Murder Is A Girl’s Best Friend

Chapter 2

I TOOK OFF MY HIGH-HEELED PUMPS AND zipped on my fur-lined snowboots. As I was putting on my camel’s hair coat and my black leather gloves and my red wool beret, Brandon Pomeroy gave me a supercilious sneer and said, “It’s a bit early for lunch, Mrs. Turner. Twelve minutes early, to be exact. I hope you have a good reason for going out so soon.” The look on his face told me I’d better have a good reason.

“I do, sir,” I said. (Pomeroy was only six years older than I was, but from my first day on the job he had insisted that I call him “sir.” And treat him like a titled duke. And since he was a genuine blood relation of the owner of Daring Detective-the outrageously wealthy and powerful publishing magnate Oliver Rice Harrington-I knew it was in my own best interests to comply.) “I have to meet a friend of my late husband’s,” I told him. “Someone who served with Bob in Korea. He’s going to be in town for just a few hours.”

Mike, Mario, and Lenny all looked up from their work, suddenly interested in the conversation. Fully aware that we were being watched, Pomeroy leaned back in his chair and shot a meaningful glance at the big round clock on the wall. Then he lowered his bullet eyes and trained them on another target-my face. “You have my permission to go,” he said, glaring at me through the glittering lenses of his expensive horn-rimmed glasses, “but see that you’re back by twelve forty-eight. On the dot.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, smiling like an angel, successfully resisting the urge to give him a mock Heil Hitler salute. I was annoyed by Pomeroy’s strict time limit, but not terribly concerned about making (okay, breaking) it. I knew he’d never know what time I came back to the office. He wouldn’t be back from his own lunch-his regular belly-to-the-bar repast of peanuts, olives, and gin-until at least two or two-thirty.

All eyes watched me leave (okay, flee) the office. I hurried down the hall to the elevators, buttoning my coat up tight around my neck, preparing to face the cold. As I stood waiting for an elevator to arrive, two young women strolled through the glass-walled reception area of Orchid Publications (the largest suite of offices on our floor), then pushed their way through the heavy glass doors and joined me in the hall. They were both dressed in the usual Orchid Publications style-form-fitting suits with tight sheath skirts, ruffled pastel blouses, white gloves, seamed silk stockings, stilettos, and they both carried large leather clutch bags. They had on their hats, but not their coats, so I figured they were going down to lunch in the lobby coffee shop.

They began chatting immediately-to each other but not to me.

“I can’t decide on a title for that story,” one of them said. “I might use ‘My Lover Got Me Pregnant on My Best Friend’s Kitchen Floor!’ How does that sound?”

“Has a nice ring to it,” the other one said. “But shouldn’t it be a little racier? You could change the word Kitchen to Bedroom.”

“But then I’d have to change the whole story, too. And besides, isn’t the kitchen racier than the bedroom? I mean, one expects people to have sex in the bedroom.”

“Yes, I guess so. But I still don’t like the word Kitchen in the title. It makes me think of dirty aprons and greasy pots and pans. And I don’t like Pregnant, either. That’s the unsexiest word in the whole English language!”

The first one laughed. “I see what you mean. Maybe I’ll just go back to my original title: ‘Raped After Dinner by My Best Friend’s Husband!’ ”

“Better,” the other one said. “Much better. ”

The elevator came and we all stepped in.

In case you’re wondering, Orchid Publications was the largest publisher of grade B (some would say trashy) women’s periodicals in the country. They put out a slew of confession magazines (in which department my two elevator mates were obviously employed), and they published tons of movie, gossip, beauty, and horoscope magazines. They also published Daring Detective, but this fact had always been kept a deep dark secret-both from the industry in general and the public at large. Orchid’s owner (yep!-the one and the same Oliver Rice Harrington) didn’t want the company’s “clean” feminine image sullied by DD’s “dirty” (not to mention bloody) concerns.

When the elevator doors popped open, I lunged into the lobby and hurried down the black rubber runner leading across the marble floor to the row of revolving glass doors on the Third Avenue side of the building. I stepped into one of the doors and pushed my way through to the sidewalk. A wall of cold wet air slammed me in the face, and my eyelashes were immediately caked with snowflakes. The sidewalk had recently been shoveled-you could tell by the knee-high banks of snow at the curb-but the fast-falling flakes had already formed a crunchy new white carpet underfoot.

Lowering my head against the oncoming snow, I clasped my collar close around my chin and forged down Third to the automat. The restaurant was just one block away from my office, but with my lungs in shock from the freezing cold, and my heart caught up in my throat the way it was, I felt like I was crossing the tundra.

HORN & HARDART’S WAS CROWDED AS usual. It wasn’t yet noon, but lots of people were already sliding their lunch trays along the waist-high service railings, popping nickels into allotted coin slots, then opening the little chrome and glass doors of the individual food compartments to remove their chosen dishes. The line at the change-maker’s register was long, and quickly growing longer. It seemed that everybody in Manhattan -rich or poor, beautiful or ugly, weak or strong-liked to meet and eat at the automat, even during a snowstorm.

I spotted an empty table for two and went to claim it. Taking the seat facing the door, I shrugged out of my coat and tucked it over the back of my chair. I removed my red beret, shook off the snow, and put it back on. Then I raked my eyes around the crowded room, looking for the total stranger who had been a friend of my husband’s-the man who could be bringing me a measure of peace and solace, or a load of sorrow and despair. I didn’t know what to expect, but I was ready (okay, resigned) to meet both the past and the future head-on.

I didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes, a medium-tall, well-built man wearing a brown felt fedora and a brown suede bomber jacket, carrying a shoebox tied with twine, pushed his way through the door and began shooting his eyes around the restaurant, from one corner of the dining room to the other, obviously looking for someone. And that someone was obviously me, since the minute he spotted my red beret, he snapped to attention. He lowered his bright blue eyes to my brown ones, then strode over to my table-our table-with the energy of a man on a mission.

“Paige?” he said. “Is that you?” His lean, clean-shaven face was burning with curiosity. And such a fiery intensity I wanted to back away from the heat.

“Terence?” I said. “Terence Catcher?” I didn’t stand up from the table. I was afraid if I tried to balance my jittery body on my numb, unsteady feet, they’d slip right out from under me, and I’d find myself flat on my back-or, worse, face down-on the speckled beige linoleum.

“Terry,” he said, sitting down and placing the Thom McAn shoebox on the table. He reached his gloved hand across the table and grabbed hold of mine. “Please call me Terry. ”

“Okay, Terry” I said, removing my fingers from his leathery grip. I peered into the depths of his big blue eyes, searching for some clue to his character, but all I could see was a keen, penetrating intelligence. And pain. A truckload of pain.

Terry returned my stare, then gave me a thin, crooked smile. “You’re even more beautiful than Bob said you were.”

“Thank you,” I said, quickly lowering my gaze to the tabletop. If the blazing temperature of my cheeks was any indication of reality, my face had turned as red as my beret.

(I’m what you might call a double blusher. First I blush because I’m embarrassed about something, then I blush again because I’m embarrassed by my own embarrassment.)

“I’m glad to finally meet you,” Terry continued, taking off his hat and gloves and putting them down next to the shoebox.

I was shocked when I saw his hair. It was thick and pure white-as white as the snow swirling past the window outside. Yet his slim, handsome face was unlined, and his eyebrows were as black as crow feathers. I guessed him to be about twenty-nine or thirty-around the age Bob would be now if he’d lived.

“I’m glad to meet you, too,” I said, though I wasn’t yet sure that I was. “Were you very good friends with my husband? He never mentioned your name in any of his letters.”

“That’s because Bob never used my real name. He called me Whitey. A lot of the guys did.”

“Oh, Whitey!” I cried, heart doing a happy flip-flop. “So that’s who you are! Bob wrote about you all the time! He said you were his closest friend.”

“I was. And he was mine. He saved my life. Twice.” Terry’s face turned serious and sad-very sad. “If only I could have saved his.”

I didn’t say anything. I was too choked up to speak. And so was Terry, who was now wringing his hands and staring into space like a zombie. I wondered if he might be suffering from shell shock.

We sat in silence for a few seconds, letting our emotions peak and subside, then Terry snapped out of his trance and directed his damp blue gaze at me. “I’ll never forgive myself, you know.” His tone was dead serious. “When Bob was shot, I was curled up on the floor of the foxhole, shaking and crying like a baby, hiding from the action like the miserable, disgusting coward I am. I didn’t even try to save him. Hell, I didn’t even know he’d been hit until two hours after he died.”

Terry’s words demolished me. I felt as if I were thrashing around in the dirt, squirming on my belly like a reptile, looking for a deep, dark hole to dive into. Please don’t tell me any more! I wanted to scream. Please don’t make me think about the bullets ripping through my beloved husband’s lungs and heart. Don’t make me think about the unthinkable moment when his warm, sweet blood began spilling out of his warm, sweet body onto the blistered, bombed-out North Korean eart h…

“I tried to write to you after I got home,” Terry went on. “I wanted to tell you how brave and humane and heroic Bob was, how he had saved both my life and my sanity. I wanted to tell you how much he loved you, and missed you, and how proud he was that you were making your own way in the world. I wrote you about twenty different letters, but I never mailed any of them. I tore them to pieces and threw them away.”

“But why?” I asked, stifling a strong impulse to howl.

“Because I’m a gutless bastard, that’s why. I was so ashamed of myself I felt I didn’t have the right to communicate with you. If I had looked after Bob the way that he looked after me, he might still be alive.” Terry’s head dipped low between his wide shoulders, like a melon from a trellised vine. He looked as though he might start crying.

“That’s ridiculous!” I sputtered, reaching over to touch the sleeve of his jacket. “You aren’t responsible for Bob’s death. Nobody is responsible. There was a war going on. People get killed in a war. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

Terry raised his heavy head and looked me in the eye again. “Thanks for the kind words, Paige, but I don’t deserve them. I really am a coward, you know. How do you think my hair got so white? From fear-total fear. It turned white during my first few weeks of fighting.”

“It isn’t a sin to be afraid.”

“It is when you’re in the Army.”

There was so much pain in Terry’s eyes it hurt me to look at them. I shifted my gaze toward the table to our left, where two middle-aged businessmen in gray flannel suits were dining on meatloaf and mashed, not speaking at all. I was envious of their placid boredom. Knowing there was nothing I could say to heal Terry’s deep wartime wounds, or even just make him feel a little better, I fished around in my wretched brain for a gentle way to change the subject.

Changing the subject was easy, but the gentle part was hard. “Why did Bob let you read my letters?” I blurted out, screeching in spite of myself. I sounded like Ma Kettle reminding the lazy ranch hands that the barn was on fire. “The things I said to him were so private,” I gasped. “My letters were meant for Bob, and Bob alone. It really upsets me that he showed them to you.” My cheeks flared up in another hot blush.

“I don’t blame you for being angry,” Terry said, nervously fidgeting with the salt and pepper shakers. “But you should be mad at me, not Bob. He was just trying to help me save myself from myself.”

His words were a tad too cryptic for my comfort. “What in the world are you talking about?” I snapped. “And how do my letters enter into it?”

“It only happened once,” Terry said, giving me a pleading look. “The bombing had been real bad that morning, so bad that even after it stopped-after the shells stopped whistling and exploding all around us-I couldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t speak without stuttering, and I couldn’t breathe right either. Bob saw the shape I was in, and he pulled me into the brush, propped me against a tree, and splashed some water in my face. Then he gave me your letters to read. He said they would set me straight for sure, take my mind off what was happening and remind me of what we were fighting for-all the worried, wonderful, devoted people back home.”

I was too humiliated to speak. I felt like a petty, self-centered stooge-like Ralph Kramden always does when Alice finally makes him see the error of his thoughtless ways.

“See, I didn’t get many letters from home,” Terry went on, fanning the flames of my shame. “I didn’t have a girlfriend or a wife, my mother was dead, my father was a drunk, and my little sister Judy was just trying to get through high school and take care of our father at the same time. She wrote me a few times, but her letters were pretty dismal. All she talked about was how disgusting Dad was, and how crazy she was about her latest boyfriend, whoever he happened to be-she had a new one every week. So her letters weren’t very encouraging.

“But yours were,” he added, eyes begging me to understand. “They were so loving, and sensitive, and interesting, and hopeful. They actually calmed my fears and made me feel strong… for a little while, anyway.” Terry started fidgeting with the salt and pepper shakers again.” Your letters were Bob’s most prized possession, you know. He kept them with him at all times. He knew how special they were, and he only showed them to me because he believed they would bring me some courage and peace of mind. And he was right. So please don’t be mad at him. He was just being a good friend. The best friend I ever had.”

I melted faster than the snow on my eyelashes. “He was my best friend, too,” I said, writhing in the agony and ecstasy of having once been truly loved. Then, unable to endure even one more second of such open (okay, naked) emotion, I hastily excused myself and bolted for the ladies’ room.