Dial Me for Murder

by Amanda Matetsky

  I wanted to get to Sabrina’s early. Hopefully before she got out of bed. That way, I might get to talk to her maid, Charlotte, for a few minutes in private—i.e., without Sabrina’s supervision. And since Sabrina never went to bed before three in the morning and probably slept at least until ten, I figured I had a pretty good chance to accomplish this goal.

  It was the middle of the morning rush, so the uptown express was packed tighter than a tin of sardines. (Yes, I know that’s an overused analogy, but it really is the perfect description.) I stood mashed between two men who wore gray flannel suits, overcoats, and fedoras, and who smelled of cigarettes, coffee, and English Leather. Their big briefcases kept bashing me in the knees.

  I squeezed off the train at 14th Street and trudged up the crowded stairs to the street. It felt good to be out in the open air, even though I had a ten-block walk ahead of me and my feet hurt so much I wanted to crawl the distance instead. I looked around for a crosstown bus, but the only one I saw was going in the wrong direction. Wishing I could stop at Chock Full for coffee and a roll, but not wanting to take the time, I hunched my shoulders, bowed my head against the morning chill, and marched onward like a migrating penguin to Gramercy Park.

  Even though I’d seen it before, the gargoyle-and-cherub-trimmed façade of Sabrina’s weird white building still came as a surprise. It was so completely out of place. It belonged in a different country and a different century. And I couldn’t get over the two knights in shining armor positioned on either side of the walkway leading to the building’s entrance. The first time I’d seen the twin statues, I found them forbidding, but now they just looked silly. As I passed between them, I gave them a hearty “Hello, boys!” but they didn’t seem to notice.

  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.”

  I nodded in mournful agreement and took a sip of my coffee. “Do you have any insights or suspicions that could help me identify her killer?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Do you know why Melody became a call girl?”

  “No, I don’t. I’m quite friendly with all of the girls, but I don’t pry into their private lives. That’s the way Sabrina wants it. She insists that we keep our personal and family histories secret, locked in the past, where they belong. We don’t even know each other’s real names. Sabrina knows everything about all of us, of course, but she doesn’t share that information with anybody.”

  I wasn’t surprised to learn that Charlotte wasn’t her real name (I told you it was an alias, didn’t I?), but I was caught off balance to hear her talking as though she were one of Sabrina’s call girls.

  “What are you trying to tell me, Charlotte? Are you a prostitute, too?”

  “Not anymore,” she said, looking me straight in the eye.

  “But you used to be?”

  “Yes.” Her gaze remained steady and intense.

  “Did you work for Sabrina?”

  “I wasn’t that lucky,” she said. “I worked for the meanest, most brutal pimp in Harlem. It’s a miracle I survived. If Sabrina hadn’t saved me, I’d have been planted in the dirt long before Melody.”

  “You were saved by Sabrina?” I blurted, crazy for more information. “What happened? How did you meet her? What did she do?”

  Charlotte paused, took another puff on her cigarette, and stared out the window for a few silent seconds. Then she turned and looked me in the eye again. “I shouldn’t be talking about this,” she murmured. “Sabrina says it’s not good for me to brood about the past. I have to focus all my thoughts and energy on the future. And if I reveal any more facts about my former life, I’ll be breaking Sabrina’s rule of secrecy.”

  Dear God in heaven, don’t let her clam up on me now!

  “But I really need your help, Charlotte,” I pleaded, pulling out all the emotional stops. “I’ve been working on this case nonstop since the day I came here for lunch, and I’m getting nowhere! I’ve interviewed one of the major suspects, and Brigitte and Candy have answered all my questions, and I’m still floundering around in the dark. I can’t see where I’m going, and I don’t know which road to take next.”

  “But how can I help you?” she wanted to know. “What does my past, or my relationship with Sabrina, have to do with Melody’s murder?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe those particulars are significant, and maybe they aren’t. The point is, I have to gather all the details I possibly can, to understand the big picture. And the tiniest scrap of information could turn out to be the most important clue.” I took another sip of my coffee, staring intently at her over the rim of my cup.

  “Well, okay, then,” Charlotte gave in. “I’ll tell you whatever I can. I liked and respected Melody very much, and I’m praying that you’ll catch her killer, and—in spite of Sabrina’s strict secrecy demands—I believe she’d want me to help you in your investigation.”

  “Good!” I exclaimed, jumping to seal the bargain before she could change her mind. “Then let’s start with—”

  A loud bzzzzzzz cut the tail off my sentence.

  “That’s Sabrina,” Charlotte said, quickly crushing her cigarette in the ashtray and getting up from the table. “She wants me to fix her breakfast now.”

  Chapter 20

  “WANT SOME EGGS?” CHARLOTTE ASKED, TAKING a carton out of the refrigerator and placing it on the counter near the stove. “Sabrina likes them poached, on toast. How about you?”

  “I’d love some!” I croaked, stomach growling. “And poached would be fine. But what about Sabrina? Will she be upset if she finds me in her kitchen?”

  “No, she always has breakfast in her room. And after that it takes her at least an hour to bathe and dress. You can stay if you’d like, and have something to eat while we continue our conversation.”

  Was this my lucky day, or what?

  “I’ll tell Sabrina that you’re here, of course,” Charlotte went on, “and that I’m trying to help you in your investigation. Do you want to talk to her, too? If so, I’ll ask if she can see you after breakfast.

  “Thanks, Charlotte!” I said, grinning like Bucky Beaver in the Ipana toothpaste ads. “I do want to talk to Sabrina. And I’m so famished I could eat a horse, though poached eggs would be preferable.”

  “Coming right up,” she said, moving around the kitchen, setting a pot of water on the burner to boil, putting two slices of bread in the toaster.

  Food questions settled, my hunger for clues returned. “When and where did you and Sabrina meet?” I asked, hoping Charlotte could cook and talk at the same time.

  “It was about seven years ago, when we were both in the hospital,” she said, setting a place mat, napkin, and silverware on the serving cart near the kitchen door. “I had been beaten up by my pimp, and she had been beaten up by her husband. We arrived in the emergency room at the same time. I had several broken ribs and a broken arm; she had a dislocated shoulder and a fractured leg. After they patched us up, they put us in the same room for a few days. The ward was full, and Sabrina graciously agreed to share her semiprivate accommodations with a colored woman.”

  “Is that how she ‘saved’ you?” I asked.

  “That was just one of the ways.” Charlotte cracked four eggs and slipped them gently into the simmering water. “She also took me with her when we left the hospital, saving me from Sonny ‘The Blade’ Marino, the gangster who swore he’d slash my throat if I didn’t obey my pimp and earn my keep.” The toast popped up, and she put each piece on a porcelain plate trimmed with pink and gold roses. “I owe Sabrina my life.”

  “Did you become a call girl for her after you left the hospital?”

  “No. She wasn’t a madam then. She was just a woman on the run from a husband who liked to beat her up for fun. She has the scars to prove it, not to mention a permanent limp.” Charlotte filled two glasses with fresh-squeezed orange juice, placing one on the serving cart for Sabrina and one on the table for me.

  “So where did you go? Where did you live?”

  “We hid out at the Gramercy Park Hotel for a few weeks while our broken bones healed and Sabrina got her affairs in order. That’s when I began masquerading as her maid. The hotel wouldn’t admit Negro guests, but they did accept t
he Negro servants of their white guests. While we were staying at the hotel, Sabrina noticed that an apartment in this building was available for rent. She looked at it, liked it, and signed the lease the same day. We’ve been here ever since.” Scooping the eggs out of the water one by one, Charlotte drained them and placed two on each piece of toast.

  “So you’re not really a maid?” I asked. “You’re just masquerading as one?”

  “No, I really am one now. By choice. I like cooking and cleaning and making things nice for Sabrina. She takes good care of me, and I take good care of her. I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life. Not only has Sabrina given me a beautiful room of my own, three square meals a day, a closet full of nice clothes, and a very good salary, but she has also tutored me in math, reading, manners, grammar, and diction. I’m a brand-new person. I could get a decent job most anywhere now. I won’t have to sell my body to any man ever again.”

  Grinning widely, Charlotte put a plate of eggs in front of me, plus a small cup of fresh strawberries and some extra toast, butter, and jam. Thanking her profusely, I watched as she arranged identical dishes on the serving cart, along with a carafe of hot coffee. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said, nimbly maneuvering the laden cart through the swinging kitchen door and gliding swanlike down the hall.

  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.”