Dial Me for Murder (14 page)

Aaargh!
I was in trouble so deep it was dismal.

Acting as cool and unperturbed as Grace Kelly in
To Catch a Thief,
I strolled across the room and sat down at my desk, turning my back on my gloating coworkers and burying my nose in a stack of invoices. I was freaked out about what was going on in Mr. Crockett’s office, but I’d have swallowed a live slug before letting Mike and Mario know the extent of my discomfort.

Pomeroy came out a few minutes later and marched up the aisle to my desk. “Mr. Crockett wants to see you in his office,” he growled. “
Now.
”

“Yes, sir,” I said, keeping a dozen curse words in my head and off my tongue. Rising to my feet and walking to the rear of the room, I felt like Marie Antoinette on the way to her execution. Would this moment mark the end of my hard-won
Daring Detective
career? Mike and Mario were both staring at me with barely disguised expressions of glee. They were lusting to see my head roll.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Crockett?” I said, coming to a stop in his open doorway.

“Yeah,” he snorted, taking a soggy cigar stub from his ashtray and relighting it. “Come in. Shut the door. Sit.”

I followed his instructions like a good little girl.

Crockett got straight to the point. “Pomeroy says you told Lenny to go home early yesterday.”

“That’s right,” I admitted. “He was very sick.”

“You knew it was deadline day?” One of his bushy white eyebrows was cocked to the hilt.

“Yes, I did, sir, but—”

“And you told him to take today off, too?” Crockett interrupted.

“Yes, sir. I spoke to his mother, and she said he was still sick, and—”

“You did the right thing,” he interrupted again.

“What?!” Were my ears deceiving me?

“I was gonna send Lenny home early myself, as soon as I got back from lunch, but I got detoured by our distributor and never made it back to the office.”

“So you’re not mad at me for what I did?”

“Nope. I’m glad. Lenny was in bad shape. He couldn’t work for beans. And I didn’t want the whole office getting sick.” He leaned back in his chair, chewing on his stinky cigar. “Pomeroy doesn’t feel the same way, though,” he added. “He wants me to fire you for insubordinate behavior. Said cousin Oliver wants it, too.”

“Oh,” I said, steeling myself for the worst. There was no point in arguing. If Pomeroy wanted me out because Harrington wanted me out, I was as good as gone.

“I’m not doin’ it, though,” Crockett croaked. “Not yet. I want to talk to Harrington first, see if that’s really what he wants. You’re the only real reporter we’ve got, and he’s been happy with your work in the past, so I’m not sure Pomeroy’s tellin’ the truth. How could Harrington even know about the Lenny thing when Pomeroy just found out about it himself?”

“Good question,” I said, adding nothing, keeping the
real
reason Harrington might want me fired closely under wraps. (Well, what was I supposed to do? Tell Crockett that
Daring Detective’s
distinguished owner and publisher might have murdered a prostitute? That he might want me given the axe just to keep me off the story? An allegation like that could cost me a hell of a lot more than my job!)

“So here’s what I want you to do,” Crockett said, squashing his cigar butt in the ashtray and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial grumble. “I want you to go back out there and
pretend
I gave you the boot. Act upset. Cry a little if you can. Pack up all your stuff, say your good-byes, and get out of here quick.

“Then you can take the rest of today and tomorrow off,” he went on. “That’ll make it
look
like I followed Harrington’s orders, and it’ll give me time to find out if the orders really came from
him.
I’ve got a hunch only Pomeroy’s to blame. Harrington knows you’re a good writer, and that you sell magazines, and I don’t believe he wants me to give you the sack. If it turns out I’m right, you can come back to work on Monday.”

“How will I know if you’re right?”

“I’ve got your number. I’ll give you a call over the weekend.” He sat back in his chair and shoved his stubby fingers through his thick white hair. “Go on, now. Get outta here. Act hurt and turn on the tears. Give the boys a good show.”

 
THE CRYING PART WAS EASY. I FELT SURE THAT I really
would
be fired, so I was truly distraught. The tears poured freely down my hot, humiliated cheeks. The saying good-bye part was hard, though. As much as I disliked (okay, detested) Pomeroy, Mike, and Mario, I knew I was going to miss them.

(In my case, familiarity always breeds as much fondness as contempt. Don’t ask me why. That’s just the way I am. And you want to know something else? I could tell from the sagging, less-than-satisfied smirks on my contemptible coworkers’ faces that they were going to miss me, too.)

It wasn’t until a little while later—after I’d dried my eyes, blown my nose, stuffed my few office belongings in a bag, and taken the elevator down to the lobby—that I realized how perfect the timing of my “firing” was. I was free as a bird for the rest of the day, and the whole day tomorrow, and the Saturday and Sunday after that. Except for the time I’d be spending with Dan (however much and whenever
that
turned out to be), I could devote all the rest of my waking hours to hunting down the sick creep who killed Virginia.

Lucky me.

Deciding to launch the next phase of my investigation immediately (i.e., before the thought of losing my job could set me adrift in a sea of self-pity), I darted over to the bank of pay phones on the far side of the lobby and dialed Sabrina. She answered after the first ring.

“Hi, Sabrina,” I said. “It’s me, Paige.”

“Yes, I know,” she stiffly replied. “I’d recognize that accusatorial tone anywhere.

“No, I’m calling to
apologize,
” I declared. “I’m really sorry about what I said on the phone last night. Please forgive me; I didn’t mean it. I was upset that you wouldn’t tell me why Virginia became a call girl, but I never once considered you a suspect in her murder.” (That was a little fib, you should know. I was still at the stage of suspecting
everybody.
)

“Thank you for your trust.” Her words were dripping with sarcasm.

Hoping to deflect her icy hostility, I quickly changed the subject. “I have some news for you,” I said. “My boss just gave me the rest of the afternoon and tomorrow off. Now I can focus all my energy on the case. For the next few days, anyway.”

“Good. There really is no time to spare.” She let out an elongated sigh. (Relief? Exhaustion? Annoyance? Boredom? I couldn’t tell.) “What progress have you made so far?”

Jeezmaneez!
She’d given me her list just yesterday afternoon! Was she impatient, or what?

“I met with the district attorney today,” I said, big chip balanced on my shoulder. “I asked him a few questions about murder. And about Virginia.”

That
got her attention. “What? I don’t believe it! You actually mentioned her name?”

“Yep. Twice.”

“What was his reaction?”

“The first time he acted dumb—like he didn’t know who I was talking about. The second time he gave a whole speech about Virginia’s murder that revealed he knew exactly who she was.”

“What do you mean by
exactly?
Did he mention the name Melody or discuss the fact that she was a call girl?”

“No. He recounted the exact details of her death, but didn’t say anything about her life.”

“Well, that doesn’t prove a thing!” she hissed. “Sam Hogarth
is
the DA, after all. It’s his
job
to know the particulars of current crimes. Especially homicides. It’s possible he hasn’t yet realized that Virginia and Melody were one and the same.”

“I’m well aware of that,” I said, ticked off by her scornful tone. “I was merely reporting what happened, not jumping to hasty conclusions.” I made a cross-eyed face at the receiver but managed not to groan out loud.

“So what’s next on your agenda?” she inquired, relentlessly pushing ahead. “Who will you interview this afternoon?”

In spite of her nosy aggression, I was glad she asked that question.

“I’m hoping to talk to Virginia’s best friends at the agency,” I said, “and I’d like to start with Jocelyn Fritz—aka Candy. But I thought I should check with you first. I need to know if you’ve told her about me. I mean, is she expecting me to make contact, or do I have to introduce myself and explain what I’m doing?”

Sabrina heaved another long-suffering sigh. “Of course I’ve told Candy about you! I’ve told Brigitte, too. They know you’re investigating the murder for me, and they will both give you their full cooperation, whenever you decide to get in touch with them.”

“Okay, then I’m set to go. Sit tight, Sabrina—you’ll be hearing from me soon.”

This time I was the first to hang up.

Chapter 13

I FOUND IT FITTING THAT SAKS FIFTH AVENUE, Manhattan’s most luxurious and celebrated department store, sits right next door to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the city’s most luxurious and celebrated church. Both establishments offer opulent refuge from the seedy outside world, and both give their worshippers plenty to pray for. And if your prayers aren’t answered in one place, they may be in the other (as long as you have an open spirit and an open wallet).

Praying that Jocelyn Fritz would be at work, I walked through the main entrance of Saks Fifth Avenue and headed for the gleaming wood-and-glass altar—I mean counter!—closest to the door. I had never been in Saks before (due to time and salary restrictions, I’m more of a Sears Roebuck girl), so I needed to ask for directions.

“May I help you?” said the tall, thin, elegantly dressed sales-woman standing behind the counter. Perfectly coiffed and made-up, she was smiling at me in the same way Sylvester smiles at Tweety—all teeth. “We have some lovely calfskin gloves on sale today,” she purred. “Or perhaps you’d like to see our new line of monogrammed coin purses? They’re fashioned from the finest Italian leather.”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I’m looking for the hat department. Can you tell me where it’s located?”

Her smile vanished in an instant. “We have two millinery departments,” she said with a sniff. “The custom-made hats can be found in the Salon Moderne on the third floor, and the factory-made hats—such as the red beret you’re wearing—are on display at the rear of the main floor.” She turned and pointed toward the back of the store, certain that I would be heading in that direction.

“Thank you,” I said, giving her a quick nod and making a beeline for the elevators.

Sabrina’s notes had said Jocelyn was an assistant hat
designer
, so I figured she would be in the Salon Moderne. Following two pearl-laden, sable-coated matrons, I pranced into the wood-paneled self-service elevator and pushed the button for 3. The furry ladies got off on 2 and the car resumed its climb. When it reached the third floor, an ethereal bell sounded and the doors whooshed open. Then I stepped out of the elevator and entered Never-Never Land.

I had read about the ritzy Salon Moderne in Dorothy Kilgallen’s gossip column, so I knew that “everybody who
was
anybody” liked to shop there. Marlene Dietrich, Edith Piaf, Claudette Colbert, Irene Dunne, Estée Lauder, Mrs. E. F. Hut-ton, Betsy Bloomingdale, Mrs. Pierre Du Pont, Mrs. Darryl Zanuck—they were all, according to Dorothy, Salon Moderne regulars.

Nobody who was anybody was here now, though. I was, in fact, the only person (okay, nobody) in the place. Straightening the collar of my camel’s hair jacket and hugging my bag of office belongings close to my chest, I ventured deeper into the salon.

The receiving room, or reception area, or showroom (or whatever you want to call it) of the Salon Moderne looked as though it had been transplanted from the Palace of Versailles. The doors, floor, shelves, and ceiling were edged with intricately carved wood moldings, and the walls were covered with pale blue damask that seemed to be hand-embroidered (but what would
I
know about that?). The silvery blue carpet was so thick I felt like I was walking on a cloud.

Four headless, armless mannequins were prominently positioned around the room, each modeling a fancy designer dress. Their heads had been placed on separate pedestals and topped with flamboyant custom-made hats. I wondered what they’d done with the arms.

“Welcome to the Salon Moderne,” said a throaty female voice behind me.

Startled, I turned to face a tall, willowy blonde who had managed to enter the room and walk over to me without making a sound. Wearing a pale blue suit, a ruffled white silk blouse, and an enormous sapphire brooch, she looked to be in her late thirties.

“My name is Sophia. I’m the director here. How may I help you?” she asked, making a quick study of my somewhat-less-than-elegant (okay, cheesy) appearance. I could tell she thought I’d wandered into the salon by mistake. “Do you have an appointment with one of our designers?”

“No appointment,” I said. “I came to see Jocelyn Fritz, an assistant designer in your hat department. Would it be possible for me to speak with her for a few minutes? I’m her cousin Paige from Idaho. I just got into town today.”

Sophia bought my story on the spot. (She probably thought the brown paper bag I was clutching to my breast was full of potatoes.) “I’ll see if Miss Fritz is in,” she said, turning and walking toward one of the ornate doors leading to the inner sanctum. “Please wait here.”

 
A GOOD TEN MINUTES LATER—AFTER I’D WORN tracks in the carpet and studied every flower, bow, tuft of tulle, and bird wing on every silly hat in the place—another tall, willowy woman appeared. This one was younger, prettier, and more sophisticated-looking. Her long, light brown hair was styled in a sleek pageboy, and she wore a simple, formfitting black wool sheath.

“Come with me, Paige,” she said, as she whisked right by me and strode toward the exit. “They gave me only a fifteen-minute break.” The scent of Chanel No. 5 wafted in her wake.