Dial Me for Murder Read Online Free PDF

the newspapers, reading and rereading all four articles about Virginia Pratt (no photos or new information in the News or the Times ), making Mr. Crockett’s restaurant reservation, filing stock shots, approving invoices, correcting all the grammatical mistakes in Mike’s latest story, and begging the hands of the office clock to move faster. I was itching to make my lunch hour getaway before Brandon Pomeroy came in . . . which was not an impossible dream, you should know. Pomeroy often shunned the office until later in the day, after his own lunch (his customary repast of olives, peanuts, and at least three very dry martinis) had been consumed.
    But my booze-loving boss must not have been very thirsty that morning. He strolled into the office at eleven forty-five—a good fifteen minutes before my lunch hour was due to begin— and he was stone-cold sober.
    My heart was sinking, but I managed to keep my sprightly tone afloat. “Good morning, Mr. Pomeroy,” I chirped, watching him remove his gray felt fedora and custom-tailored overcoat and carefully arrange them on the coat tree.
    “Good morning,” he replied, but you could tell he didn’t mean it. Not the “good” part, anyway. There was a deep black frown on his pale, funereal face. “Are there any messages for me?”
    “No, sir,” I said, wondering why he thought there would be. Pomeroy rarely received any calls at the office because (a) he was hardly ever there, and (b) he was so impersonal—and did so little actual work—that he seldom dealt directly with any of the magazine’s contributors or suppliers.
    “Expecting an important phone call, sir?” I asked, thinking that might be the reason he came to work so early (and letting my naturally snoopy self come out to play).
    “That’s none of your concern, Mrs. Turner,” he said, still scowling. “You’re required to write down every message I receive, whether I’m expecting it or not.” Holding his spine erect and his snotty nose in the air, Pomeroy strode deeper into the workroom and sat down at his desk. He took one of his precious Dunhill pipes out of the top drawer and filled it with Cuban tobacco (“the finest money can buy,” he liked to boast), then leaned back in his cushy leather chair.
    “Bring me some coffee,” he said. “Black.”
    I was shocked out of my seamed silk stockings. Pomeroy never (and I do mean never ) drank the office coffee. He had declared it to be substandard (I believe the actual word he used was “putrid”), and he’d sworn a public oath that the distasteful stuff would never pass his lips. That didn’t bother me one bit, I admit—the less coffee consumed, the less I had to make and serve. Besides, I had always suspected that Pomeroy’s aversion had nothing to do with taste, and everything to do with caffeine (which diminishes the intoxicating effects of gin, don’t ya know).
    “Black coffee coming up, sir,” I said, rising to get him a cup and wondering what had brought about the dramatic change in Pomeroy’s behavior. Is he sick? I questioned myself. Is he nursing a bad hangover? Has his doctor told him to stay off the sauce? Or does he have some special reason for wanting to stay alert?
    I knew he hadn’t renounced his martinis and rushed to the office just because of the art department’s deadline. That wasn’t his style. Pomeroy was strictly a get-soused-now, crack-the-whip-at-the-last-minute kind of guy. Besides, he hadn’t even said hello to Mario or Lenny, much less gone back to their desks to check on their progress.
    Something else, I sensed, was afoot. Something unusual, or downright weird, or maybe even sinister. For a moment I wondered if he had skipped his so-called lunch just so he could come in early and force me to skip mine! (That sounds a little paranoid, I know, but I wouldn’t have put it past him.)
    “Here you are, sir,” I said, setting the coffee on his desk and lingering there for a second, studying his sullen face for