Mr. Murder

reserved for herself and reached to the end table for the reproduction-antique telephone, which was both a working phone and an intercom to the reception lounge. She intended to ask Millie, her secretary, to send in Samantha and Sean Acheson, but the intercom buzzed before she lifted the receiver.
        "Marty's on line one, Paige."
        "Thank you, Millie." She pressed line one. "Marty?"
        He didn't respond.
        "Marty, are you there?" she asked, looking to see if she had punched the correct button.
        Line one was lit, but there was only silence on it.
        "Marty?"
        "I like the sound of your voice, Paige. So melodic."
        He sounded… odd.
        Her heart began to knock against her. ribs, and she struggled to suppress the fear that swelled in her. "What did the doctor say?"
        "I like your picture."
        "My picture?" she said, baffled.
        "I like your hair, your eyes."
        "Marty, I don't-"
        "You're what I need."
        Her mouth had gone dry. "Is something wrong?"
        Suddenly he spoke very fast, running sentences together, "I want to kiss you, Paige, kiss your breasts, hold you against me, make love to you, I will make you very happy, I want to be in you, it will be just like the movies, bliss."
        "Marty, honey, what-" He hung up, cutting her off.
        As surprised and confused as she was worried, Paige listened to the dial tone before returning the handset to the cradle.
        What the hell?
        It was two o'clock, and she doubted that his appointment with Guthridge had lasted an hour, therefore, he hadn't phoned her from the doctor's office. On the other hand, he wouldn't have had time to drive all the way home, which meant he had called her enroute.
        She lifted the handset and punched in the number of his car phone. He answered on the second ring, and she said, "Marty, what the hell's wrong?"
        "Paige?"
        "What was that all about?"
        "What was what all about?"
        "Kissing my breasts, for God's sake, just like the movies, bliss."
        He hesitated, and she could hear the faint rumble of the Ford's engine, which meant he was in transit. After a beat he said, "Kid, you've lost me."
        "A minute ago, you call here, acting as if-"
        "No. Not me."
        "You didn't call here?"
        "Nope."
        "Is this a joke?"
        "You mean, somebody called, said he was me?"
        "Yes, he-"
        "Did he sound like me?"
        "Yes."
        "Exactly like me?"
        Paige thought about that for a moment. "Well, not exactly. He sounded a lot like you and then… not quite like you. It's hard to explain."
        "I hope you hung up on him when he got obscene."
        "You-" She corrected herself, "He hung up first. Besides, it wasn't an obscene call."
        "Oh? What was that about kissing your breasts?"
        "Well, it didn't seem obscene 'cause I thought he was you."
        "Paige, refresh my memory-when was the last time I called you at work to talk about kissing your breasts?"
        She laughed. "Well… never, I guess," and when he laughed, too, she added, "but maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea now and then, liven up the day a little."
        "They are very kissable."
        "Thank you."
        "So's your tush."
        "You've got me blushing," she said, and it was true.
        "So's your-"
        "Now this is getting obscene," she said.
        "Yeah, but I'm the victim."
        "How do you figure?"
        "You called me and pretty much demanded that I talk dirty."
        "I guess I did. Women's liberation, you know."
        "Where will it all end?"
        A disturbing possibility had occurred to Paige, but she was reluctant to express it, Perhaps the call had been from Marty, made on his car phone while he was in a fugue state similar to the one on Saturday afternoon when he'd monotonously repeated those two words into a tape recorder for seven minutes and later had no memory of it.
        She suspected the same thought had just occurred to him because his sudden reticence matched hers.
        At last Paige broke the silence. "What- did Paul Guthridge have to say?"
        "He thinks it's probably stress."
        "Thinks?"
        "He's setting up tests for tomorrow or Wednesday."
        "But he wasn't worried?"
        "No. Or he pretended he wasn't."
        Paul's informal style was not reflected