Dial Me for Murder (34 page)

“I’m sorry, Paige,” he groaned, chest heaving. “I can’t go through with it.”

“What’s wrong?” I gasped. (I was panting a bit myself.) “Is it the chlorine? I’ll run upstairs and take a shower if you—”

“No! It’s nothing like that!”

“Then what is it? I don’t turn you on anymore?” I sat up and hugged my knees to my chest. “Maybe I should put the blonde wig back on.” I was kidding, but just barely.

Dan smiled and put his arm around my shoulders. “You turn me on as much as ever, Paige,” he said, holding me tight. “Even more, if you want to know the truth.”

“Under the circumstances, I find that a weensy bit hard to believe.” I wasn’t kidding at all now. I was dead serious and teetering on the verge of a king-size crying jag.

“But it’s true, babe,” Dan said. “I love you and want you more than ever.”

“Then what’s the problem? I don’t understand.”

“It’s not the right time.”

“Right time?!” I screeched. “I’m so hot I’m
screaming
for it, and you say it’s not the right time? What time would be good for you? Greenwich time? Mountain time? Alaska time? Suppertime?”

Dan sniggered and shook his head. “Where’s your patience, Paige? We’ve already waited so long, I didn’t think it would hurt us to wait a few weeks longer.”

“A few weeks? What for? What possible difference could a few weeks make?” I was getting more confused by the second.

“It would give us some time to get our ducks in a row,” Dan said.

“Ducks? What ducks? I don’t know any ducks.”

Dan laughed, and pulled me closer. “Look, what I meant was a lot could happen in a few weeks’ time. A promise could be made. A license could be issued. Blood could be sent to the lab for testing. A ring could be found. A killer could be caught. A date for the execution could be set . . .”

I almost wet my pants. Was Dan saying what I thought he was saying? Afraid of jumping to conclusions—especially
this
conclusion—I peered deep into his laughing black eyes and asked, “What’s on your mind, Detective, murder or marriage?”

“Both,” he said—which, to my way of thinking, was the perfect answer.

Chapter 37

RENEWING OUR RESOLVE TO SAVE THE MAIN event for our wedding night, Dan and I decided to celebrate our engagement by indulging in another sensual experience we’d never shared before—a home-cooked breakfast. Dan went downstairs to buy the essentials—bread, eggs, bacon, juice— and I ran (okay,
floated
) upstairs to shower and change my clothes. Chlorinated capris and a matted Angora sweater just didn’t seem festive enough for our first feast together as husband and wife. (Okay, okay! What I meant was
future
husband and wife. You don’t have to be so persnickety about it!)

By the time Dan got back to the apartment with the food, I was back downstairs in the kitchen, playing the happy little homemaker, looking very wifely in my clean black capris, fuzzy pink sweater, and ruffled blue-and-white-checked apron. I set the table with my best china (okay, two of my four melamine plates), put up another pot of coffee, and hoisted my almost-never-used, two-ton cast-iron skillet out of the cabinet and lugged it over to the stove. (And I thought hauling around the office Coffeemaster was hard!)

While Dan unpacked the groceries and poured the orange juice, I heated the skillet and cooked the bacon. While Dan sat at the table sipping juice and smoking a cigarette, I fried four sunny-side up eggs in the bacon grease and sliced, toasted, and buttered the bread. Then I poured us some more coffee, dished up the food, and brought everything to the table.

“To us!” I said, sitting down and holding my juice glass up for a toast.

Dan grinned and clinked his glass against mine. “And to many more conjugal breakfasts like this!” He shot me a cocky smile, downed the rest of his juice, then dunked a piece of toast into one of his egg yolks and started eating. “And now that we’re going to be married,” he said between mouthfuls, “I want you to think about quitting your job.”

I almost choked on my first bite of bacon. “Jesus, Dan!” I cried. “We’ve been engaged for less than an hour and already you’ve got me chained to the stove and giving up my career?! What’s next? A baby every year?” I was only half teasing. Maybe this whole marriage thing wasn’t such a good idea. . . .

Dan laughed and shoveled an entire egg white into his mouth. He chewed it up, swallowed, and said, “I didn’t mean it that way, Paige, and you know it. Yes, I
do
want you to leave your dangerous job at
Daring Detective
, but I’m not asking you to give up your writing career. I’m just saying you don’t have to work nine-to-five anymore. I can support us both. Besides, things have been so lousy for you at
DD
lately, I thought you’d
want
to quit.”

“I couldn’t quit under any circumstances,” I said.

Dan’s face fell into a deep, dark frown. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t work there anymore.”

“You mean you already quit?” His frown flipped into a mile-wide grin.

“No, I think I was fired.”

“What? . . . When? . . . Why?” His eyes were in shock, but his grin was still firmly in place.

“It happened Thursday afternoon,” I said. “Pomeroy had a holy hemorrhage over the fact that I sent Lenny home early on deadline day. He said I was insolent and insubordinate, and he told Mr. Crockett that he and Harrington both wanted me terminated immediately. Since Harrington was involved in the decision, Crockett had no choice but to let me go.”

“I don’t believe it,” Dan said, shaking his head. He wasn’t grinning anymore. “You’re the best damn reporter that magazine ever had, and Harrington’s never shown any concern about your conduct before.”

I finished the piece of bacon and took a sip of coffee. “It’s not
my
conduct he’s concerned about. It’s his own.”

“His connections with Sabrina and Melody, you mean.”

“Right. I’m sure that’s the real reason Harrington wanted me fired—so I wouldn’t write a story about Melody’s murder for
DD
and, during my investigation, uncover the truth about his sex life. His marriage probably couldn’t stand the strain of such a scandal. And divorce can be very expensive, you know.”

“Tell me about it,” Dan grunted, referring to his own costly trek through divorce court. (His promiscuous ex-wife had secured a good settlement by seducing the judge.) Wolfing down another yolk-dipped piece of toast and following it with a slug of coffee, Dan asked, “Was Harrington sleeping with Jocelyn, too?”

“Not according to Sabrina. She fixed Brigitte up with him a few times a couple of years ago, but after Melody joined the agency and Harrington started dating her, he wouldn’t settle for anybody else.”

“So you don’t think he’s a suspect?”

“No,” I said, in my firmest tone. “Sam Hogarth killed Jocelyn. I
know
it. We’ve got to concentrate all our skills and energy on proving his guilt. Anything else would be a waste of time.”

“I wish I was as convinced as you are.”

“You will be—just as soon as you start digging up the evidence.”

“But that will be next to impossible, Paige. Just think about it. This is the Manhattan district attorney we’re talking about! The most powerful prosecutor in the city. He’s rich, smart, politically connected, and
very
well protected. The commissioner will never put me on Hogarth’s tail. He’ll never put
any
detective on his tail.”

“No, but he’ll put you on Jocelyn’s murder case once you tell him it’s connected to the Virginia Pratt case. He’ll see right away that you’re a better man for the job than Mudd.” I forked a gooey piece of egg into my mouth and chewed it slowly. “And you don’t have to mention Hogarth to the commissioner at all,” I said when I’d swallowed. “You can investigate him on your own and in secret—the same way you did Corona.”

“Yeah, sure. I can do that. But it won’t make any difference. I still won’t be able to get the goods on Hogarth. He’s as insulated as Frank Costello. Nobody can touch him.” Dan finished off his last egg and the rest of the bacon. “And what proof could I find, anyway? Lipstick on his collar? A smear of chlorine in his clothes? Believe me, everything Hogarth was wearing last night is already at the cleaners. And that St. Christopher medal you’re so proud of? It doesn’t prove a thing. You didn’t actually
see
Hogarth snitch it from Corona’s dressing room, and you’re the only person alive who knows it was found at the scene of the crime.

“I’ve got news for you, babe,” he added. “It would be a hell of a lot easier to pin this murder on
you
than on Hogarth.

“Well, that’s not very comforting!” I said, shuddering.

“No, but it’s the truth,” he gloomily replied.

“But what if Sabrina comes forward and tells the press about Hogarth’s relationship with Jocelyn?” I sputtered. “Wouldn’t that point to the DA’s guilt?”

“Pointing isn’t proving. And besides, didn’t you say that Hogarth and Jocelyn were seeing each other on the sneak? Sabrina didn’t even know about their arrangement until you filled her in. So how could she go to the papers with an undocumented story like that? It’s nothing but hearsay, and no respectable crime reporter would risk his career and reputation—not to mention his all-important relations with the DA’s office!—to print it.

“I hate to say this, Paige,” Dan concluded, “but if Hogarth is the one who killed Jocelyn, there’s a damn good chance he’s going to get away with it.”

I couldn’t finish my breakfast. One more bite would have made me throw up. “But that’s unthinkable!” I cried, jumping up from the table and pacing from one end of the kitchen to the other. “We can’t let it happen, Dan! We can’t just back away and let the bastard go free! There’s got to be something we can do!”

Dan stood up and stepped into the middle of the room, blocking me in my tracks. He grabbed hold of my shoulders and squeezed them hard. “Listen to me very carefully,” he said, staring into my eyes like an ultrastrict father (or husband). “There is nothing
you
can do. Nothing whatsoever. Do you hear what I’m saying? You are through with this investigation as of now! You’re going to lock yourself in this apartment and stay here until I come back.”

“But when will that be?” I whimpered.

“I don’t know. First, I’m going to the commissioner’s office, to get him to pull Mudd off the case and put me on. At least that way you won’t have to go in for questioning Monday morning. Then I’ll go over to the Barbizon, talk to Jocelyn’s neighbors, check out her apartment and the pool. Since Hogarth gave Melody expensive presents, maybe he gave some to Jocelyn, too. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find something traceable.”

“I saw a mink coat in the changing room at the pool. It was lying on a bench with the rest of her clothes.”

“Mudd probably took that into evidence last night. I’ll look into it.”

I groaned, twisted my shoulders out of Dan’s grasp, and started pacing again. “God, Dan! I can’t just sit here like a chunk of cheese! I’ll go out of my mind. I’ve got to do something! Isn’t there some way I can help?”

“The best way you can help is by staying home and staying safe,” he insisted, rolling his sleeves down, buttoning his collar, and tightening his tie. He walked into the living room, took his leather shoulder holster off the back of the chair, and buckled it on. “You can call Sabrina,” he said, throwing me a bone. “Tell her about Corona’s arrest and Jocelyn’s murder; see if she’s heard anything.” He put on his suit jacket and anchored his hat at a sexy angle on his head.

I was too tired and muddle-headed to protest. “Okay,” I said, heaving a loud sigh of defeat. “Be careful . . . and don’t forget your coat.” I opened the closet and took out his trench coat. Then I walked over to the door and held the garment open while Dan shoved his arms into the sleeves.

Adjusting the coat around his shoulders and turning to face me, he said, “Hey, babe, I could get used to this—you slaving over breakfast and then sending me off to work like a good little wife.” He gave me a big wink to make sure I knew he was kidding.

“The engagement’s off,” I bluffed. “Find yourself another cook and coat-check girl. I’ve got better things to do with my—”

I was going to say
time,
but he didn’t give me enough time. He threw his arms around me, pulled me tight to his chest, and gave me a kiss so deep and long and hard I knew I’d feel its effects forever.

 
WHEN DAN LEFT, HE TOOK ALL MY ENERGY with him. I was completely spent—so worn-out it was an effort to move. (Well, I’d had a pretty tough day and night, you know! And I hadn’t slept in over twenty-eight hours.) I managed to clear the dirty dishes off the table and stack them in the sink, but I didn’t have the strength to wash them. I wanted to pour the bacon grease from the cast-iron skillet into the empty coffee can, but I couldn’t even lift the damn thing off the stove.

Thinking a few lungfuls of fresh air would clear my head and jump-start my engine, I opened the kitchen door, stepped onto the rusty balcony overlooking the weed-choked rear courtyard, and inhaled deeply. Big mistake. The putrid smell wafting up from the fish store under my apartment made me gag. I staggered back into the kitchen and slammed the door, hoping to keep the odor from seeping inside. Then I turned and headed, like a zombie, up the stairs to my bedroom, praying I would make it to the mattress before I passed out.

Halfway up the stairs I remembered Sabrina. I needed to call her. I needed to give her the good news about Corona . . . and the horrible news about Jocelyn. I needed to know if she’d heard anything from Hogarth or Harrington or any cops or detectives working the two murders. Forcing my weary legs to wobble back down the stairs and stumble into the living room, I collapsed on the couch and picked up the phone.

I was in the process of dialing Sabrina’s private number when my consciousness turned into a cloud and drifted away. The phone fell out of my hand, and my head fell onto a pillow, and every cell in my dead-tired body fell asleep.