“Hi, Sabrina,” I said. “It’s me, Paige.”
“Yes, I know,” she stiffly replied. “I’d recognize that accusatorial tone anywhere.
“No, I’m calling to apologize,” I declared. “I’m really sorry about what I said on the phone last night. Please forgive me; I didn’t mean it. I was upset that you wouldn’t tell me why Virginia became a call girl, but I never once considered you a suspect in her murder.” (That was a little fib, you should know. I was still at the stage of suspecting everybody.)
“Thank you for your trust.” Her words were dripping with sarcasm.
Hoping to deflect her icy hostility, I quickly changed the subject. “I have some news for you,” I said. “My boss just gave me the rest of the afternoon and tomorrow off. Now I can focus all my energy on the case. For the next few days, anyway.”
“Good. There really is no time to spare.” She let out an elongated sigh. (Relief? Exhaustion? Annoyance? Boredom? I couldn’t tell.) “What progress have you made so far?”
Jeezmaneez! She’d given me her list just yesterday afternoon! Was she impatient, or what?
“I met with the district attorney today,” I said, big chip balanced on my shoulder. “I asked him a few questions about murder. And about Virginia.”
That got her attention. “What? I don’t believe it! You actually mentioned her name?”
“Yep. Twice.”
“What was his reaction?”
“The first time he acted dumb-like he didn’t know who I was talking about. The second time he gave a whole speech about Virginia ’s murder that revealed he knew exactly who she was.”
“What do you mean by exactly? Did he mention the name Melody or discuss the fact that she was a call girl?”
“No. He recounted the exact details of her death, but didn’t say anything about her life.”
“Well, that doesn’t prove a thing!” she hissed. “Sam Hogarth is the DA, after all. It’s his job to know the particulars of current crimes. Especially homicides. It’s possible he hasn’t yet realized that Virginia and Melody were one and the same.”
“I’m well aware of that,” I said, ticked off by her scornful tone. “I was merely reporting what happened, not jumping to hasty conclusions.” I made a cross-eyed face at the receiver but managed not to groan out loud.
“So what’s next on your agenda?” she inquired, relentlessly pushing ahead. “Who will you interview this afternoon?”
In spite of her nosy aggression, I was glad she asked that question.
“I’m hoping to talk to Virginia ’s best friends at the agency,” I said, “and I’d like to start with Jocelyn Fritz-aka Candy. But I thought I should check with you first. I need to know if you’ve told her about me. I mean, is she expecting me to make contact, or do I have to introduce myself and explain what I’m doing?”
Sabrina heaved another long-suffering sigh. “Of course I’ve told Candy about you! I’ve told Brigitte, too. They know you’re investigating the murder for me, and they will both give you their full cooperation, whenever you decide to get in touch with them.”
“Okay, then I’m set to go. Sit tight, Sabrina-you’ll be hearing from me soon.”
This time I was the first to hang up.
Chapter 13
I FOUND IT FITTING THAT SAKS FIFTH AVENUE, Manhattan’s most luxurious and celebrated department store, sits right next door to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the city’s most luxurious and celebrated church. Both establishments offer opulent refuge from the seedy outside world, and both give their worshippers plenty to pray for. And if your prayers aren’t answered in one place, they may be in the other (as long as you have an open spirit and an open wallet).
Praying that Jocelyn Fritz would be at work, I walked through the main entrance of Saks Fifth Avenue and headed for the gleaming wood-and-glass altar-I mean counter!-closest to the door. I had never been in Saks before (due to time and salary restrictions, I’m more of a Sears Roebuck girl), so I needed to ask for directions.
“May I help you?” said the tall, thin, elegantly dressed sales-woman standing behind the counter. Perfectly coiffed and made-up, she was smiling at me in the same way Sylvester smiles at Tweety-all teeth. “We have some lovely calfskin gloves on sale today,” she purred. “Or perhaps you’d like to see our new line of monogrammed coin purses? They’re fashioned from the finest Italian leather.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “I’m looking for the hat department. Can you tell me where it’s located?”
Her smile vanished in an instant. “We have two millinery departments,” she said with a sniff. “The custom-made hats can be found in the Salon Moderne on the third floor, and the factory-made hats-such as the red beret you’re wearing-are on display at the rear of the main floor.” She turned and pointed toward the back of the store, certain that I would be heading in that direction.
“Thank you,” I said, giving her a quick nod and making a beeline for the elevators.
Sabrina’s notes had said Jocelyn was an assistant hat designer, so I figured she would be in the Salon Moderne. Following two pearl-laden, sable-coated matrons, I pranced into the wood-paneled self-service elevator and pushed the button for 3. The furry ladies got off on 2 and the car resumed its climb. When it reached the third floor, an ethereal bell sounded and the doors whooshed open. Then I stepped out of the elevator and entered Never-Never Land.
I had read about the ritzy Salon Moderne in Dorothy Kilgallen’s gossip column, so I knew that “everybody who was anybody” liked to shop there. Marlene Dietrich, Edith Piaf, Claudette Colbert, Irene Dunne, Estée Lauder, Mrs. E. F. Hut-ton, Betsy Bloomingdale, Mrs. Pierre Du Pont, Mrs. Darryl Zanuck-they were all, according to Dorothy, Salon Moderne regulars.
Nobody who was anybody was here now, though. I was, in fact, the only person (okay, nobody) in the place. Straightening the collar of my camel’s hair jacket and hugging my bag of office belongings close to my chest, I ventured deeper into the salon.
The receiving room, or reception area, or showroom (or whatever you want to call it) of the Salon Moderne looked as though it had been transplanted from the Palace of Versailles. The doors, floor, shelves, and ceiling were edged with intricately carved wood moldings, and the walls were covered with pale blue damask that seemed to be hand-embroidered (but what would I know about that?). The silvery blue carpet was so thick I felt like I was walking on a cloud.
Four headless, armless mannequins were prominently positioned around the room, each modeling a fancy designer dress. Their heads had been placed on separate pedestals and topped with flamboyant custom-made hats. I wondered what they’d done with the arms.
“Welcome to the Salon Moderne,” said a throaty female voice behind me.
Startled, I turned to face a tall, willowy blonde who had managed to enter the room and walk over to me without making a sound. Wearing a pale blue suit, a ruffled white silk blouse, and an enormous sapphire brooch, she looked to be in her late thirties.
“My name is Sophia. I’m the director here. How may I help you?” she asked, making a quick study of my somewhat-less-than-elegant (okay, cheesy) appearance. I could tell she thought I’d wandered into the salon by mistake. “Do you have an appointment with one of our designers?”
“No appointment,” I said. “I came to see Jocelyn Fritz, an assistant designer in your hat department. Would it be possible for me to speak with her for a few minutes? I’m her cousin Paige from Idaho. I just got into town today.”
Sophia bought my story on the spot. (She probably thought the brown paper bag I was clutching to my breast was full of potatoes.) “I’ll see if Miss Fritz is in,” she said, turning and walking toward one of the ornate doors leading to the inner sanctum. “Please wait here.”