A TALL, BEAUTIFUL, DISTINGUISHED-LOOKING Negro woman in a trim navy dress and a white organza apron answered the door to Sabrina Stanhope’s apartment.
“My name is Paige Turner,” I told her. “I’m here to see-”
“Yes, I know, miss,” she said, pulling the door wide and stepping to one side. “Won’t you come in? Miss Stanhope is waiting for you in the library. I’ll take your jacket if I may, and then show you the way.” Her ink-black hair was swept back in a stylish French twist, and her lipstick was the color of ripe strawberries. The top of her head was at least two inches higher than mine, and she wasn’t wearing heels, so I guessed her to be about six feet tall. Her age, I estimated, was around twenty-five.
“Thank you,” I said, allowing her to help me out of my jacket. I removed my beret and gloves and handed them over to her as well. While she was putting my stuff in a nearby closet, I hastily combed my fingers through my unruly hair, twisted my black wool pencil skirt into position (kick pleat in the back, not halfway around to the side, as it had been), and adjusted the hem and the sleeves of my gray angora sweater. I thought I should at least try to look tidy.
The maid backed out of the closet, closed the door, and then gave me a strawberry smile. “Come with me, please,” she said, beckoning, gliding across the green-and-gold-tiled foyer floor like a swan. (Pardon the cliché, but the woman’s long neck and fluid movements were so utterly swanlike I couldn’t help making the comparison.)
I followed her down a short hall and up to a partially closed hand-carved wood door. She tapped on the door twice and waited for an answer. When a muted response wafted out from the other side, the maid opened the door a bit wider and announced my arrival.
“Mrs. Turner is here, mum,” she said, sounding like a British parlor maid instead of the African princess I was convinced she must be.
“Please bring her in,” Sabrina Stanhope replied, in the same cool, composed voice I remembered from our phone conversation. I peered through the opening, hoping to get a glimpse of my hostess before she saw me, but all I could see was a wide swath of Oriental carpet and a backdrop of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
The maid opened the door all the way and gestured for me to enter the room. Feeling like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole into Wonderland, I took a deep breath, stepped over the threshold, and ventured inside.
The woman rising from behind the large ebony desk on the far side of the room was an attractive, fortyish, slim-figured blonde of average height. She was wearing a belted, scoop-necked, full-skirted black dress and a double string of pearls. As she edged around the desk and crossed the carpet to greet me, I saw that she walked with a slight limp.
“Mrs. Turner,” she said, flashing her perfect teeth in a frosty Grace Kelly smile. “It was nice of you to come.”
“It was nice of you to invite me,” I said, although I wasn’t sure it was.
“Won’t you sit down?” she asked, leading me to a cream-colored leather couch with orange accent pillows. “I thought we’d have a little talk here in the library before lunch. Will you join me in having a cocktail?” she added. “A whiskey sour? A vodka gimlet? Or a glass of sherry, perhaps?”
(I never, ever drink at lunch, you should know. None of my noonday haunts-the lobby coffee shop, or Horn & Hardart’s, or Chock Full o’ Nuts-serves alcohol. But there’s another thing I also never, ever do: turn down a free cocktail.)
“A whiskey sour would be great!” I exclaimed, trying-but failing-to keep the excitement out of my voice. Then, feeling embarrassed by my girlish show of enthusiasm, I sat down on the couch, crossed one leg over the other, and made a decided effort to act like Veronica instead of Betty. “This is a very unusual building,” I said, with a haughty air. “Have you lived here long, Miss-or should I say Mrs.-Stanhope?” (I was fishing for facts, you understand. Both the doorman and the maid had called her “Miss,” but considering the woman’s age, good looks, and obvious wealth, I felt I needed more information on that score.)
“Please call me Sabrina,” she snapped, providing no clues to her marital status or length of residency. She gave me another chilly smile, then turned her attention to the maid. “Bring us two whiskey sours, please, Charlotte. We’ll have lunch in the dining room in twenty minutes.”
Charlotte? I croaked to myself. That’s a strange name for an African princess. Pretty weird for a Negro maid, too. I was jumping to conclusions, I knew, but I’d have bet my life savings that the beautiful, dark-skinned domestic was using an alias. (When your savings account totals twenty-eight dollars, you can afford to risk it.)
Charlotte smiled, nodded to her employer, and made a graceful exit.
Sabrina watched Charlotte leave with the kind of gaze a teacher trains on her favorite student. Then she sat down in one of the black leather club chairs facing the couch and focused her gaze on me.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Turner. I appreciate your-”
“Please call me Paige,” I cut in, figuring one first name deserved another.
“Yes, let’s dispense with the formalities, shall we?” she said. “That’ll make things so much easier.”
Things? What things? I was burning to ask about Virginia Pratt, but I clenched my teeth and zipped my lips. Sabrina was the type who liked to be in control; her stiff demeanor and decisive tone made that quite clear. So, in the interest of not ruffling her very fine feathers, I decided to wait until she brought the subject up herself.
I didn’t have to wait long.
“I know you’re wondering why I invited you here today,” she said, leaning slightly forward in her chair, “so I’ll come straight to the point. I want you to do some undercover work for me. I want you to conduct a secret, aggressive, in-depth probe into the murder of Virginia Pratt.”
“Holy smoke!” I blurted out. (Bye-bye, Veronica-welcome back, Betty.) I was truly astonished by her request. Was this a crazy coincidence, or what? Was Sabrina actually asking me to investigate the very crime I was already determined to explore?
Yep.
“ Virginia was one of my closest, most intimate colleagues,” Sabrina went on. “Her death has left me both desolate and, for reasons I will clarify later, quite desperate. It’s extremely important to me that the vicious brute who killed her be apprehended and imprisoned immediately. And you, my dear Paige, are the only one I can trust to make that happen.”
“Me?!” I sputtered. “Why me?” Those were the only three words I managed to get out. I wanted to ask why she didn’t go to the police, but I couldn’t utter another syllable. (It’s hard to talk when your tongue is dangling out of your gaping mouth.)
“I read about you in the papers a couple of months ago,” Sabrina explained, “after you tracked down the killer of a young Broadway actor. They said you were a relentless investigator and the only female crime reporter in the city. And that’s exactly what I need-a tireless, tenacious sleuth who’s also a woman. No man will ever sympathize with my concerns. Only a woman can understand the nature of my relationship with Virginia and the special problems it-” She stopped herself mid-sentence and gave me an anxious look. “Are you feeling all right, Paige?” she asked. “You seem upset. I suppose you’re startled by my proposition. Here, have a cigarette,” she said, opening the lid of a small silver box on the glass-topped coffee table between us. “It’ll settle your nerves.”
I gave her a grateful nod and snatched a cigarette out of the box, then quickly lit it with the large silver table lighter. After a couple of deep, tranquilizing drags, I found my tongue. “Okay, so I’m a woman,” I said, “but why is that so important? And what are the ‘special problems’ you feel no man could understand?”