Murder Is A Girl’s Best Friend

Chapter 8

SOMETIMES I’M LUCKY, BUT USUALLY I’M not. And this was one of the usual days. When I got back to the office, Brandon Pomeroy was sitting smug as a prison warden at his desk, smoking his pipe, fingering his neatly trimmed mustache, and glaring at me as if I were an inmate who’d just been caught trying to dig through the wall of her cell with a spoon.

“Did anyone ever teach you how to tell time, Mrs. Turner?” His voice was dripping with condescension. “When the big hand is on the twelve, and the little hand is on the one, your lunch hour is officially over.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry I’m so late, but…”

“Just look at the clock, Mrs. Turner, and tell me what you see. Where is the big hand?”

“On the three, sir,” I said, with a sickening sigh of surrender. I knew better than to try to explain myself. Even if I’d had a perfectly reasonable and true explanation to offer, it would have fallen on deaf (or, rather, diabolical) ears.

“And the little hand, Mrs. Turner? Pray tell, where is the little hand?” His beady brown eyes were gleaming with pleasure. Stripping and whipping the slaves was Pomeroy’s all-time favorite hobby.

“On the two.”

“Sir,” he said. “On the two, sir.”

“Sir,” I repeated, looking at the clock again. “On the two, sir.” Time sure does fly when you’re having fun.

Pomeroy shot a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure Mike and Mario and Lenny were all paying attention. They were. Turning back to me, he said, “So, Mrs. Turner, if the big hand is on the three, and the little hand is on the two, what time is it?”

“Two-fifteen, sir.”

“Very good, Mrs. Turner!” he jeered. “I see you can tell time after all!” He took a deep pull on his pipe, then puffed a stream of fruity fumes in my direction. “Which means you knowingly and willfully-and totally without permission, I might add-extended your lunch break a full hour and fifteen minutes past your allotted time. Which means I would be well within my rights to terminate your employment right now-this very minute-before you can steal any more of the company’s time.”

All this from a man who typically spent a grand total of three hours and ten minutes a day at his desk, and most of it in a drunken snooze. I wondered what ugly twist of fate had caused him to be awake and sober now.

“But I’m a softhearted man,” Pomeroy went on, “and it would pain me to have to dismiss you right before Christmas.” (And I believed that as much as I believed in Santa Claus.) “So I’m just going to dock ten dollars from your salary this week, and disallow your lunch hour tomorrow. That’s more than equitable, wouldn’t you agree?” His cocky smirk dared me to protest.

“Fair enough, sir,” I said, standing tall as a tree, looking him straight in the eye, refusing to let him-or any of my gawking coworkers-see me squirm. I’d do all my squirming later, when I was alone-when I could moan and wail about how I was going to pay all my bills, and purchase Christmas presents, and take Elsie Londergan out to dinner, in private.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Pomeroy said with a sniff. “Now take off your coat and get to work. Mike’s new story needs editing.”

What he meant was rewritten. Mike’s lousy stories always had to be rewritten. By me, of course-which was the real reason Pomeroy didn’t fire me. Without me (or somebody else with a halfway literate brain), Pomeroy might actually have to do some of the editorial work himself. Which would put a serious crimp in his afternoon napping activities.

“Yes, sir,” I said, hanging up my hat and coat, then beginning the short but endlessly humiliating walk to my desk. Halfway there, I stopped dead in my tracks for a second-just long enough to throw an imaginary pie in Pomeroy’s smirking face. I made sure the pie was made of soap suds and sawdust, so it couldn’t possibly taste good. Even in my most feverish fantasies, I’m a stickler for details.

THE MINUTE I GOT OFF WORK I WENT TO Chockful O’Nuts. I was so hungry I thought I was going to die. A woman can’t live without lunch, you know. No lunch yesterday, no lunch today, and no lunch hour tomorrow. The Case of the Missing Lunch! I had to figure out a way to solve this one, or I’d wind up playing the title role in the soon to be released sequel-The Case of the Walking Skeleton.

I sat on a stool at the crowded counter and ordered the same thing I always order when I’m at Chockful-cream cheese on datenut bread and a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Chockful has the best soup in the world. Even better than Campbell ’s.

When I finished eating I hit the subways again. West on the shuttle, south on the IRT. I was dying to go home and tell Abby about everything that was happening (and have a cocktail or two-okay, three), but instead of going all the way down to Christopher Street-the subway stop closest to my apartment-I followed a sudden urgent impulse and got off at 34th Street, the stop for Macy’s. Christmas was just four days away, you see, and though I’d already sent a box of gifts home to my family in Kansas City, I still had three presents to buy: one for Abby, one for Lenny, and one for Dan. And while I was there, I figured, I might as well pay a little visit to the lingerie department-Judy Catcher’s department.

The sidewalks around Macy’s were snowless. So many people had been walking in and out all day, and circling the store to look at the dazzling window displays, that even the cement was worn down. Ordinarily I would have taken the time to join the crowds of oooohing and aaaahing window gazers-to observe and admire the magical exhibits of mechanical angels, puppies, children, elves, and reindeer that Macy’s was so famous for-but tonight I had more important things to do: buy gifts for my friends, and try to solve a murder.

I entered the store, crammed myself into the crowded elevator, called my number out to the operator and headed up toward the seventh floor, wondering how many times Judy Catcher had stood in this same tiny wood-paneled box, rising toward the same destination. When the doors popped open, I squeezed my way out and approached the heavily decorated entry to the floor, trying to get my bearings. I looked for a sign saying Lingerie, but there was none. There were just tons of twinkling lights, dancing candy canes, and great high clouds of angel hair with little cherubs sitting around on top of them like babies at a picnic.

Music was coming from somewhere to my right. Choral music. A crisp, perky rendition of “Come All Ye Faithful.”

I wondered if the song was beckoning me to come to Bethlehem, or to the Lingerie department. Repelled by the grating sound, I turned left and began walking down a wide aisle thick with boughs of holly, sprigs of mistletoe, and herds of people in a hurry. I didn’t know where I was going, but I figured I’d run into the brassieres and underpants eventually. All roads lead to Rome. (Or is it Bethlehem?)

Unfortunately, the road was long. I had to fight my way through Women’s Robes, Women’s Nightgowns, and Women’s Hosiery before I reached the underwear zone. And-even more unfortunately-when I got there the real live Christmas carolers were there, too, looking every bit as robotic as the other mechanical holiday displays, singing “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” in voices so loud and chirpy I wanted to pluck some angel hair off the lowest cloud and stuff it in my ears.

There were three salesladies working the Lingerie department, and I made a beeline for the youngest one-a plump, freckled redhead wearing a fuzzy white scoop-neck sweater and a wide green velvet ribbon tied around her neck in a bow. She was short and cute, and she looked to be about Judy’s age.

“Merry Christmas!” she piped as I lurched up to her counter. “May I help you?” She had big green eyes and a surprisingly throaty voice.

“I hope so,” I said. “I’m looking for a present for a friend of mine. Her favorite color is red and she loves sexy lingerie almost as much as the men she wears it for.”

The girl let out a husky giggle. “I think we have just the thing-a red bra, panties, and garter belt set. It’s a special Macy’s Christmas item.” (Sounded more like Frederick ’s of Hollywood to me.)

“Perfect,” I said. “May I see it?” I knew I couldn’t afford such an elaborate gift, but I decided to take a look anyway. And while I was at it, I figured, I could look for a good way to bring Judy Catcher’s name into the conversation.

“Sure. Come this way. We have the set on display.” The girl led me down to the far end of the counter, then pointed out the three red lace-trimmed items arranged on the middle shelf of the glass-topped showcase.

The minute I saw the outrageously bright and naughty see-through undergarments, I knew Abby would love them. (And get a lot of use out of them, too.) “How much for the whole trio?” I asked.

“You’re in luck,” she said. “The set just went on sale this morning. It was originally priced at nine dollars and ninety-four cents, but now it’s just seven eighty-five.”

I gulped. That was a whole lot more than I paid for underwear from the Sears Roebuck catalog. And I felt a little funny even considering buying Abby such an expensive and intimate gift. Still, I knew she would go wild for the lacy red stuff, and I wanted to give her something really nice and uplifting. (That’s not a dumb bra joke, I swear! I meant as nice and uplifting as the free cocktails Abby was always giving me.)

“Can I pay by check?” I asked. I knew without looking I didn’t have that much cash in my wallet. I never had that much cash in my wallet. I did have that much money in my checking account, though-plus a whole four dollars and fifteen cents more.

“Do you have any identification?”

“Yes… a Social Security card and a driver’s license.” (When Bob and I ran away to New York and got married, we both took the New York State driver’s test even though we didn’t have a car. We wanted to prepare ourselves for our undoubtedly glorious future, when Bob would return from Korea, and get a good job, and we’d buy a little house in Levittown on the GI bill, and then get ourselves a brand spanking new two-toned Ford convertible. So much for planning ahead. Instead of a car without a top, I got a life without a husband.)

“That’ll be fine,” the salesgirl said, taking a box from the shelf behind the counter and lining it with tissue paper. “Now, what size brassiere does your friend wear?”

“ 34C,” I said, with certainty. I knew the size because Abby bragged about it at every opportunity. She also boasted about her waist and hip measurements (23 inches and 35 inches respectively), which I gave to the salesgirl to help her choose the right size panties and garter belt. Then, as she was selecting the flimsy undergarments, arranging them in the box, and writing up the sales slip, I sneakily launched my investigation.

“A good friend of mine used to work in this department,” I said. “Her name was Judy Catcher. Did you know her?”

The girl gasped and stopped what she was doing. She raised her head and gave me a look that teetered between shock and sorrow. “Judy? You were a friend of Judy’s?”

“Yes, that’s right,” I said. “We used to live in the same neighborhood.” I felt bad about lying to this perfectly nice and innocent-looking person, but I was, after all, working on a murder story, and I knew from past experience that the fewer people who knew my true identity and occupation, the better off (i.e., safer) I would be.

“But you do know she’s dead, don’t you?” the girl inquired. Her hoarse voice crackled with deep concern. “It was in the papers and everything.”

“Yes, don’t worry. I know all about it… I’m not going to start crying and cause a scene or anything.”

The girl relaxed somewhat, and as she did, her own eyes-her incredibly large and luminous green eyes-welled up with tears. One drop fell out and landed on the tissue paper with a crinkly splat.

There were lots of customers at the lingerie counter now-impatient, irritable shoppers scrambling to make their last-minute purchases before closing time. A surprising number of them were men. They looked embarrassed and uncomfortable, but utterly determined to get what they came for. I hadn’t realized that sexy underwear was such a must-have Christmas item. That seemed a little bizarre to me. (Unless, of course, the customers were all acquaintances of Abby’s.)

“Are you okay?” I said to the grieving salesgirl. “I’m so sorry I upset you. Do you think we could go someplace private for a minute or two?”

“I can’t leave my station. My supervisor would kill me.” She took a handkerchief out of her skirt pocket and dabbed her eyes dry. “Come,” she said, picking up her sales book and Abby’s present and glancing nervously in all directions, “let’s go around the corner to the other side of the counter. It won’t be so crowded back there.”

She was right. The area around the corner-the girdle section-was practically deserted. I guess girdles haven’t yet made the stretch from secret stomach-cinchers to public stocking-stuffers.

“We can talk here,” the girl said, “but I’ll have to pretend that I’m showing you some merchandise in case my supervisor comes around.”

“Fine,” I said. “Show me anything you want.” To enhance my image as a serious shopper, I put my purse down on the counter and took out my checkbook. Then, when the girl bent over to get a stack of girdles out of the stock drawer, I unzipped the side pocket of my purse and took out the picture of Judy-the one that was taken in front of Walgreen’s, with the bearded weirdo and the weenie dog. I slipped the photo under my checkbook just as the salesgirl’s fluffy red head and despondent freckled face popped up above the counter again.

After she put her armful of girdles down on top of the display case, I reached over and touched her hand. “My name’s Phoebe Starr,” I told her, resurrecting the trusty pseudonym I’d used throughout the Comstock case. “What’s yours?”

“Vicki,” she said. “Vicki Lee Bumstead.” I smiled but I didn’t say a word. Far be it from me to point out the whimsy of other people’s funny names. Besides, Vicki’s name wasn’t funny in and of itself like mine. Only her surname was comical, and only because Dagwood (or, more precisely, the cartoonist Chic Young) had made it that way.

“I’m really sorry I made you cry, Vicki,” I said. “Were you a friend of Judy’s, too?”

“Yes,” she said, leaning against the counter and nodding so vigorously I thought she might shake something loose. “Judy was my best friend. The best friend I ever had. We worked here together, five days and two nights a week, for over a year. I miss her so much I can’t stand it.” She hugged her arms in close to her chest as though protecting herself from the cold. I felt so sorry for the girl I wanted to hug her myself.

“I know exactly how you feel,” I exclaimed. (You probably think I was lying, but I wasn’t.) “She was gone so suddenly, and so violently, it’s… well, it’s just so hard to accept… and impossible to understand.” I fought to keep myself from falling into my own deep well of loss and misery.

Vicki pulled herself together, too. “Phoebe Starr… Phoebe Starr… Phoebe Starr,” she suddenly repeated, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes, looking at me as if seeing me for the very first time. “Were you and Judy very close?” A visible seed of suspicion had taken root in the loamy depths of her mind. ”I’m only asking because Judy never mentioned your name to me-not even once. And it’s kind of funny that she never told me about you, because she always told me everything.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Judy and I weren’t that close,” I blurted, trying to sidestep Vicki’s abrupt scrutiny. “It was my Aunt Elsie she was really close with. They lived right across the hall from each other.” For a person who truly hates to lie, I sure am good at it.

“Elsie Londergan is your aunt?” Vicki’s eyes were softening now, returning to their normally bulbous and luminous state. “Judy talked about her all the time. She loved her so much! She said Elsie was the mother she had always wished for.”

“My aunt feels the same way-as though she’s lost her only daughter.”

“Uh-oh!” Vicki said, suddenly shifting her gaze from my face to a point in the distance behind me. “My crabby supervisor’s headed this way. Act like you’re looking at the girdles.” She slid the stack of foundation garments under my nose and held the top one up for my inspection. “This is one of our bestselling models,” she said, raising her throaty voice to a loud, conspicuous frequency. “It features cotton elastic gores, a perforated rubber waist cinch, coiled wire boning, front clasps, back laces, and six adjustable garters.”

What, no thumbscrews?

“Very nice,” I said, pretending interest. “Does it come in black?”

“Yes, I think so. Let me check.” Vicki dropped down behind the counter again and began a bogus search through the lowest stock drawers. “Keep an eye on my supervisor,” she whispered up to me, “and let me know when she’s gone.”

I turned around and surveyed the area behind me, trying to pick out Vicki’s boss-which was a pretty easy task since there were only two women walking through the department, and only one of them was coatless. She looked like the Wicked Witch of the West, and she was headed straight for the girdle counter. Before she got there, however, she made a sudden sharp turn and marched off toward the hosiery section, disappearing behind the band of Christmas carolers, who were now strolling down the crowded aisle, singing “Silent Night” at the top of their everloving lungs.

“Pssssst, Vicki. It’s safe to come up now.”

Vicki rose to her feet and looked around. “She’s gone?” “Long gone,” I said, sighing, hoping to ease the girl’s anxiety and get on with my investigation. “As I was saying…”

“Yes, I heard what you were saying,” Vicki whimpered. “Your aunt feels like she’s lost her only daughter. How horrible for her! Please tell her how sorry I am.” She looked as though she might start crying again.

“But that’s not all my aunt feels,” I went on, staring deep into Vicki’s big green eyes and using my most serious tone. “She feels certain that Judy’s murder was premeditated-that she was killed by somebody she knew.”

Vicki’s eyeballs virtually sprang out of their sockets. “But the paper said she was shot during a…”

“… burglary,” I said, finishing her sentence for her. “That’s what the police decided-and that’s the story they’re sticking to. But Aunt Elsie doesn’t agree with them at all. She’s convinced that Judy’s murder was committed intentionally. ”

“Oh, my God!” Vicki cried. “How could that be? Who would want to kill Judy?”

“I was hoping you might have some ideas on that subject. Aunt Elsie and I are trying to dig up some new leads, looking for something-anything-to persuade the police to reopen the case.”

“But I don’t know anything about it!” she screeched. “I can’t even believe it’s true!”

“Yes, but there’s a good chance it is true,” I said. “And since Judy always told you everything, you probably know more about it than you think. For instance, have you ever seen this picture before?” I slipped the snapshot out from under my checkbook and handed it to Vicki. “Do you know the name of the man in the photo?”

Vicki gaped at the picture for a second or two, then handed it back to me. “Yes, I do!” she proudly announced. “That’s Jimmy. Jimmy Burgerham, or Hamburger, or-oh, I can’t remember his last name! He was Judy’s boyfriend for a while. The dog’s name is Otto. He’s a miniature dachshund and Jimmy takes him everywhere. He brought Otto up here once, hidden in a shopping bag, just to get a laugh out of Judy. She adored that dog.”

“More than she adored Jimmy?”

“No! She was crazy about Jimmy, too… Hey, what’re you driving at? If you think Jimmy killed Judy, you’ve got another think coming. He really liked her, and it really tore him up when she stopped seeing him. He told me so himself.”

“She stopped seeing him?” This didn’t sound like the Judy Catcher I had come to know and love.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t because she didn’t dig him anymore. It was because he had so many other girlfriends besides her. One or two would have been okay, but Jimmy is addicted to women-especially new women-and Judy just couldn’t stand being crazy jealous all the time. Jimmy never had enough time for her. She broke up with him to keep herself from breaking down.”

“Do you have Jimmy’s address or phone number? I’d like to talk to him.”

“He lives down in the Village somewhere, but I don’t know which street. I don’t have his phone number either. You could probably find him at the Village Vanguard, though. That really cool jazz place down on Seventh Avenue? Judy said he goes there almost every night and sits at the bar sipping beer, flirting with the chicks, just waiting for the chance to get up on stage and read his poetry.”

“He writes poems?”

“Yeah. He’s pretty good, too. At least that’s what Judy said. I wouldn’t know. I read mysteries, not poetry.”

A girl after my own heart.

“Aunt Elsie said Judy was involved with another man right before her death,” I said. “An older man named Gregory Smith. Do you know anything about him?”

“Oh, sure. He was the greatest love of Judy’s life! She said he was her lord and savior. But what he was, really, was her substitute father-she always called him Daddy-o. Or sometimes just plain Daddy. He was… oh, no! Here comes my supervisor again! Please put that picture away before she sees it. If she catches on we’ve been having a personal conversation, she’ll demote me to Accessories, and it’s pure hell to work down there during the holidays.” She folded a flap of tissue paper over Abby’s present and put the top on the box. “That’ll be seven eighty-five, plus twenty-four cents tax, for a total of eight dollars and nine cents,” she said in a booming voice. “Please make the check payable to Macy’s.” She gave me a big salesgirl smile and handed me a ballpoint pen.

I stuffed the photo back inside my purse and made out the check. “Thank you so much for your help,” I bellowed. “My friend is going to love this gift.” Then I lowered my voice and murmured, “I need to ask you some more questions, Vicki. What time do you get off work? Can we meet somewhere to talk?”

“Okay,” she whispered. “But I don’t get off till nine.”

I flipped a coin in my brain. Heads, I would stay to meet Vicki. Tails, I’d go home to meet Dan. It came up tails. Like I said, sometimes I’m lucky.

“Sorry, Vicki, I can’t wait till then. I have a previous engagement. But maybe you’ll give me your phone number, so I can call you later?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess that would be all right,” she said, looking kind of confused. “It’s Gramercy 4- 2244.” She wrote the number down on the back of my sales slip. “But make sure you call me before eleven or my mother will have a conniption.”

“Before eleven,” I said, nodding agreement. I gathered up all my stuff and put on my gloves. “Thanks again for your help.”

Giving Vicki a quick but significant salute, I turned and sprinted for the elevator. The perky carolers had launched into yet another Yuletide favorite, and I wanted to get out of there-fast. Instead of chestnuts roasting on an open fire, I was hot to have Jack Frost (okay, Dan Street) take a nip at my nose.