Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

Chapter 33

MY OFFICE DICTIONARY DEFINED OBSESSION as “the domination of one’s thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, or desire.” I already knew the meaning of the word, of course, but I looked it up anyway. My obsession with Dan had reached the sickening stage, and I wanted to see if the dictionary would offer a useful antidote or cure.

No way, Doris Day. All Random House presented was the list of symptoms, which-big surprise!-described my state of mind to a T. Especially the persistent image part. No matter what I tried to focus on that morning-the galleys I had to proofread, the stories I had to edit, the newspapers I had to clip-all I could see was the clinch and the kiss (i.e., the locked-together limbs and lips of my daring detective and his ravishing redhead).

I was going out of my mind.

I really couldn’t stand it anymore.

So when Brandon Pomeroy arrived at the office (early again, if you can believe that!), I was elated. (Okay, not really elated, but more like… well, happy for the change of scene.)

“Good morning, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said, smiling. “Enjoying the cooler weather?”

“Yes, Mrs. Turner,” he stiffly replied. “It’s a considerable relief.” He didn’t return my smile, but he didn’t bite my head off, either. Could his newfound courtesy, I wondered, have anything to do with my new story assignment?

Pomeroy took his pipe out of his jacket pocket and hung the jacket on the coat tree. As he was walking around his desk to his chair, he spied Crockett’s soggy cigar stub in his ashtray and made a horrified face. “That’s disgusting!” he hollered at me. (

Jeez! Did he think I was the one who left it there?) “Please take it away this instant! I can’t work with a rancid cigar sitting right under my nose.”

At least he said please.

I sprang across the aisle and picked up his heavy marble ashtray, which I then carted into the file room and emptied into the large trash can in the corner. (I certainly didn’t want to put the stinky stub in

my wastebasket!) Ordinarily, I would have been fuming (in silence, of course) over Pomeroy’s rude and despotic treatment, but today I was grateful for the diversion. It beat the heck out of obsessing over the clinch and the kiss.

Returning to the workroom with the empty ashtray in my hand, I took a look at the clock. It was eleven thirty-an hour before my lunchtime, and a good three hours before the typesetter’s messenger was due to come pick up the corrected proofs and stories.

If only I could go search Binky’s apartment right now! I said to myself. That would save me from having a nervous breakdown over Dan, and I could still get back to the office in time to finish my day’s work. Well, some of it, anyway.

“Can I speak to you for a second, Mr. Pomeroy?” I ventured, replacing the ashtray on his desk and giving him a piercing (okay, pleading) look. “It’s about the story assignment you gave me yesterday.”

Pomeroy sat up straighter in his chair and granted me his full attention. “Yes, of course, Mrs. Turner,” he said, mustache twitching to one side. “How can I help you? What’s on your mind?”

I was so shocked by his keen (not to mention cordial) reaction, it took me a few seconds to gather my wits and concoct a reply.

“I’ve been investigating the murder of Gray Gordon, just as you directed,” I said, leaning over his desk and lowering my voice to a near whisper. “And I’ve begun to make some real headway. Detective Flannagan of the Sixth Precinct is in charge of the case, and I’ve learned the identity of his primary suspect. But I think he’s focusing on the wrong guy,” I added, pausing to let the weight of my statement sink in. “I think somebody else is the murderer, and I’m working around the clock to dig up enough evidence to prove it.”

I’d never seen Pomeroy so aroused. He sat up even taller in his chair and began puffing so intently on his pipe you’d have thought it was his last smoke before facing a firing squad. “That’s good, Mrs. Turner,” he murmured. “Very good indeed. This is an important story, and I expect you to keep your nose to the grindstone until the murder is solved. It would be a real feather in my… er, the magazine’s cap if you could crack this case before the police do.”

Uh oh! I smelled a rat. Why was this particular story so important, and why the strong desire to beat out the police? Pomeroy had never shown such interest in a murder case (or even the magazine!) before. I was dying to ask him a few questions-try to find out who or what had set the fire under his tail-but I was unwilling to change the direction of our dialogue. It seemed more urgent that I find a way to break out of the office and into Binky’s apartment.

“I think I’m really close to identifying the killer, sir,” I said. “And I got a lead just this morning that could bust the case wide open.” (Don’t blame me for that last sentence. I was copying Humphrey Bogart.)

“Oh, really?” Pomeroy said, beady eyes turning even beadier. “What kind of a lead?”

“An anonymous one, sir, and I’m not at liberty to discuss it. Not

yet,” I stressed. “It will all come out in due time. All I can tell you at the moment is that it has something to do with the murder weapon, which was never found at the scene. And now it’s imperative that I leave the office immediately and go to a certain place to search for it.”

Pomeroy glared at me and then looked at his watch. “It’s only eleven thirty six,” he said, poking his pipe stem between his lips and chewing on the tip. “Your lunch hour doesn’t start for fifty-four minutes.” (Do you believe that?! Here I was, on the verge of solving a sensational murder and completing an important story assignment, and all Pomeroy could think about was the

time.)

“If I wait for my lunch hour it’ll be too late,” I said. “The police might get there before me.”

That did it.

“You have my permission to leave, Mrs. Turner,” Pomeroy said, blowing a stream of fruity smoke in my direction. “You can make up the time tomorrow.”

I EXITED THE ELEVATOR AND WALKED straight across the lobby to the string of open phone booths banked against the wall. Choosing the first available phone I came to, I dropped a nickel in the slot and dialed Abby.

“Rise and shine,” I said, as soon as the receiver was picked up. “The time has come for breaking and entering!” (If I sounded excited, it was because I

was. I was a racehorse breaking out of the gate. I was a feverish bloodhound on the trail of a fresh, hot scent.)

“Huh? What?” It was a male voice and it sounded deeper and dopier than usual.

“Oh, hi, Jimmy,” I said. “This is Paige. Let me speak to Abby.”

“Can’t. She’s sleeping.”

“Hmmm,” I said, stalling, wondering if I should ask him to wake her or just let sleeping dogs lie. I’d done my duty, after all. I’d promised to call Abby, and I had. It wasn’t my fault that she was still asleep. (

I, if you recall, hadn’t had any sleep at all!) And now my time is running out! I convinced myself. What the heck am I supposed to do? Chuck a really important part of my investigation just because my sex-crazed sidekick is catching a few Zs? That would be nuts! Abby can’t possibly blame me if I go to Binky’s place without her…

I was about to say goodbye, hang up, and head for Binky’s when a loud rustling noise came over the receiver, then a series of weird snorting sounds. “Unnphh… snick… frunkt… yello?” Abby honked. “S’that you, Paige? What’s up? Are you ready to crash Binky’s pad?”

Curses, foiled again.

“Yeah, I’m going there right now,” I said. “You want to meet me or stay in bed?” I was, as you may have guessed, kind of hoping she’d opt for the latter.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she said. “Don’t you dare go in without me.”

THE TEMPERATURE HAD DROPPED AT least ten degrees, so I walked the ten blocks down to Third and 33rd in relative comfort (except for my painful high heels, which belonged in a torture chamber, not on the sidewalk). I would have taken the Third Avenue el if it had still been running, but service on the seventy-seven-year-old train line had been shut down about a month ago, and I was left to my own devices (i.e., feet). The elevated track was due to be demolished soon, but for now it was still in existence, looming high over Third Avenue’s whizzing automobile traffic, casting its dense, dark shadow for miles.

I arrived at Binky’s apartment building shortly before noon and stepped into the vestibule to check the names on the mailboxes. There it was, on the very first box: Barnabas Kapinsky, apartment 1A. I had come to the right place. Thinking I should make sure that Binky wasn’t there, I rang the buzzer for 1A. No answer. I waited a few seconds and rang it again. Still no answer. So I rang it a third time… and a fourth… and a fifth… and then, convinced that the coast was clear, stepped back outside to wait for Abby.

Figuring I’d be waiting for quite a while (it’s a very long walk from Bleecker Street to the east Thirties, and there’s no direct mode of public transportation), I leaned against the wall of Binky’s building and surveyed my surroundings. Had Blackie or Aunt Doobie followed me here? I didn’t think so. I had checked my back many times on the walk downtown, and I hadn’t spied a single stalker in the shadows. And now, although the sidewalks were full of people-workers, shoppers, strollers, lunchgoers-they all looked quite innocent in the bright sunlight and their light-colored summer clothing.

But I kept my eyes peeled just the same.

And that’s when I saw it. A long black limousine! It came cruising up Third Avenue like a long black yacht, slowing down to rowboat speed as it approached Binky’s building.

Yikes! Is that Baldy’s limo? Did it follow me here? Who’s inside? Where can I hide? In the vestibule? No! Too Dangerous! What if Baldy’s bringing Binky home or something like that? I’d really be stuck then!

In a total panic-and for lack of a better alternative-I leapt over to the curb and crouched down on my haunches behind a parked two-tone Mercury (pink and white, in case you’re wondering). Then, hoping to get a glimpse of the limo’s passengers (and praying with all my might they would be strangers), I duck-walked up to the nose of the Mercury and craned my neck around the headlights, staring through the gap between the parked cars at the traffic going by on the street.

When the long black limo drove into my sight, I felt a surge of relief. At least it hadn’t stopped in front of Binky’s building. As I gazed up at the slowly passing vehicle, however, and tried to peer through the windows to see who was inside, I felt nothing but defeat. There were thick gray velvet curtains on the windows and they were closed.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing down there? Taking a leak?”

I turned my head and looked up. It was Abby. She was perched on a bicycle.

“Very funny,” I said, placing one hand on the hood of the Mercury and pulling myself up to a standing position. “For your information, I was hiding from a black limousine-which may, or may not, have been Baldy’s. See?” I said, pointing uptown. “It’s on the next block, headed north.”

One foot on the sidewalk for balance, Abby raised her head, shaded her eyes with her hand, and gazed in the designated direction. “Yeah, I see it. It’s stopped at the light on Thirty-fourth.”

“I can’t read the license plate, can you?”

“No, it’s too far. Should I chase after it?”

“Are you nuts? You’ll never catch up. Not unless that bicycle has a motor.”

Abby laughed. “No, but it’s got everything else. Red frame and red handle grips. Silver fenders. White plastic seat. This beauty is a Schwinn Jaguar Deluxe and it’s built for speed, baby!”

“You sound like a commercial.”

“Hey, I really like this bike! And it got me here on time, didn’t it?”

“Sure did,” I said, glancing at my watch. It was only ten after twelve. (Time crawls when you’re scared for your life.) “Where did you get the cycle, Ab? From one of Jimmy’s friends?”

“No, I borrowed it from Fabrizio, a kid who lives down the block from us. He got it for his birthday. Told me I could use it anytime I want to.”

“Nice kid.”

“Real nice,” she said, dismounting, popping the kickstand and chain-locking the bike to a lamppost. “I owe Fabrizio one.” She straightened up and wiped her hands on the sides of her plaid pedal pushers. “Is this Binky’s building?” she asked, flipping her braid off her shoulder and nodding toward the five-story tan brick structure behind me.

“Yep!” I said, thrilling to the chase. “Let’s get going.”