They were pretty, I guess, in a blinking, twinkly sort of way, but I had never understood why everybody always made such a big fuss about diamonds-or why these useless bits of glassy stone were worth so darn much money. You couldn’t eat them, or drink them, or talk to them, or make love with them. They couldn’t make you laugh, or keep your feet warm, or teach you a foreign language. All they could do was just sit there and sparkle. And if you turned out the light, they couldn’t even do that!
You could wear them, of course, but-unlike every other living woman in the entire Western Hemisphere -I had never had the slightest desire to adorn myself with expensive gems. I had a feeling they would be uncomfortable (in many more ways than one), and I knew for a fact they wouldn’t go with the rest of my wardrobe. I can honestly say that if I had been the one who owned this jewelry-this mass of crystalline carbon sitting here on the table in front of me-I probably never would have worn it at all. I probably would have balled it up in a wad of tissue paper and stashed it away in an oatmeal box.
Madly scooping the diamonds up in both hands, I tucked them back into their tissue nest and squashed the paper package back inside the Quaker carton. Great hiding place, Judy! I said to myself, and to my new spiritual protégé. You were probably murdered because of these diamonds, but at least you kept your killer from finding them and profiting from your death. And by hiding the diamonds so well, you may have provided a traceable clue to your killer’s identity. Clever girl.
Stubbing my cigarette in the ashtray, I put the top back on the cereal box and whisked the closed container across the room to the cabinet above my kitchen sink. Sliding my small stock of Campbell ’s soups to one side, I made room for the container in the back of the cabinet, next to an unopened jar of peanut butter. As I was putting the carton on the shelf, my stomach growled again, and for a moment I actually considered making myself a bowl of oatmeal. (Can you believe that? I’m such a dope sometimes.) Luckily, I came to my sleuth-based senses before I ate the evidence.
Stomach still gurgling, I scooted back to the kitchen table to look through the other stuff in the shoebox. Everything Terry had said would be there was there: Terry’s home phone number and address, Judy’s address, Mrs. Londergan’s apartment number and phone number, the names and address of Judy’s former roommates.
The two photographs were there as well, and I snatched them both up for a closer look. The first was a grinning close-up-a wallet-sized headshot of a slightly pudgy blonde, with short bangs and a long ponytail, and a pair of dimples deep as canyons. She was wearing a dark sweater over a white-collared dickey.
I recognized the uniform-it was a high school yearbook photo. Judy Catcher’s, I presumed. She looked so young, and so sweet, and so vulnerable that I wanted to pat her dimpled cheeks and tell her everything was going to be all right-even though it clearly wasn’t.
The other picture was a candid snapshot, a slightly blurry black-and-white image of two people cavorting on the sidewalk in front of a Walgreen’s drugstore. One of the people was Judy. She was older and thinner now, wearing a plaid sheath skirt, a black sweater, black nylons, black flats, and her short blonde hair was styled like Marilyn’s (Monroe or the former Mrs. DiMaggio, take your pick). One hand was propped on her hip and her head was thrown back in laughter-such outright laughter you could almost hear it.
Judy’s other hand was stretched out in front of her, gracefully, like a dancer’s, and was resting on the shoulder of the other person in the picture-a tall, thin, dark-haired young man dressed all in black and sporting a neatly trimmed mustache and a Vandyke beard. He was looking directly into the camera, glowering like a comic book villain, and cradling one of those long skinny little weenie dogs-a pointy-faced dachshund-in the crook of his arm.
I gazed at the two photos for an eternity (okay, five or ten minutes), smoking another cigarette and peering deep into those gray paper faces (even the dog’s), searching for psychic clues, trying to pull the truth-like a rabbit-out of my perfectly empty hat. But I finally abandoned that balmy endeavor. Who did I think I was, anyway? The Great Houdini? The Great Goof was more like it.
How had I ever let Terry talk me into this mess? What part of my feeble brain had allowed me to think-even for a second-that I could crack another murder case? Was I a mindless, thrill-seeking adventuress or just a mad glutton for punishment? And now that I’d given my promise-my truly honest and heartfelt promise to help-how was I going to keep my big fat commitment to Terry a big fat secret from Dan?
Head spinning, and heart reeling with the fear of my own inadequacy, I couldn’t bear to think about the murder anymore. I stuffed the names, addresses, phone numbers, and photos back in the shoebox, and put the shoebox on the top shelf of my coat closet. I hung up my coat, propped my snowboots on the floor near the radiator, washed the dishes, and cleaned out the ashtray (I may not be a mental magician, but at least I’m tidy!). Then I heaved a dramatic, self-pitying sigh and directed my stocking feet toward the squeaky narrow staircase leading to my creaky narrow bed.
Chapter 6
I WAS HALFWAY UP THE STAIRS WHEN THE phone rang. I spun around and scrambled back down to the living room to answer it, hoping it would be Dan.
“Hellohhhhh?” I said, making my voice as soft and sultry as possible in case it was.
“Hi there,” Dan said, in his deep, delicious baritone. “Did I wake you up? You sound kind of groggy.”
So much for sultry. “I wasn’t sleeping,” I admitted, reverting to my normal voice, “but I am tired. I was just on my way up to bed.”
“Tough day?”
He should only know. “It was the worst!” I exclaimed, widening my eyes and flapping my lashes, doing my best Lucille Ball-even though Dan couldn’t see me. “We had to meet a major deadline at work,” I told him, furtively evading all mention of you-know-who and what, “and all the afternoon pickups and deliveries were late because of the snow. ”
I felt terrible that I had-once again-put myself in the position of having to hide the truth from Dan, but I soothed my feelings of guilt by reminding myself that it was his own darn fault. I mean, if Dan hadn’t forbidden me to ever get involved in another unsolved murder case (which was a pretty harsh ordinance when you consider my line of work!) then I wouldn’t have had to be keeping any secrets from him. I could have told him all about my late husband’s friend Terry Catcher, and the horrible murder of his little sister Judy, and the diamond jewelry hidden in the oatmeal box. And then Dan might have been able to help me instead of making me feel like a felon-and lie like a rug.
Okay, okay! I guess I’m not really being fair here. I mean, I knew the main reason Dan ordered me off the Babs Comstock story-and all dangerous murder stories thereafter-was for my own protection. And I knew he felt even more protective of me now that we’d become romantically involved. And I loved the fact that he worried about me so much-I really, really did! But that didn’t change the fact that I’d wanted to be both a true crime writer and a mystery novelist since I was a freshman (freshgirl?) in high school. And-though Dan’s deep concern for me was a continuing source of joyous, heart-soaring delight-it still wasn’t enough to make me relinquish the only real career goals I’d ever had. No matter how dangerous (or unwomanly) they happened to be.
And now I had an even more compelling reason to pursue those goals. I had someone who was depending on me to exercise my sleuthing skills. How could I possibly turn my back on Terry Catcher? He had been Bob’s best friend in Korea, and one of the last people to see my husband alive. Bob had risked his own life to save Terry’s. Twice! So wasn’t it only natural that I should feel responsible for Terry, too? I couldn’t save his sister’s life, but I could try to find out who had caused her death. And I knew that’s what Bob would want me to do.