“Frankly, I’m surprised,” I said. “Call me a flatterer, but I’ve seen lots of photos of Laura. Nothing against her, Sandy, but you’re a better looker. I know you hate to hear that, but it’s true.”
“Flattery like that may get you somewhere,” she murmured with a brief Mae West shrug. She took a bite of salad. “No, seriously, Dave, it’s not a question of beauty. Or only partly. Laura had this quality of — the camera loved her face. She just came through a lot better than me, you know?
“Plus, our figures. I’m short and dumpy, you know?” I rolled my eyes. “Well, all right, Dave, short and plump. It doesn’t matter. I suppose men like to look at my body, but trust me, fashion designers hate a body like mine.
“Laura’s was perfect: five-ten, a hundred and ten, no hips, no bust, tiny waist. And a very nice girl to boot. I really miss her.” Her voice trailed off. I picked up the slack.
“So you and Laura were already buddies. Then she brought you into Penniston Associates?”
“Right. It seemed like a big favor at the time. I’d been getting less and less work. I’d lost a couple of good lingerie contracts.” Sandy grimaced. “I was getting old, Dave. As long as my face still looked like a teenager’s, they’d put up with my shortness for the sake of my youth — and my bust, I suppose. But when a wrinkle or two started to show — well, even the undie folks like them younger and taller.
“I was really scratching. Talk about desperation! I was even thinking of going back to Omaha. Then I get this call from Laura asking would I like to go to work for her and Betty. They were just starting up this new modeling agency. Said they needed an office manager. They’d go twenty-five hundred a month, which was as much as I’d netted on average my best year modeling. God, I could have kissed both of them!”
Sandy looked down and her voice hardened. “What she didn’t tell me was what they really needed was a glorified gofer. Someone to run her legs off twelve to sixteen hours a day. And they had me by the short hairs, because we both knew they could get some bright young thing with stronger legs than me who’d do it for half my pay. So they didn’t have to worry about me quitting. I couldn’t. This back-pay thing is just the last in a long line of screw jobs that I’ve got from dear Laura’s fat friend, Betty Doodly-Donovan.”
I was surprised by the bitterness in her tone. I thought of pulling out my notebook. Canceled the thought. I didn’t want to inhibit Sandy just when she’d decided to tell all.
The waiter brought coffee. While he was pouring, Sandy showed signs of realizing she’d been a tad too frank.
“Not that Laura and I weren’t friends to the end, you know?” she said, gently touching my arm. “She never realized how Betty took advantage of me. It wasn’t her fault.”
She picked up her coffee, looked at me over the rim as she sipped, and waited.
“So,” I said, reaching for my own cup. “Tell me about Laura Penniston and Bob Theodore.”
Coffee sloshed over the rim of Sandy’s cup into the saucer.
Muttering an unladylike word, she set cup and saucer back on the table. Checked her suit for a stain. Not seeing one, she cleared her throat.
“Sorry,” she muttered, eyes looking everywhere but at me. “What about Bob and Laura?”
I didn’t want to blow this opportunity. Sandy had slipped badly, and despite her looks, I’d caught it. (Maybe, Lord deliver me, I’m getting old.) I took a few seconds to blow on my own coffee while I thought.
“Nothing, really,” I said innocently, staring into my cup. “Had they set the wedding date or anything?”
“Oh!” Sandy seemed to relax. “Well, uh, I doubt if they were really going to get married, you know? They were just good friends. Oh, sure, Laura enjoyed seeing all the write-ups in the papers about what a romantic couple they were and everything, but that was just hoopla. I don’t think either one of them was ever really that serious about the other, you know?” She looked directly at me for the first time since she’d spilled her coffee, smiling brightly.
“Well, I can understand that,” I said offhandedly. “Tell me about the other people at Penniston.”
Relieved at the change of subject, she relaxed and talked about several of the models, a couple of the secretaries. She didn’t mention Donovan. So I did.
“Would you say,” I asked, trying to phrase my question delicately, “that Betty is sort of a — free spirit?”
Our attentive waiter showed up to pour a fresh cup of coffee for Sandy. She waited for him to leave, watching my face, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Free spirit? Very deftly put, Dave.” She allowed herself a throaty chuckle, and took a sip of the fresh coffee. “Is she on drugs, you mean?” I shrugged.
Sandy got serious. “I think I caught Betty once, in the washroom at work — doing coke, you know? She jerked away fast, tried to pretend she was just having a nosebleed. That was the only time I know of. But there was talk around the office. Nancy told me just last month some guy named Harv would come in every couple of weeks and exchange packages. Nancy said Betty’d leave a small package with her, first thing in the morning, tell her that a messenger would come in to pick it up, and just bring her the replacement package. Then Harv would arrive and make the exchange. Nancy said the guy made a couple of passes at her, but she cold-shouldered him. Said he was a real scuzzball.”
So by the time our lunch was over, I had a couple of new facts to play with: Sandy’s strange reaction to the Bob Theodore–Laura Penniston relationship; and the mysterious Harv, Betty Donovan’s messenger boy. I decided to table the second and pursue the first. As our waiter put the check discreetly on the table, I asked Sandy a question I already knew the answer to.
“By the way, did Bob Theodore come to the masquerade ball?” Sandy’s eyes got very round and very innocent.
“Why do you ask?”
“What do you mean, why do I ask? What makes that such a tough question?”
“Oh, I just wondered, you know?” She blushed and dropped her eyes. “I mean, whether you thought there was any connection between that party and Laura’s death.”
“Since you bring it up, let me ask you. Was there?”
“I have no idea,” she said hastily. “But you must think so. Otherwise why ask the question?”
“Good thinking.” I looked into her beautiful eyes and smiled. “Also, you’re very good at ducking the issue. I still want to know about that masquerade ball. Was Bob Theodore there?” I laid two twenties on top of the bill. About an eighteen-percent tip. More than enough, considering that the kid had managed to arrive at all the wrong times.
Sandy’s face was flushed. She probably wasn’t used to men seeing through her evasive tactics. “All right, Dave, let’s talk about the party. Yes, as you probably already know, Bob Theodore did come. With the lovely Laura. The center of attention. But they didn’t leave together. I don’t know why.” She was avoiding my eye again.
“Which one left first?”
“I don’t know,” she said sullenly. “I just know they left separately.” Everything in the room suddenly seemed to be a lot more fascinating than me.
I grinned at her. “How do you know they left separately if you don’t know who left first?”
She looked at me, eyes brighter than ever, her pretty face a nice shade of pink. She made a show of remembering.
“Oh yeah, I guess Laura left first. Yes, that’s right, she came into my office and told me she was leaving, you know? It was early — maybe ten or a little before. And Bob was — Bob was still there.”
By the time Sandy’d got all that out, the flush in her cheeks had spread to her forehead. I was beginning to get an idea why she didn’t want to talk about Bob Theodore or the party.
I sipped some coffee and considered how to test my theory. A way to do it began to take shape. Maybe a certain someone could be persuaded to help out. The Timex read 2:49.
Seeing me look at my watch, Sandy said, “Mind if I powder my nose before we go?”
<
br /> I immediately pushed the table away to let her up. “Fine,” I said. “I need to make a phone call anyway.”
Hurry the call as I would, she still beat me back to the table.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I said, somewhat breathless, trying not to let my face show my jubilation. I escorted her downstairs. “Well, it’s been real,” I told her as we paused in the foyer. “When can we get together to discuss my reward?”
Sandy was still tense and not doing a good job keeping up her seductress pose. “Any time, dear one,” she said, reaching up to pat my cheek.
“Oh!” she said suddenly, as a new thought struck her. “Let me have your number. I might need to call you sometime.” She smiled invitingly.
I gave her the office number, and she frowned. “I’d better write that down. Got a pen?”
As I handed it to her I noticed her hands were empty. “Forget your purse?” I asked. “Want something to write on?”
“No, and no,” she smiled, and carefully wrote my number on the palm of her left hand. She looked up at me and handed me back my pen. “No, I don’t need paper and no, I didn’t leave my purse. I seldom carry one.”
I must have looked surprised. “It’s a habit I got into,” she explained, “back when I was modeling. You have to change clothes so many different places, one of the first things you learn is never carry a purse. Oh, if you’re doing studio work, you could bring it, but even some of the studios get robbed. And if you’re in a show, you damn sure can’t carry it around with you. So you get used to getting along without it.”
I was too on edge to enjoy my education in the tricks of the modeling trade. I had a problem. I’d just set up an important appointment and time was short.
As we came out the weather was turning ugly. A bitter west wind had picked up, and the gray, scudding clouds threatened rain. November in New York: never a dull moment.
Shaking her head at my offer of a lift to wherever she was going, Sandy gave me a final, uneasy smile and a wave. She walked west, heading for Seventh Avenue, leaning into the chill wind. I watched her go, skirt whipping around her thighs. I wondered if those were the legs of a murderer. They were certainly, I’d concluded, the legs of a liar.
I flagged a cab and told him to get me to 778 Park Avenue on the double. I was ten minutes late for a very important date. And on this one, timing was everything.
22
Now, about that phone call. Sandy’s need to powder her nose had fit right in with my plans.
(Why “powder my nose,” by the way? Why not “put on mascara,” or “brush my hair”? I’ve never met a woman yet who needed to powder her nose. I made the mistake of asking Sally Castle that question once, and got treated to twenty minutes of Freud. Don’t ask. — Sally’s a psychiatrist, an occupation that has proven to be a burden about as often as it’s been a blessing.)
So while Sandy powdered her nose I located the public phone in the restaurant foyer and looked up Theodore, Blaise and Theodore. I got an operator who put me through to a receptionist who put me through to a secretary. Which, in their system, was where the buck stopped.
That secretary was tough. She tried the old “Mr.-Theodore-is-extremely-busy-may-I-tell-him-what-this-is-regarding” routine — her tone implying a snowball had a far better chance of lasting a year in hell than I had of ever getting through to Mr. Theodore, Junior — but I didn’t get where I am in life by letting female staff sergeants push me around. Restraining my tendency for smart-aleck replies, I went with the old savoir faire.
“You certainly may,” I said in a $298.95-attaché-case voice. “Tell him it’s an extremely important and highly confidential matter regarding Miss Norville. It has to do with a certain…masquerade ball.”
A moment of silence. Then, in an even chillier tone — this one approaching absolute zero: “One minute, please.”
But less than a minute went by before a new phone got picked up and a masculine voice said abruptly, “Yes, this is Bob Theodore.”
“Mr. Theodore, this is David Goldman. I’m just moments away from your office.” Catching sight of Sandy returning to the table from the ladies room, I smiled and waved. She smiled back. I wondered whether she’d smile if she knew who I was talking to. “In view of the things I’ve been learning about you and Miss Norville, I think it would be in your best interest for us to have a little talk. Can you meet me in the coffee shop downstairs in your building in five minutes?” I closed my eyes and crossed my fingers.
The twenty seconds of silence that followed were music to my ears. My guess had paid off. When he broke the silence, his “Absolutely not!” had a delightfully hollow ring to it. He followed with, “I have a meeting going on right at this very moment. Make an appointment with my secretary. I think next week —”
I stopped that nonsense. He was doing his best with a losing hand, but the twenty-second pause had blown his cover. I’m a rotten poker player myself, and I sympathized.
“No, no, no, Mr. Theodore, I laughed easily. “That’s not the way it works. Look. You interrupted an important meeting to take this call. So let’s drop the games, shall we?” I looked at my watch. “Tell you what. I’ll be in the coffee shop downstairs in ten minutes. If you’re not there when I arrive, I’m going straight to the police.”
I hung up without waiting for a reply and immediately realized I’d given myself a serious timing problem. Theodore’s office was a good twenty-minute cab ride away, and I wasn’t free of Sandy yet. How long would Theodore wait?
But it couldn’t be helped. I had a hunch that the second Sandy Norville waved goodbye to me she’d go to the first phone she saw and call a certain Mr. Robert W. Theodore, Jr. For my plan to succeed, I needed to get to Theodore before his girlfriend could talk to him. Meaning I had to quarantine him from his office and phone till I got to him.
Which was why I’d been anxious to get clear of Sandy. All the way to Theodore’s building, in a cab that seemed afflicted with a terminal case of the slows, I wasted energy, brainpower and time thinking up three different and better ways I could have handled it.
We rolled up to 778 Park, in the shadow of the Waldorf-Astoria. The Timex said we’d made it in sixteen minutes. I was so relieved I tipped the cabbie a five, which isn’t like me. He glanced at it and screeched away without so much as a nod. There’s no pleasing some people.
I wouldn’t have been surprised to find the coffee shop Theodoreless, the guy having gone back to his office to call Sandy and find out what the hell’s going on with some shyster named Goldman. But he was there, solitary customer in the place, elbows on the counter, without so much as a cup of coffee to entertain him.
The middle-aged waitress on the other side of the counter — the only other person in the room — was talking to him, but he wasn’t listening. I knew it was Theodore, and not only by his doleful demeanor. His stylishly long blond hair, his patrician nose, noble chin and superb physique made him hard to hide. Now that I was laying eyes on him in the flesh for the first time, I could see how he’d made the Ten Top Eligible Bachelors the last five years in a row. He looked at me balefully as I approached.
“Mr. Theodore,” I intoned. “David Goldman.”
Ignoring my outstretched hand, he got to his feet, made a big show of looking at his watch and moved in on me. He was big — an inch or two taller than me — and tried to use the height advantage, challenging me with his eyes.
“You’re late, Goldman. What the hell do you think you’re pulling? Because whatever it is, I’m not buying.”
A person could get a stiff neck talking to this guy. I’m not used to looking up at people, especially from an inch and a half away. I grinned at him.
“Hey, let’s sit down, okay? You can chew me out just as easy sitting as standing.” Without waiting for an answer, I plopped my butt onto the stool nearest me, placing my briefcase on the surprisingly clean counter.
He stood glaring down at me for a second or two, perhaps thinking how easy it would be to c
oldcock me in that exposed position. Resisting that temptation, he finally took the next stool. He sat staring at the counter, probably groping for a terrific follow-up to his opening salvo. I took him off the hook.
“Look, Mr. Theodore,” I said, getting his eye. “We’re not going to get anywhere that way. You blustering at me and me sneering at you. See, all I want is answers to a few simple questions. Then I’ll get out of your hair and you can get back to your meeting.”
Junior’s blue eyes looked worried. “All right. What do you want?”
I showed him a smile half the size of the one inside. I had him dead in my sights.
“Good. Let’s get right into it.” I took a deep breath while continuing to hold his eye. “Mr. Theodore, I’ve just come from a long lunch with Sandy.” He winced at the name and I paused to give him a chance to try another bluff.
“Sandy who? What are you talking about?”
I shook my head mournfully and threw up my hands. “All right, Mr. Theodore,” I sighed. “If that’s the way you want to play it, I’ll just take what I’ve got to the cops. I don’t need this.” I reached for the attaché case.
“Wait!”
He tugged the sleeve of my dark suit. I looked distastefully at his hand and he removed it.
“Sorry,” he muttered, “but just hold on. Please!” I looked at him expectantly. “Okay,” he admitted, looking away. “That was silly of me. Of course I know Sandy. Sandy Norville? You had lunch with her?”
I nodded. “At Marty’s. Likes to play the field, doesn’t she?” He reddened, but kept his mouth shut. He was learning. “Anyway, she told me a lot about the two of you. A lot, Mr. Theodore. Like what happened the night of the masquerade ball. Care to give me your version?”
He looked at me for a moment, shocked. His reaction confirmed my hunch. He paused, no doubt trying to think of another bluff, then spoke, his eyes wary.
“What’d she tell you?”
I just grinned at him and shook my head. His shoulders sagged.
The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2) Page 14
