By Amanda Matetsky
Crime reporter and secret novelist Paige Turner is calling into the homicide of a tender secretary whose bare physique was once present in principal Park—with the knowledge among herself and the police that Paige retains her unique research off the checklist and out of the pages of bold Detective.
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Extra info for Dial Me for Murder (Paige Turner Mysteries)
I asked. ” “God, no. ” “A glass of water? ” “Nothing, Paige. ” Giving me a sad excuse for a smile, Lenny turned away and slunk down the aisle to the deepest recesses of the workroom. As he passed the open door to Mr. Crockett’s office, he muttered a quick hello, then sat down at his drawing table. Propping his elbows on the table and resting his head in his hands, he let out a moan that could have been heard in Hoboken. Poor Lenny. He was sick as a dog, with a major deadline looming—like the blade of a guillotine—over him.
He removed his black-rimmed glasses, wiped the lenses with his muffler, then returned the spectacles to their off-kilter perch on his large, distinctive nose. ” he said, aiming his bloodshot eyes at me. “It’s as hot as a steam bath in here. ” His feet were firmly planted on the floor, but the rest of his thin body was swaying like a willow in the wind. “Nope. I set the knob in its usual position. But you know what, Lenny? I think you’re turned up too high. Your face is still flaming. ” “Uh, yeah, I guess so,” he said, slowly stumbling across the room and looping his hat, muffler, and jacket on the coat tree.
The country was also still reeling over the tragic death of actor James Dean, who had crashed his beloved Porsche Spyder into a tree in California just five days ago. A lengthy article about this shocking event appeared on page 3 of the Tribune, complete with a rehashed accident report and numerous mournful statements by the young star’s grieving fans. (I didn’t read the article all the way through, I must admit. ) Finding nothing homicidal—or even very interesting—on page 4, I turned my attention to page 5.