Murder is a Girl's Best Friend Read Online Free

me a supercilious sneer and said, “It’s a bit early for lunch, Mrs. Turner. Twelve minutes early, to be exact. I hope you have a good reason for going out so soon.” The look on his face told me I’d better have a good reason.
    “I do, sir,” I said. (Pomeroy was only six years older than I was, but from my first day on the job he had insisted that I call him “sir.” And treat him like a titled duke. And since he was a genuine blood relation of the owner of Daring Detective —the outrageously wealthy and powerful publishing magnate Oliver Rice Harrington—I knew it was in my own best interests to comply.) “I have to meet a friend of my late husband’s,” I told him. “Someone who served with Bob in Korea. He’s going to be in town for just a few hours.”
    Mike, Mario, and Lenny all looked up from their work, suddenly interested in the conversation. Fully aware that we were being watched, Pomeroy leaned back in his chair and shot a meaningful glance at the big round clock on the wall. Then he lowered his bullet eyes and trained them on another target—my face. “You have my permission to go,” he said, glaring at me through the glittering lenses of his expensive horn-rimmed glasses, “but see that you’re back by twelve forty-eight. On the dot.”
    “Yes, sir,” I said, smiling like an angel, successfully resisting the urge to give him a mock Heil Hitler salute. I was annoyed by Pomeroy’s strict time limit, but not terribly concerned about making (okay, breaking ) it. I knew he’d never know what time I came back to the office. He wouldn’t be back from his own lunch—his regular belly-to-the-bar repast of peanuts, olives, and gin—until at least two or two-thirty.
    All eyes watched me leave (okay, flee ) the office. I hurried down the hall to the elevators, buttoning my coat up tight around my neck, preparing to face the cold. As I stood waiting for an elevator to arrive, two young women strolled through the glass-walled reception area of Orchid Publications (the largest suite of offices on our floor), then pushed their way through the heavy glass doors and joined me in the hall. They were both dressed in the usual Orchid Publications style—form-fitting suits with tight sheath skirts, ruffled pastel blouses, white gloves, seamed silk stockings, stilettos, and they both carried large leather clutch bags. They had on their hats, but not their coats, so I figured they were going down to lunch in the lobby coffee shop.
    They began chatting immediately—to each other but not to me.
    “I can’t decide on a title for that story,” one of them said. “I might use ‘My Lover Got Me Pregnant on My Best Friend’s Kitchen Floor!’ How does that sound?”
    “Has a nice ring to it,” the other one said. “But shouldn’t it be a little racier? You could change the word Kitchen to Bedroom.”
    “But then I’d have to change the whole story, too. And besides, isn’t the kitchen racier than the bedroom? I mean, one expects people to have sex in the bedroom.”
    “Yes, I guess so. But I still don’t like the word Kitchen in the title. It makes me think of dirty aprons and greasy pots and pans. And I don’t like Pregnant, either. That’s the un sexiest word in the whole English language!”
    The first one laughed. “I see what you mean. Maybe I’ll just go back to my original title: ‘Raped After Dinner by My Best Friend’s Husband!’ ”
    “Better,” the other one said. “Much better. ”
    The elevator came and we all stepped in.
    In case you’re wondering, Orchid Publications was the largest publisher of grade B (some would say trashy ) women’s periodicals in the country. They put out a slew of confession magazines (in which department my two elevator mates were obviously employed), and they published tons of movie, gossip, beauty, and horoscope magazines. They also published Daring Detective, but this fact had always been kept a deep dark secret—both from the industry in