Page 19 of A Meeting In The Ladies' Room

“Jackie, I was just thinking about you. Did you know that woman who was killed yesterday morning?”

“Richard, it was my boss who was killed.”

His jaw dropped. “The one you went to see on Saturday?”

“Yes. It’s awful. I’m surprised Paul didn’t tell you.”

“He called me yesterday but this place was so crowded, I didn’t have time to talk. I heard about the murder on the radio this morning and when they said she worked in book publishing, I figured you might know her, but damn, I never expected this.”

“Richard, I really want to take a look at the papers,” I answered impatiently.

“Yeah . . . sure . . . are you hungry?”

It had been more than twenty-four hours since I’d last had anything to eat. I ordered pancakes and orange juice and opened the Comet. Richard yelled my request to his cook, seized the News, and we buried ourselves in stories of Annabelle’s life and premature death.

PUBLISHING EXECUTIVE FOUND STRANGLED, read the Comet headline. The paper reported that Annabelle Welburn Murray, publisher of Welburn Books and daughter of the late John Welburn who had inherited the illustrious publishing house from his parents thirty years before, was strangled sometime before nine-thirty Monday morning. Her sister, noted Park Avenue decorator Sarah Jane Welburn, discovered the body, fully clothed, in a bathroom of the sumptuous penthouse. “There were signs of a desperate struggle and Mrs. Murray fought hard for her life,” Detective Marcus Gilchrist of the NYPD was quoted as saying.

The story went on to say that there was no sign of forced entry and police had no suspects.

My hands were shaking so badly, the newspaper fluttered to the floor. Up until then, I had assumed that Annabelle was attacked on her way to work, but now it seemed that the killer had struck only minutes after I left her apartment. If I had stayed just a little longer, there might have been two dead bodies in the morgue right now instead of one.

Richard caught me just as the room began to sway.

9

GOOD-BYE

The torrent of media interest, which accompanies any murder of someone rich or famous, overwhelmed the staff of Welburn Books. Our offices were flooded with calls and e-mails from journalists, television producers, a couple of film companies, and radio news directors. When members of the Black Pack called, I gave them what little information I had, but each r

epresentative of the media who managed to get me on the phone only received a terse “no comment” for their trouble.

It was only natural that the workers began to panic once the initial shock of Annabelle’s death wore off. Pam Silberstein popped in one afternoon wearing a crisp navy blue suit and black pumps. She closed the door behind her and plopped down into a chair. “I’ve just come from my first job interview in more than twenty years. It was arduous.”

“Where did you interview?”

“Can’t tell you that, kiddo, but I suggest you get moving, too.”

I shrugged. “One of the other Welburns will take Annabelle’s place.”

“I doubt that. When her father died, she was the only one who had any interest in the company. The Welburns will sell it.”

After that conversation, I told Paul to start leaking the word that I might be available to speak with interested parties. The week went by so fast that I didn’t have too much time to obsess over Victor’s disinterest in fondling the most precious part of my body—the part he had so callously referred to as THAT.

Since Annabelle had come to such a terrible end, it was very selfish of me to worry about how the tragedy would affect my own life or career. I should call Craig and ask if he needed me to help him in any way. My feelings about his book weren’t important. He had loved his wife and now had to bury her and raise their bewildered and heartbroken child alone. But every time I called, someone would answer and say that he was not home or too grief-stricken to come to the phone. One morning I turned on the TV while I was getting dressed for work. A stony-faced newscaster said

“Police are still investigating the murder of Annabelle Welburn Murray at her luxurious apartment in The Dakota last Monday morning.

Dakota residents interviewed say that they have not seen any suspicious activity in or around the building and officials admit that they have no leads. However, police are reviewing video surveillance tapes of the area.”

Annabelle’s funeral was held the following Tuesday at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel on Madison Avenue. According to the morning newscast, a veritable Who’s Who of American industry were expected to be among the mourners.

Four gigantic bunches of pink roses surrounded the altar which held Annabelle’s closed white casket. Every seat in the place was filled with her family and friends, leaving the Welburn employees to stand in the back.

I was flanked by Pam and Astrid. The three of us wept softly throughout the short service. Annabelle had been a good person and she didn’t deserve to come to such a horrible end. As the tears poured down my cheeks, I wished fervently that whoever murdered her was caught by sundown and electrocuted by morning.

There was only one eulogy, given by a distinguished-looking, elderly gentleman who spoke succinctly yet with feeling about Annabelle’s life and the sorrow that now held her family captive. As a soloist burst into what sounded like an aria, I glimpsed another Black face in the room. It was Victor. I twisted and turned to get a better look until Pam gave me a disapproving glance.

Another musical selection followed, and then it was over.

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