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Authors: Ellen Pall

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“Well, things haven't worked out so well for Cindy lately,” Juliet said. “As we know. Whether she was in on the plan to murder Ada or not, the fact is, the deal with Fairground is off. Hope glowed on the horizon, but hope is extinguished now, and Cindy's still stuck in Nowhere, New York.”
“Excuse me, how do we know the deal with Fairground is off?” She raised herself on one elbow to look at him. “Because it expired on Friday.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. So the Giddys' horizon is empty, and Cindy's as hungry and mean as a junkyard dog. Ah—but wait a moment! ‘That handsome man who came up here to look at Ada's papers,' she thinks. ‘That artist who drove up from New York with the stupid lady writer. Where is that handsome man? Suppose he were to show up again? He was driving a nice new Jaguar, he looked cool, he was sexy—'”
“Y'think?”
“‘—a little old, of course,'” Juliet went on, “‘but he does live in New York City.' And what do you think Cindy Giddy would give to come live in New York City with a man like you?”
“Hold on, live with me? Now we're living together? What happened to Tom?”
“Trust me, you turn up on Cindy's doorstep and give her cause to think you've got money, that woman will drop off her life into your hand like a peach from a tree.”
Now Murray sat up, forcing a complete rearrangement of their bodies. Juliet pulled an afghan from the arm of the couch and wrapped herself in it. She took a cigarette from a box on the table, then paused before lighting it. She had suddenly recalled Ada's adjuration
about the fun she ought to have living here. How Ada would enjoy this scene.
“You mind?”
“Long as I don't have to smoke it, it's okay with me,” he said. “Look, Jule, I admit I saw Mrs. Giddy leering at me, but I think you're reading a little too much into that. Lots of women like to know if they can get you into their pocket. They're not really interested in having you there.”
“Hmm,” said Juliet. She took a deep drag of smoke and exhaled a dirty cloud. “Now, how can I put this? Oh, I know. ‘Duh!' Jeeze, Murray, I write romances for a living. You don't think I can read a woman when she's looking at a man?”
“Oh,” said Murray. “Okay. I bow to your expertise. But go back a bit. How exactly did Tom kill Mrs. Caffrey? How did he know where to find her? How did he get her alone to strangle her? And what did he do with the manuscript?”
“Okay.” This was another part Juliet hadn't thought through. Still, she sketched out a quick scenario, the story taking shape as she spoke, just as it did when she plotted a book.
“First of all,” she began, “the Giddys knew exactly where Ada was. Because they were looking after her house and cats, they had Suzy's name and number; and Suzy's address is listed. And according to Suzy's phone record, and what she told you during the missing investigation, Ada called them on Wednesday and told them she had an important appointment on Friday afternoon.”
She could hear the wakening interest in his voice as he asked, “Who took that call, Cindy or Tom?”
“I don't know. It was evening. Could have been either of them. If he records her phone calls, maybe both.
“But even if he'd had no idea where she was going or when,” she went on, “he could have come down to New York and just hung around where he could see Suzy's door. Sooner or later, Ada was bound to come in or out.”
“‘Hung around?'” Landis repeated. “In a blizzard? In twenty-degree weather?”
“He's a hunter. It works with ducks, doesn't it?”
“And nobody noticed him? Your doorman didn't notice?”
“Maybe he stood behind a tree,” Juliet said impatiently. She put her cigarette out. “There are trees in Riverside Park. And mine is the only doorman building on the block. Tom's an outdoorsman. Don't you think he knows how to keep from being noticed? Maybe he stood at the bus stop awhile, looking like he was going to get on the bus. Maybe he changed his hat now and then. Maybe he stood inside the park. Riverside Drive curves around. You can see Suzy's door from across the street and two whole blocks north. I know, because I've sat on a bench there and seen her come out myself.”
“Okay, let's say he hung around. Go on.”
“So eventually, he sees her. Maybe he sees her with Suzy on the way up to Rara Avis, and follows. Ada goes in; Suzy goes away. Tom notices the garbage cans lined with fresh bags, starts to come up with a more detailed plan. Thinks, ‘That might come in handy,' crosses the street and takes one, then goes back to wait for Ada to come out. She does, with John Fitzjohn. The girlfriend's there, Ada shakes hands, then trips away down the sidewalk back to Suzy's. She's carrying her purse and a paperback book. He doesn't realize it—he doesn't even know it exists, probably—but she has the manuscript with her; she wants to get it home safe.
“He makes his move. Crosses the street, comes up to her—‘Oh, what a coincidence!' he says. ‘I knew you were in New York, but I never thought I'd actually run into you. But it's funny we should meet. I had an idea about that land deal; I'd like to talk to you.'”
“Hold on—what if he didn't see her come out of the building with Suzy? How would he have found her then?”
“Then he'd just wait, wait for her to come home. Which she would have. Remember what Ernesto said—my doorman, Ernesto
Guerro? He thought he saw a big guy with her? Well, Tom's a big guy. A big blond guy. Blond like the hair under Ada's fingernail.”
“Mmph,” Landis said. He didn't mention that he had heard Skelton fulminating on the phone about this hair last week. Apparently, someone had mismarked the sample from Daignault, sent it to the wrong lab. It would be at least a week more before the DNA results came back.
“Yeah, mmph. So Ada says, ‘Tom! Fancy seeing you here. Come back to where I'm staying, come inside a minute.' She fumbles for the key, mentions the landlady isn't home. They go inside, bang, before she has time to turn around, he's got her in a headlock; he's choking her. He was a wrestling champion, remember. She tries to fight, grabs behind her, gets his hair—but two minutes later, it's over, she's dead. Now all he has to do is get rid of the body.”
“Why? Why not leave it at Suzy's?”
“Why?” echoed Juliet, stalling. Why indeed? “Oh! Because if she's found outside, anyone in the city could have done it. If she's inside, it was almost certainly someone she knew. And the whole point of doing it in the city was the nine million suspects.”
Murray gave a skeptical grunt.
“Don't forget, he had no way of knowing that car would sit there so long. In Espyville, you don't just park your car and let it sit for four days.”
“Mm-huh.”
Murray stood up and began to prowl around the living room, examining the contents of shelves and poking absently into various cabinets. They had never spent much time in her living room; in fact, she realized, he might never have been in here till this morning. She did not complain. Watching him move around in a state of undress more suitable to the shower was very interesting.
“Okay, so go back,” he said, pulling open the drawer where Juliet kept remote controls for the TV and stereo. “Tom's standing in Suzy's front hall with Ada's body at his feet. And—?”
“Well, he's got the garbage bag. She's a tiny little person. He puts her in, sees the purse, tosses that in, slings the whole thing over his shoulder and leaves.”
“Which, luckily, no one notices.”
“Lucky he certainly was. But even if they had noticed—who was he? They're going to stop him?”
“Okay. So he goes across the street and down the block, kneels on the sidewalk, and shoves the corpse under a handy SUV. Which no one notices either.” Murray was now peering into the cabinet in which her television was hidden. He opened another door and poked through a jumble of old audio cassettes she'd forgotten.
“I don't know how he did that. He would look pretty conspicuous walking around with a garbage bag over his—Oh!”
She stopped. Murray turned to look at her.
“Oh—?”
“Well, people do come over this way—at least they were coming around then—with Christmas trees. There's a big pile of them still by the entrance to the park. Anyone seeing him would probably have thought he had a Christmas tree inside the garbage bag.”
“Are you saying that Tom Giddy knew the New York City Parks Department was collecting used Christmas trees near Suzy Eisenman's building?”
“No, I'm saying Tom Giddy was very fortunate. A number of things went his way.”
“And the manuscript?”
She shrugged. “That I don't get. Unless she somehow told him about it and he took it …”
“And he got home how—?”
“Train? And then however he got from the cabin to the station, he did that again backwards.”
“He was damned lucky if all that happened.”
“Yeah, but you know, suppose he hadn't been? All he had to do was wait for Ada to come home to Espyville in a day or two and
kill her there after all. It wouldn't have been ideal, but it was a reasonable fallback.”
Juliet paused. Murray said nothing.
“So what do you think?” she prodded him.
He shrugged. “It's a theory.”
He didn't sound very enthusiastic. Juliet decided not to press her luck. “Will you come up there with me?” she asked.
“And play Mata Hari with Cindy Giddy?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated, then said, “We'd better make sure to go on a day when Tom's at work.”
A Rustic Interlude
It was as they were whizzing toward Coxsackie on the following
Wednesday morning that Murray and Juliet both realized, as if in a moment of psychic twindom, how Tom Giddy could have traveled from his hunting cabin to a train or bus.
“Snowmobile!” they cried in unison, inspired by the sight of a gigantic billboard across a frozen pond advising them that Polar Powersports was one mile ahead.
Murray hit the sides of his head with his hands.
“City mice,” he said, his voice dripping with disgust.
“Indeed. But—would you mind keeping at least one hand on the wheel?” Juliet interjected, then resumed, “Do you know if they can be used in the dark? It would have been night by the time he got back.”
“And he probably had to leave before dawn. Only one thing to do: Let's go shopping at Polar.”
The Jaguar sped along. It had been a bit difficult to get Hertz to agree to obtain and hold a red Jaguar for them, as before. But what charm had failed to achieve, a crisp fifty had accomplished, and Juliet felt she could fairly hope Cindy would assume the car was Murray's. She had hardly dared dictate to him what to wear, but he had done well, complementing his usual black Levis with a royal
blue turtleneck sweater tight enough that the musculature of his chest and arms showed through. If they hadn't been on a mission, she would have jumped him herself.
 
 
DEK, as his Polar Powersports name tag proclaimed him, looked to
Juliet to be all of fourteen. But he was knowledgeable about snowmobiles, and more than happy to show Mr. and—um, Mrs. Landis how they worked. Oh, yes, they certainly had headlights. And, sure, you could easily go a hundred miles on a single tank, more. Were they interested in a new or a used one? Because Polar had an awesome special this week on the Polaris Indy 440 Pro X Fan, so if they wanted a test drive—
Juliet was just about to break the news that they were in too much of a hurry when Murray said they'd be delighted.
She looked at him. It was already past ten-thirty, and Tom only worked until five today. She knew because when she had called Cindy to ask for the key again, she pretended to want to ask Tom about helping her pack and haul away Mrs. Caffrey's books when she was done looking at them. She had been sure to mention that her friend Murray would be coming with her today.
But now Murray just winked and gave Dek his driver's license. Dek took it, escorted them outside, loaded them in, rattled through an explanation of the controls that left Juliet totally confused, indicated the test area—a snow-covered field behind the showroom already crisscrossed with numerous tracks—and told them to have fun.
“Why are we doing this?” Juliet was finally able to yell in Murray's ear, as the motor roared and Dek waved good-bye from the doorstep in back of the shop.
“To have fun!” he screamed back.
They lurched forward, moving slowly while Murray got the hang of the machine, then faster, then very fast. Juliet, no speed freak, clung to the passenger handgrips and squeezed her knees
against Landis's hips. She had to admit it was thrilling. Deafening, but thrilling. The motor thrummed through their bodies, the wind enveloped them, and even she could sense the lively tractability of the machine. Even through her helmet, Murray's black leather jacket, worn to just the right stage of beat-upness to attract Cindy Giddy, smelled quintessentially masculine. The whole experience was quintessentially masculine—the speed, the noise, the powerful forward thrust. Which did not mean it offered nothing to her; quite the contrary.
Oh, quite the contrary.
Still, the snowmobile, she felt reasonably confident, had not been invented by a woman.
And then it was over. She found her legs were trembling slightly as she obediently trailed her man into the Polar showroom.
 
 
Half an hour later, when Cindy Giddy opened her door wearing a
red wraparound sweater with a V in front that plunged to her navel, Juliet had to exert considerable self-control not to snort with laughter.
The sweater was trimmed in fake marabou and was complemented by a red vinyl miniskirt, red fishnet tights, and a pair of black boots with stiletto heels. Cindy made no pretense of even seeing Juliet, instead locking eyes with Murray the moment the door swung open. A pronounced smell of dope billowed from the house, and Juliet found herself reflexively checking Cindy's hands to see if a joint still burned between her fingers. There was no joint, but neither was there a wedding ring.
Muttering something about the possible historical value of some of Mrs. Caffrey's
Playbills
, Juliet accepted the key that was distractedly handed to her and turned away—though not too fast to catch a glimpse of Murray gravely nodding a silent promise to Mrs. Giddy that he would make it his business to get back to her soon.
For form's sake, he came with Juliet into the cold, cat-plaintive house next door and stayed a quarter of an hour or so.
Juliet had brought the remaining volumes of Harriette Wilson's memoirs to while away the time. While Murray used the bathroom, she turned on the space heater, then went back out to the front hall to raise the temperature on the thermostat. Hearing tiny paws skitter over the door that blocked the second floor, she herself skittered back to the kitchen, where she made herself a cup of tea. She offered one to Murray when he reappeared. But he declined and instead stood watching her scrub out a mug—Mrs. Caffrey really had been no housekeeper. Then he strolled into the parlor, humming a Bruce Springsteen song she soon identified as “Man's Job.”
Following him into the parlor with her steaming tea, she found him idly examining the teddy bears and ancient dolls in the laden hammock. She sat down on the worn purple couch and made herself as cozy as she could. The cats immediately joined her, one of them walking sedately onto a pile of Harriette's photocopied pages, circling, then curling up neatly upon them, while the other nestled on the cushion just behind Juliet's head.
“What are you going to tell her?” she asked, as Murray turned away from the hammock and zipped up his jacket again.
“Tell her?”
“I mean, why are you over there and not here with me?”
“You know, somehow I don't think she's going to scrutinize my reasons very closely,” he said. “In fact, I have to admit, I think you were right about Mrs. Giddy's state of mind. She was very—very come-hither, don't you think?”
Juliet surveyed him. He looked awfully good.
“I'm not sure I like using you as a secret weapon after all,” she said. “Just don't forget, her hither is my yon. I've got dibs. I'm hitherto.”
He bent down and kissed her forehead. “And henceforward,” he said, straightening. “And hereunto.”
She looked up, liking this better in some ways than anything he had said to her before. It was, as it turned out, her last opportunity to look up at him for a while.

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