“MUFFY GURCH?!” ABBY SCREECHED AS soon as we hit the street. “How could you saddle me with a stupid ugly name like that?! I was mortified!”
“Sorry,” I said, smiling. “It was the first moniker that came to mind. It just popped into my head like a weasel.”
“Well, it better pop right out again! I hate that name! Especially the Muffy part.” She wheeled around and started walking (okay, stomping) toward home. This being Christmas Eve day, all the stores were closed, and the sidewalks were practically deserted, so she was moving pretty fast.
“I don’t understand what you’re so upset about,” I hollered, running to catch up with her and tramping alongside. “It was just a temporary alias, you know. Nobody but Jimmy Birmingham will ever think of you as Muffy Gurch again… Or even Miss Muffet,” I added, unable to resist the temptation to tease. (When your real name is Paige Turner, you’ve got a license to make fun of other silly appellations, even when you’ve made them up yourself.)
“But I don’t want Jimmy to think of me with that name,” she whined. “I like him! He may not be the world’s best poet, but he’s damn good-looking. And he’s got a cute tushy. And he’s sexy as all get-out. And,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “I don’t think he’s a murderer, either.”
“But shouldn’t you be sure of that before you hop in the sack with him?” I asked, trying, but failing, to keep the sarcasm out of my tone.
Abby came to a dead stop on the sidewalk, in front of a store window full of ladies’ hats. “I resent that question!” she huffed. “Do you really think I’m so oversexed I’d go to bed with a possible killer?”
“Well, no, but…”
“Then why did you say it?”
“I don’t know, I just…”
“Something else must be bothering you,” Abby seethed, “something you don’t feel comfortable talking about. So what is it? You might as well say it and get it off your chest.”
“I really don’t know what you…”
“C’mon, out with it Paige! What’s going on in that meshugge twisty brain of yours?”
“Well… er… um… it’s really none of my business,” I stammered, staring at one of the hats in the window behind her. (In case you’re interested, it was a large pink and white cartwheel hat with a black net veil and a black satin streamer down the back. Pretty awful.) “But I can’t help wondering how you can be all wrapped up in Terry Catcher one minute, then wrapped around Jimmy Birmingham the next. I mean, Terry’s obviously crazy about you. And he’s such a great, really wonderful guy. Don’t you feel any loyalty to him at all?”
“Oh, Paige, you’re such a simpleton!” she said, linking her arm through mine and towing me on down the sidewalk. “You just don’t get it, do you? I’m as loyal to Whitey as he wants me to be-which means I won’t sleep with anybody else while I’m sleeping with him, and his concerns will be my concerns as long as he’s here in New York, living with me. But he’s not going to be here very much longer, Paige. We’ve discussed it at length. As soon as his sister’s murder is solved, he’s going back to Pittsburgh to take care of his father, and to start a new life in the city he knows and loves. And I’m going to stay right here in the city I know and love.
“So all Whitey and I have is the here and now,” she went on, walking and talking, her hot breath vaporizing in the arctic air. “And we plan to enjoy it as much as we can. And since we both know we’ll have no long-term future together, we’re each free to make contingency plans. And that’s all Jimmy Birmingham is, you dig? A contingency plan with an adorable ass.”
I laughed out loud. “You mean it wasn’t his soaring poetry that won you over?”
“Not a chance,” she said, chuckling. “I always keep my feet firmly planted on the rotted dizzy ground.”
TERRY WAS SITTING AT ABBY’S KITCHEN table-smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper-when we got home. His white hair was glowing in the bright kitchen light. His blue eyes started glowing, too, when we walked in. (The gleam was mostly for Abby, of course, but I could tell one sweet, shiny shaft of it belonged to me.)
“Hello, baby,” Abby said, darting over to give him a tight hug around his neck. I wanted to hug him, too, but there wasn’t enough room. I settled for sitting across the table from him and lighting up one of his ciggies.
“How’d you make out today, Terry?” I asked. “Find out anything interesting?”
“Not really,” he said, blushing from the warmth of Abby’s embrace. “One of the two girls Judy used to live with wasn’t there. She went out to Long Island to spend Christmas with her family. And the one who was there-Angela Prickens-hadn’t seen or spoken to Judy since she moved out, and didn’t know anything about her subsequent life… Or her death,” he added sadly. “She had heard that Judy was murdered, but she didn’t seem to care very much.”
“That’s odd,” I said. “Why wouldn’t she care? Was she the one Judy had the hair-pulling fight with?”
“Yes, and she’s still upset about it.”
“Upset enough to kill?”
“No!” Terry insisted. “She’s just a young girl with her head in the clouds. All she thinks about is boys and romance and finding a good husband. She’s a lot like Judy was.”
“Did she know about the diamonds?”
“She says she didn’t, and I believe her.”
Abby took off her coat and sat down next to Terry. “Did you find out the name of the guy Judy and Angela were fighting over? Was it Birmingham?”
“The one and only.” Terry leaned back in his chair and took another puff on his Pall Mall. “Did you go to see him today as planned? Was he at home?”
“Yes, we did,” Abby said, smiling, “and, yes, he was.”
Terry gave her a teasing look. “Angela says he’s a real dreamboat-her word, not mine-and that every chick who sees him falls for him. Do you agree with that assessment?”
“Well, let me put it this way,” Abby said, giving him a teasing look in return. “He may be dreamboat material, but my ship’s already come in.” Adding weight (okay, heat) to her words, Abby snaked her hand across Terry’s shoulder and began stroking her fingertips up and down the side of his neck.
Aaaargh! It was time for me to leave again!
I really didn’t want to go. There were so many things that Abby and Terry and I needed to talk about. So many theories and clues to mull over. I hadn’t even told them that my apartment had been broken into! (I’d started to tell Abby earlier, but she’d been so focused on the time-and the need to get over to Jimmy’s place in a big fat hurry-that I’d finally decided to break the news later, when we were all three together, so I wouldn’t have to tell the story twice.)
And that was just the half of it. We still had tons of preparations to make for the party we were going to attend that night. We had to draw up a synchronized plan of attack-decide which of us should do what, and talk to whom, when-and then we had to go through Abby’s Vault of Illusions, looking for elegant, upper-crusty clothes to wear to the fancy uptown shindig.
Okay, I admit it. Those weren’t the only reasons I didn’t want to leave Abby’s right then. Truth was, I was scared to go back to my place alone.
But being an unwanted guest would cause me even more discomfort, I felt, so I bid my amorous friends a quick “catch you later,” and hopped across the hall to my own habitat. Either because of my stupid name or in spite of it, there’s one thing I’m pretty darn good at: knowing when to turn the page.
EVERYTHING WAS JUST AS I’D LEFT IT-specifically the flattened Duz detergent box, which was still taped over the broken door pane in the exact same position as before. I inspected it carefully, checking for rips in the tape or dents in the cardboard, finally deciding that the makeshift patch had in no way been disturbed. There’d been no drop in the indoor temperature, either, so-even though I still didn’t feel the slightest bit secure-I was, at least, warm.
I looked at the clock. It was only three-thirty. Hours to kill till party time. I had a bowl of Campbell ’s tomato soup and ate about a thousand Nabisco saltines. I typed up three more pages of story notes and stuffed them into Judy’s oatmeal box. I turned on the radio and fiddled around with the dial, hoping to find some good jazz or blues, finally giving up and settling for Frank Sinatra. I tried to read a few pages of the new novel I’d recently borrowed from the library- Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis-but soon gave up on that, too. I prayed for Dan to call, but of course he didn’t.
Luckily, all the time I spent dashing around like a loon, from the front window to the back door of my apartment-peering out onto Bleecker Street or down into the rear courtyard looking for stalkers or murderers-kept me pretty busy. Likewise the nine cigarettes I smoked down to the nub.
When Abby knocked on my door at six-fifteen and told me to come next door for cocktails and a confab, I almost fainted with joy. Now I knew how Otto had felt when Jimmy gathered him back into his arms.
Wagging my tail and panting for company, I bounded into Abby’s living room-cum-art studio and sat down next to Terry on the little red couch. My whiskey sour was waiting for me on the coffee table. Terry’s was half gone. Perched on the big wooden easel in the corner was Abby’s new painting, a wild western bar scene with a lean and sexy cowboy standing-legs apart, hips cocked, both six-guns drawn-in the foreground. A busty blonde floozy sat on a barstool behind him. The cowboy didn’t have white hair, but he sure did look a lot like Terry.
“Did you pose for that?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said, face reddening.
“How ever did you find the time?” I teased, thinking-but not saying-since Abby’sbeen keeping you so busy in the bedroom.
“It wasn’t easy,” he said, giving me a sheepish (and, I thought, weary) grin.
“What are you two yakking about?” Abby asked, toting her own drink into the studio and sitting down, cross-legged, on the canvas drop cloth that covered the floor.
“Nothing much,” I answered, dying to get our homicide investigation back on track. “We were just waiting for you. We need to fill each other in on everything we learned today, and then map out a plan of action for tonight.”
“Right,” Terry said, obviously eager to get down to business, too.
“I’ll go first,” I said, taking a big gulp of my drink, lighting a cigarette, and proceeding to tell them about the break-in.
They both went crazy. (I’m talking all the way out of their minds!) They took turns screaming and shouting their heads off about all the horrible things that could have happened to me, and then they both gave me hell for not coming to get them the very second I discovered that my window had been smashed and the back door left wide-open. They were furious, really furious at me for spending the whole night in my apartment alone, with nothing but a piece of cardboard, a few strips of tape, and a bottle of bleach to protect me. They were mad at me for spending the afternoon alone there, too.
And throughout their long, vociferous diatribe about my incautious behavior they called me some very unflattering names: reckless fool, blithering moron, donkey with no brain, irresponsible daredevil, thoughtless nitwit-to list but a few. Not once did either one of them suggest that I had been strong or self-sufficient or brave-or deserving of their praise instead of their scorn.
And I never gave voice to the thought that kept circling through my allegedly absent donkey brain: that if they hadn’t been so fixated on each other, they might have been more available to help me.
Some team we three were turning out to be!
Still, I was glad that they were going to the party with me tonight. So, as soon as they finished their tirade over the break-in-and after we’d exhausted our thoughts about the other new developments in the case-I brought up the subject of the impending Christmas Eve festivities. “What are we going to wear?” I asked, knowing this was the question most likely to grab Abby’s full attention. “The Smythe’s are very rich, and all of their guests will probably be rich, too, so we have to at least try to look elegant and wealthy as well.”
“Oh, I have that all figured out already,” Abby said, eyes glittering with purposeful intent. She stood up from the floor and started pacing back and forth-like a maniacal movie director-in front of the couch. “Whitey can wear my Uncle Morty’s tuxedo. He gave it to me right before he died-which was a lucky thing for us, because otherwise he might have been buried in it. It’s a very old tuxedo, but it’s classic and it’s clean. And it looks to be just the right size.
“I’ll be wearing my sexy black satin strapless with the white organza skirt,” she went on, still pacing. “And I have a pair of long, black, over-the-elbow gloves that’ll add a classy touch. And for you, Paige,” she said, stopping in her tracks and giving me a big red smile, “I have the perfect dress. It has a tight-fitting dark green velvet bodice, with a deep scoop neck and three-quarter length sleeves, and the full skirt is made of dark green taffeta. There’s a lighter green sash and bow at the waist. I bought the dress at a secondhand store over on Orchard Street, but it’s in pretty good shape.”
Uh oh. “Pretty good shape? What does that mean?”
“Well, there’s a button missing in the back, and there’s an ever so slight brownish stain on the sash. Looks like gravy to me. There was a big rip in the side seam, but I sewed that up so you’d hardly even notice.”
“Jeez, I don’t know, Abby,” I whined, letting out a fretful groan. “This dress sounds a long way from perfect to me. I mean, how wealthy and classy can a girl look if she’s missing a button and sporting a gravy stain?
“Oh, don’t worry about that!” Abby snorted, with a meaningful wink and a smirk the size of Texas. “Nobody will notice your dress when you’re wearing a dazzling, stupendously expensive array of antique diamonds around your neck.”
I HAD TO ADMIT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA. OH, I protested at first-saying it was far too risky; that the necklace could be lost, or stolen; that it might be ripped right off my neck at the party. But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a shrewd thing to do. Both Gregory and Augusta Smythe were sure to recognize the necklace. And they would have to react in some way. And I would be sure to learn something from their reactions. What that something would be remained to be seen, but I was as eager as a fervent voyeur to get a glimpse of it. (I hoped they wouldn’t accuse me of being a thief and call the police! Was the Smythe penthouse in Dan’s precinct? I wasn’t sure.)
Terry was against me wearing the necklace at first, too-not because he was afraid it might be lost or stolen, but because he was worried about me. He thought the mere sight of the diamonds might incite the murderer (if, indeed, the murderer happened to be at the party) to do something rash (i.e., kill me or something like that). But once Abby and I reminded him that he would be with me the whole time-standing close by my side as my husband, primed and poised to protect me-he withdrew his objections and threw himself into the spirit of the operation.
It was almost party time, so we went upstairs to get ready. I wanted to go home to get dressed, where I could primp in private, but Abby and Terry wouldn’t let me. They thought it was too dangerous. Oh, great! I grumbled to myself. Now when I want to be alone, I can’t. They eventually let me go next door to remove my shin and knee bandages and put on a garter belt, stockings, and my dressy black suede pumps, but Terry insisted on going with me and standing watch at the kitchen door.
Back in Abby’s apartment, we finished dressing and checked out each other’s appearance. Terry looked fantastic in Uncle Morty’s classic black tux. It fit him almost perfectly. The pants were just a tad too short, but with his glorious white hair and sparkling blue eyes it was a cinch nobody would be looking at his feet. Abby looked even more fantastic. She had swept her hair up in a sleek French twist and then coiled the long ends around the top of her head in a smooth ebony crown. Her face was beautiful, her black and white dress was beautiful, her long black gloves and her milky white shoulders were beautiful. She looked like Ava Gardner on a really good night.
I, on the other hand, looked like Milton Berle in a hand-me-down prom frock. The dress fit me okay, but it was ugly. And heavy. I felt like I was wearing a bathmat with a skirt attached. And there was nothing “slight” about the gravy stain on the hideous pea-green sash. It was as big as my palm and in a very prominent place. I took one look at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of Abby’s coat closet door and shuddered in horror.
“This is awful!” I cried, glaring at Abby. “I don’t believe this is the best thing you could come up with for me to wear. You’re just getting even with me for Muffy Gurch!”
Abby laughed. “That’s crazy talk,” she said. “This is the only fancy dress I have that’s sure to hide your unsightly legs.”
“My legs aren’t half as unsightly as this dress!” I exclaimed. “Quick! Get me the scissors!”
Shooting me a questioning look, Abby took the shears out of the sewing kit sitting on the coffee table and handed them to me. “What are you going to do?”
In the interest of cutting time (okay, cutting short Abby’s possible objections), I decided to show instead of tell. I slipped the open scissor blades down over the waistband of the sash and snipped clean through it. Then, grabbing the ugly thing by its big fat ugly bow, I yanked the whole darned gravy-stained sash free of the dress’s belt loops and tossed it on the couch. I cut off all the belt loops, too.
“Oh, that’s so much better!” Abby cried, not the least bit upset by my violent attack on her dress. “Why didn’t I think of that? You look really groovy now. All that’s needed is the necklace.”
She opened her pantry and took out the canister of sugar. Then she opened the canister and took out the tin foil-wrapped package of diamonds. Prying the edges of the tin foil apart and plucking Judy’s necklace from the jumble of Tiffany jewelry inside, she walked over to me and fastened the two-tiered string of oh-so-valuable gems around my oh-so-humble neck.
Transformed, I wasn’t. I didn’t like wearing the diamonds any more than I liked being harnessed with the gravy-smeared sash. I may have been the only woman in the Western world (besides Judy) who would ever have felt this way, but I found the necklace to be garish and unseemly. I thought it made me look tacky and-strange to say-cheap.
Abby couldn’t have disagreed more. “Ooooooh!” she squealed, practically passing out from the thrill of the glistening vision. “I’m kvelling all over the place! You look regal! Like a fabulous fairy-tale queen!”
“Yeah, well…” I didn’t tell her that I felt like a royal ass. Do people really kill each other over this useless sparkly stuff?
“You look beautiful, Paige,” Terry said, moving close to me, cupping my chin in his big warm hand. “I wish Bob could see you now. He would be so proud.”
I was grateful for the compliment, even though I knew it wasn’t true. (Bob would never have been proud of me for wearing diamonds. As a man of very simple tastes, he’d been most impressed when I was wearing nothing.)
“Thanks, Terry,” I said, blushing. I could feel the pinkness wash across my face-and the sadness wash across my heart. Looking to change the subject before the mirage of Bob’s loving smile caused me to wash the floor in tears, I mumbled, “So is everybody ready? It must be time to go.”
Abby looked at the clock on her kitchen wall and gave a start. “We’re running late, kids!” she cried. “Let’s goose it.”