Dial Me for Murder (11 page)

“Not likely,” he said, putting on his jacket and trench coat, then setting his hat at a slanted, sexy angle on his head. “I’m looking into a string of Mafia hits right now. There’s a mob war going on. I have to track down and question some of Frank Costello’s boys, and they never come out to play until after midnight. By the time I knock off, you’ll be drifting in dreamland.”

I wished.

Dan walked over to the door and opened it. Then he turned around and opened his arms to me. “Come say good night, Gracie,” he grunted, doing a really dopey imitation of George Burns.

I flew into his embrace, rose to my tiptoes, and lifted my lips to meet his, swooning with relief that our evening was ending with a kiss instead of a fight—and that my top-secret pact with Sabrina was still a big secret from Dan.

Chapter 9

I HADN’T HAD ANY DINNER, BUT I DIDN’T care. Food was the last thing on my mind. My coffee was stone-cold, but I didn’t care about that, either. All I wanted was to unravel the murder of Virginia Pratt—fast!—before Dan could discover what I was up to, forbid me to become further involved, get himself assigned to the case, and then find himself in serious (perhaps deadly) trouble with one (or all!) of Sabrina’s suspect clients.

I poured my coffee down the drain and quickly cleared the kitchen table. Then I grabbed my purse off the chair and pulled out the list. Unfolding it to the second page—which was crammed with much more information than the first—I began pacing from one end of my apartment to the other, reading and analyzing every word Sabrina had written about Brigitte and Candy, Virginia’s two best friends at the agency.

Brigitte’s real name was Ethel Maguire. She was a married nineteen-year-old nursing student, and she lived in Hell’s Kitchen with her husband, Ralph, who was twenty years her senior and so crippled from polio he was confined to a wheelchair. Ethel bathed and fed her husband every morning and then left him in the care of the elderly woman next door while—in noble pursuit of her chosen career—she attended classes at the Hunter College School of Nursing on East 68th Street. At night—after she’d given her husband his dinner, helped him get undressed, and tucked him safely into bed—Ethel transformed herself into Brigitte (so named by Sabrina because of her resemblance to screen sex kitten Brigitte Bardot). She slipped into a slinky dress, put on a pouty face, let down her long blonde hair, and went to work. Clever Brigitte. She had found a way to satisfy her deep personal desires and her demanding creditors at the same time.

Candy’s real name was Jocelyn Fritz. She was twenty-four years old, single, an assistant designer in the hat salon at Saks Fifth Avenue, and a confirmed gold digger. All she wanted out of life was to marry a millionaire and curl up in the lap of luxury and leisure. Jocelyn had become one of Sabrina’s girls in 1952, when she first moved to New York from Idaho and discovered that living in Manhattan cost a heck of a lot more than living in Boise. And then—even after landing her respectable, fairly well-paying job at Saks—she remained with the agency. She felt an ongoing need to (a) meet and mingle with Sabrina’s wealthy clients, (b) acquire and maintain a dazzling, millionaire-worthy wardrobe, and (c) pay the sky-high weekly rental on her private suite at the Barbizon Hotel for Women. According to Sabrina, Jocelyn liked coming home after a hard night’s work to a clean, roomy residence where no men were allowed.

Grabbing a Dr. Pepper from the fridge and a Pall Mall from Abby’s pack, I went into the living room and switched on the radio. Dean Martin was singing “Memories Are Made of This.” His voice was sort of soothing (and God knows I
needed
soothing), so I left the dial set where it was and sat down on the end of the couch closer to the phone. Then I took a swig of the soda pop, fired up the cigarette, and—steeling myself against the disturbing, sorrowful details to come—read the lengthy profile Sabrina had written about Virginia.

Virginia Pratt had been incredibly beautiful and incredibly young (twenty, by Sabrina’s account), unmarried, and a secretary at the accounting firm of Gilbert, Mosher, Pechter & Slom, just as the newspapers had reported. She had worked at this firm
not
because she needed the money (her earnings as a call girl easily quadrupled her meager salary as a secretary), but because the head of the firm, Paul Gilbert, was her uncle, and if she’d ever tried to quit the job, he—as well as her strict, controlling parents in Vermont—would have become suspicious, and asked a lot of questions, and begun monitoring her every move. And if they’d ever found out what she
really
did for a living, they’d have had her spirited away, fitted for a straitjacket, and locked up in a sanitarium.

In order to keep her secret life as secret as possible, Virginia had lived alone—in a fairly new, but quite reasonable, apartment in Peter Cooper Village on the Lower East Side. Though the Peter Cooper apartments had been built as affordable housing for World War II veterans and their families, Sabrina had called in a favor from one of her big real estate clients and seen to it that Virginia’s name was put at the top of the three-to-five-year waiting list. Six days later a shell-shocked vet and his wife moved out, and Virginia—aka Melody—moved in.

She never got to spend much time in her new apartment, however—working night and day the way she did—but whenever Virginia
was
at home, and not grabbing some much-needed sleep, she had rehearsed her music. She practiced scales on the guitar, exercised her perfect soprano voice, and stayed up into the wee hours of the morning playing and singing the lovely folk songs she composed. To hear Sabrina tell it, Virginia wanted one thing, and one thing only: to become a successful singer/songwriter—and her talents were so exceptional she was sure to hit that target someday.

I could see why Sabrina had given Virginia the name Melody, but I couldn’t understand why Virginia had gone to work for Sabrina in the first place. She must have needed a lot of money—but what had she needed it
for?
She didn’t have Candy’s overly expensive tastes, or an invalid husband like Brigitte’s to support. With her simple, unassuming, unfettered lifestyle, Virginia could have gotten by on the salary her uncle paid her. And she would have come
much
closer to achieving her singing and songwriting goals if—instead of working nights as a call girl—she had spent the time performing in the Village coffeehouses and clubs, building an audience and making a name for herself. The
Billboard
charts were studded with songbirds who’d flown to the top in just that way.

So the burning question was: Why had Virginia taken the low road?

Sabrina surely knew the answer, but she hadn’t revealed it in her notes—a conspicuous omission which led me to wonder what
else
she had neglected to tell me.

I looked at my watch. It was 2:30 AM. I glanced down at the phone number written at the bottom of the list: GRamercy 5- 6003—Sabrina’s private line. She had said I could call her anytime, night or day. Without a moment’s hesitation (except for the split second it took me to down another dose of Dr. Pepper), I picked up the phone and dialed.

 
SABRINA ANSWERED AFTER TWO RINGS. “HELLO?” Her voice was alert and clear, with an edge as sharp as a switch-blade.

“It’s Paige, Sabrina. I hope I didn’t wake you up.” I said this even though she didn’t sound the least bit sleepy.

“You didn’t,” she said. “I never go to bed before three.”

“Why so late?”

“I stay up until all of my girls have phoned in to report they’re home safe.”

“Oh,” I said, thinking that was a nice thing for her to do. More motherly than madamly (unless she had also been tracking how much money she’d made for the evening). “How many, er, girls do you have in all?”

“Twenty-two,” she said. “No . . . wait. That’s wrong. That was the number before. Now that Melody’s gone, it’s just twenty-one.” Her voice had lost its edge and turned as doleful as a dirge.

“I see,” I mumbled, sorry that I’d brought Sabrina down. I wanted to get her talking about Melody/Virginia, but in a confessional rather than a mournful manner. “Where’s Charlotte?” I blurted, hastening to change the sad subject (and simultaneously probing for info on the mysterious dark-skinned domestic).

“What?” Sabrina was shocked by the question. “Why in the world do you want to know where Charlotte is?”

“Well, I don’t, really,” I lied. “It’s just that I thought she was a live-in maid, and I expected her to answer the phone.”

“This is my private line. No one answers it but me.”

“I guess you’re wondering why I called,” I said.

“No, I knew you would.”

“Huh?”

“I knew once you’d studied my list and given it some serious thought, you’d lose your nerve and try to back out of our deal.”

“I have
not
lost my nerve!” I sputtered, hoping that saying the words aloud would make them true. “And I’m not backing out of anything.” (That much
was
true. I’ve never been a quitter in my life, and I didn’t intend to become one now—no matter how much I wanted to turn tail and head for the hills.)

“I’m glad to hear that,” Sabrina said, with a haughty sniff. “Because you’re my only hope. You’re the only one I can trust.”

“Yes, but can I trust
you?
”

A long, tense silence ticked by before Sabrina spoke. “What, exactly, do you mean by that? Are you questioning my integrity?” She sounded mad.

“Not really. It’s just that I feel you’re holding something back—that you’re not telling me everything I need to know.”

Another heavy silence.

“And I don’t like being kept in the dark, Sabrina. It makes me jumpy. I don’t do my best work when I’m jumpy.” I was shocked by my stern, commanding tone. Was that really
me
speaking? When did I become so authoritative?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sabrina insisted. “I’ve been very open with you. I’ve given you all the pertinent facts—even those which could be most harmful to me.”

“No, I’m quite sure you haven’t,” I said, standing my ground. “You haven’t told me, for instance, how a beautiful, overprotected, unencumbered young woman from Vermont—a very sweet soul with outstanding musical talents, a decent job, and a supportive uncle—happened to become a high-priced call girl.”

I waited for a response, but Sabrina didn’t say a word.

“And I need to have a full and immediate explanation, Sabrina,” I barreled on. “Without it, my hands are tied. I need
all
the bread crumbs to follow the trail. I feel certain that the reason Virginia became a prostitute is directly and conclusively linked to the reason she was murdered.” (I wasn’t
certain
of anything, of course. I just used the word for dramatic purposes—to get a rise out of Sabrina.)

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” Sabrina said. Her tone was angry and adamant. “Virginia joined my agency for very private, very personal reasons which had nothing at all to do with her death. Nothing whatsoever. You have my word on that.”

“I’d rather have the facts.”

Sabrina heaved a loud sigh. “I won’t say anything more on this point, Paige. Seriously. I promised Melody—or Virginia, as you seem to prefer—that I would never, under any circumstances, reveal her true motives to anyone. And I swear to God I never will.”

“Even though it could help me catch her killer?”

“But it won’t!” Sabrina shrieked, losing the last shred of her icy composure. “How can I get that into your stubborn head? Melody’s motive for becoming an escort had absolutely nothing to do with her murder. Nothing, nothing,
nothing
! I know this for a fact because
I’m
the only one who knows the whole story. Melody never confided in anyone but
me.
”

“Oh, really?” I said, temper and suspicions rising. “Then I guess
your
name will have to be added to the prime suspect list.”

This time the silence was deafening. I mashed the receiver tight to my ear, straining to pick up any word or sound, but all I could hear was a slight, almost imperceptible click, then the whooshing in and out of my own breath.

Sabrina had hung up.

Chapter 10

FOUR HOURS OF FITFUL SLEEP, A LONG, HOT shower, and a forty-five-minute subway ride later, I was back at the office brewing coffee, eating a buttered English muffin at my desk, and combing the pages of the morning newspapers for more articles about Virginia. There were new write-ups about the murder in every paper (including the ones owned by Oliver Rice Harrington) but not a single photo of the victim or scrap of new information. The reports were just sensationalized recaps— yesterday’s news rehashed with an emphasis on the more lurid aspects of the crime; they could have come straight out of
Daring Detective.

As I was refolding the papers and arranging them in a neat stack for Mr. Crockett (
Daily News
on top, the way he liked it), the phone rang. Thinking it might be Sabrina calling to apologize for her rude behavior and divulge all her fiercely guarded secrets about Virginia, I snatched up the receiver in a hurry.

“
Daring Detective,
” I croaked, dispensing with my usual spiel.

“Hellohh? Hellohhhh?” The voice—not Sabrina’s—was female, nervous, and reminiscent of Gertrude Berg’s (the actress who used to play Molly Goldberg on the radio, and still does on TV).

“Yes, hello,” I said, speaking softly, trying to put the caller at ease. “This is
Daring Detective
magazine. How may I help you?”

“Don’t be meshuga. A magazine can’t talk.”

“You’re right, of course,” I said, smiling. “I meant to say this is the
office
of
Daring Detective
magazine.

“
Oy!
Are you trying to trick me? I know what’s an office, and it can’t talk, either.”

“Yes, well . . .” I was at a sudden loss for words.