Dial Me for Murder (37 page)

Crisis over, we laughed and chatted together for a while, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, feeling good about the future. Then it was time for me to go. “Gotta split, Ab,” I said, standing up and walking to the door. “I’m meeting Dan and Katy uptown for lunch.”

“Later, gator,” she chirped, tying her hair up in a pony and waving bye-bye with the tail.

The minute I got back to my place the phone started ringing.

Thinking it was Dan calling to make sure I got his note and would be leaving on time, I picked up the receiver and cooed, “Don’t worry, baby cakes. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“No rush,” Mr. Crockett said. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough.”

“Huh?” I was a tad confused.

“Tomorrow is Monday,” Crockett grunted. “Be in the office at the usual time. Sort the mail, clip the papers, make the coffee.”

I finally got the message. “You mean I haven’t been fired? I’ve still got a job?”

“Right. Harrington wants you to come back to work. And he wants to see you in his office tomorrow at eleven.”

I was too stunned to speak. What was this all about? Did Harrington want to apologize for the way he kicked me out before, or did he just want to do it again?

“So?” Crockett asked.

“So what?” I replied.

“So are you coming in?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” I mumbled, knowing I wanted to keep my job, but also knowing that Dan wouldn’t want me to.

“Good. See ya tomorrow.”

I stood there for a few seconds, holding the dead receiver to my ear like a dope, trying to figure out how I should deal with this new development. Then, realizing I couldn’t make an informed decision until I spoke with Crockett and Harrington again, I gave up trying. I slammed down the phone, put on my jacket and beret, stuffed my ciggies in my purse, and took off for Schrafft’s.

 
THE POPULAR BUT DIGNIFIED RESTAURANT WAS packed, as it always was on Sunday. All the seats at the long wood and marble counter near the entrance were occupied— mostly by middle-aged women in furs and hats, their purses and white gloves nestled securely in their laps. They were sipping martinis or manhattans or hot tea, and savoring their creamed chicken on toast or lobster pie or tomato surprise. A couple of men were sitting at the counter, too, but in their dark suits and fedoras, and with their platters of steak and potatoes, they looked out of place.

I made my way through the crowd to the doorway of the dining room, hung my jacket and beret on the nearby coatrack, and looked around for Dan and Katy. They were sitting at a table for four in the corner, lost in an intimate but animated conversation, looking very happy to be together. I felt like an intruder as I walked toward them, but the minute they saw me approaching, both of their faces lit up.

“Hi, Paige!” Katy said, as Dan jumped to his feet and pulled out a chair for me. “You look so pretty today.”

“Thanks!” I said. “I appreciate the compliment, but if anybody looks pretty, it’s you.” I wasn’t just being polite. With her pale blonde hair, perfectly proportioned features, porcelain complexion, and bright blue eyes, Katy is a portrait painter’s dream. She’s fifteen years young, fresh as a flower, and so poised she makes other girls her age seem gawky and rude— which is a flat miracle when you consider the fact that her beautiful mother is a bitch and a tramp. (Hey, don’t blame me! Those are
Dan’s
words, not mine. I’ve never even met the woman, so I certainly wouldn’t presume to categorize
or
condemn her behavior—no matter how bitchy and trampy it is.)

Dan sat back down and put his hand on my arm. “I was just telling my daughter about us,” he said, with an earnest wink. “She knows that I’ve asked you to be my wife. And she’s very happy about it, aren’t you, Katy?” He turned and put his other hand on her arm, encouraging her to speak.

I held my breath and crossed my fingers. Had Katy given Dan her honest opinion? Did she
really
approve of our engagement? Was she truly okay with the thought of me being her stepmother, or was she just trying to please her dad?

“Are you kidding?” she said, beaming at me across the table. “I’m crazy about the idea! I like you so much, Paige, and it’s fun when we’re all three together, and I love seeing my father so happy. He was sad for a long, long time, and I knew that he was lonely, and I was always worried about him. Now I won’t have to worry anymore!”

So, I ask you, who was the most parental person at our table? (I’ll give you one guess.)

“You can’t imagine how glad I am to hear that, Katy,” I said, stretching my free arm across the table and putting my hand on hers. “I love your father, and I love you, and I think our collective future is going to be great.”

“Cool!” she said, giving me and Dan a cheerful nod, then gently removing her arm and hand from our grasp. She picked up her menu and scanned it. “I’m starving! I want a bacon, avocado, and tomato sandwich on cheese bread, and a hot fudge sundae for dessert.” Her bright blue eyes were twinkling in anticipation.

I placed the same order (well, it sounded really good), and Dan ordered—yep!—a platter of steak and potatoes. And then we relaxed and proceeded to have a wonderful time—laughing, chatting, eating, telling jokes—enjoying each other’s company to the hilt. We could have posed for a Norman Rockwell illustration.

After lunch we went to see the new movie
Oklahoma!,
starring Gordon MacRae and Shirley Jones. It was a fabulous, wide-screen, Technicolor production, with gorgeous scenery and great Rodgers and Hammerstein music. Katy loved it. I probably would have loved it, too, if every time MacRae came on screen I hadn’t been reminded of the previous Friday night at the Copa, when Abby spotted him sitting with the other celebrities up in the mezzanine, and we were all waiting for a Mafia-connected murderer to come out and sing to us.

 
WHEN THE MOVIE WAS OVER, DAN TOOK KATY back to the Upper East Side, where she lived with her mother, then went to the station house to tackle the pressing paperwork on the Hogarth and Corona cases. I took the subway home. I was sorry that I wouldn’t be spending the evening with Dan, but I was glad to have the free time to write up the final notes for my story. Since I was going back to work in the morning, I needed all the free time I could get.

I had wanted to tell Dan that Crockett had called—that I hadn’t been fired and was still a staff writer at
Daring Detective
—but I couldn’t see discussing it in front of Katy. It would have disturbed the peace and spoiled our lovely afternoon. And I knew Dan didn’t want that to happen any more than I did. I would tell him tomorrow, I decided, after I felt out the scene at the office, and met with Harrington, and had a better idea of what I wanted to do.

As soon as I got home, I changed my clothes and washed my face. Then I sat down at the typewriter and added all the details about Corona’s arrest, Jocelyn’s murder, and my own near demise to my story notes. When I was finished, the document numbered thirty-six pages. I was almost out of paper, and my typewriter ribbon had faded to gray. It had been a busy few days.

Too tired and ill equipped to do any more writing, I went downstairs and called Sabrina. I wanted to see how she and Charlotte were doing. I also wanted to know if she’d heard any further talk about the murders, or received any phone calls or unannounced visits from reporters or police. She hadn’t. O’Connor and I were the only ones who’d contacted her about the crimes. She said that she and Charlotte were both thrilled that Melody’s and Candy’s killers had been caught, but were still shaken by Hogarth’s attempt to murder me, and very concerned about how the soon-to-erupt scandal would affect their own lives.

I told Sabrina that Dan and I would do our best to keep her name out of the papers, but we couldn’t promise anything. She understood completely. Having already come to terms with the fact that Virginia and Jocelyn would be exposed as prostitutes, she knew her call girl enterprise was likely to be exposed as well. She had, therefore, called an emergency meeting with the rest of her girls to tell them that she was—for personal reasons—disbanding the agency. She gave each one a check for a thousand dollars and urged them to find legal occupations. Ethel Maguire (aka Brigitte) would have no trouble making the transition, she said, since she would be graduating from nursing school soon.

In the event that she was arrested and sent to jail, Sabrina had arranged with the landlord for Charlotte to stay on in her apartment as maid and caretaker. And she had set aside enough money for Charlotte to pay both the rent and Virginia’s brother’s bills for up to a year. After that, she said, she’d be bankrupt.

Sabrina was still hoping, however, that she wouldn’t be imprisoned for so long, and that she’d be able to set up and finance the new business she wanted to launch: the Stanhope Modeling Agency. Some of her girls would make wonderful models, she thought, and she’d already spoken to some of her wealthy clients about investing in her perfectly legitimate new enterprise. She didn’t know a whole lot about the modeling business yet, she laughingly admitted, but how much different from her previous profession could it be?

 
I GOT TO THE OFFICE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, and the place was a complete mess. The Coffeemaster had an inch-thick layer of muck on the bottom, and all the cups were dirty. The contents of the cream pitcher had curdled, and sugar was scattered all over the table and the floor. Lenny’s drawing table was heaped with so many unfinished layouts and boards, I figured he hadn’t been in to work since the day I sent him home sick, and my desk was piled halfway to the ceiling with unclipped newspapers, unopened mail, unsorted deliveries, unedited manuscripts, and uncorrected page proofs.

Ugh.
Maybe I didn’t want my job back after all.

The first thing I did was check out the morning papers. The main headline on every front page of every edition was TONY CORONA ARRESTED FOR MURDER!, or words to the same effect. Virginia was named in some of the headlines and all of the stories, of course, but the reporters had—for obvious reasons— focused ninety-nine percent of their attention and copy on the accused killer rather than the murder victim. A world-famous singer and movie star would sell a hell of a lot more newspapers than a lowly secretary for an accounting firm (or even a high-priced hooker—a fact not mentioned in any of the articles).

Each paper had a brief write-up about the death of a young Saks Fifth Avenue hat designer named Jocelyn Fritz, who drowned in the pool at the Barbizon Hotel for Women, but none of the accounts mentioned murder. It was also reported that Manhattan District Attorney Sam Hogarth had been admitted to the hospital late Saturday afternoon with severe head and foot injuries. He was in critical condition. The cause of his injuries had yet to be determined, but some newswriters suggested they might have been mob-inflicted, in retaliation for the DA’s courageous crusade against organized crime.

So much for accurate journalism. If the full truth about Hogarth and Corona was ever going to be reported, I realized, the reporter would have to be me.

I slapped all the papers closed and carried them into Mr. Crockett’s office. I wanted to put them out of my sight. As I was returning to the main workroom, Mr. Crockett came through the front door and gave me—wonder of wonders!—a hearty hello. He was clearly glad to see me. Knowing that now was the best time to talk to him—while he was weak from a debilitating caffeine deficiency—I walked right up to him and asked why Harrington had changed his mind about firing me, and why he wanted to see me in his office.

“Harrington didn’t fire you,” he said. “Pomeroy did it without his knowledge.”

“You mean Pomeroy lied?”

“Right. Scummy thing to do. I wanted to fire
him
, but Harrington said no. Family reasons. And blood is thicker than whatever, so we’re stuck with the bastard.”

Figures.
“So why does Harrington want me to come to his office?

“Don’t know. You gotta go see for yourself.” He hung up his hat and coat. “But make the coffee first, okay?”

As I carried the Coffeemaster into the hall and headed for the ladies’ room to wash it, Lenny burst out of the stairwell, huffing and puffing like a marathon runner at the finish line. He was thinner and more red-faced than usual, but he’d made it up nine flights of stairs, so I knew he’d made a full recovery. I walked over, patted him on the back, and, while I was waiting for him to catch his breath, gave him a quick rundown of recent office events.

He was shocked that I’d been fired, relieved that I’d been re-hired, and very upset that his illness had caused me so much trouble. I told him not to worry about it—that I’d been glad to have the time off, and that our crabby bosses and lazy coworkers had been at such a loss without us, we’d probably be treated with kid gloves from now on. Or for a couple of hours at least.

As if to prove my words, Mike and Mario stepped out of the elevator and walked toward us—faint but detectable smiles slipping across their faces. They were surprised to see me, but not sorry. You could tell by the way they each nodded and said, “Good morning, Paige,” without a single snicker, rude comment, or lousy joke about my name. They even gave Lenny a civil hello.

 
OLIVER RICE HARRINGTON GAVE ME AN EQUALLY civil welcome when I arrived at his office later that morning.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, ushering me inside and guiding me to the guest chair closest to his desk. He offered me a cigarette, lit it, then sat down and extended his “sincere” apologies for the “inappropriate” actions of his “headstrong” cousin Pomeroy, and for the “unseemly” way in which I was “terminated,” and for the “unpleasantness” of our last “visit,” for which he took full responsibility, asking me to forget it ever happened. (I knew I wouldn’t, but I said I would.)

After that, he raked his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses on his prominent nose, and got down to business.