“Roscoe? Roscoe took you there?” She looked kind of panicky now.
“Yes… Is there something wrong with that? I just wanted to get a feel for the crime scene.”
“Did you tell him who you are?”
“Well, no. I put down a phony name and address on the application.”
She turned quiet for a few seconds, mulling over what I’d just said. Then she took one last drag on her cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray. “I wish you hadn’t done that, Paige. You should have spoken to me first.”
“But why? What’s the problem?” I was feeling kind of panicky now myself.
“After you left my place yesterday,” Elsie began, frowning as she spoke, “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said: that Judy was probably murdered-on purpose-by somebody she knew. And I was going nuts wondering if that was true. So, instead of just sitting there like a stump, staring into space and trying to figure out who the killer could be, I decided to get up off my buttocks and do a little detective work on my own.”
Bubble, bubble, here comes trouble…
“So I went down to the realty office and had a little talk with Roscoe,” Elsie continued. “I asked him why he went to Judy’s apartment the night she was killed and what time he found the body.”
“And what did he say?” I interjected, panting like a high-strung poodle. I had been wanting to know the answers to those very same questions. Hey, maybe it won’t be so bad having John Wayne as a deputy after all!
“He said he went to Judy’s place around eight-thirty to check her radiators. She had complained she wasn’t getting enough heat. When she didn’t answer the door, he opened it himself-it wasn’t locked-and went inside. He found her dead body lying in a pool of blood in the sitting room. The blood was still warm.”
“He touched it?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “That little weasel gives me the creeps!”
“Ditto,” I said, putting out my cigarette and lighting another. “Did you ask him anything else?”
“I asked him for Gregory Smith’s real name.”
“Did he give it to you?”
“No. He told me to go jump in a lake. He said he already told the police everything, that I should butt out and leave the detective work up to them.”
I hated to admit it (even just to myself!), but Roscoe Swift was beginning to sound a heck of a lot like Dan Street. “So, was that the end of your conversation?” I asked her.
“Not exactly,” she said, slumping her shoulders and casting her eyes down at the tabletop.
Ugh!… “You mean there was more?”
“I realize now I shouldn’t have said anything,” Elsie muttered, “but at the time it seemed like the right thing to do.”
A squirt of adrenaline shot up my spine. “What seemed like the right thing to do?” I was trying to keep my voice calm and steady, but I probably sounded like Ralph Kramden in the throes of a roaring hissy fit. “What did you say?”
Elsie raised her eyes and gave me an apologetic look. “I told Roscoe about you.”
I couldn’t speak. A cat had its claws in my tongue.
Elsie nervously cleared her throat and went on. “I thought Roscoe would be more communicative if I told him what was really going on, made him feel like an insider in the investigation,” she explained. “So I told him everything I knew about you. That your name was Paige Turner and you were a friend of Judy’s brother Terry. That you worked for Daring Detective magazine and were trying to help Terry prove that his sister had been intentionally murdered, not killed by chance during a burglary. That you were a very nice person who really cared about Judy Catcher and was determined to find out the truth about her death.”
“And how did Roscoe react?” I stammered, freeing my tongue and flapping it frantically. “Was he surprised by what you said? Did he show any concern? Did he give you any more information?”
“No,” Elsie said, embarrassed. “All he showed was anger, and all he said was, ‘Get lost, Elsie, you’re bugging me.’ ” She paused and gave me a sad little smile. “I’m really sorry, Paige,” she added. “I was trying to help you, not hurt you.”
She seemed distressed so I hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry about it, Elsie,” I said. “You may not have hurt me at all. Maybe Roscoe never put two and two together. Maybe he never realized that Paige Turner and Phoebe Starr were the same person.”
“Phoebe Starr?” She popped me a questioning look.
“My alter ego,” I explained, “the name I put on the rental application.” I stubbed out my cigarette and took a few sips of coffee, brooding over the possible ramifications of this unexpected development. And after several more seconds of silence, I sucked up my optimism and proclaimed, “Even if Roscoe does figure out the Phoebe/Paige connection, what does it matter now? I don’t intend to see him again or ask him any more questions, so it really doesn’t make any difference. He never would have given me any significant information anyway.”
I was trying to convince myself as well as Elsie that Roscoe’s knowledge of my real name and occupation posed no threat to me or my investigation. And, for Elsie’s part, I succeeded. Convincing myself, however, turned out to be a hopeless objective. Because no matter how hard I tried to banish a certain unpleasant thought from my muddled, maniacal mind, it kept coming back to haunt me: If Roscoe Swift had anything whatsoever to do with Judy’s murder-or even just knows somebody who did-then I’m up poop creek without a paddle.
Chapter 17
HAVE YOU EVER WISHED THAT YOU COULD just pack up your life and leap out of your body and become somebody else entirely? Well, that’s the way I felt that cold, dark, disturbing winter evening. All the way home on the subway (Elsie insisted on splitting the check with me, so I had plenty left over) I kept thinking about how great it would be if I could just go to sleep, or fall into a brief coma or something, and wake up as Esther Williams. Then I could swim all my days away, in a graceful aquatic ballet, doing the backstroke in a vast pool of sparkling turquoise water, wearing a dazzling silver bathing suit and pointing one strong, tanned, shapely leg straight up toward the sun.
Okay, so that was a pretty dopey fantasy, but it sure beat the other vision that kept fighting to take over my mind, the one where I was drowning in a murky sea of doubt and suspicion, arms and legs thrashing, with my head being held under by a nameless, faceless killer who was never, ever, ever going to let me come up for air.
Luckily, Abby saved me from both engulfing illusions. As soon as I let myself into our building and began the climb to my apartment, she appeared at the top of the stairs, holding what looked like a whiskey sour-complete with orange slice and bright red cherry-in her left hand. “Hurry up!” she called, dangling the drink toward me like a carrot. “Whitey and I have been waiting for you, and we’ve got news!”
I was up the stairs in a millisecond.
“What is it?” I spluttered, taking the drink in my gloved hand and lunging into her apartment. “Did you find out something about the diamonds?” Cocktails and clues-they’ll get me every time.
“Yeah,” Terry said, “but we’re not sure what it all means.” He was sitting at the kitchen table smoking a Pall Mall and slurping his own whiskey sour. He didn’t look like a Hasidic Jew anymore. Now he looked like his normal clean-shaven white-haired self, except for the brown shoe-polished fringe around his ears and neck.
I plopped down at the table-coat, purse, lunchbox and all-and took a big swig of my drink. “So what happened? What did you learn?”
A wry smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, one thing we learned is that a couple of detectives have been sniffing around the exchange, looking for me. They were there again this afternoon, in fact, going from booth to booth, asking the dealers a lot of questions, then telling them to be on the lookout for a young man with white hair who recently stole some diamond jewelry and may now be trying to sell it.”