Jimmy dropped the skillet on the floor and hurried over to Otto and me. “Are you all right?” he croaked, sinking into a squat, scooping Otto up in the crook of one arm and hugging him close to his chest. He flung his other arm around my shoulders and gave me a wild-eyed look. “What happened? Who
is
that creep? Did he hurt you?” He kept shifting his eyes back and forth from Otto to me, making certain we were both unharmed.
I was about to assure Jimmy that I was okay when Abby plowed through the back door and stomped into the kitchen. “Hey, Birmingham!” she squawked, spotting the top of his head above the telephone table and marching across the linoleum. “What the hell happened to you? You were out in the courtyard for ages! How long does it take for a dog to poop? And why are you—?”
The bloody scene on the living room floor stunned Abby into silence. She stopped dead in her tracks and took it all in, a look of sheer horror deforming her beautiful face. Then, when she saw that Jimmy and Otto and I were all okay—clinging to each other in a shaky huddle on the edge of the rug—she let out a yelp and leapt forward, arms spread wide enough to embrace all three of us at once.
But as her leading foot came down to the floor, it landed in a splotch of bacon grease and slipped right out from under her. She came flying toward us like an awkward angel—or, more precisely, a giant albino bat on the wing. She fell smack in the middle of our huddle and floundered around for a couple of seconds, but quickly sprang up—giggling and unhurt—into a kneeling position. Then she wrapped her wings around us, pulled us into a tight, cozy circle, and released a joyful sigh. And then Otto (who shall now and forevermore be known as Otto the Wonder Wienie Dog) poked his little head up through the center of the circle and licked all of our faces until they were shiny with slobber.
I was in Heaven—and by some incredible miracle (okay,
several
incredible miracles), I didn’t have to die to get there.
HOGARTH WASN’T DEAD EITHER, BUT HE WAS pretty close to it. He never regained consciousness while we were waiting for the police and the medics to arrive. Then, when they came and saw who he was and the terrible shape he was in, he was whisked away on a stretcher and rushed to the nearest hospital in a scream of sirens.
I wasn’t sorry to see him go.
I
was
sorry, however, to see Detective Sergeant Nick Flannagan of the Sixth Precinct come strutting into my apartment, brandishing his ego along with his badge. Abby and I had had dealings with Detective Flannagan a few months before, when he was trying to pin a gruesome murder on a perfectly innocent gay friend of ours, and my feelings about the man were not favorable.
He didn’t like me, either.
I had wanted to get in touch with Dan before calling the local station (the last thing in the world we needed was yet another homicide detective from yet another police precinct getting involved in this crazy, mixed-up case!). But Hogarth needed immediate medical attention, and I had to call for an ambulance right away—which meant I also had to report the name of the injured party, and the fact that he had been hurt during an attempted murder. Hence, the unwelcome appearance of Detective Nick Flannagan.
“Good evening, Mrs. Turner,” he said, swaggering over to me, screwing his boyish, clean-shaven face into a nasty smirk. “We meet again. Tell me, have you developed a homicide habit, or do you just get a kick out of stirring up trouble?”
“Neither,” I said. “I’m a justice junkie. I like to see
real
criminals punished for their actual crimes.”
“Oh, yeah?” he scoffed. “And your idea of a
real
criminal is the Manhattan district attorney?” The expression on his face made it clear he thought I should be strapped in a straitjacket straightaway.
“You bet your sweet badge!” I seethed. “Sam Hogarth murdered an assistant hat designer and high-priced call girl named Jocelyn Fritz this morning, and he tried to murder me this afternoon. And if Otto the Wonder Wienie Dog hadn’t foiled his attempt, and if the poet laureate of Greenwich Village, Jimmy Birmingham, hadn’t brained him with an iron skillet, our illustrious district attorney would be out on the streets tonight, lurking in the shadows, aiming to put a bullet—or two, or three—in my fiancé Detective Dan Street’s back!”
To say that I was upset would be like calling Daffy Duck a tad touchy.
Flannagan didn’t believe me, of course. I could see the wheels turning in his narrow little mind as he stared daggers at Jimmy, jumping to the warped conclusion that the bearded bohemian was to blame. (Flannagan was, I knew from experience, intolerant of all nonconformists.) Looking for a way to substantiate his biased belief, he sat Jimmy, Abby, and me (and Otto, who was sticking to me like glue) down at the kitchen table and grilled us for hours.
Okay, it was probably for just forty minutes or so. But the interrogation would have lasted much longer if Dan hadn’t heard the district attorney’s name and my Bleecker Street address broadcast over the police radio and sped down to the Village in a panic to see if I was all right.
“Paige!” he hollered, running up the stairs. “Paige!” he cried, bursting through my front door like a tiger through a ring of fire. “Are you—?” Dan came up short when he saw Flannagan standing near the door, positioned like a prison guard between the ME’s evidence-gathering team in the living room and my team of saviors and supporters at the kitchen table. But when his eyes landed on me and he saw that I was alive and uninjured, he bounded across the floor, grabbed me up in his arms, lifted me out of my chair, and hugged me so hard all the air was expelled from my lungs in one thunderous
whoosh.
Having slid off my lap when Dan hoisted me to my feet, Otto hit the floor barking. And when he saw the way Dan was squeezing me, he started growling again. And then, when Dan pulled my head back and clamped his mouth down over mine, Otto clamped his teeth onto Dan’s pants cuff and—snarling and gnashing just as doggedly as he had before—gave a rousing reenactment of the scene in which he saved my life.
I was elated. I laughed and clapped so hard they probably heard me in the Hamptons. Otto’s encore performance was, I thought, a fitting denouement to the drama of the last four days, and I was doggone glad to see the final curtain fall.
Epilogue
THE ENSUING EVENTS OF THAT MURDEROUS BUT miraculous Saturday night are kind of blurry in my mind. Except for a piece of bacon that morning, and a catnap that afternoon, I hadn’t eaten or slept in eons. And considering the fact that I had gotten engaged to the love of my life that morning and my life had been nearly obliterated that very afternoon—well, I think you can understand why my body and brain were running on empty.
I wasn’t
totally
oblivious, though, so I was able to take note of the major stuff that happened that evening. And for those of you who are still interested, here’s a brief report.
I remember Dan telling Flannagan that he (Dan) had been put in charge of the case and that his (Flannagan’s) services were no longer needed, and I have a pretty sharp recollection of Flannagan spewing out a stream of curses and leaving my apartment in a huff. (I found that part rather amusing.)
I recall that Dan made sure the ME’s team collected, tagged, and bagged all the important evidence—the silenced pistol, Hogarth’s knit cap, the greasy skillet, etc.—even though it was an attempted rather than actual murder scene and Hogarth was the perpetrator rather than the victim. (Dan was leaving nothing to chance.)
I saw that several samples of blood, bone, and shoe leather were collected before my gory Woolworth’s area rug was rolled up and removed, and then I watched while the bullet was pried out of the floor. (Luckily, it hadn’t blasted all the way through Luigi’s ceiling. Otherwise, the fish odor would have had a direct duct to my living room.)
After all the work was done, and all the officers and evidence collectors were gone, Dan left to “take care of business” at the hospital and the station house. Telling Abby and Jimmy to take good care of me, he gave me a parting soul kiss and said he’d be back later.
As soon as he split, I walked across the bare wood floor to the couch and picked up the phone. I couldn’t put it off any longer—I had to call Sabrina. Although I was busting to tell her that Dan had arrested Corona for the murder of Virginia, I really did
not
want to tell her that Jocelyn had been killed. (I can’t bear to be the bearer of bad news.) I finally faced the music, though, and dialed her private number.
Our conversation was short and bittersweet. She already knew about Corona’s arrest (Detective O’Connor had leaked the news to Sabrina as well as to Hogarth), and she had learned about Jocelyn’s death from the manager of the Barbizon, whom she contacted after all her phone calls to Jocelyn had gone unanswered. She had tried to call me, too, she said, but my line had been busy for hours. (I knew this was true, since my receiver was off the hook from the moment I fell asleep and dropped it on the floor, until a few dreadful decades later, when I snatched it up to call for an ambulance.)
Sabrina didn’t know whether Jocelyn had drowned by accident or been murdered, but she wasn’t surprised when I gave her the lowdown. And she wasn’t shocked that the DA had done the dirty deed. She
was
shocked, however, that Hogarth had tried to kill me, and she felt so sad and guilty about it that I thought she’d never stop apologizing. When I told her how Hogarth had suffered for his sins, however, she felt a lot better. And when I described in detail how Otto and Jimmy had saved my life, she was euphoric. She was going to send Jimmy a cash reward, she said, and Otto a ten-year supply of dog biscuits.
When my phone call with Sabrina ended, the celebration began. And that’s when my brain and body
really
went on the blink. I have a fuzzy recollection of drinking glass after glass of Chianti, eating slice after slice of pepperoni pizza, smoking a jillion cigarettes, laughing my head off over nothing in particular, crying my eyes out over the tragic deaths of Virginia and Jocelyn, and rejoicing in the knowledge that Hogarth and Corona were, in one way or another, going to pay for their atrocious crimes.
I was also raving on and on about Dan’s and my engagement, clinking glasses with Abby and Jimmy in a never-ending series of silly toasts, and stroking Otto’s soft, warm, brave little back till it was almost bald.
Sometime around midnight (I think), Dan came back. He had a glass of wine and tried to join in the festivities, but he looked exhausted. Taking their cue from Dan’s tired eyes and sagging shoulders, Abby and Jimmy said good night and went across the hall. They would have taken Otto with them, but I had grown so attached to his sweet, protective presence, I wouldn’t let him go. I begged them to let Otto spend the night with me, and they cheerfully agreed.
As soon as they left, Dan guided me upstairs and helped me get undressed. (Well, I was sort of tipsy, you know! And it’s hard to take off your sweater when you’re cradling a dachshund in your arms and won’t, even for a minute, put him down.) Then, after Dan got Otto and me into the bed and tucked us in, he went back downstairs and slept on the couch, in his clothes. I guess he thought one guard dog wasn’t enough.
WHEN OTTO AND I GOT UP IN THE MORNING, Dan was already gone. He’d left a note on the kitchen table saying he was going to his own apartment to shower and change, then heading uptown to pick up his daughter, Katy, for our ritual Sunday lunch and afternoon movie. He said I should meet him and Katy at Schrafft’s at the usual time. I gave Otto a bowl of water and a leftover piece of pizza, and ran upstairs to get ready.
I was happy as a clam (or any other merry mollusk). I’d had a good night’s sleep and I felt almost sane. Corona was in jail, Hogarth was in the hospital, and I was engaged to be married! I took a long, hot shower, washed and dried my hair, slathered on some makeup, and put on my favorite slim gray skirt and pale blue sweater (Sears Roebuck, of course). I even put on a string of pearls (cultured, not real) and a dressy pair of black suede pumps (Thom McAn, $7.99). In spite of my low-cost attire, I thought I looked like a million bucks.
When I went next door to return Otto, Abby was sitting at her kitchen table in her red negligee, long black hair fanned out over her shoulders, drinking coffee, and smoking a Pall Mall. Jimmy was still sleeping upstairs. “Hey, babe,” she said when I stepped inside. “You’re looking pretty slick this morning. Pearls and pumps, no less. Just like a married lady.”
I let out a goofy giggle, walked over to the stove to pour myself a cup of coffee, then sat down at the table with her. I had thought Abby was happy for me, but when I took a good look at her face, I saw I was mistaken. She had a sulk the size of Kentucky on her kisser.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, nothing much,” she said with an overly dramatic sigh. “I’m just losing my best friend, that’s all. She’s getting married and moving away, you dig? I’ll probably never see her again.” If her lips had been any poutier, they’d have been drooping down over her chin.
“That’s nuts!” I said, hurrying to reassure her. “I may be getting married, but I’m not moving away. No way, Doris Day! I
like
it here.” I really hadn’t given this matter much thought before, but now that I was, I felt a very strong desire to stay put. “Dan will move in with me!” I declared, hoping my words would turn out to be true. “I couldn’t live anywhere else but here. And we could fix the place up a lot—carpet the living room, buy a real couch, plant a garden in the courtyard. The apartment’s small, but it’s fine for two people . . . even three,” I added, thinking ahead, imagining how I could turn my office into a neat little nursery.
“Absolutely not, Dot!” Abby cried, pounding her fist like a gavel on the tabletop. “That’s a big fat no, Flo! I refuse to live next door to a screaming baby! I think you and Dan better move to Levittown.” It was obvious that she was joking. Her sulk had turned into a smile so wide you could slide a ruler through it sideways.