“But Terry said she was strong and tough-that she was a real fighter. That’s one of the reasons he doesn’t buy Sweeny’s conclusion that she was shot by a burglar. Terry thinks that if Judy had found an intruder in her apartment, she would have jumped him and beaten him to a pulp. Or tried to, anyway-in which case there would have been at least one or two cuts or bruises on her body. And there was nothing. Not even a scratch.”

Elsie frowned. “Yes, Judy was very strong. Physically, I mean, not emotionally. Emotionally, she was weak as a kitten. But bodily? Ha! She had more muscles than Mar ciano! And she wasn’t afraid to use them. She had a violent temper too-could be a real hellion sometimes. She kicked our landlord in the shin once, when he tried to pinch her on the bottom, and she ripped a big hank of hair out of her former roommate’s scalp because the girl was flirting with her boyfriend.”

Finally we were getting somewhere. “Speaking of boyfriends,” I said, leaping to take advantage of the lead-in, “was Judy seeing anyone special at the time of the murder?”

“No. Her most recent beau had just ended their relationship, and she hadn’t found a new replacement yet. She was gearing up for a serious manhunt, though. Judy couldn’t bear to be without a boyfriend for long.”

“Who had just broken up with her?”

“A man named Gregory Smith-but if you believe that was his real name, you’re as big a fool as Judy. He was an older man-much older than she was. Hell, he was probably even older than me! He was married, too, but that didn’t bother Judy one bit. She really loved the guy, and as far as she was concerned, he could do no wrong.” Elsie’s voice was dripping with disapproval.

“I take it you didn’t like him very much.”

“It wasn’t personal. I hate all snakes.”

“What made you think he was a snake?”

“I didn’t think it, I knew it. Show me an oversexed old married man who’s lured an emotionally unstable nineteen-year-old girl into becoming his love slave, and I’ll show you a snake.”

“From what I hear, Judy was quite capable of turning herself into a love slave. Terry said she would do anything for the man she loved, and that she fell in love at the drop of a hat.”

Elsie took another slurp of tea. “Well, that’s true, too, but…” she placed her teacup back down on the tray and gave me a mournful look, “… but Judy deserves your sympathy instead of your scorn. She was so hungry for love she would accept it from almost any source. Gregory Smith, on the other hand,” she said, pronouncing the name with a thick slur of contempt, “was merely hungry for sex. And he was willing to deceive his wife-and ruin a young girl’s future-just to satisfy his own greedy desires. In my book, he’s nothing but a snake. A perverted and poisonous snake.”

“Did you tell Judy how you felt?”

“Of course. I was always honest with her. I told her to dump the bastard and move back to her old apartment, with her old roommates.”

“But why would she have had to move?”

“Because, cheap and shoddy as it is, she couldn’t afford this palace on her own. She only lived here because he wanted her to. And because he signed the lease and paid the rent.”

So Judy did have a rich boyfriend! I squealed to myself. A little rich, at least. Rich enough to put Judy up in a private playhouse without breaking his own household budget. But was he rich enough to buy her thirty thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds. too?

My pulse was pounding with the thrill of the chase. I was Philip Marlowe on the verge of a brilliant breakthrough! I was Sam Spade on the prowl! I was Nick and Nora Charles rolled into one! I was taking so long for lunch I was going to get canned the minute I got back to the office!

“Oh, my God!” I cried, gaping at my watch in disbelief. “I totally lost track of the time! I was supposed to be back at work a half hour ago. I have to leave right now!” I jumped to my feet and lunged into the bedroom for my coat.

“But you didn’t drink your tea.”

“I know, I know! I’m really sorry, Mrs. Londergan… er, Elsie,” I said, heading back into the sitting room, buttoning my coat, and putting on my gloves. “I wish I could stay. There’s so much I wanted to talk to you about, and I haven’t even scratched the surface! Can I come back later this evening, after I get off from work, and talk to you some more?”

She stood up and walked me into the kitchen. “Sorry, Paige Turner,” she said, patting her blue-gray permanent waves into place. “I’m playing bingo tonight, and I’m feeling lucky. If I hit the jackpot I could win three dollars! And I really need the extra dough.”

Centrifugal force, my foot. Whether it’s thirty thousand smackers or only three, it’s moolah that makes the world go round.

“Then how about tomorrow evening?” I begged. “Around six? I’ll buy you a hamburger.”

“Throw in a bottle of beer and we’re on.” She was patting her hair like Betty Furness, but she still looked-and sounded-like John Wayne.

“Bottles are for babies,” I said, mimicking a corny cowboy drawl. “We’ll roll out the whole darn barrel.”

Chapter 8

SOMETIMES I’M LUCKY, BUT USUALLY I’M not. And this was one of the usual days. When I got back to the office, Brandon Pomeroy was sitting smug as a prison warden at his desk, smoking his pipe, fingering his neatly trimmed mustache, and glaring at me as if I were an inmate who’d just been caught trying to dig through the wall of her cell with a spoon.

“Did anyone ever teach you how to tell time, Mrs. Turner?” His voice was dripping with condescension. “When the big hand is on the twelve, and the little hand is on the one, your lunch hour is officially over.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry I’m so late, but…”

“Just look at the clock, Mrs. Turner, and tell me what you see. Where is the big hand?”

“On the three, sir,” I said, with a sickening sigh of surrender. I knew better than to try to explain myself. Even if I’d had a perfectly reasonable and true explanation to offer, it would have fallen on deaf (or, rather, diabolical) ears.

“And the little hand, Mrs. Turner? Pray tell, where is the little hand?” His beady brown eyes were gleaming with pleasure. Stripping and whipping the slaves was Pomeroy’s all-time favorite hobby.

“On the two.”

“Sir,” he said. “On the two, sir.”

“Sir,” I repeated, looking at the clock again. “On the two, sir.” Time sure does fly when you’re having fun.

Pomeroy shot a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure Mike and Mario and Lenny were all paying attention. They were. Turning back to me, he said, “So, Mrs. Turner, if the big hand is on the three, and the little hand is on the two, what time is it?”

“Two-fifteen, sir.”

“Very good, Mrs. Turner!” he jeered. “I see you can tell time after all!” He took a deep pull on his pipe, then puffed a stream of fruity fumes in my direction. “Which means you knowingly and willfully-and totally without permission, I might add-extended your lunch break a full hour and fifteen minutes past your allotted time. Which means I would be well within my rights to terminate your employment right now-this very minute-before you can steal any more of the company’s time.”

All this from a man who typically spent a grand total of three hours and ten minutes a day at his desk, and most of it in a drunken snooze. I wondered what ugly twist of fate had caused him to be awake and sober now.

“But I’m a softhearted man,” Pomeroy went on, “and it would pain me to have to dismiss you right before Christmas.” (And I believed that as much as I believed in Santa Claus.) “So I’m just going to dock ten dollars from your salary this week, and disallow your lunch hour tomorrow. That’s more than equitable, wouldn’t you agree?” His cocky smirk dared me to protest.