Murder is a Girl's Best Friend (11 page)

Centrifugal force, my foot. Whether it’s thirty thousand smackers or only three, it’s
moolah
that makes the world go round.

“Then how about tomorrow evening?” I begged. “Around six? I’ll buy you a hamburger.”

“Throw in a bottle of beer and we’re on.” She was patting her hair like Betty Furness, but she still looked—and sounded—like John Wayne.

“Bottles are for babies,” I said, mimicking a corny cowboy drawl. “We’ll roll out the whole darn barrel.”

Chapter 8

SOMETIMES I’M LUCKY, BUT USUALLY I’M not. And this was one of the usual days. When I got back to the office, Brandon Pomeroy was sitting smug as a prison warden at his desk, smoking his pipe, fingering his neatly trimmed mustache, and glaring at me as if I were an inmate who’d just been caught trying to dig through the wall of her cell with a spoon.

“Did anyone ever teach you how to tell time, Mrs. Turner?” His voice was dripping with condescension. “When the big hand is on the twelve, and the little hand is on the one, your lunch hour is officially over.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry I’m so late, but . . .”

“Just look at the clock, Mrs. Turner, and tell me what you see. Where is the big hand?”

“On the three, sir,” I said, with a sickening sigh of surrender. I knew better than to try to explain myself. Even if I’d had a perfectly reasonable and
true
explanation to offer, it would have fallen on deaf (or, rather,
diabolical
) ears.

“And the little hand, Mrs. Turner? Pray tell, where is the little hand?” His beady brown eyes were gleaming with pleasure. Stripping and whipping the slaves was Pomeroy’s all-time favorite hobby.

“On the two.”

“
Sir,
” he said. “On the two,
sir
.”

“
Sir,
” I repeated, looking at the clock again. “On the two,
sir
.” Time sure does fly when you’re having fun.

Pomeroy shot a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure Mike and Mario and Lenny were all paying attention. They were. Turning back to me, he said, “So, Mrs. Turner, if the big hand is on the three, and the little hand is on the two, what time is it?”

“Two-fifteen, sir.”

“Very good, Mrs. Turner!” he jeered. “I see you
can
tell time after all!” He took a deep pull on his pipe, then puffed a stream of fruity fumes in my direction. “Which means you knowingly and willfully—and totally without permission, I might add—extended your lunch break a full hour and fifteen minutes past your allotted time. Which means I would be well within my rights to terminate your employment right now—this very
minute
—before you can steal any more of the
company’s
time.”

All this from a man who typically spent a grand total of three hours and ten minutes a day at his desk, and most of it in a drunken snooze. I wondered what ugly twist of fate had caused him to be awake and sober now.

“But I’m a softhearted man,” Pomeroy went on, “and it would pain me to have to dismiss you right before Christmas.” (And I believed
that
as much as I believed in Santa Claus.) “So I’m just going to dock ten dollars from your salary this week, and disallow your lunch hour tomorrow. That’s more than equitable, wouldn’t you agree?” His cocky smirk dared me to protest.

“Fair enough, sir,” I said, standing tall as a tree, looking him straight in the eye, refusing to let him—or any of my gawking coworkers—see me squirm. I’d do all my squirming later, when I was alone—when I could moan and wail about how I was going to pay all my bills, and purchase Christmas presents, and take Elsie Londergan out to dinner, in private.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Pomeroy said with a sniff. “Now take off your coat and get to work. Mike’s new story needs editing.”

What he meant was rewritten. Mike’s lousy stories
always
had to be rewritten. By me, of course—which was the
real
reason Pomeroy didn’t fire me. Without me (or somebody else with a halfway literate brain), Pomeroy might actually have to do some of the editorial work himself. Which would put a serious crimp in his afternoon napping activities.

“Yes, sir,” I said, hanging up my hat and coat, then beginning the short but endlessly humiliating walk to my desk. Halfway there, I stopped dead in my tracks for a second—just long enough to throw an imaginary pie in Pomeroy’s smirking face. I made sure the pie was made of soap suds and sawdust, so it couldn’t possibly taste good. Even in my most feverish fantasies, I’m a stickler for details.

 

 

THE MINUTE I GOT OFF WORK I WENT TO Chockful O’Nuts. I was so hungry I thought I was going to die. A woman can’t live without lunch, you know. No lunch yesterday, no lunch today, and no lunch hour tomorrow. The Case of the Missing Lunch! I had to figure out a way to solve this one, or I’d wind up playing the title role in the soon to be released sequel—The Case of the Walking Skeleton.

I sat on a stool at the crowded counter and ordered the same thing I always order when I’m at Chockful—cream cheese on datenut bread and a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Chockful has the best soup in the world. Even better than Campbell’s .

When I finished eating I hit the subways again. West on the shuttle, south on the IRT. I was dying to go home and tell Abby about everything that was happening (and have a cocktail or two—okay,
three
), but instead of going all the way down to Christopher Street—the subway stop closest to my apartment—I followed a sudden urgent impulse and got off at 34th Street, the stop for Macy’s. Christmas was just four days away, you see, and though I’d already sent a box of gifts home to my family in Kansas City, I still had three presents to buy: one for Abby, one for Lenny, and one for Dan. And while I was there, I figured, I might as well pay a little visit to the lingerie department—Judy Catcher’s department.

The sidewalks around Macy’s were snowless. So many people had been walking in and out all day, and circling the store to look at the dazzling window displays, that even the cement was worn down. Ordinarily I would have taken the time to join the crowds of oooohing and aaaahing window gazers—to observe and admire the magical exhibits of mechanical angels, puppies, children, elves, and reindeer that Macy’s was so famous for—but tonight I had more important things to do: buy gifts for my friends, and try to solve a murder.

I entered the store, crammed myself into the crowded elevator, called my number out to the operator and headed up toward the seventh floor, wondering how many times Judy Catcher had stood in this same tiny wood-paneled box, rising toward the same destination. When the doors popped open, I squeezed my way out and approached the heavily decorated entry to the floor, trying to get my bearings. I looked for a sign saying Lingerie, but there was none. There were just tons of twinkling lights, dancing candy canes, and great high clouds of angel hair with little cherubs sitting around on top of them like babies at a picnic.

Music was coming from somewhere to my right. Choral music. A crisp, perky rendition of “Come All Ye Faithful.”

I wondered if the song was beckoning me to come to Bethlehem, or to the Lingerie department. Repelled by the grating sound, I turned left and began walking down a wide aisle thick with boughs of holly, sprigs of mistletoe, and herds of people in a hurry. I didn’t know where I was going, but I figured I’d run into the brassieres and underpants eventually. All roads lead to Rome. (Or is it Bethlehem?)

Unfortunately, the road was long. I had to fight my way through Women’s Robes, Women’s Nightgowns, and Women’s Hosiery before I reached the underwear zone. And—even more unfortunately—when I got there the real live Christmas carolers were there, too, looking every bit as robotic as the other mechanical holiday displays, singing “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” in voices so loud and chirpy I wanted to pluck some angel hair off the lowest cloud and stuff it in my ears.

There were three salesladies working the Lingerie department, and I made a beeline for the youngest one—a plump, freckled redhead wearing a fuzzy white scoop-neck sweater and a wide green velvet ribbon tied around her neck in a bow. She was short and cute, and she looked to be about Judy’s age.

“Merry Christmas!” she piped as I lurched up to her counter. “May I help you?” She had big green eyes and a surprisingly throaty voice.

“I hope so,” I said. “I’m looking for a present for a friend of mine. Her favorite color is red and she loves sexy lingerie almost as much as the men she wears it for.”

The girl let out a husky giggle. “I think we have just the thing—a red bra, panties, and garter belt set. It’s a special Macy’s Christmas item.” (Sounded more like Frederick’s of Hollywood to me.)

“Perfect,” I said. “May I see it?” I knew I couldn’t afford such an elaborate gift, but I decided to take a look anyway. And while I was at it, I figured, I could look for a good way to bring Judy Catcher’s name into the conversation.

“Sure. Come this way. We have the set on display.” The girl led me down to the far end of the counter, then pointed out the three red lace-trimmed items arranged on the middle shelf of the glass-topped showcase.

The minute I saw the outrageously bright and naughty see-through undergarments, I knew Abby would love them. (And get a lot of use out of them, too.) “How much for the whole trio?” I asked.

“You’re in luck,” she said. “The set just went on sale this morning. It was originally priced at nine dollars and ninety-four cents, but now it’s just seven eighty-five.”

I gulped. That was a whole lot more than I paid for underwear from the Sears Roebuck catalog. And I felt a little funny even considering buying Abby such an expensive and intimate gift. Still, I knew she would go wild for the lacy red stuff, and I wanted to give her something really nice and uplifting. (That’s not a dumb bra joke, I swear! I meant as nice and uplifting as the free cocktails Abby was always giving me.)

“Can I pay by check?” I asked. I knew without looking I didn’t have that much cash in my wallet. I never had that much cash in my wallet. I
did
have that much money in my checking account, though—plus a whole four dollars and fifteen cents more.

“Do you have any identification?”

“Yes . . . a Social Security card and a driver’s license.” (When Bob and I ran away to New York and got married, we both took the New York State driver’s test even though we didn’t have a car. We wanted to prepare ourselves for our undoubtedly glorious future, when Bob would return from Korea, and get a good job, and we’d buy a little house in Levittown on the GI bill, and then get ourselves a brand spanking new two-toned Ford convertible. So much for planning ahead. Instead of a car without a top, I got a life without a husband.)

“That’ll be fine,” the salesgirl said, taking a box from the shelf behind the counter and lining it with tissue paper. “Now, what size brassiere does your friend wear?”

“34C,” I said, with certainty. I knew the size because Abby bragged about it at every opportunity. She also boasted about her waist and hip measurements (23 inches and 35 inches respectively), which I gave to the salesgirl to help her choose the right size panties and garter belt. Then, as she was selecting the flimsy undergarments, arranging them in the box, and writing up the sales slip, I sneakily launched my investigation.

“A good friend of mine used to work in this department,” I said. “Her name was Judy Catcher. Did you know her?”

The girl gasped and stopped what she was doing. She raised her head and gave me a look that teetered between shock and sorrow. “Judy? You were a friend of Judy’s?”

“Yes, that’s right,” I said. “We used to live in the same neighborhood.” I felt bad about lying to this perfectly nice and innocent-looking person, but I was, after all, working on a
murder
story, and I knew from past experience that the fewer people who knew my true identity and occupation, the better off (i.e.,
safer
) I would be.

“But you
do
know she’s
dead,
don’t you?” the girl inquired. Her hoarse voice crackled with deep concern. “It was in the papers and everything.”

“Yes, don’t worry. I know all about it . . . I’m not going to start crying and cause a scene or anything.”

The girl relaxed somewhat, and as she did, her own eyes—her incredibly large and luminous green eyes—welled up with tears. One drop fell out and landed on the tissue paper with a crinkly splat.

There were lots of customers at the lingerie counter now—impatient, irritable shoppers scrambling to make their last-minute purchases before closing time. A surprising number of them were men. They looked embarrassed and uncomfortable, but utterly determined to get what they came for. I hadn’t realized that sexy underwear was such a must-have Christmas item. That seemed a little bizarre to me. (Unless, of course, the customers were all acquaintances of Abby’s.)

“Are you okay?” I said to the grieving salesgirl. “I’m so sorry I upset you. Do you think we could go someplace private for a minute or two?”