Dial Me for Murder (8 page)

Mike’s jaw dropped (as I’d known it would), and then he quickly dropped the conversation, too. He didn’t want to hear about my important exploits. Enjoying Mike’s shamefaced silence to the hilt, I hung up my beret and jacket, hid my purse under some papers in the bottom drawer of my desk, and then ventured to the back of the workroom to see how Lenny was doing.

Mario didn’t even look up when I passed his desk. He was so focused on finishing the cover paste-up, he was barely aware of his surroundings.
He’s in a real panic,
I told myself, chuckling under my breath, glad that the crushing art deadline had kept him from noticing my late return from lunch. I’d never seen Mario work so hard before.

Lenny was working hard, too—just to stay conscious.

“You look awful, Len,” I said, feeling his forehead. His fever was raging and his skin was clammy to the touch. “You shouldn’t be here. You should be in bed.”

“Er, ah . . . yeah . . . ” he mumbled, struggling to straighten the caption under a photo of a bloody, bullet-ridden corpse. His fingers were shaking, his eyes were bulging, and his nose was swollen and red. There was a huge glob of rubber cement stuck in his hair. “I, ah . . . can’t leave, though,” he said. “The boards . . . aren’t done.”

“Who cares about the stupid boards?!” I cried, overcome with concern for my friend. “I only care about you.” I picked up his scissors, snipped the gummy ball of glue out of his hair, chucked it in the wastebasket, and then screwed his rubber cement jar closed. “C’mon, let’s get your stuff together,” I said. “You’re going home.” I felt I had to get Lenny out of there before Pomeroy came back and forced him to work late, making him even sicker than he already was.

As I helped Lenny to his feet and began guiding him to the front of the workroom for his hat, muffler, and jacket, Mario snapped out of his trance. I’m talking
far
out! He jumped up from his desk and followed us down the aisle, screaming his head off and yanking on the back of my sweater like a two-year-old in the throes of a three-alarm tantrum.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he wailed, grabbing a handful of gray angora and pulling so hard I stumbled two steps backward. “Lenny can’t leave! He hasn’t finished pasting up the boards! And the messenger’s coming to pick them up at five!”

I tore away from Mario’s grasp and spun around to face him head-on. “Shut up, Mario! And keep your grubby hands off my clothes. Lenny’s too sick to work. He shouldn’t have come in today at all. I’m going to help him downstairs now and hail a cab to take him home. You’ll just have to finish the damn boards yourself.” I turned back to Lenny, took him by the arm, and continued steering him toward the coat tree.

Mario and Mike didn’t make a move or say a word. They were shocked by my forceful behavior, and—to tell you the truth—so was I! As the only woman on the staff, I was accustomed to being submissive and servile—
not
strong. And I certainly wasn’t used to calling the shots. I realized my newfound power had a lot (okay,
everything
) to do with the the fact that Crockett and Pomeroy weren’t there, but it felt really good to be assertive, and I decided to savor the sensation as long as I could.

After getting Lenny into his cap and jacket and wrapping his muffler around his skinny neck, I put on my own jacket and grabbed my purse out of the drawer. (I couldn’t take the chance of leaving it—or, rather, the
list
—unattended, plus I needed money for the taxi.) Then I escorted Lenny out of the office and down the hall to the elevator.

He protested all the way, of course (Lenny’s fear of elevators was all-consuming), but I knew he was too weak to walk down nine steep flights of steps. When the elevator doors opened, I pushed him inside, pinned him to the wall with my shoulder, punched the DOWN button, and held his hand tightly until we reached the ground floor and he stopped whimpering. Then I piloted him across the lobby, maneuvered him through the revolving glass doors to the street, bundled him into a cab, and gave the driver my last two dollars.

It was while I was standing there on the sidewalk—waving good-bye to Lenny and sticking my empty wallet back in my purse—that I saw Brandon Pomeroy hurrying up the block.
Poof!
My new sense of power disappeared in a cloud of smoke. I ducked back in the lobby and snagged the first available elevator, hoping I could make it back to the office, hang up my jacket, hide my handbag, and be safely seated behind my desk before the feces hit the fan.

 
FOUR THIRTY CAME AND WENT, AND THERE was still no sign of Pomeroy. I couldn’t imagine what had happened to him. After all, I had
seen
him marching up the block toward our building and, by all appearances, he’d been determined to get here in a hurry. And that was over half an hour ago! So where the heck did he go? Did he have another appointment? If so, it must have been
extremely
important, because Pomeroy would never, under normal circumstances, let an art or editorial deadline slip by without seizing the opportunity to whip the slaves.

Mario didn’t finish all the paste-ups on time, but after he realized that Pomeroy wouldn’t be coming in to harass him, he didn’t care anymore. He just plopped the boards that
were
complete on my desk, telling me to check to see that all the titles, blurbs, captions, copy blocks, and photos were in position, then package the stuff for the messenger and call the printer to arrange for another pickup tomorrow. Then he snapped his fingers at Mike—who jumped to attention like Sergeant Bilko—and the two of them swiped their coats off the tree, waved bye-bye, and left.

Ten seconds later the messenger waltzed in. Slouching in front of my desk and whistling the tune to “Dance with Me, Henry,” the young man waited for me to write a quick note to the printer and seal it, along with the stack of completed boards and marked-up photos, in a large manila envelope. Ten seconds after that, he and the package were gone.

I shouted a silent
hooray.
I was alone. I could finally do the one thing I’d been aching to do all afternoon: look at Sabrina’s list. Whisking my purse from the bottom drawer, I removed the lavender envelope, ripped it apart, took out the folded sheets of lavender stationery, and smoothed them open on my desk. Then, starting with the first name on the first page of the list— Virginia’s (I mean, Melody’s) eight o’clock date the night she was killed—I took a deep breath and read Sabrina’s notes about suspect number one:

 
Sam Hogarth?!!!
I screeched to myself, shock waves shooting down my spine.
Our esteemed district attorney? It can’t possibly be true!

The way I saw it, Sam Hogarth was the least likely man in the whole darn city to use an escort service. He was the brightest, handsomest, most popular DA in Manhattan history, and everybody said he was destined to become a dynamic and respected figure in national politics. Word had it he was going to run for the Senate in ’58. His younger wife, Winifred, was gorgeous (all the gossip photogs loved her), and some thought she’d make a lovely First Lady someday. Had Hogarth really risked his good name, career, and marriage—not to mention his brilliant future—for a few hours of illicit sex?

And could the fear that his indiscretions would be discovered have led the lustful law enforcer to commit murder?

It was a burning question that was much too hot to handle. And when I considered the fact that finding the answer had now become
my
responsibility, I broke out in a serious sweat. I felt sick. I was dizzy. I had to have a cigarette! Why hadn’t I bought a pack when I was downstairs?
Because you didn’t have enough money, you numskull!
I vaulted out of my chair, scooted over to Mike’s desk, and started rummaging through the drawers, praying he had a spare pack of Lucky Strikes stashed somewhere.

Bingo. I found a familiar white package with a big red bull’s-eye in the middle right-hand drawer, on top of a Webster’s dictionary I’d never seen Mike use. I ripped the pack open, took out one cigarette, tossed the Luckies back in the drawer, and slammed it closed. Then I tore back to my desk, lit up, inhaled deeply, and—fastening my eyes on the lavender list again—moved on to suspect number two:

 
This name didn’t surprise me nearly as much as the first one, but I still found it hard to believe. Tony Corona was as well-known for being a ladies’ man as he was for his astoundingly successful recording and acting career. His three former wives had been gorgeous young actresses, and his current bride-to-be was the sexiest new starlet on the screen. Corona was fairly good-looking (average height and weight, enormous brown eyes, large head topped with wavy dark brown hair), and he was so rich and famous he could have any woman in the world he wanted.

So why did he need to hire a prostitute? Did he like it better when he paid for it, or was Melody more desirable to him because she was costly? Was he just showing off his wealth— proving to his peers that he could buy and control the most expensive call girl in the city—or was he an insatiable womanizer, so addicted to sex he always had to have an extra bedmate waiting in the wings? Could it be that his lady-killer libido had raged out of control and turned him into a
real
killer?

There were lots of homicidal possibilities, and it was up to
me
to sort them all out. But how the hell was I supposed to do
that?
How was I, a lowly writer for a two-bit detective magazine, ever going to get in to see—much less observe and interrogate!—two such mighty men?

I was in over my head this time.
Way
over my head. And if the first two names on Sabrina’s list hadn’t totally convinced me of this fact, then the third one made it downright official. Throat so constricted I couldn’t breathe (or even smoke!), I stared at the final entry in utter awe and bewilderment.

 
Get the picture? One of the clients who frequently “met” with Melody—and may even have
murdered
her—was the man who paid my salary!

Oliver Rice Harrington, if you’ll recall, was the owner of
Daring Detective
magazine, and also a blood relative of my immediate “superior,” Brandon Pomeroy. So I was in
double
trouble now. I’d never met Mr. Harrington in person, but I knew from the office grapevine that he knew who I was, and that he’d seen my picture in some of his own newspapers. So how the devil was I going to sniff out the truth about his involvement in the case without attracting both his
and
Pomeroy’s attention? And without getting myself fired?

I thought I was going to throw up. There were too many shocking details to absorb. Too many questions and crazy complications to consider. My stomach was tied in knots of confusion, fear, curiosity, disgust, and self-doubt.

I needed a stiff drink, and I needed it fast. And I knew right where to get the strongest and (by necessity) cheapest highball in the city. Without even glancing at the second page of the list, or dialing a single phone number on the first, I refolded the two sheets of stationery and jammed them back in my purse. Then I grabbed my hat and coat and took off for Abby’s.

Chapter 7

STRETCHING FROM EIGHTH AVENUE ON THE west side to the Bowery on the east, Bleecker Street cut a narrow, busy, smile-shaped path through the hub of Greenwich Village. Abby Moskowitz and I lived on Bleecker between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, in the very heart of the hub, in a tiny, rundown three-story building that had probably been built before the turn of the century (which one, I couldn’t say).

There were two apartments in our building, each perched above a small ground-level storefront. Abby’s pad sat atop Angelo’s fruit and vegetable store, and my humble abode was planted over Luigi’s fish market. Due to the particular placement of our respective apartments—or, rather, the distinct aromas rising from the two shops underneath—Abby and I usually got together at her place instead of mine. Even rotten fruit smelled better than fish.

“Well, look who’s here!” Abby chirped, sticking her head out into the hall and watching me climb the creaky flight of stairs from the street to the landing between our front doors. “It’s the illustrious Paige Turner, and she looks thirsty.”

Abby wasn’t clairvoyant, you should know. I arrived home around this time most evenings, and I was
always
thirsty. Luckily for me, Abby was both a cheerful hostess and a very accommodating bartender. (I think she invented the term “happy hour.”)

“What have you got?” I begged, staggering into her apartment, tossing my beret and jacket on a chair, and plopping myself down at the round oak kitchen table just inside the door. “Vodka? Gin? Bourbon? Cat pee? Whatever you’re serving, I’ll take two.”

Abby didn’t skip a beat. “A double Scotch and soda comin’ right up!” She pulled her thick, waist-length black ponytail over one shoulder and stepped across the linoleum to the kitchen counter. Cracking open a fresh tray of ice, she plunked a pile of cubes in a tumbler and covered them with J&B. A twist of lemon and a splash of club soda completed the concoction.