That got her. I knew it would.

“Stop!” she cried. “I give up! Get your stupid damn tushy back in here and tell me what’s going on!”

I didn’t need any further persuading. I bounced back to my place at the table and spilled the beans again. All of them this time.

ONE HOUR, FOUR CIGARETTES, AND TWO MARTINIS (each) later, I had disclosed all the details of the whole shocking saga to date-from the moment I first read about Virginia’s murder in the paper, to my lunch at Sabrina’s Gramercy Park apartment, to my visit to the DA’s office, to Pomeroy’s strange behavior and my getting fired from my job, to my forays into Saks Fifth Avenue and Hell’s Kitchen to interview Jocelyn and Ethel (aka Candy and Brigitte).

“See what I mean, Ab? This is the most complicated, evil, and dangerous murder case I’ve ever even thought of trying to solve.”

“Yeah, but it’s also the most interesting.” She was practically licking her chops.

“Interesting?!” I squawked. “What a mean and thoughtless thing to say! Aren’t you the least bit worried about me? I’m playing with fire here, and I could get burned to a crisp! I’ve already lost my job. What’s going to happen to me next?”

“Oh, can the rage, Paige. Your getting fired may have nothing to do with the case, you dig? Maybe the only reason you got axed is because you decided to play boss and let Lenny go home early.”

“No. I’m certain there’s more to it than that. I’ve never seen Pomeroy so upset. His cousin has to be putting the heat on him for some reason. And since Harrington was one of Virginia ’s major clients…”

“Oh, don’t waste your time worrying about him,” Abby said. “He’s the least likely suspect of all.” She lit another cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. “ Virginia was obviously murdered in the heat of passion, and Harrington’s too old for that.”

“Are you nuts? He’s only fifty-two. And if he’s too old for passion, why would he hire a call girl?”

“To have her stroke his male ego and make him feel young again.”

I wasn’t buying her reasoning (if you could call it that), but I didn’t want to argue. “What about Sam Hogarth?” I probed. “Don’t you find it a teensy bit hard to believe that the Manhattan district attorney could be a murderer?”

“No way, Doris Day! In fact, I’d lay you ten to one right now that he’s the one who did it.” (Abby’s a charter member of the National Jump to Conclusions Club.)

“How on earth can you make a rash statement like that?” I sputtered.

“I have a strong hunch,” she blithely replied.

“Based on what, exactly?”

“On the fact that the man is fiercely attracted to the world of crime. Why else would he want the job of DA? And from what I’ve seen, the act of fighting crime is just a few steps away from committing it. Look at Joe McCarthy. He’s so bent on catching Commies that he’s become a traitor himself. He’s done more to destroy American liberty than J. Edgar Hoover and his FBI spies! And a heck of a lot of firemen commit arson, you know. And some creeps become cops just so they can carry a gun.”

On the one hand, I agreed with her.

On the other hand, I was so hurt and offended I was almost speechless.

Almost, but not quite.

“Are you telling me that Dan is just steps away from committing murder?” I screeched at the top of my lungs. “Do you think I write about crooks and killers because I’m lusting to lead a life of crime? Jesus, Abby! There is such a thing as justice, you know. And, whether you believe it or not, there are some people who are working to uphold it.”

“Yeah, but I doubt if Sam Hogarth is one of them,” she said, totally unfazed by my noisy outburst. “He looks like a real schemer to me. I see his picture in the paper all the time- schmoozing with assorted big shots and celebrities at one ritzy nightclub after another-and he pops up on the radio at least twice a day to brag about his ‘tireless and fearless’ campaign against organized crime. I kid you not, Dot. Whenever Hammy Sammy spots a camera or a microphone, he steps in front of it. He strikes me as the worst kind of do-gooder-the kind who’s just doing good for himself.”

Having recently been exposed to Sam Hogarth’s self-serving charm, I couldn’t argue with that.

“So, how do you feel about Tony Corona?” I asked, moving on to the final suspect on Sabrina’s list. “Do you believe he’s capable of murder?”

“Of course he is.”

“For God’s sake, Abby! Couldn’t you at least think about the question for a second or two before pronouncing your verdict?”

“Why should I think when I already know?”

See what I was up against?

“Then please tell me what you think you know,” I said, raising my empty martini glass to my lips, throwing my head back, and taking a great big slug of nothing.

Abby put out her cigarette and fired up another one. “I know what everybody knows,” she said. “Tony Corona is a terrific singer, a pretty good actor, a big drinker and gambler, a notorious playboy, and the most popular and successful entertainer since Bing Crosby. The ladies all love him.”

“So…?”

“So, he’s also the biggest snake in show business.”

“Snake? What makes you say that?”

“Oh, come on, Paige!” she snapped. “Stop playing dumb.

You’ve read the gossip columns and heard the rumors! He lies to his friends and screws his business associates; he cheats on all his wives. He climbed to the top by stomping on everybody in his path, and he stays on top by playing footsie with the mob. He’s a rattlesnake, and you know it.”

“Well, since you put it that way…”

“And that’s not all!” she barreled on. “He has the hottest temper in town. He beat a porter at the Plaza to a pulp last year, just because he didn’t deliver his bags to his room fast enough. The poor guy almost died! They kept the episode out of the papers, but a friend of mine is a desk clerk there, and he told me all about it.”

“But that was an isolated incident,” I said. “Maybe he was just-”

“Having a bad day?” she scoffed. “Not a chance, Vance. Hedda Hopper’s written tons of blind items about Corona ’s uncontrollable anger. She calls him ‘the Crooner,’ but it’s obvious who she’s talking about. She says he’s always causing trouble in Las Vegas when he plays the Flamingo. As soon as his last show is over, he throws down about ten shots of bourbon, lights up a cigar, sticks a gun in his pocket, and hits the blackjack table. And the house knows he’d better win, because if he doesn’t, he goes berserk and threatens to shoot the dealer.”

“Maybe he’s just suffering from a neurotic fear of failure,” I quipped.

“Or a psychotic urge to kill,” she replied, in total seriousness.

I gave her a puzzled look. “So, what are you saying? Now you think Corona murdered Virginia?”

“No, I still think Hogarth did it. But Tony the Tiger’s running a close second.”

I was about to bring up the subject of Sabrina Stanhope when my phone started ringing.

“That must be Dan!” I whooped. I jumped to my feet and darted into the hall before she could object. “Stay there or be square,” I called over my shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”