Dial Me for Murder (22 page)

“After several weeks, when she was fully qualified and prepared, I began arranging dates for Melody with my wealthiest clients. And they were so entranced with her youth and beauty that she quickly became their favorite. Her services were requested so often and so regularly that she managed to pay back her advance within the year. And soon after that—as a result of her ongoing earnings as a call girl—she was able to assume complete responsibility for her brother’s monthly maintenance and expenses.

“In order to keep her brother’s whereabouts and her means of supporting him concealed from their parents, Melody continued working at her uncle’s accounting firm during the day. And late at night, when she got home from her appointments and could grab a little time for herself, she worked on her music. She still hoped to become a successful singer and songwriter, and looked forward to the day she could rely on her musical rather than her sexual skills to support herself and her twin.

“And I believe with all my heart that she would have reached that goal,” Sabrina said, collapsing against the back of her chair and drawing her sad tale to its tragic conclusion, “if she had lived long enough.”

Chapter 22

SABRINA WAS EXHAUSTED. HER PAINSTAKING narration of Virginia’s short, unhappy life had taken its toll. I could see that she wanted me to leave. She wanted to take a hot bath, wash away the past, put on a clean dress and a fresh face, and focus her remaining energy on the day ahead.

But I wasn’t ready to give up.

“What will become of Melody’s brother now?” I asked. “Will he be sent back to Willowbrook?”

“Over my dead body. I’ll pay all his expenses and watch over him from now on. It’s the least I can do. I’ll have to keep his location—actually his
existence
—under wraps, though, or outside parties might intervene. That’s why I didn’t want you to know about him, Paige, for fear you wouldn’t keep the secret. Please swear to me you’ll never breathe a word of this to anybody.”

“I swear,” I said without hesitation, pledging my solemn allegiance to Melody as well as Sabrina.

As I made that wholehearted promise, I realized that—at some point during the emotionally charged morning—my relationship with Sabrina had undergone a complete transformation. We were confidantes now, not combatants. In sync instead of at odds. She wasn’t acting aloof and secretive anymore because she had no more secrets to keep. And I didn’t doubt her motives anymore because I finally understood them. In short, we had come to trust each other.

“Do you think I should talk to Melody’s uncle?” I asked. “His office is on 23rd Street, not too far from here. Maybe he knows something that could lead us to the killer.”

“Don’t waste your time. The man knew nothing about Melody’s real life, so it’s safe to conclude he knows nothing about her death. Also, if you start making inquiries about his niece, you’ll alert him to the fact that there’s more to her murder than meets the eye. And then he’ll alarm Melody’s parents, which could lead to more grief and trouble for all concerned, including Melody’s brother. Better steer clear of the uncle, Paige. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

“You’re right,” I said, in firm agreement. “I need to concentrate my full attention on our prime suspects—the three clients on your list. Which brings me to my next question: Have any of them called you since we last spoke?”

“Yes!” she said, perking up and leaning forward in her chair. “I meant to tell you before, but I got lost in the past and forgot. Sam Hogarth called me last night! He wanted to schedule an appointment with Melody.”

“Oh, my gosh!” I said, pulse pounding. “What did you tell him?”

“I said she had gone out of town for a couple of weeks.”

“How did he react?”

“Calmly. He just asked when she was expected to return.”

“That’s it? You didn’t discuss anything else?”

“I asked him if he wanted me to set him up with another girl, but he said no, he’d wait for Melody to come back.”

“Did he sound sincere? I mean, do you think he really doesn’t know that Melody is dead?”

Sabrina shrugged and shook her head. “I couldn’t tell, Paige. I listened to his voice very carefully, trying to determine his mood and motives, but I couldn’t make out a thing. He sounded the way he always does—cordial but businesslike.”

“Like a politician,” I said, remembering the way Hogarth had shuffled me out of his office, smiling all the while.

“Exactly,” Sabrina agreed. “Hard to read. He
did
make the phone call, though. Do you think that means anything?”

“It means something, all right, but the question is
what?
If he was actually calling to make a date with Melody, it means he doesn’t know she’s dead, which means he’s definitely not the murderer. But if he was calling just to make it
look
like he doesn’t know she’s dead, it means he probably
is
the murderer. So there’s your answer in a nutshell: District Attorney Sam Hogarth is either the murderer, or he’s not. Any more questions?”

Sabrina groaned. She looked like I felt—confused and overwhelmed. “What a mess,” she said, rubbing her swollen eyes with her fingertips. “Will you ever be able to sort it all out?”

“God willing,” I said, though I had serious doubts He’d want to get involved.

“I know you went to see Candy at Saks yesterday,” Sabrina continued. “Was she able to help you at all?”

“Not really. They gave her such a short break we didn’t have much time to talk. I’ll try to see her again tonight or tomorrow. Meanwhile, you had dinner with her last night, right?”

“Yes, she came here for her monthly review. Charlotte made beef Wellington.”

“Monthly review?”

“I have each of my girls come to dinner once a month. It gives me the opportunity to study their appearance and inquire about their health, and it gives them a chance to talk about their personal lives and voice any grievances they might have with their clients.”

“Did you discuss the murder with Jocelyn . . . er, Candy? (I still hadn’t gotten used to the two-name game.)

“At length,” she said. “We shared our pain and relived our fondest memories of Melody. It was very therapeutic.”

“Did she say who she thought the murderer was?”

“She wouldn’t speculate.” Sabrina gave me a tired, burned-out look and said, “Like the rest of my girls, she’s in shock and can’t imagine who could have done such a horrible thing.”

A siren went off in my head, then shrieked its way to my tongue. “That’s not what she told me! She said she was convinced the killer was either Hogarth or Corona. She even used their first names. ‘It was either Sam or Tony,’ she said. ‘I’d stake my life on it.’ Then she claimed they were both ‘devils in disguise. ’ Why would she say this to me and not to you?”

Sabrina was visibly stunned and upset. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” she said. “I’ve always insisted that my girls give me an immediate report if they have any problems with their clients. It’s one of my strictest rules. It’s the only way I can monitor the customers and keep the girls safe. I set Candy up with both Hogarth and Corona a few times in the past—before Melody joined the agency—but she never had a bad word to say about either of them. On the contrary, she said she liked them both a lot. Believe me, if Candy had ever complained about their behavior or given me any reason to believe that they were ‘devils in disguise,’ I would
never
have introduced them to Melody. In fact, I would have dropped them from my client list altogether!”

My pulse was pounding again. Had I finally dug up a meaningful clue? “What about the present?” I asked. “Have you fixed Candy up with Hogarth or Corona recently?”

“No. After they met Melody, they always asked for her.”

“Was Candy bothered by this? Do you think she was jealous of Melody?”

“If she was, she never gave any indication. I was under the impression that they were good friends. Candy confided in me more than once that she liked Melody better than any of the other girls. She said it again just last night.”

“Does Candy always tell you the truth?”

“I trusted her completely—until now. She told you one thing and me another, so she’s obviously lying to somebody. But
why
? What could she possibly have to gain? She
knew
that you and I would talk about this, so she also knew her lie would be exposed.”

“That’s a reasonable assumption,” I said, “assuming that Candy was in a reasonable state of mind. But maybe she wasn’t. She could have been freaked out about something and not thinking logically. Or maybe something happened between my talk with her at Saks and your talk with her at dinner to change her mind about the two suspects’ guilt and discourage her from mentioning them to you.”

Maybe she was threatened in some way,
I said to myself. (I didn’t want to frighten Sabrina.) “The point is,” I continued, “we can’t leap to any conclusions about Candy. This matter requires a thorough examination. So, I’m going to do my best to see and question her again tonight. What’s her schedule like? Have you set up any dates for her?”

“Just one—dinner and dancing with her regular Friday night client. They meet every week like clockwork.”

“What time does she usually get home?”

“Pretty late. Around two, two thirty in the morning. And she takes a swim after that, so—”

“Swim?”

“The Barbizon has a pool,” Sabrina said, “and Candy swims a few laps every night when she gets home. She says it washes away her sins.”

“That’s good to know,” I said. “I’ll take my bathing suit.”

 
ABOUT HALF AN HOUR LATER—AFTER ADVISING Sabrina of my investigative plans for the rest of the day and night—I left her luxurious lavender bedroom and made my way back to the entrance hall. Not surprisingly, Charlotte was waiting for me at the door. She had my jacket, beret, and purse in her hands. I thanked her for the delicious breakfast and edifying conversation, then slipped out of the apartment and down the hall to the elevator.

When I landed in the lobby, I checked my watch. It was eleven fifteen. I had just enough time to get uptown to my bank, which was near my office (or what
used
to be my office), before lunchtime, when all the local employees would rush in to cash their paychecks. With any luck, I could withdraw a few bucks from my savings account before Mike and Mario—or, worse, Pomeroy!—pranced in. I owed Abby eight dollars, counting the four I still had in my purse, and I figured I’d need about fifteen more to get through the night and the rest of the weekend. Drinks at the Copa were expensive.

I had all the time and luck a down-on-her-luck, out-of-work crime writer could reasonably ask for. I caught an uptown train immediately and arrived at the Lexington and 42nd Street station at eleven thirty-five. My bank was just around the corner, and not yet crowded, so I was able to walk right up to a teller’s window without waiting in line. I made out my check, collected ten singles and a fiver, and—footsteps echoing against the green marble walls and ultrahigh ceiling—fled the stately financial establishment before the noontime stampede began.

The good news was: I never laid eyes on any of my lousy ex-coworkers. The bad news was: All I had left in the bank was a lousy thirteen dollars.

Chapter 23

THE MAIN OFFICES OF HARRINGTON HOUSE Publishers were located at Madison and 45th, a short walk from my bank (which was another lucky break for me, since my feet hurt so much, I was considering having them amputated).

I had been in the sleek, modern Harrington House headquarters once before—when I was first hired at
Daring Detective
and had to fill out some forms for the accountants—but I had never met Oliver Rice Harrington in person, or set foot in his penthouse office. I wondered if the voluptuous redhead sitting behind the large reception desk in the company’s outer lobby would allow me to reach those heights now.

“Hi,” I said, stepping up to the desk and giving the plump, middle-aged woman my friendliest, toothiest smile. (I was trying to imitate Dinah Shore, but I probably looked more like Bugs Bunny.)

“Oh, hi!” she replied, quickly covering her open copy of
Confidential
magazine with a manila file folder. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Harrington,” I said, still smiling but trying to be assertive as well. “My name is Paige Turner, and I’m a staff writer for
Daring Detective
magazine. It’s a Harrington House publication.”

Her false eyelashes began to flutter. “Yes, I know!” she said.

“I can get free copies of anything the company publishes, and I grab that one as soon as it comes in. It’s so scary and gory! You probably think I’m some kind of weirdo, but I really
love
to read stories about murder.” She stretched her bright orange lips in an enormous smile and flapped her thick black lashes even faster. “So what are you writing about now, honey? That girl that was killed on Monday night? The one that was tied up naked and smothered with turpentine? Gawd, that was awful! I get chills all over my body just thinking about it.” Her large breasts were heaving, and her heavily rouged cheeks flushed even rosier. She wasn’t chewing gum, but she should have been. Then the caricature would have been complete.

“I’m not covering that story,” I said, disregarding her avid questions and pointedly looking at my watch. “I came to see Mr. Harrington about a different matter. He may be expecting me, and I need to catch him before he goes out to lunch. Is he in?”

“I don’t know, honey. He never tells
me
what he’s up to. You’ll have to talk to his personal secretary about that kinda stuff. Want me to call her for you?” She raised one eyebrow and reached for the phone.

“No!” I snapped. “I’d rather talk to her in person. Can you direct me to her office?”

“Sure, honey. She works upstairs with Mr. Harrington, on the top floor. She sits out front and her name is Frieda.” She nodded toward the wall of elevators across the way and went back to reading her magazine.