I HAD CONSUMED EVERY CRUMB OF MY BREAKFAST by the time Charlotte returned. (I’m such a pig sometimes.) As it turned out, though, it was a good thing I had eaten so fast.
“Sabrina wants to see you now,” Charlotte said. “Without delay.”
“But, why?” I asked, reluctant to leave the cozy kitchen and venture into the lioness’s den. “Doesn’t she want to bathe and dress first?”
“Apparently not. She told me to bring you to her room right away.”
Uh-oh.
“Is she annoyed that I’m here?”
“I don’t think so. Why would she be? I think she’s just eager to hear what you’ve learned about the murder.”
“Well, in that case…” I stood up and stuck my feet in my shoes.
“Come,” Charlotte said, heading for the door and gesturing for me to follow. “I’ll show you the way.”
She led me back to the foyer, then across a large, beautifully furnished living room, then down a dimly lit corridor to the partially open door of Sabrina’s bedroom. Opening the door wide enough for both of us to enter, Charlotte stepped over the threshold and signaled for me to do the same. “Paige is here, Sabrina,” she said, no longer addressing her patron, or colleague, or benefactor, or friend as “mum.” (I had the feeling that title was reserved for use in front of strangers… or anyone who might disapprove of their cozy interracial relationship.)
“Good morning, Paige,” Sabrina said. “Come in and sit down.”
There were only two chairs in the big lavender bedroom, and Sabrina was sitting in one of them, so I walked over and parked myself in the other.
“You can get dressed now, Charlotte,” Sabrina said, smiling. “I’ll buzz you if we need anything.”
Charlotte nodded and left the inner sanctum, closing the door behind her.
Sabrina’s smile vanished instantly. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m not dressed and haven’t finished my breakfast,” she said, voice saturated with scorn. “You can’t expect me to be presentable, since you didn’t have the courtesy to let me know you were coming. If you had informed me of your plans, I could have greeted you in a more acceptable manner.” Even sitting behind a serving cart littered with dirty dishes, wearing a purple bathrobe and a pair of fuzzy slippers, she managed to maintain her snooty disposition.
“I don’t mind,” I said, refusing to apologize for my unannounced appearance. (I was, after all, just doing the job she had hired me to do.) “You keep insisting that time is of the essence, Sabrina-that I need to find Melody’s murderer immediately- so I thought I’d better get the day off to an early start.”
Her expression softened for a moment while she took a sip of coffee and ate her last strawberry. “Well, I’m glad for that, at least,” she said when she finished chewing and swallowing. “But I still don’t understand why you’re here. Shouldn’t you be out investigating someone or something?”
I was annoyed by her sarcastic tone, but anxious to get past it and move on. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll be interrogating two of the major suspects today, so I won’t be wasting any of your time or money. And my little chat with Charlotte this morning was very informative. She understands how important the seemingly insignificant background details can be.”
“Yes, she told me about your conversation, and about all the things she told you, and-though I don’t fault her for her honesty or her eagerness to help you find the murderer-I do wish she hadn’t revealed quite so much about our past lives. Those stale details have absolutely nothing to do with Melody’s life or death, and will in no way help you catch her killer.”
“Maybe not, but at least they’ll help me comprehend the situation. And you’d be surprised how often simple comprehension leads to the solution of a complicated crime.”
Sabrina tilted her head and stared at me for a few moments. And then suddenly, out of the blue, she reversed her position on the subject. “So, is there anything else you’d like to know?” she asked. “Far be it from me to obstruct your precious comprehension.”
Her tone was still disrespectful, but-in the interest of collecting more clues-I chose to ignore it. “I’d like to know why you became a madam,” I replied, striking while the iron was hot. “Whatever induced you to start your own escort service?”
“Money, of course,” she said. “I ran out, and I needed more.”
“But what about your family? I thought they were very wealthy. Couldn’t they have given you what you needed?”
“Oh, sure, they could have-but they never would have. When I ran off and got married, they disowned me-totally and forever-making it clear that I wouldn’t be welcome under their roof, or even in their neighborhood, again. Luckily, I had some money of my own-a personal savings account, a few stocks and bonds, a nice inheritance from my grandmother- but it wasn’t enough to last forever.”
“But why did your family cut you off so completely?”
“They didn’t approve of my choice in husbands.”
“Why not? Who did you marry?”
“The gardener,” she said, with a cryptic smile.
I wasn’t prepared for that one. “Who?” I asked again, eyes blinking in surprise.
“The gardener on the grounds of the family estate in Connecticut. A gorgeous, hotheaded Puerto Rican named Ramón. He was the sexiest man I ever met, and I was the richest girl he ever screwed. I wanted him for his strong, tan, energetic body, and he wanted me for my… well, let’s just say my beauty played a secondary role to my bank account. I didn’t know that at the time, of course, but it probably wouldn’t have made a difference. I was accustomed to buying whatever I wanted.”
“So you defied your parents and ran away to get married?”
“Right. It was the bravest thing I’d ever done, and by far the stupidest. I’ve been suffering the consequences ever since.” She stood up, pushed the breakfast cart to one side, then limped over and sat down at her dressing table. Scowling at herself in the mirror, she snatched a pearl-handled brush off the table and began yanking it through her ash blonde hair.
“Consequences?” I asked, urging her to elaborate. I knew part of the story already, but I wanted to hear her tell it in her own words.
Sabrina’s eyes met mine in the mirror. “The repercussions were severe. Just three days after we were married, I discovered that my husband not only believed he had a right to beat his wife, but that it was his favorite form of entertainment. I spent half my honeymoon-and eight hideous months after that-holed up in the Carlyle Hotel bridal suite, then our Park Avenue apartment, waiting for various cuts and bruises to heal. As soon as one black eye got better, he’d give me another one. I was ashamed to show my face in public.”
“Why didn’t you leave him?”
“I was too stupid and confused-and too proud to let my family know that they’d been right about Ramón all along. I kept hoping that things would get better, that he’d wake up and realize what a good life we could have together.”
“But that didn’t happen.”
“Not by a long shot.” She put down the hairbrush and began cleansing her face with cold cream. “Things got worse, not better. Ramón started drinking too much and gambling too much and staying out all night. He’d come home in the morning, slap me around for a while, and then force me to have sex with him. After that, he’d pass out and sleep for the rest of the day. He didn’t even try to get a job.”
“So you were paying all the bills,” I said, gazing into the mirror, watching her wipe the cold cream off with a tissue.
“Yes, and Ramón racked up a lot of them.” She looked more embarrassed than angry, and she wasn’t acting snooty anymore. “So when I finally came to my senses and left him-which was the day Charlotte and I were released from the hospital-there wasn’t much money left. I had enough to rent a suite at the Gramercy Park Hotel for a few weeks and to put a deposit on this apartment, but I knew my life of leisure was over for good. I had to go to work, or start a business, or find some way to make a living, and I had to do it fast.”