Dial Me for Murder (23 page)

As I approached the elevators, one of them whisked open and released a stream of passengers. They poured into the lobby and surged toward the exit, all dressed for the crisp fall weather, and all in a hurry to have a nice lunch at Schrafft’s, or grab a hot dog and a Coke at Grand Central, or cash their Friday paychecks. A drugstore blonde in a bright green coat and a fake fur-trimmed hat waved to the red-haired receptionist and cried, “See ya later, Cora! I’ll meet ya for a beer after work.”

I stepped into the empty car and pushed the button for the penthouse. On my slow but steady rise to the top, I mapped out a plan of attack. Knowing I’d never get past Harrington’s secretary without an appointment, I decided I should cause a disturbance of some kind—kick up a fuss until I got my way.
You’ve got to be strong and forceful!
I told myself.
You’ve got to march right in and
demand
to see him. You have a right to speak to
your boss if you want to! Even if he isn’t your boss anymore! If you’re too nice and polite, his secretary will just turn you away. Be firm, Paige. Be tough!

By the time the elevator reached the top floor, I was primed for action. And when the door to the penthouse slid open, I charged through it with my dukes up (Rocky Marciano in a tight skirt and high heels). Forging my way across the thick gray carpet to the large ebony desk parked in the center of the plush reception area, I sucked in a deep breath and threw my first punch.

“I want to see Mr. Harrington,” I said to the small gray-haired lady sitting behind the desk, “and I want to see him now!” To illustrate my point, I bonked my fist down on her large, blue-leather-rimmed blotter.

She gasped and froze straight as a stick in her chair. “Do you have an appointment?” she whimpered, gaping up at me as if I were the Bride of Frankenstein—or a female incarnation of The Thing.

“No, Frieda, I
don’t
have an appointment!” (I stomped my foot on the floor when I said that, but the carpet was so thick, it barely made a sound.) “I don’t need one! Mr. Harrington will want to see me anyway—I guarantee it! So let’s stop wasting time, okay? Just pick up the damn phone and tell him Paige Turner is here.”

Frieda was shocked by my language and behavior—and, to tell you the truth, so was I. I had never spoken so rudely—or so crudely—to an older woman in my entire life. Feeling contrite and ashamed of my deplorable conduct, I made a mental note to apologize to the poor soul on my way out. Then I put on an even more furious scowl, planted both hands on my hips, and stared daggers at her until she got on the intercom and told Harrington—in a very shaky voice—that I was there, demanding to see him.

I didn’t know how Harrington was going to react to my unexpected arrival, of course, but I had a hunch he’d consent to see me—either in the capacity of a curious boss, or an irate ex-boss, or a philandering murderer who was hoping to avoid detection by conning and misleading the most determined crime reporter in the city. (In case you’re wondering, that means
me.
)

My hunch was dead right.

“Mr. Harrington will see you now,” Frieda said, anxiously fingering her white lace collar and giving me a worried look.

She hung up the phone, stood up, and took a few steps toward an archway in the rear of the reception area. “Please follow me, I’ll show you the way.” As she led me through the arch and down a long corridor lined with framed book covers, magazine covers, and newspaper front-page tear sheets, she kept glancing nervously over her shoulder, as if she thought I might spring forward and bite her on the back.

 
HARRINGTON’S OFFICE WAS HUGE—AND SO WAS the man himself. When he stood up and walked around his desk toward me, I guessed his height at about six foot two and his weight at two eighty or more. He reminded me of Raymond Burr, the actor who played the villain in Alfred Hitchcock’s latest movie,
Rear Window.
He wore a dark gray suit, white shirt, maroon tie, and classic wire-rimmed glasses. He had thick, wavy salt-and-pepper hair—heavy on the salt—and a barrel-chested baritone that was loud enough to curl your toes. (I know this for a fact, because the minute I entered his office, he started yelling at me—and my toes did, indeed, curl.)

“What’s the meaning of this intrusion, Mrs. Turner?” he bellowed, marching up so close to me that I almost fell over backward. “You’ve got a lot of nerve barging in this way! Haven’t you ever heard of making an appointment? You scared my secretary half to death. I never would have told her to let you in if I thought she could handle the situation and kick you out.”

“Kick me out?” I screeched, flying into a genuine rage. “Kick me out?!” I repeated, for emphasis. “You kicked me out of the whole darn company yesterday! Wasn’t that enough for you?”

Harrington cocked his head and gave me a puzzled look. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that you
fired
me, goddamn it! You threw me out of
Daring Detective
on my rear. You took away my hard-won career and my major source of income in an instant. With one little snap of your fingers. And when I asked Mr. Crockett why, all he could tell me was that you and your sniveling cousin, Brandon Pomeroy, wanted me out.
Sayonara.
Bye-bye. Gone for good. Was my termination so meaningless to you that you’ve already forgotten all about it?”

He didn’t say anything. He just pushed his glasses higher on his nose, stared intently at me for several burning seconds, then turned and started walking back to his desk.

I didn’t know what to make of his stern silence. Was he surprised to learn that I’d been fired and wondering why it had happened, or was he shrewdly avoiding the subject in order to keep his homicidal motives hidden?

There was only one way to find out.

“You know what I think?” I sputtered, shooting my words, like arrows, into his broad, retreating back. “I think there’s something fishy going on here!”

I regretted the silly word choice immediately.
Fishy?
I berated myself.
Jeez! Couldn’t I have said
sinister
instead? Or
evil
? Why do I always have to sound like Betty instead of Veronica? Am I just a wretched, aging replica of Nancy Drew?
(Please don’t answer that.)

Harrington stopped short in his tracks, turned his huge body around, and gave me a menacing smile. “Something fishy? What makes you say that, Mrs. Turner? Are you so sure of yourself that you don’t believe an employer could have a
legitimate
reason for letting you go?”

That wasn’t the response I’d been hoping for. But once the comment was made, I felt compelled to defend myself. “Yes, I
am
sure of myself,” I declared. “I’m an excellent crime writer and a diligent employee, and you know it as well as I do. Every time one of
my
stories is put on the cover,
DD
sells thirty percent better.”

Harrington hit me with another creepy smile. “And you think you’re the only one responsible for that?” He walked around his desk and sat down in his chair without offering me a seat. “What about the editorial director, art director, printer, distributor, and sales staff? What about the newsdealers? And the readers? Shouldn’t they at least receive honorable mention?”

The conversation was
not
going the way I wanted it to. “Yes, of course,” I said, trying to think of a way to move on to more urgent topics—such as the murder of Virginia Pratt. “But you can’t deny the fact that the issues that featured my last few stories hit new sales highs. And that the only discernible difference between those sales and the sales of other issues was my exclusive, on-the-street, behind-the scenes reporting.” I took a deep breath, then delivered what I hoped would be the zinger. “And you definitely can’t deny that the Virginia Pratt murder story should have been assigned to me instead of Mike Never-Leave-the-Office-Except-for-Lunch Davidson!”

I stopped talking and focused all my attention on Harrington’s face, studying his reaction like a hawk, trying to pick up clues to his character if not his crimes.

He drew his dark, bushy eyebrows together so tightly they almost met in the middle of his face. Then he narrowed his eyes and glared at me through the slits, ruthless lips smiling all the while. “These matters are of no concern to me, Mrs. Turner,” he said, keeping his voice down to a low, tense, intimidating growl. “Brandon Pomeroy and Harvey Crockett are in charge of the
Daring Detective
operation, and I fully support any decision they choose to make.”

“
They?
” I squawked. “This wasn’t a joint decision! Mr. Crockett didn’t fire me, Pomeroy did. And Pomeroy was acting alone when he gave the Virginia Pratt assignment to Mike instead of me.”

“Stop whining, Mrs. Turner,” Harrington said, shifting his bulk from one side of his high-backed leather chair to the other. “I can’t be bothered with petty personal problems such as yours. I have more important business to conduct. Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I have an international empire to run.”

“Well, excuse me for breathing,” I said, steam shooting out of my ears and nostrils. “I guess my paltry little life is as meaningless to you as Virgina Pratt’s was.”

I shouldn’t have said that.

Harrington bolted out of his chair and lumbered toward me—big eyes bulging out of their sockets, giant hands clenched into fists. “Get out!” he roared, bearing down on me like a rampaging bull. “Get out of my office right now!”

I decided to take his advice.

Chapter 24

I FLEW OUT OF HARRINGTON’S OFFICE AND down the hall to the penthouse lobby, admonishing myself all the way.
Nice going, Paige! If you weren’t actually fired before, you definitely will be now! And if Harrington murdered Virginia, you’re bound to be his next victim!
There was no getting around it, I had the judgment of a rock and the brains of a bird.

After a quick stop at Frieda’s desk to offer my apologies (which she timidly and most kindly accepted), I darted into an open elevator, rode down to the ground floor, and exited the building as fast as I could. Scrambling down Madison toward the subway, I came across a Thom McAn shoe store and zipped inside. Plopping down in the first empty chair I came to, I kicked off my stilettos and moaned with relief. It was the first time I’d sat down since I left Sabrina’s.

A skinny young salesman with a buzz cut and a bad case of acne approached me and asked, “Is there something special you’d like to see?”

“Anything without heels,” I said, flexing my arches and wiggling my toes.

“We have some nice ballerina flats on sale.”

“How much?”

“Two ninety-nine. They come in black, white, red, blue, and pink.”

“Red,” I said, wanting my shoes to match my beret. “Six and a half narrow.”

Twelve minutes later, I was back on the pavement, headed for the downtown IND. I was three inches shorter and three dollars poorer, but at least I could walk without plotting suicide.

It was 2:05 PM. Still early in the afternoon, but it felt like midnight to me. I was drained, depressed, and downhearted. I wanted to go home, get into bed, and pull the covers over my head. I wanted to hide out from all the gardeners, gangsters, pimps, parents, bosses, politicians, millionaires, and murderers in the world—for the rest of my pitiful, insignificant, and sure-to-be-brief existence.

But first, I wanted to have a drink and a late lunch with Abby.

I hopped on a train at 42nd Street and hopped off at West 4th. (It’s easy to hop when you’re wearing ballerina slippers.) A short walk down Sixth Avenue, a right turn on Bleecker, and a block over to Cornelia brought me to my first destination: Zito’s bakery. I stepped inside the tiny store and bought a fresh-baked loaf of Italian bread, then continued toward my apartment, stopping at Faicco’s deli for a wedge of cheddar, a small salami, and a couple cans of tomato juice, and at Angelo’s for two limes and a green pepper.

I carried the sacks of groceries and the shopping bag with my stilettos upstairs, straining my ears for sounds of life in Abby’s apartment. But all was quiet. And her door was locked. And she didn’t answer her doorbell. Heart sinking like a lead balloon, I set my bags on the floor of the landing and started fishing in my purse for my keys. I felt so tired and lonely, I wasn’t even hungry anymore. I decided I really would go straight to bed and pull the covers over my head.

But just as I found my keys and leaned over to open the door to my apartment, the door from the street burst open, and Abby catapulted into the stairwell.
Hallelujah!
I shouted in silence, fresh energy surging into my veins. “Oh, hi,” I said out loud. “Where have you been?”

Abby bounced up the stairs with a mile-wide grin on her face. “Hey, babe,” she said, opening the door to her apartment. “Come on in. I’ve got something to tell you.” She charged inside, tore off her jacket, and tossed it on the loveseat. Then she flounced into the kitchen, took a bottle of vodka out of the cabinet, and set it down on the counter. “Want a drink?” There was a mischievous gleam in her eye. “I know it’s early, but what the hell? You only live once.”

I picked up my bags and carried them inside. “I bought some limes and tomato juice. Want to make Bloody Marys?”

“Great!” she said, cranking open a tray of ice. “What else have you got there? Anything to eat? I’m famished!”

“Bread, cheese, salami, green pepper.” I put the grocery bags down on the table and removed the contents. Then I took off my jacket and beret and put them on the loveseat. Catching a glimpse of the painting propped on the easel in Abby’s living room-cum-art studio, I went over for a closer look. A bosomy blonde in a skimpy pink bikini was tied spread-eagle to the large wheel of a covered wagon, and several bare-chested Indians with feathers in their hair and tomahawks in their hands were doing a war dance around her.

“Your new painting’s really far-out,” I said, returning to the kitchen to help get things ready. “I didn’t know pioneer women wore bikinis.”