Read Murder on a Hot Tin Roof Online
Authors: Amanda Matetsky
Murder on a Hot Tin Roof (27 page)
“Yes, Mr. Crockett,” I said to his back as he bustled up to the door and left.
Mike and Mario were just a few steps behind. (They always go out to lunch together, and they always leave within two or three minutes of Mr. Crockett’s departure.) Grabbing their hats and jackets off the coat tree, they nodded to Pomeroy, leered at me, muttered a joint “see-ya-later,” and disappeared through the door. Even after the door had swung all the way shut, I could hear them laughing out in the hall. (It never fails. Whenever I get in trouble with Pomeroy, Mike and Mario get in a giddy good mood.)
As soon as they were gone, Pomeroy went back to bullying me. “You seem to think you can come to work whenever you please, Mrs. Turner,” he said, taking up where he’d left off. “But you are greatly mistaken. We expect you to work a full eight-hour day, with just one hour off for lunch, and anything short of that is totally unacceptable. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mr. Pomeroy.”
“Good. Because I have the power to fire you, you know, and that’s exactly what I’ll do if you don’t obey the rules.”
“Yes, Mr. Pomeroy.”
“And conduct yourself in a proper manner.”
“Yes, Mr. Pomeroy.”
“And complete all the work that’s assigned to you.”
“Yes, Mr. Pomeroy.”
(Before you throw up, please let me explain my nauseating obsequiousness: I really,
really
needed to keep my job. The few dime-store mystery novels I’d published hadn’t earned me enough to pay my Sears and Roebuck bills, much less my rent. And a single working woman needs clothes as well as a place to live, don’t you know.)
really
needed to keep my job. The few dime-store mystery novels I’d published hadn’t earned me enough to pay my Sears and Roebuck bills, much less my rent. And a single working woman needs clothes as well as a place to live, don’t you know.)
Pomeroy rose to his feet and gave me a withering look. Then he picked something up from his desk, and stepped across the aisle to mine.
“Did you know this man?” he asked, putting the stack of news clips about Gray Gordon down in front of me and spreading them out like a fan. “He was murdered, last Saturday, in his apartment down in the Village. You live in the Village, too, so I was wondering if you ever met him.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said.
At least not while he was alive.
I was astonished that Pomeroy was discussing a murder case—especially this murder case—with me. Such conversations were always reserved for Mike, since he was the one who would be getting the story assignments.
At least not while he was alive.
I was astonished that Pomeroy was discussing a murder case—especially this murder case—with me. Such conversations were always reserved for Mike, since he was the one who would be getting the story assignments.
“Did you ever hear any talk about him?” Pomeroy went on. “Any gossip or anything?”
“Uh, no,” I said, reluctant to answer Pomeroy’s questions until I knew why he was asking them. “But I did see an article about him in the Saturday
Times
,” I added, feeling the need to offer something. “He was an actor—an understudy—and when the star of his show was overcome by heatstroke, Gray Gordon stepped in to play the lead. He made his Broadway debut in last Friday night’s performance of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
, and the
Times
theater critic said he was brilliant—that he was going to be a big star.”
Times
,” I added, feeling the need to offer something. “He was an actor—an understudy—and when the star of his show was overcome by heatstroke, Gray Gordon stepped in to play the lead. He made his Broadway debut in last Friday night’s performance of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
, and the
Times
theater critic said he was brilliant—that he was going to be a big star.”
“I saw that article, too,” Pomeroy admitted, “and all the murder reports in the papers the next day. That’s why I came in early today; I wanted to see what the new reports would say.”
“They don’t say much of anything.”
“Right,” Pomeroy replied. “The police obviously don’t want any details about their investigation getting out. They must have asked the papers to lay off the story until the killer is caught.”
“Yes, that’s probably what happened.”
“So there isn’t enough information for Mike to write a clip story.”
“No, I guess there isn’t.”
“Which is why I’m assigning the Gray Gordon story to you.”
What?! Are my ears working right? Did Pomeroy just say he was giving me the Gray Gordon assignment? He must be sick or something.
“Since you live in the Village,” Pomeroy went on—actually speaking to me in a civil tone!—“it’ll be easy for you to poke around the area, talk to the locals, listen to rumors, and gather intelligence about the murder. Perhaps you’ll even dig up some clues for the police. At the very least, you’ll be collecting details and descriptions for your story’s background.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Pomeroy!” I said, jumping to accept the assignment before he could change his mind. “I appreciate your confidence in me, and I’ll do the very best I can. In fact, I’ll start my investigation this evening, just as soon as I get off work.”
“See that you do,” he said, brusquely turning away from my desk and marching up to the front of the workroom. He took his linen jacket off the coat rack and put it on. “I’m going out to lunch now, Mrs. Turner. You will stay here in the office and do all the work you should have completed this morning. I expect you to be finished by the time I get back.” His civil tone had vanished completely.
“Yes, sir,” I said, wearing a frozen smile and holding my breath till he disappeared through the door. Then I spun around to face Lenny, thrust my fist in the air, and shouted, “Yahoo!”
Chapter 25
“ I DON’T BELIEVE IT,” LENNY SPUTTERED, scooting up to the front of the workroom and sitting down in the guest chair near my desk. His cheeks were flushed and his glasses were crooked. “The creep finally broke down and gave you a
real
story—not just a lousy clip job!” He leaned closer and slapped his hand down on the desktop. “I never thought I’d live to see the day! What do you think happened to him? He must’ve had a three-martini morning.”
real
story—not just a lousy clip job!” He leaned closer and slapped his hand down on the desktop. “I never thought I’d live to see the day! What do you think happened to him? He must’ve had a three-martini morning.”
“I don’t think so, Lenny,” I said, still elated about the unexpected assignment, but beginning to question Pomeroy’s motives. “He seemed perfectly sober, if you want to know the truth. And he came to work so early! And he said himself that it was all because of this particular murder story.” As surprised as I was that my misogynistic boss had given
me
an important (i.e., lurid and sensational) homicide to cover, I was even more shocked that it was the Gray Gordon homicide. Did Pomeroy have some knowledge of my personal interest in the case, or was the whole thing just a crazy coincidence?
me
an important (i.e., lurid and sensational) homicide to cover, I was even more shocked that it was the Gray Gordon homicide. Did Pomeroy have some knowledge of my personal interest in the case, or was the whole thing just a crazy coincidence?
“The man must have grown a new brain,” Lenny said with a sniff. “But it sure took him long enough. I mean, how many exclusive, exciting, and
true
behind-the-scenes murder stories does a person have to write before Pomeroy gets the message?
true
behind-the-scenes murder stories does a person have to write before Pomeroy gets the message?
If it hadn’t been for Mr. Crockett, your three big inside stories never would have been printed in
Daring Detective
. And they certainly wouldn’t have been featured on the cover! And then those three editions would have had the same lousy forty-two-percent sales all the other
DD
issues seem to have, instead of selling seventy-four to seventy-eight percent of a much larger print run. God, Paige! Pomeroy should be shot for keeping you down the way he does. The way he treats you is a crime.”
Daring Detective
. And they certainly wouldn’t have been featured on the cover! And then those three editions would have had the same lousy forty-two-percent sales all the other
DD
issues seem to have, instead of selling seventy-four to seventy-eight percent of a much larger print run. God, Paige! Pomeroy should be shot for keeping you down the way he does. The way he treats you is a crime.”
See why I love Lenny Zimmerman so much?
“He probably treats all women the same way,” I mused. “I bet he hates his mother.”
Lenny’s eyes widened in disbelief. His own parents were so wise and wonderful, he couldn’t imagine hating either one of them. “Speaking of mothers,” he said, mouth stretching into a wholesome grin, “mine made a big batch of potato pancakes yesterday. And she put about six of ’em in my lunch today, along with some homemade applesauce and my usual salami sandwich. Are you hungry?”
“Do babies burp?”
Lenny laughed and stood up. “Stay right where you are,” he said, heading for his drawing table in the back of the room. “I’ll get my lunchbox.” Two seconds later he was back sitting in the guest chair across from me, opening his big black lunchpail (the one I bought him for Christmas last year), and taking out two waxed paper-wrapped packages, which he placed on the desk between us. Then out came a Mason jar full of applesauce.
“So what’s your hot new story all about?” Lenny asked, unwrapping the salami sandwich and splitting it in two. “Who got killed?”
“A young actor by the name of Gray Gordon,” I told him. “He was stabbed to death in his Greenwich Village apartment, just a couple of blocks over from me. That’s why Pomeroy gave me the assignment. He figures I have a better sense of the territory than Mike does, that I’ll be able to dig up more information.” I took a huge bite of my half-a-sandwich and chomped it eagerly.
“You’d do a better job investigating and writing
any
story,” Lenny declared, opening the package of potato pancakes and giving three of them to me. “Mike Davidson has no sense. He should be forced to wear a dunce cap twenty-four hours a day.”
any
story,” Lenny declared, opening the package of potato pancakes and giving three of them to me. “Mike Davidson has no sense. He should be forced to wear a dunce cap twenty-four hours a day.”
I giggled. “And what about Mario? What should his sentence be?”
“That’s easy,” Lenny snorted. “Mario Caruso should stand nose-to-the-wall for eternity, while legions of
un
blindfolded children pin tails on his donkey.”
un
blindfolded children pin tails on his donkey.”
We chuckled together for a few moments, enjoying the goofy images that Lenny had just invoked. Then we put a lid on our laughter and got down to some serious eating. The crispy, golden, onion-flecked pancakes were out of this world and, between bites, Lenny and I took turns spooning the fragrant applesauce straight from the jar into our greedy mouths. All the food was devoured in nine minutes flat.
“So what’s with the clashing duds?” Lenny asked, swiping his finger through a glob of stray mustard and licking it clean. “I never saw you look quite so, uh, colorful. Did you get dressed in the dark?”
“No, just in a hurry. I forgot to set my alarm and I woke up really late.”
“Oh, c’mon, Paige! That’s not the whole story and you know it. I took a good look at you when you came in this morning, and you had a lot more than punctuality on your mind. You looked like you were running for your life—not just to get to work on time.”
(See? I
told
you Lenny had me pegged.)
told
you Lenny had me pegged.)
“And later on I saw you whispering on the phone to somebody, trying to hide what you were doing. You’re up to something,” he went on. “Something dangerous. And I’ll give you five seconds to tell me what it is.”
I spent the allotted time deciding whether or not to tell Lenny the truth. I didn’t want him to worry about me or feel like he had to watch over me (having saved my life once, he might feel honor-bound to attempt it again), but I didn’t want to deprive myself of his protective camaraderie, either (it feels good to have somebody know your troubles and be on your side).
When my five seconds were up, I leaned back in my chair, lit a cigarette, and spilled the beans. All of them.
LENNY STARTED YELLING AT ME THE very second I finished the tale of my gruesome “holiday” weekend. “God damn it, Paige! Have you lost your goddamn mind? This is really critical! How did you ever let yourself get involved in such a deadly mess?” (So much for protective camaraderie.)
“I didn’t
let
myself get involved!” I shrieked. “I was forcibly involved by fate. And by Abby—although it wasn’t her fault, either. Do you think we
chose
to discover the body? Do you think we
allowed
ourselves the pleasure of finding poor Gray slashed to bloody shreds on his living room floor?”
let
myself get involved!” I shrieked. “I was forcibly involved by fate. And by Abby—although it wasn’t her fault, either. Do you think we
chose
to discover the body? Do you think we
allowed
ourselves the pleasure of finding poor Gray slashed to bloody shreds on his living room floor?”
“Look, I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was—”
“Oh, hush! I know what you meant! You were saying that I shouldn’t have started my own investigation, that it was up to the police to find the killer, not me!” I struck a match and fired up another L&M. “But what the hell was I supposed to do? Just sit back and let Detective Flannagan pin the murder on Willy Sinclair, even though I know he didn’t do it?” I took a drag on my cigarette, then spewed the fumes out in an angry swoosh.
“What makes you so sure it wasn’t Willy?” Lenny probed, squinting at me through his uncommonly thick lenses. “All the evidence points to him, but for some reason you’re ignoring it. You know what I think? I think—”
“Please keep your thoughts to yourself,” I broke in, speaking in a much nastier tone than intended. “I can’t handle any more opposition right now. Dan’s furious at me, Flannagan’s up in arms, and now you. . . . But there’s no turning back. I’m working on
assignment
now, you know. If I don’t continue with my investigation, and produce an accurate, detailed, well-researched account of the murder, I could lose my job. Is that what you want?”
assignment
now, you know. If I don’t continue with my investigation, and produce an accurate, detailed, well-researched account of the murder, I could lose my job. Is that what you want?”
Lenny was hurt by my hotheaded response. And I felt so bad about the way I’d just spoken to him I wanted to apologize on the spot, beg him to forgive me on bended knee. I would have done it, too, if Mike and Mario hadn’t picked that very moment to come strutting back into the office, posturing and crowing like two demented roosters.
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