Dial Me for Murder (19 page)

I was two seconds away from blowing my top. (Okay, one second.) “For God’s sake, Abby!” I bellowed, blood rushing to my head. “What the hell do you want from me? I was sitting in an impressive Gramercy Park apartment, having lunch with a total stranger, talking about the brutal murder of a beautiful young woman! I was in shock that I was there, appalled and intrigued by the sinister circumstances, and madly scratching in the dirt for information—so focused on the hideous death of Virginia Pratt that I could hardly breathe. And you’re telling me . . . what? That I should have ignored that little problem? That I should have—first and foremost—found out why my snooty, short-tempered hostess had given up a life of leisure to become a madam?!”

Unaffected by my tirade, Abby calmly replied, “I never said you should ignore anything. I simply felt it would be useful to have more clues to Sabrina’s character. She could be the murderer, you know.”

“I’m very well aware of that,” I said, inhaling deeply, trying to cool myself down from a boil to a simmer. “That’s why I’m going back to question the queen in the morning. I’m going to storm her big white castle, fight off the two knights in armor standing guard at her door, charge up to her private turret, and force her to tell the true tale of her secret passage from maidenhood to madamhood.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “What the hell are you dithering about? Castles! Knights! Turrets! Secret passages! I think you’re going bats.”

Frankly, I thought so, too. “Sorry, Ab,” I said. “I was just trying to describe the odd building Sabrina lives in, but I got a little carried away.”

She shrugged it off and charged ahead. “Are you really going to see her tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I said, coming to a firm decision. “First thing in the morning. But don’t think for one minute that you’re going with—”

“I’m going with you,” she said.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am!” She stomped one foot on the floor, then filled the two cups on the counter with coffee and brought them over to the table. “We’re a team, remember? Burns and Allen. Abbott and Costello. And as your partner, I have a right to meet and interrogate the notorious Miss Stanhope myself.”

“That’s impossible,” I said, with Charlton Heston-like conviction. “I swore to Sabrina I wouldn’t tell anybody about her involvement, so I could
never
show up at her apartment with you at my side. She’d know I broke my promise, and she wouldn’t trust me anymore, and then she wouldn’t provide me with any new information. And she wouldn’t divulge any of her personal sex secrets to you, either,” I added, tossing a bucket of ice water on Abby’s eternal flame, “so you can kiss
those
burning questions good-bye.”

That cooled her off, thank goodness. “I get your drift,” she said, spooning sugar into her coffee and staring off into the distance like a Gypsy telling her own fortune. “I have to be slow and sneaky and stay deep undercover.”

“Right,” I said, heaving a huge, but silent, sigh of relief. “The deeper, the better.”

Chapter 19

IN SPITE OF MY FATIGUE, SLEEP DIDN’T COME soon. I thrashed around in my bed for a good two hours before Morpheus finally scooped me up in his arms, breathed a warm, seductive promise of peace into my ear, and then swept me off to dreamland.

But Morpheus is a liar and a cheat. Did you know that?

My slumber was anything but peaceful.
Hostile
was more like it. And my dreams were so horrible, I woke up howling. (Believe me, if you had been dreaming that you were tied up and naked, with your nose and mouth packed tight with huge wads of turpentine-soaked cotton, you’d have woken up howling, too.) I got out of bed at seven and went straight into the shower, hoping a blast of hot water would drive the demons out of my skull and bring me back to the land of the living.

It worked—sort of. I wasn’t exactly
alive,
but at least I was walking and talking (mostly to myself, since I was the only one there—but also to Virginia, who, I hoped, could hear my heartfelt pledge to see her vicious killer locked up for life).

After slathering on some makeup and getting dressed in a dark green pencil skirt and pale yellow sweater set, I staggered downstairs to look for my shoes. After finding them on the floor in the living room, I straightened my stocking seams and slipped on the dreaded high heels. Then I stuck the fresh pack of Pall Malls and the five one-dollar bills Abby had loaned me last night in my purse, put on my camel hair jacket and red wool beret, dashed down the stairs to the street, and headed for the subway.

I wanted to get to Sabrina’s early. Hopefully
before
she got out of bed. That way, I might get to talk to her maid, Charlotte, for a few minutes in private—i.e., without Sabrina’s supervision. And since Sabrina never went to bed before three in the morning and probably slept at least until ten, I figured I had a pretty good chance to accomplish this goal.

It was the middle of the morning rush, so the uptown express was packed tighter than a tin of sardines. (Yes, I know that’s an overused analogy, but it really is the perfect description.) I stood mashed between two men who wore gray flannel suits, overcoats, and fedoras, and who smelled of cigarettes, coffee, and English Leather. Their big briefcases kept bashing me in the knees.

I squeezed off the train at 14th Street and trudged up the crowded stairs to the street. It felt good to be out in the open air, even though I had a ten-block walk ahead of me and my feet hurt so much I wanted to crawl the distance instead. I looked around for a crosstown bus, but the only one I saw was going in the wrong direction. Wishing I could stop at Chock Full for coffee and a roll, but not wanting to take the time, I hunched my shoulders, bowed my head against the morning chill, and marched onward like a migrating penguin to Gramercy Park.

Even though I’d seen it before, the gargoyle-and-cherub-trimmed façade of Sabrina’s weird white building still came as a surprise. It was so completely out of place. It belonged in a different country
and
a different century. And I couldn’t get over the two knights in shining armor positioned on either side of the walkway leading to the building’s entrance. The first time I’d seen the twin statues, I found them forbidding, but now they just looked silly. As I passed between them, I gave them a hearty “Hello, boys!” but they didn’t seem to notice.

Luckily, the uniformed fellow who opened the front door for me was the same doorman I’d met before. “Good morning, sir,” I said, entering the marble lobby and giving him a friendly smile. “Remember me? I was here to see Miss Stanhope the day before yesterday.”

“Yes, miss,” he said, straightening the sleeves of his maroon and gold jacket and standing at attention. I half expected him to salute.

“Well, I’m here to see her again,” I said, “only this time it’s a surprise visit.”

“Surprise, miss?”

“Yes, today is Miss Stanhope’s birthday, and I’m going to treat her to a special breakfast in bed. She says I make the best pancakes in the world, so I thought a hot, syrupy stack of flap-jacks would be the perfect gift.” (Why this ridiculous story sprang to my lips, I’ll never, ever know.) “I want it to be a big surprise, though, so you’ll be doing me a big favor if you let me go upstairs without calling to announce my arrival.”

“But I can’t do that, miss,” he said. “I’m supposed to—”

“Oh, no need to worry about that,” I cut in, dismissing his concerns with a quick wave of my hand. “Miss Stanhope’s maid, Charlotte, knows all about my secret plan, and she’ll be standing at the door to meet me. Sabrina’s still sleeping, and we don’t want the phone or the doorbell to wake her.”

“Charlotte knows you’re coming?” he asked. The look in his eye suggested he knew and trusted the beautiful, dark-skinned domestic.

“Yes, of course,” I said, “and she told me to give you this for your trouble.” I eased one of Abby’s dollar bills out of my purse and tucked it into his palm.

Problem solved. The doorman led me straight to the elevator and directed the operator to take me up to the eighth floor.

 
BY SOME INCREDIBLE COINCIDENCE, CHARLOTTE was standing or walking near the door to Sabrina’s apartment, because the minute I gave it one little knock, she peeked through the peephole and then pulled the door open.

“Mrs. Turner?” she said, bewildered, smoothing a few stray hairs back into her twist and tying her blue robe tighter around her narrow waist. “I’m surprised to see you here. Miss Stanhope is still sleeping. I’m quite sure she isn’t expecting you.”

“You’re right,” I said. “She isn’t.”

“Then may I ask why you’ve come?”

“I came to see you,” I said, trying to make my voice sound soft and firm at the same time. “I know this is highly unusual, Charlotte, and I certainly don’t want to disturb you in any way, but I need to speak to you in private, and I thought now would be a good time.”

She gave me a puzzled look, but didn’t say anything.

“May I come in for a few minutes?” I asked. “It’s cold outside, and I’ve had quite a long walk, and my new shoes are threatening to kill me if I don’t sit down.”

Charlotte glanced at my red suede stilettos and smiled knowingly.

“This won’t take long,” I pleaded. “I just want to relax for a second and ask you a couple of questions while I massage my crippled feet.” To prove my urgent discomfort, I wrinkled my face up in pain and took a lurching, very wobbly step forward.

(Hey, don’t look at me like that, okay? I wasn’t putting on an act or being deceitful in any way! I swear! All I was doing was demonstrating my distress—which was, I can assure you, almost one hundred percent real.)

Charlotte opened the door all the way and motioned me inside. “We can talk in the kitchen,” she said, holding the top of her velvet robe closed and gracefully leading the way down the hall. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Oh, that would be heavenly,” I said, wondering what I should do first—massage my feet or kiss hers.

The large kitchen was well designed, beautifully decorated, and spotlessly clean. The modern appliances were sparkling white (nary a plaid refrigerator in sight), and the glass-paned wood cabinets, white tile walls, black marble countertop, and black-and-white tile floor were gleaming in the light from two floor-to-ceiling windows. A round oak table, topped with a vase of fresh flowers and surrounded by four cane-bottomed chairs, was positioned between the two windows. Charlotte indicated that I should take a seat at the table.

I dropped into the closest chair, pried off my shoes, and sighed noisily. “Whoever decided that American women have to wear three-inch heels to be stylish should be shot in the head. Or at least in the feet.”

Charlotte smiled and stepped over to the stove. “I don’t have that problem,” she said, taking a china cup and saucer out of the cabinet and filling the cup with hot coffee. “When you’re six feet tall, as I am, you’re practically forbidden to wear high heels. Nobody likes to be towered over—especially by a Negro woman.” She carried the coffee, a linen napkin, and a silver spoon to the table and put them down in front of me, next to the silver cream pitcher and sugar bowl. Then she retreated midway into the kitchen and came to a statuesque standstill near the end of the counter.

I shrugged off my jacket, folded it over the back of my chair, and put my purse and beret on another chair. “Won’t you join me?” I asked, wishing she would stop acting like a servant and sit down.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Turner. I’ve already had my breakfast.”

She may have been telling the truth, but it certainly wasn’t the
whole
truth. I could tell from her strained posture and cautious attitude that Charlotte was afraid to sit at the table with me. She thought she’d be overstepping her bounds (the bounds imposed on her by our racially segregated society), and she was too proud and polite to take such a bold step.

“Please call me Paige,” I urged, trying to break down the social barriers between us and set her mind at ease. “Perhaps you haven’t heard, but we’re fellow employees now, Charlotte. I’m working for Sabrina, too! And in light of this fact I think we can—and should—dispense with the stupid formalities.”

She smiled again, but this time it was a broader smile, with all her beautiful white teeth showing. “Well, if you’re sure. . . . I guess another cup of coffee won’t hurt me.” She glided over to the stove, filled the plain white mug sitting on the counter near the percolator, then returned to the table and sat down.

“Cigarette?” I asked, snatching Abby’s pack of Pall Malls out of my purse, opening it, and holding it forward.

“Thank you, Paige.” She took one and lit it. Then, tilting her head back and exhaling a blossoming cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, she inquired, “What did you want to talk to me about? You said you have some questions for me.”

“Yes, I do, but I thought we could chat a little bit first, get to know each other.”

“I don’t have that much time. Miss Stanhope will be getting up and wanting her breakfast soon.”

“Okay, then I’ll try to make this quick. Do you know why I’m working for Sabrina? Has she told you what she hired me to do?”

“Yes.” A veil of deep sorrow fell over her face. “She wants you to find out who murdered Melody.”

With this one answer, Charlotte divulged much of what I needed to know: that Sabrina had confided in Charlotte about the murder, that she had told Charlotte about me, and that Charlotte had been on a first-name basis with Melody—all of which confirmed that the mysterious maid was privy to some of the most private details of her employer’s professional life.

“Did you know Melody well?” I asked.

“As well as I know any of Sabrina’s girls,” she said, abruptly (and, I thought, purposely) revealing that she was
also
on a first-name basis with her boss. (I wanted to discuss this point further, but thought it best not to interrupt the flow of the conversation.) “Melody was very discreet,” Charlotte went on, “and she kept to herself a bit more than the others, but anybody with any sense could see that she was a lovely, hardworking, well-meaning young woman who didn’t deserve to die.”