Chapter 9

I HADN’T HAD ANY DINNER, BUT I DIDN’T care. Food was the last thing on my mind. My coffee was stone-cold, but I didn’t care about that, either. All I wanted was to unravel the murder of Virginia Pratt-fast!-before Dan could discover what I was up to, forbid me to become further involved, get himself assigned to the case, and then find himself in serious (perhaps deadly) trouble with one (or all!) of Sabrina’s suspect clients.

I poured my coffee down the drain and quickly cleared the kitchen table. Then I grabbed my purse off the chair and pulled out the list. Unfolding it to the second page-which was crammed with much more information than the first-I began pacing from one end of my apartment to the other, reading and analyzing every word Sabrina had written about Brigitte and Candy, Virginia’s two best friends at the agency.

Brigitte’s real name was Ethel Maguire. She was a married nineteen-year-old nursing student, and she lived in Hell’s Kitchen with her husband, Ralph, who was twenty years her senior and so crippled from polio he was confined to a wheelchair. Ethel bathed and fed her husband every morning and then left him in the care of the elderly woman next door while-in noble pursuit of her chosen career-she attended classes at the Hunter College School of Nursing on East 68th Street. At night-after she’d given her husband his dinner, helped him get undressed, and tucked him safely into bed-Ethel transformed herself into Brigitte (so named by Sabrina because of her resemblance to screen sex kitten Brigitte Bardot). She slipped into a slinky dress, put on a pouty face, let down her long blonde hair, and went to work. Clever Brigitte. She had found a way to satisfy her deep personal desires and her demanding creditors at the same time.

Candy’s real name was Jocelyn Fritz. She was twenty-four years old, single, an assistant designer in the hat salon at Saks Fifth Avenue, and a confirmed gold digger. All she wanted out of life was to marry a millionaire and curl up in the lap of luxury and leisure. Jocelyn had become one of Sabrina’s girls in 1952, when she first moved to New York from Idaho and discovered that living in Manhattan cost a heck of a lot more than living in Boise. And then-even after landing her respectable, fairly well-paying job at Saks-she remained with the agency. She felt an ongoing need to (a) meet and mingle with Sabrina’s wealthy clients, (b) acquire and maintain a dazzling, millionaire-worthy wardrobe, and (c) pay the sky-high weekly rental on her private suite at the Barbizon Hotel for Women. According to Sabrina, Jocelyn liked coming home after a hard night’s work to a clean, roomy residence where no men were allowed.

Grabbing a Dr. Pepper from the fridge and a Pall Mall from Abby’s pack, I went into the living room and switched on the radio. Dean Martin was singing “Memories Are Made of This.” His voice was sort of soothing (and God knows I needed soothing), so I left the dial set where it was and sat down on the end of the couch closer to the phone. Then I took a swig of the soda pop, fired up the cigarette, and-steeling myself against the disturbing, sorrowful details to come-read the lengthy profile Sabrina had written about Virginia.

Virginia Pratt had been incredibly beautiful and incredibly young (twenty, by Sabrina’s account), unmarried, and a secretary at the accounting firm of Gilbert, Mosher, Pechter & Slom, just as the newspapers had reported. She had worked at this firm not because she needed the money (her earnings as a call girl easily quadrupled her meager salary as a secretary), but because the head of the firm, Paul Gilbert, was her uncle, and if she’d ever tried to quit the job, he-as well as her strict, controlling parents in Vermont-would have become suspicious, and asked a lot of questions, and begun monitoring her every move. And if they’d ever found out what she really did for a living, they’d have had her spirited away, fitted for a straitjacket, and locked up in a sanitarium.

In order to keep her secret life as secret as possible, Virginia had lived alone-in a fairly new, but quite reasonable, apartment in Peter Cooper Village on the Lower East Side. Though the Peter Cooper apartments had been built as affordable housing for World War II veterans and their families, Sabrina had called in a favor from one of her big real estate clients and seen to it that Virginia ’s name was put at the top of the three-to-five-year waiting list. Six days later a shell-shocked vet and his wife moved out, and Virginia-aka Melody-moved in.

She never got to spend much time in her new apartment, however-working night and day the way she did-but whenever Virginia was at home, and not grabbing some much-needed sleep, she had rehearsed her music. She practiced scales on the guitar, exercised her perfect soprano voice, and stayed up into the wee hours of the morning playing and singing the lovely folk songs she composed. To hear Sabrina tell it, Virginia wanted one thing, and one thing only: to become a successful singer/songwriter-and her talents were so exceptional she was sure to hit that target someday.

I could see why Sabrina had given Virginia the name Melody, but I couldn’t understand why Virginia had gone to work for Sabrina in the first place. She must have needed a lot of money-but what had she needed it for? She didn’t have Candy’s overly expensive tastes, or an invalid husband like Brigitte’s to support. With her simple, unassuming, unfettered lifestyle, Virginia could have gotten by on the salary her uncle paid her. And she would have come much closer to achieving her singing and songwriting goals if-instead of working nights as a call girl-she had spent the time performing in the Village coffeehouses and clubs, building an audience and making a name for herself. The Billboard charts were studded with songbirds who’d flown to the top in just that way.

So the burning question was: Why had Virginia taken the low road?

Sabrina surely knew the answer, but she hadn’t revealed it in her notes-a conspicuous omission which led me to wonder what else she had neglected to tell me.

I looked at my watch. It was 2:30 AM. I glanced down at the phone number written at the bottom of the list: GRamercy 5- 6003-Sabrina’s private line. She had said I could call her anytime, night or day. Without a moment’s hesitation (except for the split second it took me to down another dose of Dr. Pepper), I picked up the phone and dialed.

SABRINA ANSWERED AFTER TWO RINGS. “HELLO?” Her voice was alert and clear, with an edge as sharp as a switch-blade.

“It’s Paige, Sabrina. I hope I didn’t wake you up.” I said this even though she didn’t sound the least bit sleepy.

“You didn’t,” she said. “I never go to bed before three.”

“Why so late?”

“I stay up until all of my girls have phoned in to report they’re home safe.”

“Oh,” I said, thinking that was a nice thing for her to do. More motherly than madamly (unless she had also been tracking how much money she’d made for the evening). “How many, er, girls do you have in all?”

“Twenty-two,” she said. “No… wait. That’s wrong. That was the number before. Now that Melody’s gone, it’s just twenty-one.” Her voice had lost its edge and turned as doleful as a dirge.

“I see,” I mumbled, sorry that I’d brought Sabrina down. I wanted to get her talking about Melody/Virginia, but in a confessional rather than a mournful manner. “Where’s Charlotte?” I blurted, hastening to change the sad subject (and simultaneously probing for info on the mysterious dark-skinned domestic).

“What?” Sabrina was shocked by the question. “Why in the world do you want to know where Charlotte is?”

“Well, I don’t, really,” I lied. “It’s just that I thought she was a live-in maid, and I expected her to answer the phone.”