Murder Is A Girl’s Best Friend

Chapter 30

ON THE WAY HOME IN THE SUBWAY I MADE a firm decision. I would tell Dan everything about the Judy Catcher homicide today, as soon as he arrived at my apartment. I would tell him how Terry and Abby and I had launched a murder investigation of our own, and I would give him the lowdown on everything that had happened before and since. Dan would be really angry with me, and it would ruin our first Christmas together-maybe even make it our last Christmas together-but I couldn’t keep up the charade any longer. Somebody had tried to kill me, and somebody had succeeded in killing Roscoe, and the time had come to bring the police in on the case.

(Okay, okay! You’re absolutely right! I should have told Dan long ago-before I was almost obliterated by the uptown express, and before poor Roscoe was eliminated. And, looking back, I’m really, really sorry I didn’t. But hindsight is always clearer than foresight-especially my foresight-and since Sweeny had already dropped the case, I truly thought Terry and Abby and I were doing the right thing. But that’s a lousy excuse, I know-even lousier than my stupid turkey-in-the-oven routine. Because any way you look at it, I was a selfish fool and a raving idiot to let my pursuit of the story-and my burning desire to keep it secret from Dan-get in the way of a full-fledged professional search for the killer.)

Filled with contrition and new determination, I got off the train at Sheridan Square, made a beeline down to Bleecker, and hurried home.

It was starting to get light outside, but no lights were on in Abby’s apartment, so I knew the lovebirds weren’t up and chirping yet. As soon as I let myself into the building, though, and climbed the stairs to the landing between our apartments, I started banging on Abby’s door instead of unlocking mine. I didn’t care if they were awake yet or not. I needed a team conference, and I needed it now.

It took forever, but I kept right on banging and shouting, until Abby finally made her way downstairs and yanked the door open. “What?!” she screeched. “What the hell’s going on?!” Her eyes were puffy with sleep, her tangled hair was tumbling over both shoulders, and all she was wearing was Uncle Morty’s tuxedo shirt, which barely covered her bare bottom-a fact I didn’t notice until she spun away from me and padded barefoot to the kitchen counter. “What are you yelling about? What the hell time is it?” She pulled the top off the coffee pot, slammed it down on the counter, and started filling the pot with water.

“Six-fifteen,” I said, looking at the clock on her kitchen wall.

“In the fucking morning?!”

“Yep,” I said, “but it feels like noon to me. I’ve been up for hours.”

Abby whipped her head around and gave me a doubtful look. Then, as she took in the fact that I was, indeed, up, and fully dressed-even wearing my coat, beret, and snowboots-her look turned to sheer surprise. “You went out? In the middle of the night? You weren’t supposed to leave this apartment! Did anything happen? Where have you been?” She was screeching again.

“I’ve been uptown,” I said, “and a lot has happened. But I really can’t bear to explain the whole thing twice. So do me a favor, will you? Go upstairs, wake up Terry, and then bring him down here for a council. And put some clothes on while you’re up there! I’ll finish making the coffee.”

I must have been acting much more authoritative than usual, because Abby didn’t give me any of her usual back talk. She just set the coffee pot down on the counter, pulled her wild hair back off her shoulders, scooted over to the foot of the stairs, and hauled her bare bottom to the top.

“SO THAT’S THE WHOLE STORY,” I SAID, winding up my detailed summary of the early morning’s untimely events. Abby and Terry were each on their third cup of coffee, I had just finished my first. “I feel certain there was a strong connection between Roscoe Swift and Lillian Smythe,” I added, “but I’m not sure what it was. Maybe it had something to do with Judy’s murder and the diamonds, or maybe it didn’t. Whatever the case, they must have had a very emotional and volatile relationship for him to yell at her the way he did.”

“Yeah, and that’s why she killed him!” Abby hissed, gesturing wildly with her hands. “I’ve got the whole deal figured out! First Lillian convinced Roscoe to kill Judy and get her mother’s diamonds back for her. She probably promised him one of the bracelets for his trouble. But when Roscoe couldn’t find the jewelry-either in Judy’s apartment, or in Lenny’s lunchbox, or in your apartment, Paige-he demanded that Lillian pay him anyway. And so the little Nazi slut killed him-to keep him from hounding her, and to make sure he would never, ever, ever be able to tell anybody what really happened!”

Terry looked at Abby and let out a dramatic groan. “You know what I think, Ab? I think jumping to conclusions has become your favorite sport.”

“So what?” Abby snapped. “Somebody’s got to jump at something around here! Where’s your goddamn chutzpah, Whitey? The way you and Paige keep pussyfooting around, saying that we don’t have enough hard evidence, we’re never going to come to any conclusions at all!”

Oh, dear. Were they working up to having their first lovers’ spat? I certainly hoped not. I didn’t have time for this!

“Well, I have jumped to a conclusion now,” I exclaimed, dropping my fist like a gavel on the tabletop. “And I’m sorry to disagree with you, Abby, but I really don’t think Lillian is the killer. I’m beginning to think it’s Elsie.”

“For cripesakes, why?!” Abby blustered. “Just because of that stupid wrapping paper?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“That dreck doesn’t prove diddly!” she broke in, hands flapping in the air like agitated birds. “That Santa Claus paper’s all over town! Woolworth’s sells it by the mile. Elsie was probably using it to wrap her own presents… or maybe she got a gift that was wrapped in the same gaudy stuff!”

Gaudy? Did Abby just call my Christmas paper gaudy? Guess I’d better find something else to wrap her gaudy lingerie in.

“Abby’s right,” Terry said, giving me a patronizing look. “The gift-wrapping in Elsie’s wastebasket is not conclusive. It could have been there by pure coincidence.”

“And besides,” Abby interjected, “Elsie didn’t have near as clear a motive as Lillian!” She was still intent on casting the prejudiced Miss Smythe in the role of the killer. “Lillian hated Judy for sleeping with her father, and she wanted to get her mother’s jewelry back. What could Elsie’s motive have been?”

I couldn’t believe she was asking that question. “I feel safe in declaring,” I said with a sniff, “that the motive for Judy’s murder was the diamonds-no matter who the murderer turns out to be. Maybe Elsie wanted to become rich as much as Lillian wanted to stay rich.”

“Oh, well, okay!” Abby said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “But then how does Roscoe Swift enter the picture? You can’t possibly believe that Elsie killed him, too!”

“Well, yes, I do,” I said.

“You’re walking on the weird side now,” Terry said, raising one of his thick black eyebrows and shaking his head in doubt.

“What’s weird is the fact that Elsie was fully dressed when I got to her apartment,” I insisted. “And her bed was made up too. And it was five-thirty in the morning! I would swear she’d been up for hours-or at least long enough to slip around the corner and kill Roscoe.”

Abby let out a heavy sigh. “But why would she want to do that?”

“There could be a million reasons!” I sputtered, growing tired of explaining the obvious. “Maybe Roscoe knew that she killed Judy and was blackmailing her. Or maybe Elsie just suspected that he knew. Or maybe they had been in cahoots from the very beginning and were starting to distrust each other. ”

“Or maybe Judy and Roscoe were killed by two different people,” Terry said, getting caught up in the guessing game.

“I kicked that idea around, too,” I said, “but finally dismissed it. I believe Judy and Roscoe were killed by the same person… or at least by the same gun.”

“What makes you say that?” Terry asked.

“The shootings seem to follow a pattern,” I said. “Both Judy and Roscoe were shot at close range, and they both were shot twice. Judy, we know, was killed with a.22 handgun, and-though I’m no firearms expert-I’d say Roscoe was, too. Both of the holes in his body were kind of small, and that’s a fact about.22 caliber bullets-right, Terry? They’re smaller than the others?”

“Right,” Terry said, nodding.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I said. “The guys at work call a.22 a ‘girlie gun.’ And that’s what leads me to believe both murders were committed by the same murderer-the size of the bullets and the number of bullets fired. Once the police complete their ballistics analysis, of course, they’ll know for sure.”

“Providing,” Abby said, with a very skeptical look on her face, “they ever compare the bullets that killed Roscoe with the bullets that killed Judy. And from where I sit, that looks like a distinct impossibility.”

“Don’t worry,” I declared, letting my fist drop (okay, pound) on the tabletop again. “I’m going to make sure those bullets are compared.”

Abby perked up and gave me a big wide smile. “Now you’re talking! It’s time to take action! So what’s the plan, Fran?”

“Dan’s coming over this afternoon to spend Christmas with me, and I’m going to tell him everything. The whole truth and nothing but. And once Dan knows how Sweeny bungled the investigation, you can bet he’ll do something about it!”

“Dan? Dan who?” Terry wanted to know.

“ Homicide Detective Dan Street,” I told him. “Daring Detective’s esteemed police consultant, and my esteemed new boyfriend.”

Terry looked puzzled. “You mean…”

“That’s right,” I quickly broke in. “I have a new boyfriend. I still love Bob-and I always will-but now I’m in love with Dan Street, too.” I paused, watching to see how Terry would react to this information. Would he perceive my new romance as a betrayal of Bob?

A myriad of emotions flitted across Terry’s face-surprise, embarrassment, tension, distress. But not a hint of anger or disapproval. Mostly he just looked confused. “So you never told Detective Street about Judy’s murder like you said you would?”

“Uh, no. I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t. I knew he would never butt into another detective’s case, and I also knew, from previous experience, that he would forbid me to get involved.”

Terry’s penetrating gaze turned doubtful. “So what makes you think he’ll butt into the case now?”

“So much has happened, he’ll have to intervene,” I said. “First I was pushed onto the subway tracks, then my apartment was broken into, and now Judy’s landlord has been murdered. Dan’s no fool. He’ll see immediately that these events are connected and that Judy’s murder case has to be reopened. And he won’t be the least bit protective of Sweeny anymore. He’ll cause a huge interdepartmental stink at headquarters if he has to.

“Believe me. I know him,” I added, overcome with deep admiration for Dan and an even deeper dread of losing him. “He’s a man with a stout, dependable heart. He despises liars and pretenders and people who act without conscience. He may throw me over for good after this,” I said, “but he’ll never abandon Judy.”

Terry gave me a knowing smile. “He sounds a lot like Bob. I’ll be very happy to meet him.”

“Don’t count on it,” I said, “because he ain’t gonna be so happy to meet you.”

AFTER DOWNING A BAGEL WITH CREAM cheese and another cup of coffee, I announced that I was going home. I wanted to take a shower, get dressed, straighten up my apartment, update my story notes, plug in the lights on my little tree, wrap my presents, and have some quiet time alone before Dan arrived. I needed to organize my thoughts and recharge my batteries, prepare myself for the confessional ordeal ahead.

Abby and Terry weren’t too thrilled with the idea. They thought I should use Abby’s shower and wait for Dan in Abby’s apartment. They finally gave in, though, after I begged and pleaded till my face turned blue, and after they accompanied me next door to check out my entire apartment and strap another thick layer of masking tape over the cardboard patch on my back door.

“I don’t like this at all, Paige,” Terry said. “It would be so easy for somebody to bust through this flimsy Duz box. Why didn’t you have the glass replaced?”

“I couldn’t! All the glaziers were closed for the holidays. And what difference would it make anyway? It’s just as easy to bust through glass as it is cardboard. Whoever broke in the first time had no trouble at all!”

“Paige is right,” Abby said, taking my side for once. “And, today being Christmas, this is probably the safest time for her to be here on her own. I say we go next door and let her have some time to herself-and some time alone with Dan-as long as she promises to hook back up with us as soon as she can, and to spend the night at my place again.”

“I promise! I promise!” I said, so eager for them to leave I would have sworn to swallow a live bullfrog. “I’ll call you back over here as soon as I’ve broken the news to Dan and absorbed his initial rage. Trust me,” I said to Terry, “you don’t want to meet him until his righteous anger is spent-or at least partially subdued.” (I didn’t mention that this felicitous transformation was unlikely to occur during any of our lifetimes.)

“Oh, all right!” Terry grumbled, stomping to the door and heading out into the hall. “But if you see or hear anything fishy, you better come get us right away.”

“She will, she will!” Abby urged, moving in close behind him, pushing him along. “Catch ya later, Paige,” she said, turning to give me a quick wink before disappearing inside her apartment.

Not wanting to waste a second of my precious solitude, I slammed and locked my door, dashed upstairs, and tore off all my clothes. Then I luxuriated in the shower for a good ten minutes-letting the hot steamy water splash down on my head and pour over my body-until my brain turned soft, and my muscles relaxed, and the wounds on my shins looked rosy and clean. After drying myself off, I sprayed on so much perfume and slapped on so much bath powder the air in the bathroom became unbreathable.

Coughing, sneezing, and gasping for oxygen, I staggered into the bedroom and put on my silkiest, sexiest un derthings-black bra, panties, garter belt, slip, and a brand new pair of sheer, seamed stockings. I thought smelling sweet and feeling slinky might help me diffuse Dan’s anger somehow. Or maybe the perfume and silk would cloud his senses-turn his fury into a different kind of passion. (Ha! What a laughable notion that turned out to be! More about that later.)

Not wanting to put on my high heels yet, but also not wanting to get any runs in my stockings, I slipped my feet into my warm, furry horse slippers. (They were both supposed to look like Roy Rogers’s horse Trigger, but they actually looked like two fat, yellowish, narrow-faced groundhogs with oversized eyes and odd, pointy ears.) Then I trotted back into the bathroom to put on my makeup.

After that interminable primping process, I set my wet hair-in the enormous mesh rollers that were supposed to turn my natural curls into long, soft, billowing waves of velvet (another laughable notion!)-and pulled on the huge, puffy vinyl cap of my hairdryer. Plugging the long air hose into the dryer cap, and then plugging the wire for the whole contraption into the wall socket near my bed, I turned the dryer on full blast. And then I sat there like a dope, on the edge of my bed for a full fifteen minutes, while the hood over my curlers swelled with a deafening surge of air so hot my ears turned crispy.

It was at that point, I’m sure-while I was sitting senseless on my bed, clad in my sexiest underwear, with both feet encased in misshapen palomino horseshoes and my head and ears enclosed in a roaring hot air balloon-that the murderer entered my apartment.