by Lois Winston
“If we’re lucky,” said Cloris, “the service will be over by the time we get to pee.”
“I don’t see why we all have to give up a Saturday for this,” said Jeanie. “I never even met the woman.”
“What about the consumer show?” asked Cloris.
“Were any of us introduced? I’d hardly call that a meeting. It was more like a dissing.”
“At least we now get comp days for things like this,” said Cloris. She nodded in my direction. “Thanks to Anastasia.”
Thanks to Naomi, actually. However, our editorial director had sworn me to secrecy last spring concerning her role in negotiating a settlement over my threatened lawsuit against Trimedia. I never planned to sue after another Trimedia employee tried to kill me, but when Cloris suggested to Naomi that I might, Naomi used the threat to leverage a sizeable check for me and better benefits for her entire staff.
Unfortunately, inching our way toward the stalls only took about fifteen minutes, and we made it into the theater with several minutes to spare. Even more unfortunately, we couldn’t slip into seats near the back. Each Trimedia holding had a designated section.
“The better to see who doesn’t show up,” muttered Cloris after an usher handed us programs and led us down the steps to the seats reserved for American Woman staff members.
“You think they’ll take attendance?” asked Jeanie.
“No need,” I said. “Big Brother is probably capturing us all on video as we arrive.” I looked around and saw the rest of our editors minus one. “I don’t see Tessa.”
“Maybe they’ll fire her for not showing up,” said Jeanie as we filed into the row with the other American Woman editors. I took a seat next to Janice with Cloris on my right and Jeanie to her right.
“Be careful what you wish for,” said Cloris. “We could wind up with another Marlys.”
“Tessa is morphing into Marlys,” I said.
“She’s surpassed Marlys,” said Janice. “Check out the stage.”
The three of us turned toward the stage. To the left sat Sue Evens and the entire, soon-to-be-laid-off Bling! staff. Gruenwald, his wife, Tessa, and a dozen Trimedia head honchos sat on the opposite side of the stage. “What’s she doing up there?” I asked.
“According to the program,” said Janice, “she’s giving one of the eulogies.”
“For a woman she hated?” asked Cloris.
“Maybe Uncle Chessie owed her,” I said. “I’m more surprised to see Sylvia Gruenwald up there.”
“Looks like she and hubby are back together,” said Jeanie. “Why else would she come?”
Why indeed?
“Maybe your hunky bodyguard stud knows something,” said Cloris.
Speaking of Tino, I scanned the front of the theater but didn’t see him. When the lights began to dim, I was forced to halt my visual search.
“Wake me when it’s over,” said Janice. She slumped down in her seat and closed her eyes.
The service dragged on forever. One by one members of the Trimedia board and the Bling! staff praised Philomena and spoke of the terrible loss of someone so talented, taken from the world too soon.
“A loss to the bottom line,” mumbled Cloris. “How many of them even knew her?”
“Not many. Sue Evens and her staff did all the work. Philomena strutted around the Bling! offices like some prima donna, looking down her nose at the hoi polloi.”
Jeanie laughed. “Hoi polloi? I’ll bet she didn’t even know what the term means.”
“Shh,” said Cloris. “Tessa’s about to speak.”
Our jaws dropped as we listened to Tessa, all teary-eyed, speak of her good friend and fellow fashionista, how the two of them bonded over a shared common vision of fashion.
“What a load of crap!” said Jeanie.
“She sounds like she’s applying for Philomena’s job,” said Cloris. “Doesn’t she know Trimedia’s folding the magazine?”
“Apparently not,” I said, “but it doesn’t matter. Check out the expressions of the board members.” Each and every one of them broadcast their displeasure with their narrowed eyes and downturned mouths. Tessa’s Uncle Chessie sported the angriest frown of all.
“Looks like Jeanie might get her wish,” said Cloris. “Tessa’s ploy to take over Bling! may have landed her a spot on the unemployment line.”
Gruenwald spoke last. By the time he finished, we had less than fifteen minutes to head over to the arena for the tribute concert. “They’re not going to feed us?” asked Cloris.
“Apparently not,” I said.
“Who holds a memorial service without serving food afterwards?” asked Jeanie.
“I’m starving,” said Janice.
“We’ll have to grab something at the arena,” said Cloris.
“The hell with that,” said Jeanie. “I’m not paying ten dollars for an overcooked hot dog.”
“What do you suggest?” I asked her.
“We pop into one of the delis on Eighth Avenue and buy some sandwiches. No one will notice if we slip into the arena a little late.”
“They won’t let us bring outside food into The Garden,” said Janice.
Jeanie grinned. “Ladies, we’re all wearing coats with pockets. Security only glances into handbags. They won’t pat us down.”
“Even for a concert to honor a rap star?” I asked. I expected extremely tight security to prevent any of Philomena’s homies showing up with weapons.
“They’ll use metal detector wands like they do at the ballparks,” she said.
Half an hour later we slipped into our seats. While the darkened arena pulsated with laser lights and the deafening beat of rap music, and three dozen scantily clad dancers gyrated on the stage, I wolfed down my half of the corned beef special on rye I shared with Cloris.
There’s nothing like a New York deli corned beef special, but they’re hard to eat without something to wash them down. We hadn’t bought beverages at the deli, knowing they’d be too hard to conceal. “I’m going for a Coke,” I told Cloris. “Want something?”
“Same,” she said.
I squeezed past the others in our aisle and headed up the stairs to the concession area. The lines snaked back and forth through roped-off areas in front of each stand. I glanced around. At least twenty people stood waiting in each line. Too thirsty to wait, I decided to find a water fountain before buying the sodas.
Knowing water fountains are usually located near restrooms, I checked the overhead signs and began walking, only to find the water fountain out of order when I arrived. Rather than continuing to walk around the stadium, I headed for the stairwell off to the left of the restrooms, figuring the stadium had been designed with the restrooms on each floor situated one above another.
I began to descend the stairs when I stopped short at the sound of angry voices floating up from below me. Maybe they thought no one would hear them because of all the noise coming from the arena, but the acoustics of the stairwell amplified their voices to the point where I heard them as clearly as if they stood before me. And one of those voices sounded very familiar.
“You’re crazy if you think I’m going to do that for you,” said Tino.
“You’ve already proven you’ll do anything if the price is high enough.”
“Not that.”
“You’ll do it, or I’ll go to the police and tell them you killed those two women.”
“I didn’t kill anyone. You did. I only cleaned up your mess.”
The woman laughed. “And who do you think they’re going to believe?”
I inched forward to peek over the railing to the landing below and spied Sylvia Gruenwald. Unfortunately, at that moment she glanced up and saw me. “Get her!” she yelled.
Tino turned, and for a split second our eyes met before I spun around and raced back up the stairs.
TWENTY-SIX
Sylvia Gruenwald killed both Philomena and Norma Gene? And Tino disposed of the bodies for her? For money? I processed this info
rmation as I raced through the Madison Square Garden concourse. In heels never meant for anything besides walking, I quickly dodged around various sized crowds, unsure whether or not Tino followed close behind me. Even though I risked turning an ankle, I didn’t dare slow my pace. After exiting the stairwell, I had turned left. A fifty-fifty chance meant Tino may have turned in the opposite direction, but Lady Luck and I rarely traveled in the same circles.
Rather than running blindly, I needed to figure out my next move. I spotted a ladies’ room up ahead and pushed my way through the line at the door, ignoring the snarky comments.
“Sorry. Just need a sink,” I said by way of apology. Once inside, I took a few deep breaths and waited for my heart to stop pounding, but abject fear kept it at a rapid beat.
From the very beginning various signs had pointed to Tino, but all the evidence was circumstantial and easily explained away. At least Tino hadn’t killed Philomena and Norma Gene, but he was responsible for a cover-up, and that could send him to prison for an extremely long time. If he caught up with me, what would he do to keep me from spilling his secret?
Did Gruenwald know about Tino’s involvement in Philomena’s death? Was that why he wanted Tino keeping an eye on me? To protect his wife by steering me in a different direction if I began to snoop? That had been one of my early theories.
But why would Sylvia have Tino dump Philomena’s body at Trimedia? To implicate her husband in the murder? Did she decide not to settle for half his wealth when she could have it all while he rotted in prison? Or had she planned to kill Philomena all along and the divorce was merely a ploy to fend off suspicion? Gruenwald himself had suggested that as a possible police theory.
I pulled out my cell to place a call to Detective Batswin, but I couldn’t get a signal. “Damn!”
“I can never get cell service in this place,” said a woman standing next to me. “You need to head over to one of the exits.”
“Thanks.”
Before leaving the ladies’ room, I cupped a few handfuls of sink water into my mouth. All that running had increased my thirst by parching my throat. I yearned for a large bottle of ice water but didn’t dare stop to buy one.
Stepping out of the ladies’ room, I scanned the crowd. No Tino. No Sylvia. I made my way toward the nearest exit sign. My best course of action, I decided, would be to head back to Penn Station and hop on a train. I’d call Batswin once the train pulled out of the station.
I ran as fast as I could toward Penn Station, still fearful of looking over my shoulder. No one paid attention to me. Everyone always runs to catch trains and subways in New York.
Once inside the station concourse, I thought about stopping one of the transit police but quickly dismissed the idea. What if the cop brushed off my concerns? Didn’t believe me? I’d be safer on a train heading back to New Jersey. I checked the departures board. Any NJ Transit train would do. They all stopped in Newark where I needed to switch to the Raritan Valley Line to continue home. Seeing that a train was currently boarding at Gate Three, I hurried down the steps.
Seconds later I leaped up into a train car and collapsed onto the first available seat. I lowered my head onto my trembling knees and forced air into my lungs while trying to convince my corned beef special on rye to remain in my stomach. I had my doubts the sandwich would cooperate. A sheen of perspiration covered my clammy flesh, and my body tingled but not in a good way. The last thing I needed was to toss my cookies on the train.
Someone dropped into the seat beside me as the train lurched and began to pull out of the station. After a few additional deep breaths, both the nausea and the tingle began to recede. I slowly lifted my head, glanced to my right and found myself staring at Tino’s profile. I gasped. So much for my grand plan. I was trapped.
He placed a hand on my arm and spoke softly. “Relax, Mrs. P. I just want to talk.”
I glanced around. Only a few other passengers shared the train car with us, and all wore ear buds. Even if I screamed, chances were no one would hear me. “I know what you did,” I said.
“Yeah, I figured you heard.”
“I’ve called the police. They know you’re after me.” Tino had no way of knowing I hadn’t called Batswin yet.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
“Under the circumstances, you’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
“You can trust me.”
“Really? And why is that?”
He tilted his head and grinned. “Because I like you?”
“Said the spider to the fly.”
“The cops already know I’m with you. They can hear us. I’m wearing a wire.”
“Prove it.”
He unbuttoned several buttons on his shirt and spread the front placket apart to expose a wire taped to his abs. “I turned myself in and cut a deal with the prosecutor.”
“To incriminate Sylvia Gruenwald?”
“She killed Philomena and Norma Gene.”
“You helped her get away with it. For money. What made you change your mind?”
Tino sighed. “Money never had anything to do with it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what she said.”
“She paid me, but I didn’t keep the money. I handed it over to the cops.”
“What made you get involved?”
“Philomena came to Sylvia’s apartment and threatened her. Sylvia has a violent temper, worse than Philomena’s. When Philomena got in her face, Sylvia grabbed a vase off the table and smashed it over Philomena’s head, knocking her out.”
“Tickets!” The conductor entered the opposite end of the car and began walking toward us, collecting tickets as he approached. Tino clammed up. I pulled out my ticket. He pulled out his wallet.
“Where to?” the conductor asked Tino when he arrived at our seats.
“Newark.”
“Ten bucks. There’s a five dollar surcharge for not buying your ticket at the station.”
Tino whipped out a ten dollar bill and handed it to him just as my phone rang. I flipped it open, looked at the display, and groaned. Cloris! “Hi,” I said.
“Where the hell are you?”
“On a train heading to Newark.”
“What? Are you all right?”
“Yes, but it’s a long story, and I haven’t heard all of it yet. I’ll call you later.”
“I guess I’m not getting my Coke?”
“Not today. I owe you.”
“I’ll hold your coat ransom until you deliver.”
My coat? I glanced down at my lap. I was so overheated from running that I didn’t realize I’d left my coat on my seat in the arena. Then again, I’d only left my seat to buy sodas. Why would I have taken my coat?
I hung up from Cloris after promising again to call her as soon as possible. Once the conductor exited the car, I picked up the conversation where Tino and I had left off. “Philomena sustained more than a head injury. I saw the body.”
“Sylvia panicked, and like I said, she’s got a temper. She grabbed one of Mr. G’s golf clubs from the closet and...well, you saw the results. When she realized what she’d done, she called me.”
“Why would you cover up such a crime for her?”
“She’s my mother.”
I stared at Tino. “Your mother?”
“She got pregnant as a teenager. Her folks sent her away to some place for unwed mothers and put the baby up for adoption. She said she’d been searching for me her entire adult life. A few years ago, she finally tracked me down.”
“Does Mr. Gruenwald know?”
Tino shook his head. “She was afraid to tell him. I had just ended my last tour of duty and was looking for a job. She got Mr. G. to hire me by telling him I was the son of a former housekeeper who’d worked for her parents.”
I suppose I could understand that Tino acted out of some misguided sense of familial loyalty, but the puzzle was still shy too many key pieces. “Why dump Philomena’s body at Trimedia?”
> Tino grimaced. “Stupid, wasn’t it? I tried to talk her out of that, but she insisted. The whole woman scorned thing. She wanted to make Mr. G. suffer for taking up with that skank.”
“If you dumped the body in the river or a landfill, he’d never know what really happened to Philomena.”
“Exactly.”
“But what about Norma Gene?”
“Poor Norma Gene.” Tino shook his head. “I don’t know if she somehow figured out that Sylvia killed Philomena or not. Maybe she just wanted to talk to Sylvia. Either way, she never should have confronted her. Sylvia snapped.”
“And you transported Norma Gene’s body down to Philadelphia to make it look like a member of Philomena’s old gang killed her?”
“I rolled her up in a rug and slipped out the service entrance of the condo.”
“That’s why you were so tired the other day.”
Tino nodded.
It also explained the Vajazzling crystals imbedded in the sole of Tino’s shoe and the one I discovered in the trunk of the Lincoln. Norma Gene must have had a Vajazzle.
“Afterwards,” he continued, “Sylvia started talking about getting rid of Mr. G., too. Making it look like a suicide. She couldn’t forgive him for cheating on her.”
“Yet she broke up his first marriage.”
This time Tino raised an eyebrow. “No shit?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No one ever mentioned a first Mrs. G. Those two fought like they’d been married forever.”
“Twenty years.” Tino’s view of marriage spoke volumes and made me wonder about his life with his adoptive parents. “You do realize Mr. Gruenwald is old enough to be Sylvia’s father? And Philomena’s grandfather?”
Tino shrugged. “Some men like younger women.”
I’d had enough of delving into Gruenwald’s sex life. “Getting back to the staged suicide?”
“Right. Anyway, Sylvia planned it all out. She’d force him to write a suicide note, showing remorse for the killings, and I’d stage his death to look like he hanged himself.”
“What made her think you’d go along with such a diabolical plan?”
