Dial Me for Murder

by Amanda Matetsky

  “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.

  “Bottoms up,” she said, handing the drink to me. Her gorgeous Ava Gardner face was glowing. Next to painting sexy pictures (Abby was one of the best men’s magazine illustrators in the city) and eagerly indulging in the forbidden practice of free love, Abby’s most passionate pastime was the preparation and distribution of intoxicating beverages. She believed all the world’s problems could be solved by a healthy combination of booze and sex.

  “Cheers,” I replied, throwing my head back and pouring half the highball down my throat.

  “Hey, take it easy!” Abby cried, startled by my hasty alcohol intake. “ ‘Bottoms up’ is just an expression, you dig? I didn’t mean it literally! That’s almost straight Scotch in your glass, kiddo. You gotta take it slow. Keep on slugging, and you’ll knock yourself out.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” I said, taking another sip (okay, gulp).

  Abby cocked her head and studied my face for a second or two. Then she frowned, smoothed out the sleeves of her tight black turtleneck, and sat down at the table. “Okay, what gives, Paige? What’s with the heavy chugalug action? Are you feeling all right? You look really meshuga to me . . . like a Beat the Clock contestant who has four seconds to balance a vat of hot grease on her nose.”

  “That’s one way to describe it,” I said, scouting the tabletop for a pack of Pall Malls, Abby’s favorite brand. I found one behind the sugar bowl. “Can I bum a cigarette?” I asked, snatching one out of the open pack and lighting up before she could answer. “I’m all out. Out of money, too, so I couldn’t buy any on the way home. All I had was a dime for the subway.”

  “Take the whole pack. I’ve got a carton upstairs.” She swept a stray lock of ebony hair off her cheek and twisted her uncommonly beautiful features into another worried frown. “So what’s the dope, Hope?” (Abby liked to end a sentence with a rhyming name, whether it fit the person she was talking to or not.) “Why are you so wigged-out? No, wait! Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’re hot on the trail of a vile, bloodthirsty murderer, and you’re setting yourself up to be his next victim.”

  She wasn’t being clairvoyant now, either. Abby knew me— and all the morbid milestones of my hazardous crime-writing career—like a book. She had helped me investigate a few murder stories in the past, and she’d been a witness to more than one of my almost fatal run-ins with homicidal maniacs. (Did I say witness? Ha! You can strike that gutless, passive word right now. Abby had been a fearless participant in some of my most dangerous escapades, and she’d nearly been killed herself. Twice.)

  “Am I right?” she barreled on. “Are you working on another story?” She was breathless with excitement. Her big brown eyes were dancing a jig, and her glossy red smile was stretched to the limit. Abby liked solving mysteries (and sticking it to the bad guys) as much as I did.

  “Nope,” I said, telling the God’s honest truth, but feeling deceitful just the same. I wasn’t working on a story, but I was about to plunge into another dangerous murder investigation, and I knew Abby would want to hear all the dirty details.

  “Oh, come on, Paige!” she wailed, angrily flipping her long ponytail over the opposite shoulder. “You’re not leveling with me. Something’s up, Buttercup, and you’d better tell me what it is!”

  I took another big swig of Scotch. “Okeydokey,” I said, grinning like an idiot and surrendering on the spot. My resolve to keep Sabrina’s secrets had disappeared faster than the liquor in my glass.

  (Don’t look at me that way! Yes, I had made numerous cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die promises to Sabrina, but keeping the truth from my best friend, Abby, had not been one of them! And besides, the booze had suddenly kicked in, and knocked me for a loop, and—like every lonely drunk at every corner bar—I was desperate to tell my troubles to somebody.)

  “I’m not working on a story,” I began, pausing to take another drink, “but I am on assignment. And you know what, Ab? It has nothing to do with Daring Detective! The assignment, I mean, not the story—which I’m not going to write, and which has plenty to do with Daring Detective since the owner is— hic!—one of Sabrina’s clients, and could turn out to be the slimy creep who killed Mirginia. Oops! I mean Velody. Either him or the district attorney. Our big fine Daddy-O DA! Can you believe that? Or maybe Corona the crooner, who has no earthly reason to hire a hooker, and if you ask me—”

  “Hold it right there!” Abby cried, jumping to her feet and pushing her palm out like a traffic cop. “You’re not making any sense, Spence! You drank too much too fast.” She snatched my near-empty glass off the table and put it on the kitchen counter, out of my reach. “You’ve got to pull yourself together now, you dig? Slow down before you fall down.”

  “Whaddaya mean? I am too making spence!”

  “Not to me,” she said, propping both hands on her hips and raising one eyebrow to a peak. “I don’t know who or what you’re talking about!”

  “Then you must be drunk or somethin’. It’s perfeckly clear that—”

  “No, Paige, it’s not clear. You’re babbling like a goddamn brook. Everything you said is just a crazy muddle to me.”

  “Muddle, muddle, deep mud puddle.”

  “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

  “Inky dinky parlay vooooo!”

  “Okay, that’s enough. You’re bombed. I’m taking you home now.” She extracted the burned-out cigarette stub from my tightly clenched fingers and tossed it in the ashtray. “C’mon. Stand up. I’ll help you walk across the hall.”

  “Don’t wanna go home! Wanna talk about the lavender list and—”

  “I don’t have time now, Paige. It’s getting late and I’ve got a hot date. We’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re sober.” She took hold of my hands and pulled me to my feet.

  “Late, late, for a very important date. . . .”

  “That’s right, sweetie,” she said, scooping my stuff off the chair and steering me into the hall. Then she dug my keys out of my purse, unlocked my apartment, and ushered me inside. What happened after that, I wouldn’t know. My consciousness got lost somewhere along the way.

  WHEN I CAME TO, I WAS FLAT ON MY BACK ON the couch in my dark living room, arms and legs flopped out in all directions. My shoes were missing, my skirt was hiked up to my hips, and my sweater was twisted so tight around my rib cage I could barely breathe. One of my stockings had popped free from my garter belt and was now wadded in a wreath around my ankle. My crusty eyes were seeing double, my gaping mouth was dry as cotton, my entire body was paralyzed in pain, and my buzzer was ringing repeatedly.

  Great.

  If I could have moved, I would have gotten up to answer the door. As it was, though, I could only lie there like a slab of cement, hoping whoever was standing out on the street and ringing my buzzer over and over again like a crazy fool would go away and leave me alone. I wanted to suffer and die in private.

  My buzzer finally stopped ringing,
but my caller didn’t go away. Instead, he let himself into the building, climbed the squeaky flight of stairs to the landing, and then opened the door to my apartment, using the key I’d had made specially for him.

  “Paige?” Dan called out, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Are you here?”

  “Mmmmph,” I replied, horribly ashamed of my dazed, disheveled, prostrate position, but unable to do anything about it. My only hope was that he wouldn’t turn on the light.

  Click! My only hope vanished with one flip of the switch on the wall by the door.

  (Look, I really hate to break into the action here and interrupt the flow of my tale, but it’s for your own good. Seriously. I need to describe the layout of my apartment so you can properly visualize this and other forthcoming scenes. I know it’s annoying, but keep your shirt on! It’ll only take a second:

  When you enter my modest domain, you’re standing in one small, narrow room, smack between the kitchen area and the living area. There’s no wall separating these two zones, but you can tell them apart because the stove, sink, Frigidaire, and secondhand yellow Formica dinette set are all to the left of the entrance, and the armchair, bookcase, rented Sylvania floor model TV, telephone table, and makeshift couch—which I constructed myself from an old door, six screw-on legs, a single mattress and lots of Woolworth’s throw pillows—are all to the right.

  The windows in the living area look down on Bleecker Street, and the windowed door at the opposite end of the room—the rear of the kitchen—leads out to a rusty metal balcony-cum-fire escape, whose metal stairs lead down to the weed-choked, rat-infested courtyard below. And there’s another staircase inside my apartment. This one is extra-extra-narrow, with a wooden handrail and banisters, and it rises from the hind corner of the kitchen to the second level, where my tiny bedroom, tinier bathroom, and closet-size office are located.)

  Do you get the picture now? When Dan stepped into my apartment and flipped on the overhead light, the whole first floor was illuminated. And so, therefore, was I! In all my slovenly, hungover, spread-eagled glory.

  “Well, well, well,” Dan said, walking over to the couch and aiming his coal-black eyes down at me. “What have we here? Little Nell tied to a railroad track? Sleeping Beauty waking up from a ten-year nap?” He leaned over and gave me an overtly sexy smile. “You know, at first glance I thought you were offering your body to me, but now that I’ve had a closer look, I think somebody else beat me to it.”

  That did it! Stifling a howl of pain and squeezing my eyes shut against the light (and the glare of Dan’s smile), I pushed myself up on my elbows, swung my legs around till my feet hit the floor, and then forced my stricken spine into a sitting position. The effort left me weak and dizzy. And so embarrassed I wanted to crawl under the rug.

  “Very funny,” I groaned, rubbing my face with my hands and raking my fingers through my tangled hair. “It’s a comfort to know you find my agony so amusing.”

  “What do you expect?” he said, still grinning. “I’m an officer of the law. It makes me happy when the punishment fits the crime.”

  “Crime? What do you mean? What crime have I committed?” As the memory of my pact with Sabrina leapt back into my addled brain, a wave of guilt and panic swept over me. Had Dan found out about our furtive conspiracy? Did he know that I’d agreed to search for a brutal killer, and that I’d sworn to keep it a secret from him?

  “You obviously drank too much tonight,” Dan answered, removing his gray felt fedora and trench coat and laying them on the armchair, “and now you’re suffering the consequences of your misconduct. That’s what I call justice.” He gave me an amicable wink, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt collar. Then he took off his suit jacket and leather shoulder holster and carefully draped them over the back of the chair.

  As many times as I’d watched Dan perform this hat-coat-and-gun-removing ritual, it never ceased to excite me. He looked incredibly sexy in his open-collared white shirt, and I loved the way his dark, wavy hair fell over his hatless forehead. And since Dan had once revealed that he felt naked without his gun, I found the absence of his shoulder holster particularly provocative. Even in my deranged, dehydrated condition.

  “I need a drink,” I said, slowly struggling to my feet and staggering into the kitchen, one nylon flopping around my ankle.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” I could hear him chuckling behind my back.

  “I meant water, and you know it!” I croaked, grabbing a clean glass out of the dish drainer and filling it from the tap. After guzzling two glassfuls and thoroughly rinsing out my mouth, I splashed some water on my face and wiped it off with the dishtowel. “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Eleven thirty,” he said.

  Aaargh! I had been asleep (okay, passed out) for almost five hours. I hadn’t thought—or even dreamed—about the Virginia /Melody case at all. I hadn’t studied the second page of the lavender list or dialed any of the phone numbers on either page. Jeez, I hadn’t even followed through on my intention to call Sabrina to get more scuttlebutt on the suspects!

  Some detective I was panning out to be. Slow and stupid as a slug. And now Dan was here, and I was a total wreck, and it was too late at night to do anything.

  Well, maybe not anything.

  Dan walked up behind me, took hold of my shoulders, and turned me around to face him. “Feel better now?” he asked, gazing down at me with his hot black eyes, pressing his warm, resilient body so close to mine I felt weak in the knees.

  “I . . . I think so,” I said, doing my best not to wobble.

  He brushed my hair back from my face, then traced his fingers around my ear and down the side of my neck. “Better make up your mind, babe, because if you haven’t fully recovered, I think I should go home and let you get some rest.”

  “Oh, no, I’m fine!” I lied, hastening to reassure him (i.e., convince him to stay). “I feel pretty darn good, if you want to know the—”

  I was about to say the word “truth” when Dan’s open mouth descended and enveloped mine, making further fabrication unnecessary.

  Chapter 8

  ABOUT FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, AFTER DAN had carried me back to the couch and had his way with me (well, sort of, anyway—explanation to follow), we rebuttoned and rezipped our rumpled clothes, and returned to the kitchen.

  This was our usual routine when Dan stopped by to see me after he got off work. First would come the banter—friendly or otherwise, depending on the situation; next would come the groping—Dan and I were so wildly attracted to each other it was shameful; next would come the coffee or Chianti (whichever seemed more appropriate) plus an ardent tête-à-tête at the kitchen table; and last would come a long, lingering, loving good-night kiss, or—if Dan had discovered that I was involved in another dangerous murder story investigation—a hideous fight.

  Having reached the coffee stage of the evening (Chianti was out of the question!), Dan sat down at the kitchen table while I prepared the pot and put it on the stove to perk. (I didn’t mind making coffee for Dan at all. In fact, I liked it.) “So how was your day?” I inquired, placing cups, spoons, cream, and sugar on the table. I was dying to know if he’d heard anything about the Virginia Pratt murder, but I didn’t dare ask.

  “You’re the one who needs to answer that question,” he replied with a knowing snort. “I’d say your day was a hell of a lot more stressful than mine.”

  “Why?” I blurted, getting nervous again. Had Dan really learned what kind of day I’d had? “What on earth makes you say that?”

  “Gee, I don’t know,” he teased, “but it probably has something to do with the fact that I found you flat on your back in a stupor with all your clothes bunched up under your chin . . . except for one stocking—which, by the way, is still hanging around your ankle like a soggy donut.”

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, finally remembering my sagging nylon. I bent over, lifted my skirt, pulled the stocking all the way up my outstretched le
g, and refastened it in the snaps of my black garter belt.

  Dan let out a goofy wolf whistle and gave me an exaggerated wink. But then suddenly—in the literal blink of an eye—he turned serious. Real serious. “Okay, Paige,” he said. “That’s enough foreplay. It’s confession time now. Are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?” I cried, widening my own eyes to innocent Little Orphan Annie proportions. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  (Okay, so I was being a tad deceitful at this point. But before you pass judgment on me, I hope you’ll reconsider my predicament: If I confessed the truth to Honest Dan, he’d be furious at me for getting involved, and we’d have a big fight, and he might walk out on me for good. And then he’d definitely take everything I told him straight to the homicide detective in charge of the case, who would then haul Sabrina in for questioning, bust up her entire operation, and surely put her in jail. And then all of her girls and some of her most important clients would be busted, too—even if they had nothing whatsoever to do with Virginia’s murder.)

  But that wasn’t the worst part.

  Not by a long shot.

  Something else had occurred to me that made it even more imperative that I keep my deal with Sabrina concealed from Dan: All three of the prime suspects were profoundly rich and powerful, if you’ll recall. So rich and powerful they could easily have some control over the police! District Attorney Sam Hogarth certainly fit that bill, and publishing giant Oliver Rice Harrington carried enough weight in this town to sink it. Even Tony Corona, who was believed to have close ties to the mob, was in a position to pull some very significant strings.

  So, what if the killer was one of these three ultrapowerful men? And what would happen to Dan if he tried to investigate or expose them in any way? He could be kicked off the force, or destroyed by the press, or dumped into the East River with an anvil tied around his neck. And then the city would lose the smartest, staunchest, most honorable protector she’s ever had, and I could lose the man I love more than life itself, and the demon who bound, gagged, and asphyxiated poor Virginia Pratt might get away with murder.