Murder is a Girl's Best Friend by Amanda Matetsky Page A

again.
    “Who’s there?” came a crackly voice over the intercom. “If you’re selling, I’m not buying. And my soul doesn’t need saving either.”
    I had a feeling I was going to like this woman. “You don’t know me, Mrs. Londergan,” I said, speaking into the intercom. “My name is Paige Turner and I—”
    “Oh, sure!” she broke in. “And I’m Jim Dandy. So what’s your real name and what’s your game?”
    “No, really!” I said. “Paige Turner is my real name, and I’m a friend of Judy Catcher’s brother Terry. I was wondering if I could come in for a moment and talk to you about Judy? I won’t take up too much of your time.”
    There was a long silence and no reply. Then, suddenly, the inner door buzzed open, and I pushed my way into the hall. The lighting was dim, but I could see the numbers on the apartment doors: 1A to my left, 1B to my right. I dashed up the stairs to the second floor and headed straight for the left rear apartment, which I figured would be 2C.
    It was. I heard a rustling noise on the other side of the door, so I knew Mrs. Londergan was standing right there, probably peering at me through the peephole. Trying to mask my nosy detective face with a look of pure sweet innocence, I lifted my brows, fluttered my lashes, and lightly knocked on the door.
    She opened it at once. Standing tall (very tall!) in the doorway, with one hand on the doorknob and the other one on her hip, she thrust her chiseled chin in my direction and said, “How’d you ever get a stupid name like Paige Turner?”
    I giggled—not just because she had so cheekily branded my stupid name with the adjective it deserved, but also because she was the spitting image of John Wayne. I kid you not. An aging John Wayne in a red flowered dress. With a swipe of bright red lipstick and a cap of short wavy blue-gray hair. It would have made you giggle, too.
    “It’s my married name,” I told her. “My parents are wise and kind. They never would have saddled me with such a silly signature.”
    She smiled. A sly, smirky John Wayne smile. “So you actually took the name of your own accord? Love makes us do the craziest things!” Shaking her head and shrugging her brawny shoulders, she moved her large frame out of the doorway and motioned for me to enter. “Come on in, Paige Turner. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
    “Thank you,” I said, stifling the urge to giggle again. I’d never thought of John Wayne as a tea drinker.
     
     
    ONE STEP INSIDE THE APARTMENT AND I was in the kitchen. A cozy little kitchen with a green linoleum floor and a ruffled gingham curtain on the only window, which offered a sunless view of the gray stone wall of the building next door. A small table and two chairs sat near the window, and I thought we’d be sitting there, too, but my husky hostess led me on through the tiny kitchen, into the next chamber of her small railroad flat—an even tinier sitting room with no window at all.
    “Take off your coat and have a seat,” she said, directing me to one of the two chintz-covered wing chairs positioned on either side of a low, round coffee (okay, tea ) table. On the table were several silver-framed family photographs, a silver cigarette box, and a lamp with a fringed shade. The only other furniture in the room was a Philco television—a large wooden floor model with a small round screen.
    I handed Mrs. Londergan my coat and she carried it into the next room—her bedroom—and put it on the bed. I could see what she was doing because there was no door, no wall—not even a folding screen—between the bedroom and the sitting room.
    “Hold on a second,” she said, walking back through the sitting room and into the kitchen again. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
    I was starting to get antsy, afraid the whole tea-for-two ritual would take up so much time I wouldn’t get to ask enough questions. Deciding not to wait for her to return to the sitting room to begin my investigation, I