“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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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?
“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?
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.”
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.”
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
unblindfolded 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.)
“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.”