“Please have a seat, Mrs. Turner,” he said, slinking his arm around my back and giving my shoulder a stealthy squeeze. He guided me over to the leather chair at the side of his marble-topped desk and gently helped me into it. Then he sat down in his own chair. “Tell me, what can I do for you, my dear?” he asked, splaying his elbows on the desk and leaning so far forward I thought he might be attempting to touch the tip of his nose to mine.
This was the hard part: trying to figure out a surefire yet safe way to get him to talk about the murder. I was convinced that Smythe didn’t know who I was, that he’d never even heard my name before. And he didn’t show the slightest sign of suspicion-either of me or my reasons for being there. All he showed was a taste for silk ties and platinum cufflinks. And a tendency to forget all about a business appointment (whether he actually had one or not). And a fawning, drooling, hands-on devotion to members of the female sex (whether they were married or not).
Taking all of these things into account, I sat up straighter in my chair, pushed a long wave of hair down over one eye, and-giving Smythe a bold come-hither smile-crossed one leg over the other. I would have raised my skirt up over my knees if they hadn’t, at that unfortunate point in time, resembled two lumps of raw hamburger.
“I’m here on a highly personal financial matter, Mr. Smythe,” I said. “Can I trust you to keep it confidential?” From the name of the company, I figured Farnsworth Fiduciary had something-if not everything-to do with personal financial matters.
“Of course you can trust me, Mrs. Turner,” he said, staring at me as a little boy with a sweet tooth stares at a piece of fudge. “Farnsworth Fiduciary is, after all, a trust, and I am its primary trustee.” Beaming with pride (the foolish variety), he fingered his silver-streaked mustache and straightened his royal blue tie.
“Then I’ll tell you why I’m here.” I fluttered my lashes and took a deep, breast-enhancing breath of air. “My favorite aunt,” I said, pronouncing the word in the upper crust way (so that it rhymed with gaunt), “died recently and left me a fortune in diamond jewelry-several Tiffany-designed pieces from the late thirties which have been appraised, collectively, at thirty-five to forty thousand dollars.” As I said these words, I kept my eyes fastened on his face, watching for a telltale reaction.
“Yes… go on,” he said, reacting, as far as I could tell, to nothing but the way my white angora sweater hugged the contours of my bosom.
Realizing that my naughty charade was merely slowing my investigation (and that my lunch hour minutes were ticking away far too fast), I decided I’d better change my act. Exit Zsa Zsa Gabor, enter Shirley Temple.
“So could you please advise me on how to handle my inheritance, Mr. Smythe?” I raised my voice to a childish octave, and widened my eyes in girlish innocence. “I just don’t understand how these financial things work. Should I keep my aunt’s beautiful jewelry or sell it? There’s a necklace, a pair of earrings, a brooch, and two bracelets. What should I do about taxes and insurance?”
Smythe still showed no interest in the diamonds. I couldn’t believe it! Here I was, claiming to have come into possession of a collection of vintage jewelry that matched exactly the jewelry he gave Judy Catcher-extremely valuable diamonds that, as far as he might know, had been stolen from his girlfriend’s apartment the night she was murdered-and he didn’t bat an eye. Either he was a stone-faced, cold-hearted thief and killer, or an exceptionally good actor covering up for somebody else, or he was even more of a fool than I’d originally thought.
“I’d like to answer all your questions for you, Mrs. Turner,” he said, “and help you in any way I can. But I’m very pressed for time right now.” He brushed his hand over his wavy silver coif and glanced at his solid gold watch. “I have a very important luncheon engagement in ten minutes, and the lady doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Lunch dates he remembered.
“May I come back to see you later this afternoon? Or tomorrow?” I cajoled, leaning as close to him as I dared and giving him my hand to pat. “I won’t be able to sleep a wink until I’ve decided what to do with my aunt’s diamonds. And you’re so smart and wise and handsome, I know you’re the very best man to help me.” I was doing Zsa Zsa again. It seemed the only way to get his attention.
But I got more than I bargained for. Just touching my skin sent Smythe into a state of total bliss. He stroked my hand repeatedly and pressed my palm to his quivering lips. He pushed the sleeve of my sweater up higher on my forearm and kissed the underside of my wrist. “Yes, yes, I must see you again soon,” he gasped, eyes rolling in rapture as he began kissing (and licking!) his way up my arm. “But I won’t be back this afternoon… and the office is closed tomorrow… so you must come to the penthouse tomorrow night,” he moaned, hot breath blasting into the crook of my elbow. “We’re having a party.”
“Penthouse? Party?” I hadn’t been expecting this. I sat back in my chair and removed my moist arm from Smythe’s hungry grasp.
He looked like a dog who’d just lost his bone. “It’s our annual Christmas Eve party,” he whimpered, adding, unnecessarily, “we have one every year. A lot of Farnsworth clients will be there, so my wife won’t even notice if I invite one more. It’ll be very crowded, and Augusta will be so busy taking care of our guests, I’m sure you and I will be able to grab a few minutes alone in my study.” This thought perked him up considerably, and he lunged for my arm again.
To evade further limb licking, I jumped up from my chair and quickly pulled down my sweater sleeve. “Thank you so much for the invitation, Mr. Smythe. My husband and I will be happy to attend. And I will look forward to seeing you there,” I gave him a wink and a little wave, and then walked briskly toward the door (I didn’t dare shake his hand!). When I reached the door, I turned and shot him a farewell smile. “Where did you say the party is being held?”
“At the penthouse,” he said, straightening his tie and smoothing his steamy mustache. “My home on Park Avenue. You can get the address from my secretary on your way out.”
Chapter 20
I HAD HOPED TO EXPLORE TIFFANY’S ON my way back to the subway, but I didn’t have time. I didn’t have time for lunch either. I had to rush back across town to the bakery for cake and cookies, to the dime store for paper plates and napkins and plastic forks, to the grocery for eggnog and soda, and to the liquor store for a bottle of bourbon (half of which I planned to consume, single-hand edly, before the party even began). Then I had to cart all the stuff up to the office.
Brandon Pomeroy was sitting at his desk when I staggered in, so loaded down with heavy packages my arms were breaking. He didn’t lift a finger to help (big surprise!). He just sat there like a sheik, sucking on the stem of his Dunhill pipe, and staring at me through the glinting lenses of his high-priced horn-rims.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Turner,” he said, in a voice so cold I decided to keep my coat on. “It is now two-fifteen P.M., and your lunch hour ended at one P.M. Either your watch has stopped working, or you have.”
“Sorry to be so late, sir, but I had to go to four different stores to get everything for our Christmas party this afternoon, and they were all very crowded. Especially the liquor store,” I added, figuring the realization that one of the packages in my arms contained a bottle of booze would soothe his angry soul.
I’m a genius. Pomeroy actually got up out of his chair, walked over to me, and took two of the packages into his own arms. Then he carried them over to the table where the coffeemaker was set up and began to unpack them! It wasn’t that he was being gentlemanly, of course. He was just looking for the hooch. Still, it was nice to have a little help for a change. And the fact that he had stopped crabbing about my too-long lunch hour was a welcome boon.