Murder is a Girl's Best Friend (43 page)

And after I related how Roscoe had so often shown up at Judy’s apartment unannounced, always giving trumped-up, landlordly reasons why she should let him in, Dan came to accept my idea that Roscoe had in actuality been trying to sniff out the diamonds, and that Lillian had put him up to it. So, in the interest of bringing the Catcher case to a full and complete conclusion, Dan paid a little visit to a certain Park Avenue penthouse, and to the privileged, high-toned residents within.

Beyond admitting that he had “borrowed” a few of his wife’s baubles to “loan” to a friend, Gregory Smythe had nothing to add to the body of evidence in the case. According to Dan, he barely remembered a young woman named Judy Catcher, or that she’d been brutally killed. Augusta Smythe, on the other hand, was well-informed about the murder (she’d read all the papers), and well-aware of her “senile” husband’s “overly generous relationship” with the “poor dead girl.” She had read about the killing of Roscoe Swift as well, but failed to see how the death of that “lowly tenement landlord” could have anything whatsoever to do with her “reputable and prosperous family.”

Daughter Lillian, however, was a bit more candid on that subject. Yes, she
had
known Roscoe and he
had
been trying to help her retrieve her mother’s diamonds. What the hell was wrong with that? She had tracked “the little worm” down and enlisted his help the same day she found a Chelsea Realty rental receipt in her father’s desk at the office. So what of it? The jewelry was rightfully
hers
, you know—or would be as soon as her dear old mother “croaked.” So, could you give her one good reason why she should let her “filthy old goat” of a father give her priceless diamond heirlooms away to some “underage bottle-blonde girdle salesgirl at Macy’s?”

Dan could think of several good reasons to pronounce Lillian’s behavior devious and snaky, but not a single cause to call it illegal. She and Roscoe had
hoped
to steal the diamonds back from Judy, but had never actually attempted to do so. And there’s no crime in hoping. If Elsie hadn’t killed Judy and tried to grab the diamonds for herself, Roscoe and Lillian might never have made a move on their own. So, Dan had no right to make a move on Lillian. What was he supposed to do? Arrest her for being a prejudiced, greedy, conniving bitch?

Abby was disappointed that Dan couldn’t find anything to pin on Lillian. And she was more than a little annoyed to learn that Judy’s jewelry would be returned to Augusta Smythe when the case was officially closed. That meant all those “fabulous, glorious, eye-poppin’ sparklers” would eventually revert to her archenemy, “Chilly Lily,” and how in the world could justice be so unjust?

Terry’s feelings were the exact opposite. He was glad the gems would be turned over to their rightful owner, and he was
very
relieved to get them off his hands (and out of Abby’s sugar canister). His tampering-with-evidence days were over! He didn’t have to hide from Sweeny anymore. Or wear fake
payos
and an artificial beard.

As for me, I just wanted the damn diamonds to disappear off the face of the earth forever. They were a curse, a blight, an ex ecration. If Judy had never been given the so-called jewels, she would still be alive. And so would Roscoe. And Elsie would be playing canasta at Milly Esterbrook’s place instead of playing solitaire in the Women’s House of Detention. And I would be traipsing all over Manhattan, having Dan’s silver cigarette lighter engraved, getting a new lunchbox for Lenny, and buying champagne and noisemakers and funny hats for New Year’s Eve, instead of lying flat on my back in a horrid hospital crib, wondering how long it would take my blasted bones to heal. And if I’d still be a good dancer.

 

 

THE NEWSPAPERS HAD A FIELD DAY WITH THE story. Sex, diamonds, and murder (
two
of ’em!)—what could be better than that? Most of the articles focused on Elsie Londergan, sporting lurid titles like GRANNY GET YOUR GUN! or THE DIAMONDS OF DEATH or—my personal favorite—MURDER IS A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND. But a few of the papers, unfortunately, also ran stories about me.

Dan had done his best, at my request, to keep the facts of my involvement secret, but the word got out anyway—thanks to Harvey Crockett, my illustrious ex-newspaperman boss, who broke the story to some of his old newspaper pals. He even brought two of those old pals—one reporter and one photographer—along with him when he came to visit me in the hospital.

This was a damn lucky break for
Daring Detective,
Mr. Crockett insisted, and he wasn’t about to let my daffy desire to remain anonymous get in the way of a load of free publicity for the magazine. He told me to give the reporter the bare essentials of the story, but to keep all the dirty details to myself, for use in my own sensational, exclusive
Daring Detective
cover story—which would appear in the very next edition, at double the usual print run. Then he told me to sit up and look pretty for the camera. (Luckily, my hair dryer hood and curlers were in the nighttable drawer and not on my head.)

I hated performing like a seal for Mr. Crockett and his cronies, but I hated it even more when Pomeroy and Mike and Mario crept into my room and stood like mourners at a gravesite around the foot of my bed. They came to wish me a speedy recovery, Pomeroy said, looking both ashamed and annoyed that he had to be there at all (this was obviously another command performance), and then Mike and Mario each mumbled something about hoping I’d be back to work soon. (They weren’t lying. I could tell from their fidgiting fingers and jittery eyes they were suffering from severe caffeine withdrawal.) Lenny had wanted to come visit me, too, they said, but
somebody
had to stay at the office to answer the phone.

Fortunately, they didn’t hang around too long. Just long enough to pose for a few pictures, mutter a few more good wishes, and—miracle of miracles!—bear witness to Mr. Crockett’s announcement (sort of to me, but mostly to the press) that he was awarding me a five dollar raise. Then they all said goodbye, shuffled into line, and—walking in a body, like a single twelve-legged centipede—followed Mr. Crockett’s lead out of my room and off down the hall.

Needless to say, I was somewhat dismayed when the front page of the morning edition of the
Daily Mirror
featured 1) a really dopey picture of me, 2) a brief article about my participation in the Judy Catcher murder case, and 3) the irksome, embarrassing, and all-too-predicatable headline: PAIGE TURNER’S A REAL PAGE-TURNER!

 

 

I WAS RELEASED FROM THE HOSPITAL ON December 31st, which made me really happy since I didn’t feel like ringing in the New Year with a bunch of dour nightshift nurses. I wanted to start 1955 off right—in my own apartment, with my own friends, wearing my own nightgown, listening to Guy Lombardo on my own radio, and giving my very own boyfriend a juicy soul kiss at the stroke of midnight.

And all my wishes came true—except the last one. Dan had to work, of course. New Year’s Eve was, by tradition, one of Homicide’s busiest nights. My daring detective
did
manage to run in for a quick smooch, though, around one-thirty that morning, when he was en route to a new murder scene and Abby and Terry and Lenny and I were just finishing off our third—or was it our fourth?—bottle of champagne. (I don’t remember much about that kiss, but I’m sure it was a good one.)

After Dan left, Abby and Terry became antsy to leave, too. They said it was late (true), and they’d had too much to drink (true), and they were very, very tired (false). It was obvious from the frisky way they were eyeing each other they weren’t the least bit weary. If you ask me, they were just keen to be alone so Abby could try on the red lace-trimmed bra, panties, and garter belt set I’d gotten her for Christmas, but hadn’t been able to give to her till that night. (Actually, it turned out to be a present for
both
of them; I put Terry’s name on the gift tag, too. Under the circumstances—i.e., my shortage of money and shopping time, and their red-hot romance—it seemed the ideal thing to do. I knew Terry would get as much pleasure out of the garish getup as Abby.)

And Lenny liked his lunchbox a
lot
(Abby had very kindly trekked up to Henry’s Hardware to pick up another one for me). When he opened it, his cheeks turned bright pink, and his forehead got all steamy, and he thanked me so many times I thought his tongue was stuck, like a needle on a broken record. He said it was the best present anybody ever gave him.

And while we’re on the subject of Christmas gifts, I might as well tell you I was
ecstatic
over the present Abby and Terry gave
me
—something I had wanted since the age of fourteen, when I first decided I was going become a writer. It was a desk! An adorable, all wood, secondhand desk! And it was already there,
inside
my apartment—sitting next to the window in my little spare bedroom (excuse me,
office
)—when they brought me home from the hospital. Have you ever heard of anything so thoughtful in your life? I was so choked up I couldn’t breathe.

And the sterling silver pen and pencil set Dan bought for me at Tiffany’s (wouldn’t you know it?) had the same profound emotional effect. Not because it was such an intimate or passionate gift—which it wasn’t—but because it was so thunder ously
meaningful
to me. I mean, what better way could Dan have found to let me know that he endorses—well, at least
accepts
—my writing career? Even a Tiffany engagement ring couldn’t have conveyed
that
all-important message! (Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.)

The first thing I did with my peachy new pen was sit down at my nifty new desk and write out a reward check for twenty-five dollars to Elijah Peeps. My bashful hero. The man who had saved me in the subway. The man I would remember, and be grateful to, for the rest of my everloving life (which, but for him, would already be over).

The next thing I did was write Vicki Lee Bumstead a letter, thanking her for her help in my search for Judy’s killer, and telling her I would take her out for lunch—no, dinner!—as soon as I was on my feet again (which, according to my doctors, would be in a couple of months). I considered writing Jimmy Birmingham a note as well, but decided against it, knowing he would want to hear from Abby—not me—and that he would surely be having that pleasure soon. Just as soon as Terry packed up his duffel bag and headed back home to Pitts burg h .

I didn’t want Terry to go. I’d gotten used to having him around. And just seeing his handsome face every day made me feel closer to Bob. This’ll sound nutsy to you, but a couple of times I felt as though Bob were smiling out at me through Terry’s clear blue eyes. I didn’t tell Terry about these incidents, for fear he would think I was crazy as a loon, but I
did
tell him how much I admired him and respected him, and how glad I was that my husband had had such a loyal, courageous friend in Korea.

Terry protested, of course, saying once again what a spine