New, Improved Murder

5

She was waiting for me when I got home — in the gloom of my parking lot. A chill wind was working up as I slammed my car door. Her headlights snapped on and her four-year-old Chevrolet started dogging my tracks as I walked to my apartment. She pulled up beside me.

“Hi,” she said. In the gloom I could see that she was attractive. I could also see from the way her red hair touched the top of her car that she must be at least six feet. She wore a white turtleneck and a blue blazer. She was probably a few years younger than I.

“Hi,” I said.

“You’re Dwyer, aren’t you?”

“That’s me, okay.”

“You cold?”

“Cold?”

“Yes. Cold. The weather, I mean.”

Boy, was I enjoying myself. “Yeah. I am kind of cold, now that you mention it.”

“Would you care to get in?”

“Your car?”‘

“Yes.”

It was crazy enough to interest me, to divert me from reality. I shrugged, walked around the car, got in.

The first thing she said was, “I probably didn’t do that right, did I?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The way I talked to you and all. That probably wasn’t the right way.”

“Right way for what?”

“The right way to get a story.”

I sighed. “You mind if I smoke?”

She smiled an affecting smile. For the first time I noticed that one of her eyes strayed just a tad, like Karen Black’s. For some reason I find that not only cute but sexy.

She showed me her own pack. “You mind if I smoke?”

We lit up.

“Over there all right?”

“Over there?” I asked.

“To park.”

“Sure. Over there looks like a swell place to park.”

She drove maybe six feet into a parking space that faced a retaining wall. Nice spot. In the rearview mirror I could see the dying pink of the dusk sky.

“I probably have to get better at this, don’t I?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, “I don’t really see all that much room for improvement.”

“I mean just saying ‘hi.’ It doesn’t sound official.”

“Sounded pretty official to me.”

“Really?”

I looked at her. Frowned. “Do you mind telling me what the hell we’re talking about?”

“See? You didn’t think I was worth a damn, did you?”

“Maybe you did a wonderful job. But first of all, before I can judge that, I need to know what the hell you were trying to do.”

“I was trying to come on like a reporter.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

God, it was all nutsy.

“You ever watch `Lou Grant’?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“It was my favorite TV show. Especially Linda Kelsey. She was really good.”

“Yes, she was.”

“Anyway, after I got fired, that’s the idea I had. To be a reporter.”

There was something tirelessly and endearingly wacky about her. At other times I would have felt properly swayed. Now all I could feel was sorry for both of us. This woman, fetching as she was, belonged in a home of some kind.

“Why don’t we start with the basics?” I said.

“Like what?”

“Your name.”

She laughed. “See, that’s how nervous I am. I forgot to tell you my name.”

“You still haven’t.”

She laughed again. “See, as soon as I saw you, I got so nervous I forgot everything I was going to say. I just started gibbering. That’s a word my mother always uses. Gibbering.”

“Do me a favor, all right?”

She shrugged. There was a neurotic quality in the shrug, though I couldn’t exactly tell you what I mean. “Shut up.”

“What?”

“Let’s just sit here and smoke our cigarettes. I’ve OD’d on talking for now.”

“But I haven’t told you my name yet.”

I turned on the radio and put my head back and closed my eyes and took the smoke deep into my lungs and held it there. She was tuned to a Top 40 station that was playing a Michael Jackson song. I felt perfectly safe. She was nuts, but she was harmless. With my eyes shut, I became aware of her perfume. It was a gentle scent, sweet. It fit her.

After a while she cleared her throat. She said, “My name’s Donna Harris and I’m the publisher and editor of a newsletter called Ad World.”

I opened my eyes. She sounded much more together now, and as soon as she mentioned being associated with an advertising publication, I began to understand why she was here.

“I have nothing to tell you,” I said.

“Are you angry?”

I just stared at her.

“I didn’t mean to make you mad.” She frowned. “See, dammit, there I go. I can’t really be assertive when I need to be.”

I didn’t say anything this time either. She had another go at it. “Maybe Jane Branigan didn’t kill Stephen Elliot.”

I must have looked curious about her remark.

“I’ve been doing a story on Elliot for my newsletter. I had an appointment with him this afternoon at his house. When I got there I saw the police and I started asking questions. One of the policemen was real helpful. He mentioned you and he mentioned Jane. I just looked you up in the phone book.”

I’d make a lousy spy. I left too many easy trails for people.

“I’m not an expert on advertising,” I said, “but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of your newsletter before.”

“Oh,” she said, as if I were the world’s leading dope. “The first issue hasn’t been published yet. That’s why this is such a break for me.”

For the first time, she touched me. Literally, I mean. She put out a hand and placed it on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that coldly. I just meant—”

I sighed. “I know what you meant.”

“Just that—”

“Just that Stephen Elliot being killed will make a big story for your inaugural issue.”

“Yes. Exactly.” She paused. “Especially if I can help solve the murder, scoop everybody else.”

So that was it.

I sat there in the darkness, listening to her heater bang away at the chill, watching a perfectly lovely woman prove herself over and over again certifiable.

“How long have you been a journalist?” I decided to have some mean fun with her. Right now it was the only game going.

“Why do you ask?”

“Curious.”

“Well, not real long, I admit.”

“How long?”

“Oh, roughly two weeks, more or less.”

“More or less.”

She hurried on. “But I’ve done a lot of writing. Copywriting.”

“I see.”

“I’ve won a Clio and probably fifteen Addys.”

I smiled, liking her despite myself. “You get fired?”

In a very tiny voice, she said, “Yes.”

“So you decided to start a newsletter?”

She nodded.

“Being a journalist isn’t easy.”

“Neither is finding another advertising job. I’ve really been trying hard. After the agency I was with lost their biggest account forty-one ad people were dumped on the market — including me.” She shrugged again. Neurotically. “I’ve either got to make this newsletter thing go or— I’ve only got five months’ worth of money saved up. At most.”

“Something will come along.”

“You don’t think much of the newsletter idea, huh?”

“Not really.”

“I figured it out. If I can sell four hundred subscriptions throughout the state at fifty dollars a year, I can easily pay the printing bills and have a decent salary left over.”

My father used to have notions like that. A lot of schemes that the whole family found sweet but hopeless.

“You going to work on it?” she asked.

“The case?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose.”

“You don’t think she did it.”

I looked at her. “I hope not.”

“Maybe we could work together.”

“I don’t think so. Sorry.”

“Maybe I could be helpful.”

I rolled down the window several cracks. The heater was getting to me. “You’re very nice,” I said. “You really are. And I hope you find a job soon.”

“Shit,” she said.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” There were tears in her voice. “When I was married that’s how my husband treated me. Every idea I had was ‘charming’ to him. Which translated to the fact that I was crazy. I admit I get carried away sometimes but—”

She must have heard herself. Her panic, there in her four-year-old Chevrolet.

I reached over and patted her hand, and for just a moment I wanted to keep touching her. She had a wonderful hand.

I got out, then put my head back inside. “I wish you luck. I really do.”

“You still in love with her?”

Her question rattled me. I tried to think of an appropriate answer. Maybe the real answer was one I didn’t want to admit. Then I said, “I don’t know.”

“She’s very beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe after all this is over you can get back together with her.”

“Yes. Maybe.”

“Well,” she said.

I closed the door, walked away.