Murder Is A Girl’s Best Friend

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?”

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!”