Luckily, the uniformed fellow who opened the front door for me was the same doorman I’d met before. “Good morning, sir,” I said, entering the marble lobby and giving him a friendly smile. “Remember me? I was here to see Miss Stanhope the day before yesterday.”

“Yes, miss,” he said, straightening the sleeves of his maroon and gold jacket and standing at attention. I half expected him to salute.

“Well, I’m here to see her again,” I said, “only this time it’s a surprise visit.”

“Surprise, miss?”

“Yes, today is Miss Stanhope’s birthday, and I’m going to treat her to a special breakfast in bed. She says I make the best pancakes in the world, so I thought a hot, syrupy stack of flap-jacks would be the perfect gift.” (Why this ridiculous story sprang to my lips, I’ll never, ever know.) “I want it to be a big surprise, though, so you’ll be doing me a big favor if you let me go upstairs without calling to announce my arrival.”

“But I can’t do that, miss,” he said. “I’m supposed to-”

“Oh, no need to worry about that,” I cut in, dismissing his concerns with a quick wave of my hand. “Miss Stanhope’s maid, Charlotte, knows all about my secret plan, and she’ll be standing at the door to meet me. Sabrina’s still sleeping, and we don’t want the phone or the doorbell to wake her.”

“ Charlotte knows you’re coming?” he asked. The look in his eye suggested he knew and trusted the beautiful, dark-skinned domestic.

“Yes, of course,” I said, “and she told me to give you this for your trouble.” I eased one of Abby’s dollar bills out of my purse and tucked it into his palm.

Problem solved. The doorman led me straight to the elevator and directed the operator to take me up to the eighth floor.

BY SOME INCREDIBLE COINCIDENCE, CHARLOTTE was standing or walking near the door to Sabrina’s apartment, because the minute I gave it one little knock, she peeked through the peephole and then pulled the door open.

“Mrs. Turner?” she said, bewildered, smoothing a few stray hairs back into her twist and tying her blue robe tighter around her narrow waist. “I’m surprised to see you here. Miss Stanhope is still sleeping. I’m quite sure she isn’t expecting you.”

“You’re right,” I said. “She isn’t.”

“Then may I ask why you’ve come?”

“I came to see you,” I said, trying to make my voice sound soft and firm at the same time. “I know this is highly unusual, Charlotte, and I certainly don’t want to disturb you in any way, but I need to speak to you in private, and I thought now would be a good time.”

She gave me a puzzled look, but didn’t say anything.

“May I come in for a few minutes?” I asked. “It’s cold outside, and I’ve had quite a long walk, and my new shoes are threatening to kill me if I don’t sit down.”

Charlotte glanced at my red suede stilettos and smiled knowingly.

“This won’t take long,” I pleaded. “I just want to relax for a second and ask you a couple of questions while I massage my crippled feet.” To prove my urgent discomfort, I wrinkled my face up in pain and took a lurching, very wobbly step forward.

(Hey, don’t look at me like that, okay? I wasn’t putting on an act or being deceitful in any way! I swear! All I was doing was demonstrating my distress-which was, I can assure you, almost one hundred percent real.)

Charlotte opened the door all the way and motioned me inside. “We can talk in the kitchen,” she said, holding the top of her velvet robe closed and gracefully leading the way down the hall. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Oh, that would be heavenly,” I said, wondering what I should do first-massage my feet or kiss hers.

The large kitchen was well designed, beautifully decorated, and spotlessly clean. The modern appliances were sparkling white (nary a plaid refrigerator in sight), and the glass-paned wood cabinets, white tile walls, black marble countertop, and black-and-white tile floor were gleaming in the light from two floor-to-ceiling windows. A round oak table, topped with a vase of fresh flowers and surrounded by four cane-bottomed chairs, was positioned between the two windows. Charlotte indicated that I should take a seat at the table.

I dropped into the closest chair, pried off my shoes, and sighed noisily. “Whoever decided that American women have to wear three-inch heels to be stylish should be shot in the head. Or at least in the feet.”

Charlotte smiled and stepped over to the stove. “I don’t have that problem,” she said, taking a china cup and saucer out of the cabinet and filling the cup with hot coffee. “When you’re six feet tall, as I am, you’re practically forbidden to wear high heels. Nobody likes to be towered over-especially by a Negro woman.” She carried the coffee, a linen napkin, and a silver spoon to the table and put them down in front of me, next to the silver cream pitcher and sugar bowl. Then she retreated midway into the kitchen and came to a statuesque standstill near the end of the counter.

I shrugged off my jacket, folded it over the back of my chair, and put my purse and beret on another chair. “Won’t you join me?” I asked, wishing she would stop acting like a servant and sit down.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Turner. I’ve already had my breakfast.”

She may have been telling the truth, but it certainly wasn’t the whole truth. I could tell from her strained posture and cautious attitude that Charlotte was afraid to sit at the table with me. She thought she’d be overstepping her bounds (the bounds imposed on her by our racially segregated society), and she was too proud and polite to take such a bold step.

“Please call me Paige,” I urged, trying to break down the social barriers between us and set her mind at ease. “Perhaps you haven’t heard, but we’re fellow employees now, Charlotte. I’m working for Sabrina, too! And in light of this fact I think we can-and should-dispense with the stupid formalities.”

She smiled again, but this time it was a broader smile, with all her beautiful white teeth showing. “Well, if you’re sure… I guess another cup of coffee won’t hurt me.” She glided over to the stove, filled the plain white mug sitting on the counter near the percolator, then returned to the table and sat down.

“Cigarette?” I asked, snatching Abby’s pack of Pall Malls out of my purse, opening it, and holding it forward.

“Thank you, Paige.” She took one and lit it. Then, tilting her head back and exhaling a blossoming cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, she inquired, “What did you want to talk to me about? You said you have some questions for me.”

“Yes, I do, but I thought we could chat a little bit first, get to know each other.”

“I don’t have that much time. Miss Stanhope will be getting up and wanting her breakfast soon.”

“Okay, then I’ll try to make this quick. Do you know why I’m working for Sabrina? Has she told you what she hired me to do?”

“Yes.” A veil of deep sorrow fell over her face. “She wants you to find out who murdered Melody.”

With this one answer, Charlotte divulged much of what I needed to know: that Sabrina had confided in Charlotte about the murder, that she had told Charlotte about me, and that Charlotte had been on a first-name basis with Melody-all of which confirmed that the mysterious maid was privy to some of the most private details of her employer’s professional life.

“Did you know Melody well?” I asked.

“As well as I know any of Sabrina’s girls,” she said, abruptly (and, I thought, purposely) revealing that she was also on a first-name basis with her boss. (I wanted to discuss this point further, but thought it best not to interrupt the flow of the conversation.) “Melody was very discreet,” Charlotte went on, “and she kept to herself a bit more than the others, but anybody with any sense could see that she was a lovely, hardworking, well-meaning young woman who didn’t deserve to die.”