happy Hanukkah!” I yelped, and before he could curb his embarrassment enough to reply, I zipped through the door and ran down the hall, shopping bag clutched to my chest like… well, like a shopping bag. (I saw no reason to leave the leftover cake and cookies for the office mice. And though it would have been a kind gesture to give the surplus bourbon to the building’s booze-loving custodian, I was convinced I needed it much more than he did.)

Look, I know it wasn’t very nice of me to run out on Lenny the way I did, absconding like a thief with his equanimity and presence of mind (as well as the bag full of goodies). But I was running for my life, you know. I was fixed on finding a killer who now seemed to be fixed on killing me, and the race was on.

EVERY SURFACE IN TIFFANY’S WAS SPARKLING. The green marbled walls were gleaming, the long glass showcases were shining, the salesmen’s faces were glowing, and the diamonds were so dazzling that the eyes of every customer danced with darts of light reflected from their keen, glistening facets. The showroom’s high ceiling was strung with thousands of twinkling white lights and fragrant boughs of pine, producing the euphoric sensation that you were standing beneath a towering tree, looking up through its branches at the stars. No music was playing, but if there had been, it would have been the Hallelujah Chorus.

The aisles between the illuminated glass showcases were so crowded you could barely walk, but I bravely snaked my way along, snatching an occasional glimpse of a bright, black-velvet-backed display. A batch of diamond chokers here, a slew of emerald earrings there, a stretch of sapphire bracelets just ahead. One showcase was devoted entirely to pearls, another to solid gold cigarette cases. I kept walking until I came to the silver section, and then I kept on walking till I reached the lowliest showcase on the aisle-where the more plebeian items were displayed. Items peasants like me might actually be able to afford.

Working my way over to that counter, I peered down through the glass-topped case at the various silver sundries perched on the upper shelf. Some of the things were nice enough-elegant and utilitarian. The silver cigarette lighters were pretty nifty, for example. Likewise, the pen and pencil sets. The silver baby spoons were kind of sweet, and the key rings were okay, I guess. But some of the other stuff I saw was downright ridiculous. I mean, who needs a silver telephone dialer? Molded in the shape of a finger, no less! And if you show me a woman whose life won’t be complete until she has a silver eyebrow tweezer, I’ll show you a blooming idiot. And the sterling silver toothpicks? I can’t even bear to mention them.

The silver cigarette lighters, however (and as I said before), were pretty nifty.

“How much do these cost?” I asked the salesman, pointing out the most modest (and to my mind, sleekest) line of lighters.

“They’re all in the twenty to twenty-five dollar range,” he told me.

“Really?” I said, getting excited. I could buy one of these lighters for Dan, I figured, and still have twenty-five dollars of my bonus left over to send to Elijah Peeps. Twenty-five dollars for the new love of my life, and twenty-five dollars for the man who had saved my life. There was something poetic about that emotional equation.

“I want that one,” I said, indicating the simplest lighter of all, the one that was shaped just like a classic Zippo, with a satin finish so smooth it was eloquent. “Can I have it engraved? Does that cost extra?” I was so happy to have found Dan’s Christmas present, I had forgotten that I didn’t have the cash to pay for it.

“You may have it engraved at no extra cost-but not before Christmas,” the long-faced middle-aged salesman replied. “The store closes in twenty minutes and won’t reopen until Monday, the day after Christmas. You may, however, bring the lighter and your receipt back to the store later, if you wish-after the twenty-fifth-and we’ll do the engraving for you then.”

“You’ve got a deal,” I said, “providing I can pay by check.”

“If you have proper identification, Tiffany’s will be happy to accept your check.”

They wouldn’t be so happy if they knew I have less than two dollars in my account.

“Great!” I said, whipping out my driver’s license, social security card, and checkbook. Since all the banks were closed until Monday, I wasn’t worried that my check would bounce. I knew I’d be covering it first thing Monday morning, when I deposited my bonus. “How much should I make this out for?” I asked.

The sad-faced salesman consulted the hidden price tag and added on the tax. “That’ll be $23.48,” he said, punctuating his statement with a condescending sniff.

I made out the check and handed it over to him. He slipped the lighter into a little blue velvet pouch, then into a Tiffany’s gift box, then into a Tiffany’s shopping bag, which he then handed over to me.

“Thank you,” I said, smiling. Then I leaned over the counter and added, in a conspiratorial tone, “And now I have a very important, very confidential matter to discuss with the manager. Is he on the floor now? Will you point him out to me please?”

“This is not the best time, Miss… Mr. Woodbury is here, but he’s sure to be overseeing the closing of the store for the holiday weekend. He’ll be much too busy to talk to you now.”

“Too busy to talk about forty thousand dollars worth of diamonds?”

“That’s him right over there,” the salesman said, nodding toward the tall, portly, red-haired man standing off to the side of the showroom-away from the now-thinning crowd. He looked to be about forty and he was wearing a sedate but stylish dark gray suit. A white linen handkerchief peeped to a perfect peak from his breast pocket.

I sauntered over to him-shoulders back, head held high, Tiffany bag positioned in front of the other shopping bag I was carrying. I was trying to look rich and respectable. (Stop laughing!) “Mr. Woodbury,” I said, “may I speak with you for a minute?”

He looked down at his watch, and then raised his watery blue eyes to look at me. “Yes, but just for one minute. It’s almost closing time.” His hair was the color of carrots.

“Can we go to your office or someplace private?”

“Sorry, but I have to keep an eye on things out here.” As if to prove his words, he stared right past me, watching the last of the last-minute shoppers complete their purchases and begin leaving the store.

It was clear that Mr. Woodbury would invite me to leave soon, too. “I just want to ask you about the diamond jewelry I recently inherited from my dear departed aunt,” I blurted, speaking as fast as I could and trying to capture his interest. “There are several beautiful pieces and they were all created by Tiffany in the early thirties. There’s a necklace, a pair of earrings, a pin, and two bracelets. And I was hoping you could tell me what they’re worth.”

I had his full attention now. His watery blue eyes were gawking at my face and they had grown as big as coat buttons. “What a coincidence!” he declared. “You’re the second person today who’s asked me about jewelry from the early thirties. And if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were both talking about the very same collection.”

Now I was the one who was gawking.

“What?! Who?!” I spluttered, so dumbfounded I couldn’t form a complete sentence. My mind was reeling with questions for Mr. Woodbury, but I couldn’t get them out of my mouth. Who was it who spoke to you? Was it over the phone or here in the store? Do you have the person’s name? Was it a man or a woman? What did the person look like? Do you think he or she could be a murderer?

But even without me asking the questions, Mr. Woodbury gave me the answers. “The attractive young lady who came to see me this afternoon was also inquiring about the value of an inheritance,” he said, clearing his throat, straightening his tie, and gazing dreamily up at the ceiling. “And she was very curious about the history of her newly acquired diamonds, so we went upstairs to the Tiffany archives to research the early thirties designs together.” A lustful smile spread wide across his pale, plump lips, and his eyes glazed over with what looked like a very pleasant memory. He was so entranced he didn’t even notice that the closing bell had sounded and that the store was now devoid of customers.

Except for me, that is. But I didn’t have to stick around one moment longer. Mr. Woodbury’s lustful smile told me everything I needed to know, including the name of the young woman who had visited him that afternoon. It had to be Abby.