Oh, brother! Does this line work on most women? Did it work on Judy? I wanted to believe that Terry’s little sister had seen through Jimmy’s come-on in an instant, that she had toyed with his affections as much as he had no doubt toyed with hers, but-hard as I tried-I couldn’t bring myself to embrace that theory. Judy had been young and hungry, and all alone in the world. And from everything Elsie Londergan and Vicki Lee Bumstead had told me, I knew she had probably soaked up Otto’s-I mean Jimmy’s-atten tions like a sponge, and begged her desperate little heart out for more.
“So Otto picks your girlfriends and your vegetables,” I said, shifting my gaze from Otto’s face to Jimmy’s. “He’s a hound of many talents. Does he write your poetry for you, too?”
(Look, I know that was another really stupid response. I should have been flirting with the suspect, flattering him, trying to gain his confidence and coax some information out of him, instead of casting aspersions on his literary skills. But I couldn’t help myself. Really! I was so crazed and exhausted-and still struggling so hard to suppress my inner giggle fit over Jimmy’s silly poem-that I didn’t know what I was doing, or saying, anymore.)
Jimmy was enraged. A fire blazed up in his dark brown eyes and I thought, for a moment, he was going to hit me. But-as I sat there frozen like a dumbstruck deer, trying to decide whether to duck right or duck left-his taut muscles suddenly relaxed and his facial expression underwent a dramatic transformation. And you probably won’t believe this (since I couldn’t believe it myself), but Jimmy’s entire stance toward me flipped, in the space of a single heartbeat, from flaming anger to-of all things!-burning attraction.
“You’re a mischievous little minx, aren’t you?” he said, putting Otto down on his lap and scooting his chair even closer to mine. “I’ve got your number now, sweetheart. You’re a doll with an attitude, and you like to cause trouble, and I go crazy for women like that.” To prove it, he fastened his left hand on my thigh, clamped his right hand around the back of my neck, yanked my face forward, and planted a deep, ferocious kiss on my astonished, gaping mouth.
I would have kicked him in the crotch if Otto hadn’t been sitting there. I would have clawed his face to ribbons if it hadn’t been protected by his beard. I would have pushed him backward and socked him in the nose if he hadn’t been so much stronger than I was. And if I’d had a knife in my hand, I would have (okay, surely wouldn’t have, but at least could have) stabbed him in the stomach.
But I didn’t have a knife, or a gun, or any other deadly weapons in my possession. The only instruments of destruction I had at my disposal were my teeth, and I decided-without a second’s hesitation-to use them.
“Owwwww!!!!!” Jimmy wailed, shoving me away with one hand and nursing his bleeding lower lip with the other. “You bit me!!! It hurts like hell!!! What did you do that for?!!!”
“I did it for Judy Catcher,” I said.
I was as shocked by my answer as Jimmy was. Though I had meant to bring up Judy’s name and try to get Jimmy to talk about her, I hadn’t planned on doing it in such a sudden, brutal, indiscriminate way. But now the cat was out of the bag and running down the street like a rabid lion on the loose, and I had no choice but to chase after it.
“Judy was a very good friend of mine,” I added, as if that would explain everything.
“So what if she was?!!!” he cried, eyes big as half-dollars. “That doesn’t give you the right to bite me!” Blood was trickling from the cut on his lip and seeping down into his beard. Otto rose up on his hindquarters and began to paw at Jimmy’s chest, whimpering.
“You had no right to kiss me either,” I growled.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah! So maybe I shouldn’t have done that,” Jimmy admitted, gingerly dabbing at his lip with a paper napkin. “But I still don’t see what Judy Catcher has to do with the goddamn price of eggs.”
“It’s simple,” I said. “You hurt my good friend, so I felt like hurting you.”
Jimmy sat back in his chair and gave me a long, steady, piercing stare. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I never hurt Judy.” He was getting angry again. “Whatever she told you about me, it wasn’t true.”
“Judy never said anything bad about you. And now that she’s dead she’ll never be able to.” I paused to let the implication of my words sink in. “But that doesn’t change anything, really, because I didn’t need any tips from Judy. I figured it all out for myself.”
“Figured what out?”
“That you were probably the one who killed her.”
(No, I wasn’t going off half-cocked again. I had decided, during the course of the last few minutes, that I might find out more about Jimmy-and, likewise, his relationship with Judy-if I simply pulled out all the stops and hit him between the eyes with an outright accusation. The man obviously responded to rude and unexpected pronouncements! And besides, it was getting really, really late. And I was really, really tired. I didn’t have the time, or the energy-okay, the sense!-to conduct a slow and cunning interrogation. Or play any more guessing games.)
“What did you say?” Jimmy snarled, narrowing his eyes and clenching his jaw so tight his Vandyke twitched. He didn’t look like Tony Curtis anymore. Now he looked like Bela Lugosi. With a bloody beard.
I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and repeated my allegation.
And that’s when Jimmy gave me the shock of my life.
Scooping Otto up in his arms again, Jimmy clutched the little dog in close to his heart, dropped his chin to his chest, hunched his shoulders, and began to cry! I’m not talking about your standard case of the weepies, either. I’m talking about great big heaving sobs and blubbers. I’m talking deep, guttural moans of woe. I’m talking yelps, and skreaks, and caterwauls, and the kind of howls caused by a full moon.
And that was just for starters. After three or four interminable seconds of this astonishing clamor, Otto started howling, too.
I didn’t know what to do. Every face in the place was turned in my direction, and all eyes were blaming me for causing the disturbance. I had reduced their brilliant and beloved poet to tears! I had brought pain and suffering to their most cherished canine! What kind of woman was I? And what the hell was I doing here, anyway? Why wasn’t I at home in my bed-where I was supposed to be-like every other decent God-fearing female who doesn’t have a date?
I couldn’t stand up to the condemning stares and silent questions. And I couldn’t stop Jimmy’s crying, either. All my apologies went unheeded, and-though I pleaded with the weeping poet to calm himself and his little dog down-they both kept right on yowling.
As you can imagine, I was dying to know why Jimmy was crying his big brown eyes out. Was he stricken with grief-truly lamenting the loss of his former lover and friend-or was he wallowing in remorse and self-hatred, bemoaning his own brutal role in Judy’s death? Had he flown into a jealous rage over Judy’s affair with Gregory Smythe and killed the only girl he’d ever loved? Or had he knocked Judy off to get his hands on the diamonds-which he had never been able to find (which may have been the real cause of all this blatant boohooing)?
These and many other questions were burning a hole in my frontal lobe, but I knew I couldn’t get the answers now-not while Jimmy was in the throes of a nervous breakdown. Not while I was so tired and confused I couldn’t tell the difference between a mourner and a murderer. I’d have to talk to Mr. Birmingham later-at another time-when he and Otto were in a better mood. When scores of people weren’t staring at me in anger, preparing to rush my table and eject me from the premises for causing their adored club mascots such vociferous anguish.