I would have laughed, or at least smiled, but I was too anxious to be amused. “Go on with your story,” I pleaded, puffing furiously on my cigarette. “Terry came upstairs with you, and then what happened?”
“Well, we got to talking, of course, and we got real friendly, and then-after we’d had a few drinks, and after I told him that you and I were so close we were practically sisters-he came clean and gave me the whole lowdown. He told me that he was an Army buddy of Bob’s, and that his sister Judy had been murdered, and that you had promised to help him find the killer.”
“Did he tell you about the diamonds?”
“Of course! He said he gave them to you to help in your search for the killer. What did you do with them, by the way? Hide ’em in your apartment somewhere? Are they pretty? Can I see them?” If she’d had a tail, it would have been wagging out of control.
“Later,” I said, in the strictest tone I could muster. I knew if I showed Abby the jewelry, she’d want to try it on. And once she had it on, it would be difficult (probably impossible) to get her to take it off. Call me a killjoy if you want to, but the last thing in the world I needed was for my new boyfriend, Dan Street, to catch even one tiny little glimpse of my best girlfriend, Abby Moskowitz, standing decked out like a Christmas tree in a twinkly tangle of illicit diamonds that had just been pirated from the 10th Precinct police station… right out from under Detective Hugo Sweeny’s nose.
“But why is Terry still here?” I asked, changing the subject as quickly as I could. “Why isn’t he in Pittsburgh?”
“He said he’d been trying to get home for Christmas, but his bus was canceled because of the storm, so he had to spend the night at the station.” Abby finished her pouring and stirring and brought our drinks over to the table.
“But what about…?”
“Stop interrupting me, Paige! I’m trying to tell it straight, like you told me to do, and I need to concentrate!” She sat down and retrieved the cigarette she’d left burning in the ashtray. “Now then, where was I?” she said, taking her own sweet time, blowing a slow succession of perfect smoke rings. “Oh, yes, now I remember… Whitey spent last night at the station… and then this morning, when they announced that no buses would be leaving today, either-and when he realized he didn’t have a dime left in his pocket to buy a donut, or a cup of coffee, or even a ride on the subway-he picked up his duffel bag and started walking downtown to your apartment, not having anywhere else to go, not knowing anything else to do. The poor man shlepped over forty blocks-through the wind and the snow and the ice-to get here. And he got very, very cold. And very, very tired. So now he’s sleeping like a baby on my couch, you dig? End of story. Final curtain. Thunderous burst of applause.”
“Sleeping like a baby?” I said, poking a hole in her tidy but conspicuously incomplete summary. “Since when do babies get drunk?”
“What can I say?” Abby simpered, batting her thick black lashes and curling her lips in a mischievous smile. “The man’s a sucker for Mai Tais.”
AS SOON AS I FINISHED MY DRINK (OKAY, I’m a sucker for them all), I made Abby promise to take care of Terry-i.e., sober him up if possible, give him something to eat, and keep him out of sight until Dan had come and gone. Then she made me promise that, as soon as Dan had, indeed, departed, I would hurry back over to her place and reveal every scrap of information I’d picked up about the murder so far (which, admittedly, was next to nothing, but in the interest of securing Abby’s complete cooperation, I didn’t tell her that). Then I gathered up all my stuff, darted across the landing to my own apartment, and let myself in.
The first thing I did was check on the diamonds. (They were fine-sleeping like drunken babies on the oatmeal mattress in their round Quaker bed.) The next thing I did was start dashing around like a beheaded chicken, dropping my purse and parcel on a kitchen chair, shedding my coat, beret, and boots, madly running upstairs to put on fresh makeup and a pair of stiletto pumps, then stumbling back downstairs again to straighten my stocking seams, fluff out my hair, fire up a cigarette, plug in the lights of my tiny Christmas tree, and turn on the radio. Quickly bypassing all the merry holiday music, I tuned in one of the top pop stations.
Patti Page was singing “Steam Heat,” and the lyrics expressed my mental temperature to a T. I draped myself languidly (okay, leadenly) over the daybed in my living room, pretending with every ounce of strength I had left that I was a damsel in zero distress-a lovestruck lady in waiting with nothing but romance (and certainly no thoughts of murder) on my mind.
By the time Dan arrived, I almost believed it myself.
Chapter 10
HE WAS RIGHT ON TIME. (OKAY, SIX MINUTES after nine, but who’s counting?) I buzzed him in, opened my front door, and watched him bound up the stairs in three strides-like a man with a burning purpose. I only hoped that purpose was me.
“Well, if it isn’t Sergeant Street,” I said, leaning seductively against the back of the open door, doing my best Kim Novak. “What a pleasure it is to see you.”
Well, it must have been a pleasure for him to see me, too, because the next thing I knew he was standing up close to me, brushing his cold nose across my cheek, and covering my mouth with a kiss so deep and warm it sent a jolt of electricity down to my toes. My cool, blonde Kim Novak act took a swan dive down the stairwell. Instead of a curvy tower of restrained desire, I was a wobbly wet mass of mush. I’m not kidding. My head was swirling, my spine was melting, and my knees were threatening to ooze right out from under me.
Luckily, Dan pulled away and went inside my apartment before I dissolved into a puddle on the landing. “It’s good to see you too, Paige,” he said, taking off his hat and coat and putting them down on the kitchen chair closest to the door. If he had any idea that he’d just reduced me to a breathless, quivering pulp, he was gentleman enough to keep it to himself.
Always the vigilant detective, Dan walked straight over to the back door of my apartment (the windowed wooden door that led from my kitchen to a metal balcony, and to a flight of metal steps stretching down to the small ground-level courtyard), then he flipped on the outdoor light and peered outside. Satisfied that no murderers or rapists were lurking in the snowdrifts below, he raked his fingers through his dark brown hair and straightened his dark blue tie. Then, cocking his lips in a crooked smile, he turned his tall, gorgeous, broad-shouldered self toward me and said, without the slightest trace of irony, “I’ve really missed you, kid.”
Considering the fact that we’d seen each other just two nights ago, when Dan took me out to dinner and the movies, I was delighted by his candid-and seemingly earnest-comment. So what if he called me kid? He was within his rights. Dan was thirty-seven years old, and I was quite a bit younger (nine years to be exact, but again, who’s counting?).
“I missed you, too,” I said, stepping (okay, staggering) into my apartment and closing the door behind me. It felt good to be able to tell Dan the truth about something, because I knew I was going to have to start lying to him soon. If he discovered what I’d been up to during the last two days and nights, he’d go berserk and read me the riot act-and he wouldn’t stop ranting till I dropped the story. So I racked my brain for a way to keep him from asking too many questions.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked, quickly wrapping myself in the comfortable cloak of the polite and happy hostess. “Coffee, tea, hot chocolate, Dr. Pepper…?” Jeez! Why didn’t I buy a bottle of wine on the way home? Because I couldn’t afford it, that’s why!