I climbed the cracked and worn cement steps to the front door of Ethel’s building and, seeing that the lock was broken, let myself in. The hallway mailbox for apartment 3B was labeled MAGUIRE, so I darted across the dingy foyer and scrambled up the creaky wooden stairs to the third floor. The odor of boiled cabbage was strong, and a baby was crying somewhere overhead.
I shifted my unwieldy bag of office effects to my other arm, took a deep breath (which was a big mistake, since the smell of cooked cabbage makes me gag), and knocked on the door of 3B.
“Just a minute!” cried a female voice from the other side of the battered wooden door. “I’ll be right there!”
Suddenly overcome with exhaustion from the many physical and emotional ordeals of the day, I whined out loud, leaned my back and shoulders against the wall, and waited…
A short while later a young woman opened the door. I knew it was Etheclass="underline" She was wearing her uniform, and-even with little to no makeup and her blonde hair pinned up under her student nurse’s cap-she was a dead ringer for European sex goddess Brigitte Bardot. “Yes?” she said, brown eyes widening as she wondered who I was and why I was there.
“Hi, Ethel,” I said. “I’m Paige Turner. I believe Sabrina told you I’d be coming by. I have a few questions I’d like to-”
“Shhhhh!” she hissed, holding one finger up to her lips and hurriedly stepping into the hall. She pulled the door partially closed behind her. “My husband’s sitting in the living room! He’ll hear every word you say!”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, “but Sabrina said I could-”
“Who is it, Ethel?” a man called out. “Who are you talking to?” His voice was rough and booming-like Broderick Craw-ford’s in Born Yesterday.
A stormy cloud fell over Ethel’s striking face. “We can’t talk here!” she said to me. “Quick! Go downstairs and wait for me on the stoop. I’ll be down as soon as I can.” She ducked back inside her apartment and firmly closed the door.
I TRUDGED DOWN TO THE FIRST FLOOR AND WENT outside. It was beginning to get dark. The sun was sinking fast below the Hudson River horizon, and there was a distinct chill in the air. The people on the sidewalks, presumably making their way home from work, were hunching their shoulders and tucking their chins inside their coat collars. Wobbly with fatigue, I propped my bag against the metal railing and collapsed on the top step of the cement stoop. So what if the seat of my skirt got dirty? I was too tired to care. And I couldn’t bear the agony of my sadistic stilettos for one more second.
When Ethel finally came downstairs and out on the stoop, I didn’t even try to get up. I just sat there like a stump until she ventured over and sat down beside me.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, putting her purse in her lap and tucking the hem of her navy blue coat tight around her knees. “He’s always so suspicious. It took me all this time to convince him that you came to see somebody else in the building and knocked on our door by mistake.”
“What excuse did you give him for coming downstairs?”
Ethel sighed. “I said I had to pick up some chops at the butcher. For our dinner. When the subject turns to food, he’s always more agreeable.”
I laughed. “So the fastest way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she sniffed. “Most of the other men I know prefer a more southern route.” Her expression was so grim, I knew she wasn’t trying to be witty.
“Speaking of other men,” I said, leaping into the opening but keeping my voice as soft and supportive as possible, “do you have any dates tonight?”
She gave me a puzzled look. “Just one. At ten. Why?”
“I need to know if the man you’re meeting was ever one of Melody’s clients,” I said, switching to a firmer tone. “Because if he was, he may be a prime suspect in her murder. And if that’s the case, I don’t want you to go out with him.” I was challenging Sabrina’s authority, I knew, but I didn’t give a good goddamn.
Ethel shook her head. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, Paige. The man I’m seeing tonight is one of my regulars, not Melody’s. And you shouldn’t be concerned about me, anyway. Sabrina is very protective of me; she loves me like a daughter. She would never fix me up with a violent man.”
“Are you sure about that?” I asked, thinking poor Melody had probably felt the same way.
“I’m positive,” she said. Her expression was adamant, and her jaw was set in stone.
I took my cue and moved on. “Does your husband know how you spend your nights?” (I don’t know why I asked that question-it had nothing to do with the murder. I guess pure nosiness was to blame.)
“Of course not!” she gasped. “His legs are crippled, but his arms are strong. If he ever finds out what I’ve been doing, he’ll tear me limb from limb.”
“But how have you kept him in the dark? He must see you get all dolled up and go out. Where does he think you’re going?”
“He thinks I’m a hostess at a fancy nightclub-that I’m paying all our bills and putting myself through school with my salary. Ha! He’s so out of touch he doesn’t realize that a hostess makes even less than a busboy-no matter how fancy the nightclub is. It’s a man’s world.”
“Tell me about it,” I said, thinking how all the guys at DD made much more than I did, and how-if I really had been fired-I’d soon be making nothing.
Ethel turned up her collar and buttoned it tight around her neck. “It’s getting cold, Paige,” she said. “And I have to go to the butcher before I hurry back upstairs. If you have any more questions for me, you’d better ask them fast. I can’t sit here much longer.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll make it quick. First question: Why did Melody become a call girl? I realize she must have needed money, but do you know what she needed it for?”
“No, and I always wondered about that. She certainly didn’t spend much on herself. And her job at the accounting office paid enough to take care of her rent and expenses. She wanted to be a successful singer and songwriter, but that’s not something you can buy. Maybe she was saving up for something special-a house or a car or something like that.”
“A mink jacket was found with her body,” I said, “and also some diamond jewelry. Do you know if she bought those items herself?”
“I doubt it,” Ethel replied. “Melody didn’t care about things like that. They were probably gifts from her clients.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said with a shrug. “She went out with a number of wealthy men. It could have been anybody.”
“Sam Hogarth or Tony Corona, for instance? Or Oliver Rice Harrington?”
“She went out with all three of them, but she never mentioned any presents.”
I was nearing the end of my investigative rope. “Okay, here’s my final and obviously most important question,” I said. “Do you have any idea who murdered your friend, or why anyone would want her dead? Please think carefully before you answer.”
Ethel turned and gave me the saddest look imaginable. “I’ve thought of nothing else for two days,” she said, “but I still don’t have an inkling. Melody was the kindest, sweetest person in the world. Yes, she was a prostitute, but that didn’t diminish her goodness in any way. Her beauty was astonishing, and her heart was as big as the sky.” Ethel’s body began to shake and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, God!” she cried, dropping her head in her hands and grasping her face with her fingers. “She suffered such a horrible death. Why would anybody want to kill her? Who could have done this terrible thing?”