Murder is a Girl's Best Friend (35 page)

Lillian narrowed her eyes and swept a clump of salmon-pink hair off her face. “You’re lying through your teeth, Paige Turner. I know who you really are. And if you don’t round up your nasty little friends and get out of here right now, I’m going to call the cops and have you thrown out!”

I had no reason to doubt what she was saying. And I had no desire to spend the rest of the night explaining things to (okay, hiding things from) the police. I guzzled down the rest of my brandy Alexander and started looking for my nasty little friends.

 

 

HEADING FOR THE DOORWAY THROUGH WHICH Abby and Terry had disappeared, I bypassed a long, narrow dining table topped with the most beautiful and tempting array of food I’d ever seen in my life. Caviar, smoked salmon, chilled oysters, baked clams, sliced beef with horseradish sauce, shrimp cocktail, lobster thermi dor, asparagus vinaigrette, deviled eggs, stuffed tomatoes and mushrooms—oh, god, was I hungry! I didn’t stop to eat anything, though, for fear Lillian would cause another scene—or call the cops to do it for her.

Exiting the living room, I turned left and started walking down the mile-long Oriental carpet that stretched—unbroken—from one end of the long, wide hall to the other. A dozen or so people were milling about in the hall, smoking cigarettes, looking for the restrooms, admiring the paintings on the wall. Straining my eyes down to the far end of the corridor, I finally spotted Terry. He was leaning against the wall, his left shoulder planted three inches from a closed door, with both hands in his pockets and one ear cocked, like a small radio receiver, toward the hinged spine of the door.

I was just about to wave to him and hurry down to the end of the hall where he was standing, when I saw Augusta Smythe coming out of a different door and gliding, swan-like, up the corridor toward me. Now realizing that the sight of me and my necklace would probably cause the poor woman a good deal of pain, and wanting to save us both from such an ordeal, I quickly turned my back on her approaching figure and veered over to gaze at one of the pictures on the wall.

“It’s a Seurat,” she said, gliding up behind me, the skirt of her long satin dress swooshing against the carpet. “A portrait of Madeline Knoblock, the artist’s mistress. Do you like it?”

Oh, great! There were at least six other paintings on that particular expanse of wall, and I had to stop and stare at the
mistress?
You really can’t take me anywhere.

“It’s okay,” I said, not wanting to show any enthusiasm for that particular work, “but I much prefer the van Gogh in the living room.” I sucked in my breath and slowly turned to face Augusta. “It’s from his Arles period, isn’t it?” I asked, suddenly grateful for Abby’s brief course in art appreciation.

“Yes, it is,” she said, offering me a thin, dry smile. “You have a very good eye, my dear. Gregory and I consider the van Gogh to be the prime piece in our extensive art collection.” She was staring at the necklace again. Had she considered it to be the prime piece in her jewelry collection?

“I see you’re looking at my diamonds,” I murmured, wishing to heaven I had never set eyes on them myself. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are, dear. They’re exquisite. Have you had them long?”

“Not very long at all. I didn’t acquire them until last month. They were left to me by my dear Aunt Rosemary, may she rest in peace. (This
could
have been true, you know! The necklace was part of a Tiffany-designed
line,
after all, so it definitely
wasn’t
one of a kind.) “Actually, these diamonds are the main reason I’m here tonight,” I went on. “I was hoping your husband could appraise the necklace for me and offer some advice on how I should handle this and the rest of my inheritance, what I need to do about taxes and insurance and so forth.”

She raised her eyebrows and gave me a questioning look. “Gregory?” she said. “You want Gregory to give you financial advice?” I couldn’t tell what she was doubting the most—my motive for being there or her husband’s financial judgment.

“Yes, I really do need his help,” I said. “I heard that Farnsworth Fiduciary was
the
place to go for economic guidance, so I went to your husband’s office yesterday and spoke to him for a few minutes about my situation. He said he would be glad to advise me, but he couldn’t do it right then because the office was closing early. So he very kindly invited me to your party tonight, saying he’d try to find a few minutes to devote to my concerns.”

Was it my imagination, or was Augusta giggling? “I’m sorry, dear,” she said, trying, but failing, to wipe a sardonic smile off her pale, powdery face. “I don’t mean to laugh at your inheritance concerns. It’s just that . . . well, how can I put this? Gregory is
not
the expert financial planner you seem to think he is. He barely knows the difference between a dollar and a dime.
I’m
the one who owns and controls Farnsworth Fiduciary—as I have for fifteen years, ever since my father died. My husband is just a guest there. I gave Gregory his own office just so he would have an address to put on his business card—and a place to take his afternoon nap.”

So
that’s
the way it was. The Smythe millions were really the Farnsworth millions. I can’t say I was surprised. It was hard to imagine the foolish, forgetful Smythe running a successful financial enterprise. It was quite easy, on the other hand, to conceive of him renting cheap apartments for a string of impressionable young girlfriends, then nipping gems from the family vault—or from his wife’s jewelry box—to keep them impressed.

And it was easy to see how a smart, wealthy business woman-cum-art collector-cum-socialite like Augusta Farnsworth Smythe might choose to overlook her husband’s petty thefts and affairs rather than bring shame to her father’s name and to her own family. It was even easy to see how being the ultra-privileged (and no-doubt ultra-
neglected
) daughter of such a spurious pair could have driven Lillian Smythe to become so nasty and aggressive.

The question was, just how nasty was she capable of being? Nasty enough to fire two .22 caliber bullets into Judy Catcher’s young, unsuspecting heart?

Hoping to gather more clues to Lillian’s character (and hoping that Augusta would continue to be so revealing!), I probed a bit deeper into the Smythe family profile. “I met your lovely daughter Lillian a few minutes ago,” I told her. “Do you have other children?”

“No, just the one.”

“Does Lillian work for Farnsworth Fiduciary, too?” I asked. “She seems to have a sharp, decisive head on her shoulders.”

“Lily?” Augusta said, raising her eyebrows again. “No, Lily doesn’t work at all. Unless you call being cross and causing trouble work.” Her face grew even paler and she glanced off to the side, letting her sad gray eyes go out of focus. “She’s sharp and decisive as you say, but about all the wrong things.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by this, but I felt I’d just heard something important. Something Augusta had said— or maybe it was just the
way
she’d said it—had set off a flickering signal in my brain. But what the heck was that signal trying to tell me? I didn’t know! It kept flickering and flickering, but I couldn’t get the message. It was driving me insane. I wanted to dart off by myself somewhere—to some quiet, secret corner—where I could close my eyes, let my thoughts settle, and then try to sort them out.

The bathroom. When in doubt, go to the bathroom.

“Please excuse me, Mrs. Smythe,” I said, “but I need to powder my nose.” (What I meant was
take a powder
, but I couldn’t very well say
that!
) “Would you mind pointing me to the little girl’s room?”

“Not at all, dear,” she said, looking relieved. She was glad to be getting rid of me. “It’s right across the hall, second door down.”

“Thank you.”

As I was hurrying down the corridor toward the designated doorway, I saw Abby emerge from Smythe’s study and rejoin Terry in the hall. They embraced and kissed each other (completely forgetting, I suppose, that Terry was supposed to be
m y
husband), then began strolling, arm in arm, up the Oriental carpet in my direction.

The flickering signal flickered out. I couldn’t even remember what had set it off in the first place. All I could think about was hooking up with Abby and Terry and getting us all out of that apartment before Lillian lost her cool and called the police.

Rushing to meet my fellow aliens halfway, and telling them we had to split, I urged them onward to the penthouse entrance hall, where we retrieved our coats and took the elevator down to Earth. A mad, freezing-cold dash to the subway, then we hopped inside our trusty underground spaceship and zoomed back to the Village—a more familiar and forgiving planet.

 

 

“GREGORY SMYTHE IS NOT THE MURDERER,” Abby insisted. “I’d stake my life on it.” Still dressed in her sexy black and white strapless, she was standing in her stocking feet at her kitchen counter, stirring up a pitcher of martinis.

“What makes you so sure?” Terry asked, taking off his bow tie and loosening his collar. “He looks like a real degenerate to me.”

“He
is
a degenerate,” she said, “but he’s not a killer.” She set the martini pitcher down on the kitchen table, then brought over three glasses. “He has no conscience and he has no soul . . . but he has no brain, either! The man simply isn’t
smart
enough to plan and carry out a murder, you dig? He has the IQ of a chimp.”

I agreed with her on that score. “Were you able to get him to talk about what happened? Did you pick up any new clues, or learn anything about his relationship with Judy?”

“No, no, and no,” she said, sitting down and pouring our drinks. “All I learned is that he’s a slobbering, gooey-eyed old Romeo who isn’t happy unless he has some part—any part!—of the female anatomy to suck on. Look! He gave my
elbow
a hickey!”

Terry laughed. “Did the earth move?”

Abby snickered and gave him a playful slap on his shoulder.

Uh oh!
I cautioned myself.
If I don’t steer this conversation in a more serious direction, they’ll be hitting the sheets in no time!
“Daddy Smythe may not be the murderer,” I interjected, using my most serious and solemn tone, “but his darling daughter could be.”

“What?!” Abby cried, tearing her attention away from Terry and plastering it on me. “Did you talk to her again? What did you find out? What did the little Nazi slut have to say?”

I filled them in on everything that had happened after they left the living room. I gave them a dramatic description of Lillian’s violent outburst, and a detailed account of my hallway chat with Augusta. I told them how Lillian had jumped to the conclusion that I was her father’s new mistress and ordered me to leave. I related my surprise that Augusta, the picture of upper crust propriety, had so willingly revealed—to me, a perfect stranger!—her total disdain for both her husband and her daughter. And then I told them that Augusta, not Gregory, controlled the family fortune, and that Lillian was the couple’s only heir. I mean heiress.

“That cinches it!” Abby cried, slapping her hand down on the tabletop so hard our martinis shook. “Lillian did it! Lillian Smythe killed your sister!” She was staring into Terry’s eyes with a look of sheer certainty on her face.

“What makes you so sure?” Terry asked, befuddled (and, I thought, a bit bemused). “You have any proof?”

“She’s the only
heir,
Sherlock!” Abby stressed. “What more proof do you need?”

Terry wasn’t convinced. “So what? Lots of people are heirs and heiresses,” he said, “that doesn’t make them murderers.”

Spoken like a true pragmatist (i.e., reasonable guy). “He’s right, Abby,” I said. “We can’t come to any conclusions yet. We don’t have enough facts.”

“What about the fact that Lillian Smythe’s a raving Fascist?” Abby snapped, angrily yanking the bobby pins out of her hair and shaking it loose down her back.

“That proves she’s an awful person,” I said, “but it doesn’t prove she’s a killer.”

“Okay then, so what about the ice?” she croaked. “You can’t deny it played a big role in Judy’s death. And you can’t deny the fact that Lillian—more than any of our other suspects—has a true, vested interest in the diamonds. They are, after all, going to be
hers
someday—if her dear old daddy-o doesn’t give ’em all away first.”

“That’s true,” I said, “and it all adds up to a pretty strong motive. But it doesn’t confirm that Lillian pulled the trigger. ”

“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” Abby insisted, taking a big gulp of her martini.

“But if we’re ever going to get Sweeny to reopen the case,” Terry added, smiling, “we’ve got to have much harder evidence than that.”

“So what the hell do we have to do?” Abby sputtered. “Find a pistol with her prints on it?” She threw her head back and tossed down the rest of her drink.

 

“That’s about it,” I said, with a heavy sigh. “Unless we can find an eyewitness. Or get her to confess.” (And the chances of anything like that happening were—I knew—very, very slim. Or fat, take your pick.)

 

I didn’t say anything to Abby and Terry, but I felt, at that moment, so sick and tired of our seemingly endless (and endlessly frustrating!) investigation that I just wanted to call the whole thing off. I wanted to give the diamonds back to Sweeny or Augusta, rip up all my story notes, take a scalding hot bath, and crawl into bed for a century or two. I had a sinking feeling we would
never
find Judy’s killer; that all our efforts and adversities—including my close shave on the subway tracks and the break-in at my apartment—had been for nothing; that the smartest thing Abby and Terry and I could do right now would be to terminate our fruitless, bungling search for the truth and get on with our pitiful little lives.

 

I didn’t know at the time, of course, how pitifully short our pitiful little lives were likely to be.