Dial Me for Murder (20 page)

I nodded in mournful agreement and took a sip of my coffee. “Do you have any insights or suspicions that could help me identify her killer?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Do you know why Melody became a call girl?”

“No, I don’t. I’m quite friendly with all of the girls, but I don’t pry into their private lives. That’s the way Sabrina wants it. She insists that we keep our personal and family histories secret, locked in the past, where they belong. We don’t even know each other’s real names. Sabrina knows everything about all of us, of course, but she doesn’t share that information with anybody.”

I wasn’t surprised to learn that Charlotte wasn’t her real name (I
told
you it was an alias, didn’t I?), but I
was
caught off balance to hear her talking as though she were one of Sabrina’s call girls.

“What are you trying to tell me, Charlotte? Are you a prostitute, too?”

“Not anymore,” she said, looking me straight in the eye.

“But you used to be?”

“Yes.” Her gaze remained steady and intense.

“Did you work for Sabrina?”

“I wasn’t that lucky,” she said. “I worked for the meanest, most brutal pimp in Harlem. It’s a miracle I survived. If Sabrina hadn’t saved me, I’d have been planted in the dirt long before Melody.”

“You were
saved
by Sabrina?” I blurted, crazy for more information. “What happened? How did you meet her? What did she do?”

Charlotte paused, took another puff on her cigarette, and stared out the window for a few silent seconds. Then she turned and looked me in the eye again. “I shouldn’t be talking about this,” she murmured. “Sabrina says it’s not good for me to brood about the past. I have to focus all my thoughts and energy on the future. And if I reveal any more facts about my former life, I’ll be breaking Sabrina’s rule of secrecy.”

“But I really need your help, Charlotte,” I pleaded, pulling out all the emotional stops. “I’ve been working on this case nonstop since the day I came here for lunch, and I’m getting nowhere! I’ve interviewed one of the major suspects, and Brigitte and Candy have answered all my questions, and I’m
still
floundering around in the dark. I can’t see where I’m going, and I don’t know which road to take next.”

“But how can
I
help you?” she wanted to know. “What does my past, or my relationship with Sabrina, have to do with Melody’s murder?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe those particulars are significant, and maybe they aren’t. The point is, I have to gather all the details I possibly can, to understand the big picture. And the tiniest scrap of information could turn out to be the most important clue.” I took another sip of my coffee, staring intently at her over the rim of my cup.

“Well, okay, then,” Charlotte gave in. “I’ll tell you whatever I can. I liked and respected Melody very much, and I’m praying that you’ll catch her killer, and—in spite of Sabrina’s strict secrecy demands—I believe she’d want me to help you in your investigation.”

“Good!” I exclaimed, jumping to seal the bargain before she could change her mind. “Then let’s start with—”

A loud
bzzzzzzz
cut the tail off my sentence.

“That’s Sabrina,” Charlotte said, quickly crushing her cigarette in the ashtray and getting up from the table. “She wants me to fix her breakfast now.”

Chapter 20

“WANT SOME EGGS?” CHARLOTTE ASKED, TAKING a carton out of the refrigerator and placing it on the counter near the stove. “Sabrina likes them poached, on toast. How about you?”

“I’d love some!” I croaked, stomach growling. “And poached would be fine. But what about Sabrina? Will she be upset if she finds me in her kitchen?”

“No, she always has breakfast in her room. And after that it takes her at least an hour to bathe and dress. You can stay if you’d like, and have something to eat while we continue our conversation.”

Was this my lucky day, or what?

“I’ll tell Sabrina that you’re here, of course,” Charlotte went on, “and that I’m trying to help you in your investigation. Do you want to talk to her, too? If so, I’ll ask if she can see you after breakfast.

“Thanks, Charlotte!” I said, grinning like Bucky Beaver in the Ipana toothpaste ads. “I
do
want to talk to Sabrina. And I’m so famished I could eat a horse, though poached eggs would be preferable.”

“Coming right up,” she said, moving around the kitchen, setting a pot of water on the burner to boil, putting two slices of bread in the toaster.

Food questions settled, my hunger for clues returned. “When and where did you and Sabrina meet?” I asked, hoping Charlotte could cook and talk at the same time.

“It was about seven years ago, when we were both in the hospital,” she said, setting a place mat, napkin, and silverware on the serving cart near the kitchen door. “I had been beaten up by my pimp, and she had been beaten up by her husband. We arrived in the emergency room at the same time. I had several broken ribs and a broken arm; she had a dislocated shoulder and a fractured leg. After they patched us up, they put us in the same room for a few days. The ward was full, and Sabrina graciously agreed to share her semiprivate accommodations with a colored woman.”

“Is that how she ‘saved’ you?” I asked.

“That was just
one
of the ways.” Charlotte cracked four eggs and slipped them gently into the simmering water. “She also took me with her when we left the hospital, saving me from Sonny ‘The Blade’ Marino, the gangster who swore he’d slash my throat if I didn’t obey my pimp and earn my keep.” The toast popped up, and she put each piece on a porcelain plate trimmed with pink and gold roses. “I owe Sabrina my life.”

“Did you become a call girl for her after you left the hospital?”

“No. She wasn’t a madam then. She was just a woman on the run from a husband who liked to beat her up for fun. She has the scars to prove it, not to mention a permanent limp.” Charlotte filled two glasses with fresh-squeezed orange juice, placing one on the serving cart for Sabrina and one on the table for me.

“So where did you go? Where did you live?”

“We hid out at the Gramercy Park Hotel for a few weeks while our broken bones healed and Sabrina got her affairs in order. That’s when I began masquerading as her maid. The hotel wouldn’t admit Negro guests, but they
did
accept the Negro servants of their white guests. While we were staying at the hotel, Sabrina noticed that an apartment in this building was available for rent. She looked at it, liked it, and signed the lease the same day. We’ve been here ever since.” Scooping the eggs out of the water one by one, Charlotte drained them and placed two on each piece of toast.

“So you’re not really a maid?” I asked. “You’re just masquerading as one?”

“No, I really
am
one now. By choice. I like cooking and cleaning and making things nice for Sabrina. She takes good care of me, and I take good care of her. I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life. Not only has Sabrina given me a beautiful room of my own, three square meals a day, a closet full of nice clothes, and a very good salary, but she has also tutored me in math, reading, manners, grammar, and diction. I’m a brand-new person. I could get a decent job most anywhere now. I won’t have to sell my body to any man ever again.”

Grinning widely, Charlotte put a plate of eggs in front of me, plus a small cup of fresh strawberries and some extra toast, butter, and jam. Thanking her profusely, I watched as she arranged identical dishes on the serving cart, along with a carafe of hot coffee. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said, nimbly maneuvering the laden cart through the swinging kitchen door and gliding swanlike down the hall.

 
I HAD CONSUMED EVERY CRUMB OF MY BREAKFAST by the time Charlotte returned. (I’m such a pig sometimes.) As it turned out, though, it was a good thing I had eaten so fast.

“Sabrina wants to see you now,” Charlotte said. “Without delay.”

“But, why?” I asked, reluctant to leave the cozy kitchen and venture into the lioness’s den. “Doesn’t she want to bathe and dress first?”

“Apparently not. She told me to bring you to her room right away.”

“Is she annoyed that I’m here?”

“I don’t think so. Why would she be? I think she’s just eager to hear what you’ve learned about the murder.”

“Well, in that case. . . .” I stood up and stuck my feet in my shoes.

“Come,” Charlotte said, heading for the door and gesturing for me to follow. “I’ll show you the way.”

She led me back to the foyer, then across a large, beautifully furnished living room, then down a dimly lit corridor to the partially open door of Sabrina’s bedroom. Opening the door wide enough for both of us to enter, Charlotte stepped over the threshold and signaled for me to do the same. “Paige is here, Sabrina,” she said, no longer addressing her patron, or colleague, or benefactor, or friend as “mum.” (I had the feeling that title was reserved for use in front of strangers . . . or anyone who might disapprove of their cozy interracial relationship.)

“Good morning, Paige,” Sabrina said. “Come in and sit down.”

There were only two chairs in the big lavender bedroom, and Sabrina was sitting in one of them, so I walked over and parked myself in the other.

“You can get dressed now, Charlotte,” Sabrina said, smiling. “I’ll buzz you if we need anything.”

Charlotte nodded and left the inner sanctum, closing the door behind her.

Sabrina’s smile vanished instantly. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m not dressed and haven’t finished my breakfast,” she said, voice saturated with scorn. “You can’t expect me to be presentable, since you didn’t have the courtesy to let me know you were coming. If you had informed me of your plans, I could have greeted you in a more acceptable manner.” Even sitting behind a serving cart littered with dirty dishes, wearing a purple bathrobe and a pair of fuzzy slippers, she managed to maintain her snooty disposition.

“I don’t mind,” I said, refusing to apologize for my unannounced appearance. (I was, after all, just doing the job she had hired me to do.) “You keep insisting that time is of the essence, Sabrina—that I need to find Melody’s murderer immediately— so I thought I’d better get the day off to an early start.”

Her expression softened for a moment while she took a sip of coffee and ate her last strawberry. “Well, I’m glad for that, at least,” she said when she finished chewing and swallowing. “But I still don’t understand why you’re
here.
Shouldn’t you be out
investigating
someone or something?”

I was annoyed by her sarcastic tone, but anxious to get past it and move on. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll be interrogating two of the major suspects today, so I won’t be wasting any of your time or money. And my little chat with Charlotte this morning was very informative. She understands how important the seemingly insignificant background details can be.”

“Yes, she told me about your conversation, and about all the things she told you, and—though I don’t fault her for her honesty or her eagerness to help you find the murderer—I
do
wish she hadn’t revealed quite so much about our past lives. Those stale details have absolutely nothing to do with Melody’s life or death, and will in no way help you catch her killer.”

“Maybe not, but at least they’ll help me comprehend the situation. And you’d be surprised how often simple comprehension leads to the solution of a complicated crime.”

Sabrina tilted her head and stared at me for a few moments. And then suddenly, out of the blue, she reversed her position on the subject. “So, is there anything else you’d like to know?” she asked. “Far be it from me to obstruct your precious comprehension.”

Her tone was still disrespectful, but—in the interest of collecting more clues—I chose to ignore it. “I’d like to know why you became a madam,” I replied, striking while the iron was hot. “Whatever induced you to start your own escort service?”

“Money, of course,” she said. “I ran out, and I needed more.”

“But what about your family? I thought they were very wealthy. Couldn’t they have given you what you needed?”

“Oh, sure, they
could
have—but they never
would
have. When I ran off and got married, they disowned me—totally and forever—making it clear that I wouldn’t be welcome under their roof, or even in their
neighborhood,
again. Luckily, I had some money of my own—a personal savings account, a few stocks and bonds, a nice inheritance from my grandmother— but it wasn’t enough to last forever.”

“But why did your family cut you off so completely?”

“They didn’t approve of my choice in husbands.”

“Why not? Who did you marry?”

“The gardener,” she said, with a cryptic smile.

I wasn’t prepared for that one. “Who?” I asked again, eyes blinking in surprise.

“The gardener on the grounds of the family estate in Connecticut. A gorgeous, hotheaded Puerto Rican named Ramón. He was the sexiest man I ever met, and I was the richest girl he ever screwed. I wanted him for his strong, tan, energetic body, and he wanted me for my . . . well, let’s just say my beauty played a secondary role to my bank account. I didn’t know that at the time, of course, but it probably wouldn’t have made a difference. I was accustomed to buying whatever I wanted.”

“So you defied your parents and ran away to get married?”

“Right. It was the bravest thing I’d ever done, and by far the stupidest. I’ve been suffering the consequences ever since.” She stood up, pushed the breakfast cart to one side, then limped over and sat down at her dressing table. Scowling at herself in the mirror, she snatched a pearl-handled brush off the table and began yanking it through her ash blonde hair.

“Consequences?” I asked, urging her to elaborate. I knew part of the story already, but I wanted to hear her tell it in her own words.