Murder Is A Girl’s Best Friend

Epilogue

HAVE YOU EVER WOKEN UP FROM A CRAZY dream believing that all the wild and scary things you dreamt about had actually taken place? Well, that’s what happened to me when I came to that night in the hospital. Except it happened in reverse. I woke up believing that all the wild and scary things that had actually taken place were nothing but a crazy dream.

It took a few minutes for my sense of reality to return-for me to realize that the bed I was lying in was not my own; that my body was all bandaged up for a reason. And when I turned my head to the side and saw Dan sitting in a chair right next to the bed, staring at me intently (and oh-so-seriously) with his searing black eyes, I had all the proof I needed that the ghastly scenes swirling around like smoke in my head had really occurred.

“I don’t know whether to kiss you or kick you,” Dan said, making his conflicting emotions conspicuously clear. “But since you look like a Martian with that silly thing on your head, I’ve got to kiss you. A girl in a space suit drives me crazy.” With that, he raised himself out of his chair, leaned over the bed railing, cupped my face in his big warm hands, and planted the world’s steamiest kiss on my startled but delighted mouth. (And I had thought black silk underwear would turn Dan on! Apparently hair dryer hoods and hospital gowns were more to his liking.)

As soon as he pried his luscious lips away and my heartbeat returned to normal, I sputtered, “Why did they leave me like this? They could have removed the cap and take the curlers out!”

“The docs and nurses had a few more important things to take care of,” Dan said. “In the Emergency Room, believe it or not, gunshot wounds take precedence over hairdos.”

I didn’t want to be reminded of the gun, or the shots, or the wounds. “What time is it?” I asked, quickly changing the uncomfortable topic.

He looked at his watch. “Four-thirty in the morning.”

“Oh, shoot!” (As soon as those words were out of my mouth, I wished I’d thought of a better-i.e., less ballistic-way to express my disappointment.)

“What’s the matter, babe?” Dan gave me one of his cocky, sexy, melt-your-bones-to-molasses smiles. “Past your bedtime?”

“No, it’s past Christmas!” I exclaimed. “And I never got to give you your present, or even wish you a happy holiday!”

Dan chuckled for a second, then turned serious. “Just knowing you’re alive makes all my days happy.”

Joy to the world! I sang to myself. A girl could get used to this. I should get almost killed more often.

But these jubilant feelings didn’t last long. Because before I knew it, Dan’s whole demeanor had changed. One minute he was lovey-dovey and all smiles, and the next he was busting a gasket, ranting and raving like Joe McCarthy himself, telling me off for risking my precious life just so I could play detective in yet another unsolved murder case.

Terry and Abby had told him the whole story, he said, and he didn’t care how many times Bob had saved Terry’s life in Korea, or how hard Terry had begged me to help him find his little sister’s killer, or how much I wanted to write a story about the murder, I should never, ever, ever have gotten involved the way I did. It was an outrageous, unheard-of, unconscionable thing for me to do, and I should have my head examined for even thinking that I could solve another homicide.

(At this particular point in time-while I was lying there immobile on my back and bandaged up like a mummy-I was inclined to agree with him. But I didn’t tell him that, of course.)

Dan was really, really angry that I hadn’t told him about the case and asked himto look into Judy’s murder. Why the hell did I keep it a secret from him? Did I actually believe that I was so much smarter than he was? Did I really think I could conduct a better murder investigation than the whole darn NYPD? And how dare I put myself in so goddamn much danger?! Did I ever stop to think how horrible it would be for him if I were killed and he had to head up a search for m y murderer?

I had to admit (to myself and to Dan) that that particular thought hadn’t once crossed my mind. And then I had to apologize-profusely-for my lack of consideration. And my lack of trust. And my reckless self-endangerment. And my “idiotically inflated head.” (Dan’s words, not mine.)

But nothing I said would soothe the savage beast-not even my emotional protestations about the laziness and inef fectualness of Detective Hugo Sweeny, or my sworn testimony that I thought he (Dan) would never interfere in another precinct’s homicide investigation.

He most certainly would have interfered, Dan claimed (more vociferously than I care to remember). Especially since he already knew what a shiftless sonofabitch Sweeny was, and how incompetent he’d been in the past, and how he’d begun closing cases prematurely because his retirement was coming up soon and he wanted to leave the job with a clean slate. And even if he didn’t know all that stuff about Sweeny, Dan insisted, he would have seen to it that the Catcher case was reopened. With so much glaring evidence in hand, that’s what any good cop would do.

Okay, okay! So I was a stupid fool. And everything Dan said to me in the hospital that night (I mean morning) was totally legitimate. I really should have told him about Judy’s murder. And about the diamonds. And I should have revealed everything at the very beginning-the same day Terry met me at the automat and asked me to help him find the creep who had killed his sister.

But you understand why I didn’t, don’t you? You know how overwhelmed I was by Terry’s pain and sorrow, and by his desperate plea for help, and by the fact that he had been so close to my late husband in his final days. And you also know how crazy Dan would have gone if I had even tried to discuss the details of the Judy Catcher murder case with him, right? No matter what Dan says, all hell would have broken loose! And he would have banished me from the investigation. He would have forced me to give up my search… and give up my story… and, well, give up my natural (though most would say unnatural) career goals.

So what was a girl supposed to do? Be true to her late husband… or to her new boyfriend… or to herself? Finding that question impossible to answer, I chose to dodge the truth altogether. I heaved a heavy sigh, closed my weary eyes, and fell into a sleep so deep it was deadly.

I WAS IN THE HOSPITAL FOR A WEEK, AND Dan came to visit every day. He was still mad at me, but he was also still pretty crazy about me (I could tell by the way his strong, craggy face turned all mushy when he thought I wasn’t looking). And, as much as he didn’t want to rehash-or give credence to-my involvement in the Judy Catcher case, he couldn’t curb his professional curiosity, or stop himself from picking up the investigation where I’d left off.

It wasn’t enough that he’d apprehended the murderer himself; that he’d been sharp and alert enough to chase Elsie down when he saw her burst out of my building and start running away like a thief; that he’d had the sense (and the instinct) to ignore all the rules and handcuff her right there and then, in the middle of Bleecker Street on Christmas Day, and march her-jawbone wagging like a broken gate-back up the stairs to my apartment. And it wasn’t enough that Elsie had, just a few days later, in light of all the irrefutable evidence against her, and in the presence of her lawyer and several prison officials, written up and signed a full confession (the prison docs had wired her busted jaw together, but she still couldn’t talk).

Nope! That wasn’t enough for our man Dan! There were still a few loose ends in the case, and he wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d tied them all together. And I was the only one who could help him do that. (This fact tickled me pink, but seemed to give Dan a humongous headache.)

Elsie had admitted to killing Roscoe as well as Judy, but her written confession didn’t fully explain how Roscoe had become involved. So Dan had to come to me for the answers-which I painstakingly (okay, proudly) supplied. I told Dan everything Elsie had said about Roscoe-how he had let himself into Judy’s apartment the night of the murder, found Elsie searching for the diamonds, made himself a partner, etcetera, etcetera, and then pushed me in front of a train when he thought I was carting said diamonds around in a lunchbox.

I should have kept that last bit to myself. To say that Dan was upset is like calling an earthquake unsettling. I thought his skull would explode! I guess it should have made me feel good that he was so devastated by my close call in the subway, but the truth is it made me feel awful to cause him such pain. So I changed the subject as fast as I could and told him about Lillian Smythe.

After explaining that Judy’s aging sugar daddy was Lillian’s real daddy, I told Dan about the Christmas Eve party at the Smythe’s penthouse, relating the particulars of my chat with Augusta and describing how Lillian had reacted to seeing her mother’s antique diamond necklace clasped around my neck. Then I told Dan about the phone conversation I’d overheard at the Chelsea Realty office-when Roscoe was yelling his head off at somebody named Lily-and disclosed my belief that Roscoe and Lillian had been in cahoots for some time, scheming to steal back the Smythe family diamonds long before Judy was murdered.

And after I related how Roscoe had so often shown up at Judy’s apartment unannounced, always giving trumped-up, landlordly reasons why she should let him in, Dan came to accept my idea that Roscoe had in actuality been trying to sniff out the diamonds, and that Lillian had put him up to it. So, in the interest of bringing the Catcher case to a full and complete conclusion, Dan paid a little visit to a certain Park Avenue penthouse, and to the privileged, high-toned residents within.

Beyond admitting that he had “borrowed” a few of his wife’s baubles to “loan” to a friend, Gregory Smythe had nothing to add to the body of evidence in the case. According to Dan, he barely remembered a young woman named Judy Catcher, or that she’d been brutally killed. Augusta Smythe, on the other hand, was well-informed about the murder (she’d read all the papers), and well-aware of her “senile” husband’s “overly generous relationship” with the “poor dead girl.” She had read about the killing of Roscoe Swift as well, but failed to see how the death of that “lowly tenement landlord” could have anything whatsoever to do with her “reputable and prosperous family.”

Daughter Lillian, however, was a bit more candid on that subject. Yes, she had known Roscoe and he had been trying to help her retrieve her mother’s diamonds. What the hell was wrong with that? She had tracked “the little worm” down and enlisted his help the same day she found a Chelsea Realty rental receipt in her father’s desk at the office. So what of it? The jewelry was rightfully hers, you know-or would be as soon as her dear old mother “croaked.” So, could you give her one good reason why she should let her “filthy old goat” of a father give her priceless diamond heirlooms away to some “underage bottle-blonde girdle salesgirl at Macy’s?”

Dan could think of several good reasons to pronounce Lillian’s behavior devious and snaky, but not a single cause to call it illegal. She and Roscoe had hoped to steal the diamonds back from Judy, but had never actually attempted to do so. And there’s no crime in hoping. If Elsie hadn’t killed Judy and tried to grab the diamonds for herself, Roscoe and Lillian might never have made a move on their own. So, Dan had no right to make a move on Lillian. What was he supposed to do? Arrest her for being a prejudiced, greedy, conniving bitch?

Abby was disappointed that Dan couldn’t find anything to pin on Lillian. And she was more than a little annoyed to learn that Judy’s jewelry would be returned to Augusta Smythe when the case was officially closed. That meant all those “fabulous, glorious, eye-poppin’ sparklers” would eventually revert to her archenemy, “Chilly Lily,” and how in the world could justice be so unjust?

Terry’s feelings were the exact opposite. He was glad the gems would be turned over to their rightful owner, and he was very relieved to get them off his hands (and out of Abby’s sugar canister). His tampering-with-evidence days were over! He didn’t have to hide from Sweeny anymore. Or wear fake payos and an artificial beard.

As for me, I just wanted the damn diamonds to disappear off the face of the earth forever. They were a curse, a blight, an ex ecration. If Judy had never been given the so-called jewels, she would still be alive. And so would Roscoe. And Elsie would be playing canasta at Milly Esterbrook’s place instead of playing solitaire in the Women’s House of Detention. And I would be traipsing all over Manhattan, having Dan’s silver cigarette lighter engraved, getting a new lunchbox for Lenny, and buying champagne and noisemakers and funny hats for New Year’s Eve, instead of lying flat on my back in a horrid hospital crib, wondering how long it would take my blasted bones to heal. And if I’d still be a good dancer.

THE NEWSPAPERS HAD A FIELD DAY WITH THE story. Sex, diamonds, and murder (two of ’em!)-what could be better than that? Most of the articles focused on Elsie Londergan, sporting lurid titles like GRANNY GET YOUR GUN! or THE DIAMONDS OF DEATH or-my personal favorite-MURDER IS A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND. But a few of the papers, unfortunately, also ran stories about me.

Dan had done his best, at my request, to keep the facts of my involvement secret, but the word got out anyway-thanks to Harvey Crockett, my illustrious ex-newspaperman boss, who broke the story to some of his old newspaper pals. He even brought two of those old pals-one reporter and one photographer-along with him when he came to visit me in the hospital.

This was a damn lucky break for Daring Detective, Mr. Crockett insisted, and he wasn’t about to let my daffy desire to remain anonymous get in the way of a load of free publicity for the magazine. He told me to give the reporter the bare essentials of the story, but to keep all the dirty details to myself, for use in my own sensational, exclusive Daring Detective cover story-which would appear in the very next edition, at double the usual print run. Then he told me to sit up and look pretty for the camera. (Luckily, my hair dryer hood and curlers were in the nighttable drawer and not on my head.)

I hated performing like a seal for Mr. Crockett and his cronies, but I hated it even more when Pomeroy and Mike and Mario crept into my room and stood like mourners at a gravesite around the foot of my bed. They came to wish me a speedy recovery, Pomeroy said, looking both ashamed and annoyed that he had to be there at all (this was obviously another command performance), and then Mike and Mario each mumbled something about hoping I’d be back to work soon. (They weren’t lying. I could tell from their fidgiting fingers and jittery eyes they were suffering from severe caffeine withdrawal.) Lenny had wanted to come visit me, too, they said, but somebody had to stay at the office to answer the phone.

Fortunately, they didn’t hang around too long. Just long enough to pose for a few pictures, mutter a few more good wishes, and-miracle of miracles!-bear witness to Mr. Crockett’s announcement (sort of to me, but mostly to the press) that he was awarding me a five dollar raise. Then they all said goodbye, shuffled into line, and-walking in a body, like a single twelve-legged centipede-followed Mr. Crockett’s lead out of my room and off down the hall.

Needless to say, I was somewhat dismayed when the front page of the morning edition of the Daily Mirror featured 1) a really dopey picture of me, 2) a brief article about my participation in the Judy Catcher murder case, and 3) the irksome, embarrassing, and all-too-predicatable headline: PAIGE TURNER’S A REAL PAGE-TURNER!

I WAS RELEASED FROM THE HOSPITAL ON December 31st, which made me really happy since I didn’t feel like ringing in the New Year with a bunch of dour nightshift nurses. I wanted to start 1955 off right-in my own apartment, with my own friends, wearing my own nightgown, listening to Guy Lombardo on my own radio, and giving my very own boyfriend a juicy soul kiss at the stroke of midnight.

And all my wishes came true-except the last one. Dan had to work, of course. New Year’s Eve was, by tradition, one of Homicide’s busiest nights. My daring detective did manage to run in for a quick smooch, though, around one-thirty that morning, when he was en route to a new murder scene and Abby and Terry and Lenny and I were just finishing off our third-or was it our fourth?-bottle of champagne. (I don’t remember much about that kiss, but I’m sure it was a good one.)

After Dan left, Abby and Terry became antsy to leave, too. They said it was late (true), and they’d had too much to drink (true), and they were very, very tired (false). It was obvious from the frisky way they were eyeing each other they weren’t the least bit weary. If you ask me, they were just keen to be alone so Abby could try on the red lace-trimmed bra, panties, and garter belt set I’d gotten her for Christmas, but hadn’t been able to give to her till that night. (Actually, it turned out to be a present for both of them; I put Terry’s name on the gift tag, too. Under the circumstances-i.e., my shortage of money and shopping time, and their red-hot romance-it seemed the ideal thing to do. I knew Terry would get as much pleasure out of the garish getup as Abby.)

And Lenny liked his lunchbox a lot (Abby had very kindly trekked up to Henry’s Hardware to pick up another one for me). When he opened it, his cheeks turned bright pink, and his forehead got all steamy, and he thanked me so many times I thought his tongue was stuck, like a needle on a broken record. He said it was the best present anybody ever gave him.

And while we’re on the subject of Christmas gifts, I might as well tell you I was ecstatic over the present Abby and Terry gave me-something I had wanted since the age of fourteen, when I first decided I was going become a writer. It was a desk! An adorable, all wood, secondhand desk! And it was already there, inside my apartment-sitting next to the window in my little spare bedroom (excuse me, office)-when they brought me home from the hospital. Have you ever heard of anything so thoughtful in your life? I was so choked up I couldn’t breathe.

And the sterling silver pen and pencil set Dan bought for me at Tiffany’s (wouldn’t you know it?) had the same profound emotional effect. Not because it was such an intimate or passionate gift-which it wasn’t-but because it was so thunder ously meaningful to me. I mean, what better way could Dan have found to let me know that he endorses-well, at least accepts -my writing career? Even a Tiffany engagement ring couldn’t have conveyed that all-important message! (Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.)

The first thing I did with my peachy new pen was sit down at my nifty new desk and write out a reward check for twenty-five dollars to Elijah Peeps. My bashful hero. The man who had saved me in the subway. The man I would remember, and be grateful to, for the rest of my everloving life (which, but for him, would already be over).

The next thing I did was write Vicki Lee Bumstead a letter, thanking her for her help in my search for Judy’s killer, and telling her I would take her out for lunch-no, dinner!-as soon as I was on my feet again (which, according to my doctors, would be in a couple of months). I considered writing Jimmy Birmingham a note as well, but decided against it, knowing he would want to hear from Abby-not me-and that he would surely be having that pleasure soon. Just as soon as Terry packed up his duffel bag and headed back home to Pitts burg h.

I didn’t want Terry to go. I’d gotten used to having him around. And just seeing his handsome face every day made me feel closer to Bob. This’ll sound nutsy to you, but a couple of times I felt as though Bob were smiling out at me through Terry’s clear blue eyes. I didn’t tell Terry about these incidents, for fear he would think I was crazy as a loon, but I did tell him how much I admired him and respected him, and how glad I was that my husband had had such a loyal, courageous friend in Korea.

Terry protested, of course, saying once again what a spine