Murder on a Hot Tin Roof (26 page)
Read Murder on a Hot Tin Roof Online
Authors: Amanda Matetsky
And that was what he was doing now—turning my pages, so to speak—trying to judge how much trouble I’d gotten myself into this time.
“Pipe down!” Harvey Crockett barked, sticking his large white-haired head through his open office door. “Get back to work! It’s ten fifteen!” He gave me a snarly, disgruntled look. “Especially you, Paige. Gotta make up for lost time.”
It wasn’t just my lateness that had upset him. It was also the holiday. Crockett was a smart but stodgy ex-newspaperman whose only reason for living was his job. He wasn’t proud that he was now the executive editor of
Daring Detective
magazine instead of a reporter for the
Daily News
, but he wasn’t ashamed of it, either. The actual product or the nature of his work didn’t matter that much to him; it was just the
job
. And right now, coming off an unwelcome three-day weekend, Crockett was suffering from job withdrawal.
Daring Detective
magazine instead of a reporter for the
Daily News
, but he wasn’t ashamed of it, either. The actual product or the nature of his work didn’t matter that much to him; it was just the
job
. And right now, coming off an unwelcome three-day weekend, Crockett was suffering from job withdrawal.
Caffeine withdrawal, too. “Make some coffee, Paige,” he sputtered, “and make it now. This place needs a jumpstart.”
“Yes, Mr. Crockett,” I said, dropping my purse down on my desk (which, since I also served as the office receptionist, was the one closest to the entrance). I hurtled across the room, hoisted the heavy Coffeemaster off the table where it was always stationed, and hauled it toward the door. Pitching Lenny what I hoped was a reassuring smile, I scooted out into the hall and headed for the ladies’ room to wash out the percolator and fill it with water.
As the only female on the
DD
staff, I always had to make the coffee. (That’s women’s work, in case you haven’t heard.) I normally resented being the coffee slave, but today I was grateful for the chore. The ladies’ room was quiet and the water was cool. And when I’d finished cleaning and filling the pot, I had a chance to catch my breath, adjust my makeup, and straighten my stocking seams. I couldn’t do anything about the mismatched colors of my crazy outfit, but after realigning the buttons on my blouse, and closing the zipper on my skirt, I looked and felt a little better.
DD
staff, I always had to make the coffee. (That’s women’s work, in case you haven’t heard.) I normally resented being the coffee slave, but today I was grateful for the chore. The ladies’ room was quiet and the water was cool. And when I’d finished cleaning and filling the pot, I had a chance to catch my breath, adjust my makeup, and straighten my stocking seams. I couldn’t do anything about the mismatched colors of my crazy outfit, but after realigning the buttons on my blouse, and closing the zipper on my skirt, I looked and felt a little better.
When I returned to the workroom and began spooning coffee into the percolator, Mr. Crockett was satisfied. “Bring me a cup when it’s ready,” he said, stepping back inside his office.
“Ditto,” said Mario, who was watching (or rather, ogling) my every move and making ugly smoochy faces whenever I glanced in his direction.
“Me, too,” Mike chimed in, never looking up from the story he was pecking out, with two fingers, on his typewriter.
Lenny didn’t ask me for coffee. (He rarely drank the stuff, but when he did, he got up and got it himself.) And he didn’t say anything else to me, either. He didn’t have to. His urgent, puzzled, anxious gaze was saying it all.
I was sorry to be causing Lenny such worry, but there was nothing I could do to ease his concerns right now. If I went over to talk to him, Mario would start making more nasty—and loud—remarks, and then Mr. Crockett would come bursting out of his office to growl at us again. And that wouldn’t do anybody any good. Lifting my shoulders in an apologetic shrug, I winked at Lenny and tossed him another quick smile. Then I turned my back on the boys in the workroom and faced a different pile of problems.
THERE WAS SO MUCH WORK STACKED UP on my desk I wanted to run back to the ladies’ room and hide out there till lunchtime. There were letters to open and sort, newspapers to clip, stories to edit and rewrite, galleys to proofread, invoices to record, photos to label and file. And it was already twenty to eleven! And I had to call Binky at noon! And if
DD
’s second-in-command, Brandon Pomeroy, happened to stroll into the office before I left on my lunch hour, he would see all the paperwork on my desk, and find out how late I’d come in this morning, and then he wouldn’t let me leave at all.
DD
’s second-in-command, Brandon Pomeroy, happened to stroll into the office before I left on my lunch hour, he would see all the paperwork on my desk, and find out how late I’d come in this morning, and then he wouldn’t let me leave at all.
Which would throw a big wrench in my plans to visit the Actors Studio.
However, I wasn’t
that
worried about Pomeroy coming in early. Truth was, he hardly ever made it into the office before lunch. (When you’re a close relative of Oliver Rice Harrington—the powerful and wealthy publishing mogul who owns the magazine you work for—you can show up whenever you like. And when you’re a lazy, jaded snob who breakfasts on dry martinis, you like to show up late.) Nevertheless, Pomeroy had been known to pull surprises out of his hat from time to time, and I was praying that today would not be one of those times.
that
worried about Pomeroy coming in early. Truth was, he hardly ever made it into the office before lunch. (When you’re a close relative of Oliver Rice Harrington—the powerful and wealthy publishing mogul who owns the magazine you work for—you can show up whenever you like. And when you’re a lazy, jaded snob who breakfasts on dry martinis, you like to show up late.) Nevertheless, Pomeroy had been known to pull surprises out of his hat from time to time, and I was praying that today would not be one of those times.
After I served my boss and coworkers their coffee, I took another survey of my work load. The newspapers were taking up the most room on my desk, so I chose to tackle them first. Snatching the
Daily Mirror
off the top of the pile, I began flipping through it as fast as I could, looking for juicy crime stories to clip out for our files (one of my more mindless daily chores). There was one story about Gray, but it was even briefer and less informative than the article I’d read on Sunday. A wave of sadness washed over me as I cut the piece out and put it in the labeled and dated manila folder I had set aside for Pomeroy. (Reading the new crime clips was the only aspect of his job Pomeroy seemed to relish, and if the folder of clippings wasn’t sitting on his desk when he came in, he’d have a royal snit fit.)
Daily Mirror
off the top of the pile, I began flipping through it as fast as I could, looking for juicy crime stories to clip out for our files (one of my more mindless daily chores). There was one story about Gray, but it was even briefer and less informative than the article I’d read on Sunday. A wave of sadness washed over me as I cut the piece out and put it in the labeled and dated manila folder I had set aside for Pomeroy. (Reading the new crime clips was the only aspect of his job Pomeroy seemed to relish, and if the folder of clippings wasn’t sitting on his desk when he came in, he’d have a royal snit fit.)
The other three morning editions also ran short articles about Gray’s murder, merely recapping the barest facts and reporting that the case was still under investigation. Two other homicides had occured in the city in the past week (one in Harlem, one in the Bronx), and they were rehashed as well.
As I was cutting out these articles and putting them in the folder, I snuck a quick look at some of the day’s top stories: The national economy had shown a strong upsurge during the first six months of 1955, smashing all peacetime records; Senate Majority Leader Lyndon B. Johnson had suffered a moderately severe heart attack while visiting a friend in Virginia; The grand opening of Disneyland Amusement Park in Anaheim, California, was scheduled for July 17th.
But the biggest story of the day, bar none, was the heat. WE’RE HAVIN’ A HEAT WAVE! one headline proclaimed. NO RELIEF IN SIGHT! cried another. Actually, the temperature
had
dropped a bit—all the way down to 95.8 degrees!—but the humidity was so high nobody could tell the difference. So the papers were jammed with advertisements for products that promised to keep you cool and dry. I gazed with longing at the full-page ad for Ambassador Window Air Conditioners, knowing I’d never be able to save up the 169 bucks I’d need to buy one. But all was not lost; there was hope for me yet. For just seventy-nine cents I could “Beat the Heat with Mexsana Medicated Powder!” Maybe I’d go get some after work.
had
dropped a bit—all the way down to 95.8 degrees!—but the humidity was so high nobody could tell the difference. So the papers were jammed with advertisements for products that promised to keep you cool and dry. I gazed with longing at the full-page ad for Ambassador Window Air Conditioners, knowing I’d never be able to save up the 169 bucks I’d need to buy one. But all was not lost; there was hope for me yet. For just seventy-nine cents I could “Beat the Heat with Mexsana Medicated Powder!” Maybe I’d go get some after work.
When I finished clipping the papers, I opened, sorted, and distributed the mail. Then I fixed all the typos, misspellings, and bad grammar in two of Mike’s stories, wrote the captions for three four-page layouts, proofread about a dozen galleys, put the corrected stories, captions, and proofs in a large envelope, and called for a messenger to take them to the typesetter. I labeled all the photos and took them into the file room, but left them in a stack on top of one of the file cabinets, deciding I’d organize and put them away later.
In an effort to clear my desk (or just make it
look
clear in case Pomeroy came in), I hid the batch of unrecorded invoices in my top left-hand drawer. Then, at twelve o’clock on the dot, after glancing over my shoulder and determining that none of my coworkers had me under close observation, I hunched over the top of my desk, stealthily picked up the phone, and dialed Binky.
look
clear in case Pomeroy came in), I hid the batch of unrecorded invoices in my top left-hand drawer. Then, at twelve o’clock on the dot, after glancing over my shoulder and determining that none of my coworkers had me under close observation, I hunched over the top of my desk, stealthily picked up the phone, and dialed Binky.
Chapter 24
“YEAH?” BINKY ANSWERED, AFTER THE eightieth (okay, probably just the eighth) ring. His voice was so deep and gravelly, I figured I’d woken him up. “Who’s calling?” he growled. “What do you want?”
“It’s Phoebe Starr,” I said, keeping my voice low and cupping my hand around the mouthpiece (I didn’t want Mario or Mike, or even Lenny, to hear what I was saying). “You told me to call you at noon. Remember?”
He groaned. “I’d rather forget, but you won’t let me.” He sounded more than a little annoyed.
“Sorry,” I said, “but I was hoping you could show me around the Studio today. And my lunch hour is starting right now. I’ll meet you anywhere you say.” I knew I was being too curt and aggressive, but I didn’t have any choice. My behavior was being controlled by the clock. And my lack of privacy.
“Cripes!” Binky croaked. “Where’s the friggin’ fire? You just woke me up, little girl. I didn’t get home until six this morning, and the only place I’m going now is back to bed.”
“Then can you meet me later, when I get off work?” I begged, still keeping my voice and word-count low.
He groaned again, even louder than before. “A lot of actresses are pushy, but you’re the goddamn pushiest! Don’t you ever give up?”
“No. I can’t afford to. This means too much to me.”
“Oh, all right!” he surrendered, heaving a sigh the strength of a hurricane. “Meet me at the Studio at six thirty. I’m auditioning for Elia Kazan at seven. I’ll take you in with me and you can watch.”
Elia Kazan? The director of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
? What the heck is that all about!?
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
? What the heck is that all about!?
“Thank you so much, Binky!” I said, projecting as much phony gratitude and excitement as I could without attracting the attention of the guys in the workroom. “I’ll see you at—”
There was no reason for me to repeat the time or the place. Binky had already hung up.
And the very second
I
hung up, Pomeroy walked in.
I
hung up, Pomeroy walked in.
I was shocked to the core—both by my lazy boss’s extra-early arrival, and by my good timing (which was an equally rare occurrence). “Good morning, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said, adopting my most polite (and, according to Abby, puke-provoking) demeanor. “Did you have a nice holiday?”
“No, I did
not
, Mrs. Turner,” he said, standing tall in the front of the workroom, removing his beige linen suit jacket and hanging it on the coat tree. “Thank you so much for reminding me.” He took his pipe out of his jacket pocket and breezed past me, nose in the air, to his desk right across the aisle from mine. Pomeroy was just six years older than I, and we had worked side-by-side for over three years, but we still—at Pomeroy’s insistence—addressed each other by last names only. He even expected me to call him sir.
not
, Mrs. Turner,” he said, standing tall in the front of the workroom, removing his beige linen suit jacket and hanging it on the coat tree. “Thank you so much for reminding me.” He took his pipe out of his jacket pocket and breezed past me, nose in the air, to his desk right across the aisle from mine. Pomeroy was just six years older than I, and we had worked side-by-side for over three years, but we still—at Pomeroy’s insistence—addressed each other by last names only. He even expected me to call him sir.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Stop!” he commanded, stretching his arm out, palm first, in my direction. (He looked like an irate traffic cop.) “I don’t want to hear any more about it.” Pushing his expensive tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses higher on his handsome face, he sat down at his desk, brushed his fingers over his dark brown hair and mustache, and began filling his Dunhill with fresh tobacco.
I could hear Mario snickering behind me. He was enoying watching me squirm. Pomeroy liked it, too. I could tell by the way his mustache was twitching.
I didn’t like it at all, though, so—after smashing imaginary pies in both their faces—I got up and went into the file room to file the photos. About twenty minutes later, when I had finished that job, I went back into the workroom, thinking I would just snag my purse and go down to the lobby coffee shop for lunch. I was so hungry I felt faint. (Well, I hadn’t had any breakfast, you know!)
“Where do you think you’re going?” Pomeroy asked, as I picked my purse up off my desk and turned toward the door.
“Out to lunch, sir,” I said. “It’s twelve thirty. I always go out at twelve thirty.”
“Not today you don’t.” He crossed his arms over his chest and turned in his swivel chair to face me. “I’ve just learned that you came in very late this morning, Mrs. Turner. Almost two hours late.” He shot Mario a quick glance, then turned his attention back to me. “So I’m rescinding your lunch hour today. Tomorrow, too. You have to make up the time.”
“But, sir, I—”
“No excuses, Mrs. Turner. You’re supposed to be in the office by eight thirty. You may have forgotten this condition of your employment, but I can assure you
I
haven’t. And if you think—”
I
haven’t. And if you think—”
Pomeroy’s tongue-lashing was interrupted when Harvey Crockett barrelled out of his office and came huffing up to the front of the workroom. “I’m going to the barber,” he told me, maneuvering his stubby legs and bulging belly over to the coat rack. He unhooked his cream-colored Panama and anchored it on his large hoary head. “After that I’m going to lunch with a new paper supplier at the Quill. If anybody calls, tell ’em I’ll be back at two thirty.”
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