Dial Me for Murder (31 page)

“No, but she’ll be glad to see me. Would you be kind enough to ring her suite and tell her Paige Turner is here?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah . . . sure,” he said, picking up the phone and dialing three numbers. While he was waiting for Jocelyn to answer, he gave me another distrustful look. “Paige Turner, huh? That a trick name or somethin’?”

“It’s my nom de plume,” I said, just to be tricky (and to practice my fake French accent).

“That’s funny,” he grunted, giving me a puzzled look and hanging up the phone. “Miss Fritz don’t answer. And I know she’s there. Came in ’bout a hour ago.” He looked at the clock again and scratched his pink scalp. “Or maybe she’s still takin’ a swim.”

“That’s it!” I said, feeling a warm rush of relief. “She swims every night before she goes to bed! I should have thought of that before.” I straightened my beret and gave him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry I woke you up, sir. Which way is the pool?”

He yawned and pointed to an open doorway on the far side of the lobby. “Down that hall and follow the signs.”

 
I COULD HAVE FOUND MY WAY WITHOUT THE signs. All I had to do was follow my nose toward the smell of chlorine. The lighting was poor, but I managed to dash down the hall and cut through a small gym full of exercise equipment without difficulty. Then I came to an entry marked POOL, clanked the heavy door open, and slipped inside.

The elegance of the spacious, windowless pool room took me by surprise. All visible surfaces—the walls, the floors, the numerous floor-to-ceiling pillars spaced evenly around the large rectangular pool—were inlaid with glistening, multicolored mosaics. And at the base of every pillar, in huge green and blue ceramic planters, sat an assortment of tall, lush, thriving palms. Golden light from the overhead fixtures and wall sconces twinkled across the gently rippling water, creating the effect of a set for a Hollywood movie starring—who else?— Esther Williams.

But it was too quiet to be a movie set, and there wasn’t a single swimmer in sight.

“Hello?” I called out, voice echoing against the tiles. “Is anybody here?” When nobody answered or appeared, I hollered again. “Hello, Jocelyn? Are you here? Come out, come out, wherever you are!” I made a beeline for the changing room at the far end of the pool, thinking she must have finished washing away her sins and begun toweling herself dry.

Jocelyn wasn’t there, but her clothes were. The turquoise cocktail dress I’d seen her wearing at the Copa—plus the lacy undergarments and mink coat I hadn’t seen—were draped across the long wooden bench under the shelves of white terry cloth robes and towels. Her silver stilettos were sitting side by side on the floor. “Jocelyn?” I called again, opening the door to the adjoining bathroom and sticking my head inside. Maybe she was taking a shower.

But she wasn’t there, either. Nobody was. It was as quiet as a tomb, and all the toilet and shower stalls were empty. Heart pounding like a kettledrum, I closed the door to the bathroom and stole back through the changing room, slinking past Jocelyn’s discarded clothes with every cell in my body on alert. Something was terribly wrong. I could feel it.

And as soon as I stepped back into the pool room, I could see it.

Jocelyn’s nude body was floating, faceup, on the right side of the pool—so close to the large arrangement of potted palms near the entrance that it had been hidden from my sight when I first came in. Her eyes were wide open and bulging, her gaping mouth was full of water, and her long, thin limbs were limp and ghostly pale. You didn’t have to be a doctor to know that she was dead.

Stifling a scream, I ran to the edge of the pool where she drifted, in silky silence, like a strip of seaweed hugging the shore. I knelt on the ledge beside her and, though I knew it was pointless, checked for signs of life. She wasn’t breathing, and she had no pulse at her neck or wrists. To affirm the cause of death, I looked her over more carefully. There were no visible wounds, bruises, scrapes, or scratches on her body; no finger marks around her throat. There was no blood in the water. She had obviously drowned—whether by accident, suicide, or murder, I wasn’t sure.

I had a pretty good idea, though.

I wanted to pull Jocelyn’s poor corpse out of the water and cover her nakedness in a soft terry cloth robe, but I knew enough not to disturb the evidence. Holding back tears, I rose to my knees and scanned the area for signs of a struggle. There were no indications that a physical bout had occurred. Several big puddles of water were around the pool’s wide brim, but they could have been caused by anything—or anyone. Jocelyn herself could have splashed the water onto the ledge just by jumping or diving or kicking her feet while swimming.

I was about to stand up and run out to the lobby to call the police when a sudden glint of gold caught my eye. It flashed up from the bottom of the pool, just a few feet away from the corpse. I moved closer to the flash and leaned over the water, peering down through its depth, trying to pinpoint the source of the gleam. In the pool’s underwater lighting, I spied the object quickly. It was small and round and shiny—a button? a quarter? a subway token?—and it lay still as a stone on the blue tiled floor.

Without thinking, I pulled off my beret, jacket, and shoes, and tossed them, with my purse, in a pile near the potted palms. Then I stuck my bare feet in the water and—too crazed and hurried to take off my clothes—lowered myself all the way into the pool. My feet didn’t come anywhere close to the bottom. Taking a deep breath and holding it, I bent forward at the waist, plunged my face into the water, and dived—headfirst and eyes open—toward the glittering prize.

When my fingers found the object and snatched it up from the floor, I grasped it tight in my fist, turned myself aright, kicked off from the bottom, and shot back toward the surface in a stream of exhaled bubbles. Breaking through to the air and taking a big gulp of it, I paddled over to the side of the pool and hoisted myself to a sitting position on the ledge. Then— gasping, coughing, spitting, and dripping, slumped in a big puddle of my own making—I slowly opened my fist and looked down at the item in my palm.

It was a gold St. Christopher medal. The very same one I’d seen dangling from Tony Corona’s neck just a few hours ago. I could prove it, too. His name was engraved—like a signed confession—on the back.

 
NEITHER DAN NOR O’CONNOR RESPONDED TO the desk clerk’s frantic call to the police. Several cops in uniform and a team from the medical examiner’s office were the first to arrive, and just a couple of seconds after that, Detective Sergeant Dominick Mudd from the 19th Precinct swaggered into the Barbizon lobby and took charge of the investigation.

Great
, I thought.
Just what we need—another daring detective mucking up the case.
Pulling my jacket tighter around my soggy sweater and shivering shoulders, I sat hunched in a wet armchair in the middle of the lobby, wondering how I should deal with the distressing new developments.

After a quick word with the desk clerk, Mudd dispatched four of his men and the ME’s team to the pool room. Then he strode over to me and stood—legs apart—right in front of my chair. In his dark suit, white shirt, tan trench coat, and gray fedora, he looked just like every other dick in the city. Except for the scar. Etched across the entire right side of his face, it was long, wide, and jagged—like a Z. I wondered if he’d had a run-in with Zorro.

“You’re the dame that discovered the body,” he said.

It was a statement, not a question, so I didn’t bother to answer.

“I want to talk to you after I inspect the scene,” he added, “so don’t leave the premises. Stay here in the lobby until I get back. Give your name, address, and phone number to Officer Murphy while you’re waiting.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, suppressing the urge to salute.

Mudd hurried away, and I gave Murphy the required information. Then I got up and moved to a dry chair. Opening my purse and checking to see that the St. Christopher medal was still there—safe in the zippered side pocket where I’d stashed it—I took out my comb and pulled it through my soggy hair.
What the hell am I supposed to do now? What should I say to Mudd when he comes back? How can I handle his questions?

I felt strongly that I shouldn’t tell him the truth. It would take too long to relate the whole story, and even longer to explain all the ramifications. And how would he react to the information? Was he honest or corrupt? Did he have secret mob connections? Close ties with the DA? Would he arrest Corona or protect him? And what would he do to Sabrina?

No, the truth was too risky. I couldn’t give it away to a stranger with a Zon his face. I had to save it for Dan. My best bet, I decided, was to stay as close to the truth as I could without revealing the link between Jocelyn’s death and Virginia’s, or disclosing any significant facts.

By the time Mudd returned, I had my story down pat. When he asked me how I knew the victim, I told him I’d met her at Saks (which was true). I said she was a hat designer (also true), and that she made the most stylish berets in the city (which, as far as I knew, could have been true), and that we’d become such good friends, she designed this special red one just for me. (This statement was totally false, of course, but when I picked up my crimson cap and angled it on my cold, damp head, I almost believed it myself.)

When Mudd asked me why I had such a weird name and what I did for a living, I told him the truth, but when he wanted to know why I’d come to see Jocelyn at such an “ungodly” hour (his word, not mine), I lied through my teeth. I said I’d had a big fight with my boyfriend and was desperate for company. (Actually, when I think about it now, that wasn’t such a big lie after all!)

After Mudd informed me that Jocelyn’s death appeared to be murder, our Q&A session turned fierce. Mudd probed, poked, and prodded me to the hilt, and I gave him a song and dance worthy of Ann Miller. When he asked if I had any idea who killed Jocelyn, I hugged my purse (and the precious evidence it carried) close to my side and said, “None whatsoever.” To his query about how I got so wet, I replied that while leaning over the edge of the pool to take Jocelyn’s pulse, I had slipped and fallen in.

At this point Mudd gave me a skeptical smirk. “You expect me to believe that?” he jeered.

“Well, yes,” I said, taken aback. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because you’re the one who found the body.”

“So . . . ?”

“So the one who discovers the corpse often turns out to be the killer.”

“You could have jumped into the pool on purpose,” he said, still smirking. “It could have been you that held the victim’s head underwater until she died.” He stuck a cigarette between his lips, lit it, and went on. “Maybe you were crazy jealous of her. Maybe
she
was the reason you had a big fight with your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend never even met her!” I declared, realizing— as I spoke—that I didn’t know if he had or not.

Mudd took a quick puff on his cigarette and flicked some ashes on the carpet. “The desk clerk says that, besides himself, you and the victim were the only people here on the ground floor at the time of the murder. He says Miss Fritz came in about three and went straight to the pool for a swim like she always did, and that nobody else entered or left the hotel until an hour later, when
you
showed up.”

“What a crock!” I sputtered, on the verge of blowing my stack. “The desk clerk can’t possibly be sure of that. He was sound asleep when I came in! A full-grown elephant could have tromped through the lobby and gone for a dip without him knowing it.”

“Be that as it may,” Mudd grunted, “you’re still a prime suspect in this case.”

“And I’ve got a lot more questions to ask you.”

“And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll give me straight answers.”

I was too weary to put up a fight. “I’ll be happy to answer your questions, Detective Mudd,” I said, “but does it have to be now? It’s been a very long, hideous night, and I’m exhausted. I had a blowup with my boyfriend, and found one of my dearest friends dead, and fell into a swimming pool, and now I can’t think straight. I need to go home and get some sleep.”

He looked at his watch and nodded. “Monday morning, then,” he replied, being far more accommodating than I’d thought possible. (Maybe he was weary, too.) “Come to the station for further questioning. Nine o’clock sharp.”

“Thank you, Detective. I’ll be there on time. May I have your permission to leave now?”

“You can leave the hotel,” he said, scar twitching, “but don’t leave town.”

Chapter 34

THANKS TO THE PROTECTIVE (AND SURPRISINGLY polite) public policy of the NYPD, Officer Murphy drove me home. It was eight o’clock Saturday morning. The sky was bright, the traffic was light, and the Italian merchants of Bleecker Street had begun opening the doors to their food shops, eager to rake in their weekend windfalls. When I got out of the squad car and headed into my building, the aroma of fresh-baked bread wafting from Zito’s bakery made my mouth water. Normally, I would have rushed to buy a loaf while it was still warm, but today I was too tired. I had barely enough energy to climb the stairs to my apartment and let myself in.

The second I stepped through the door, however, and caught sight of the large, manly figure lounging in my living room, my energy returned with a vengeance. It was Dan! And he was all in one piece! One great big, gallant, gorgeous, glorious piece. Sitting on the couch in his shirtsleeves, with his long, strong legs stretched out in front of him, he was casually smoking a cigarette and reading Sabrina’s lavender list.

“Thank God you’re here!” I cried, ripping off my jacket and beret and tossing them, with my purse, on a kitchen chair. “I’ve been so worried about you!” I bounded into the living room, leapt over Dan’s outstretched legs, and plopped down on the couch beside him. “How long have you been here?” My tail was wagging out of control, but I managed to stop myself from licking his face.