I waited for a response, but Sabrina didn’t say a word.
“And I need to have a full and immediate explanation, Sabrina,” I barreled on. “Without it, my hands are tied. I need all the bread crumbs to follow the trail. I feel certain that the reason Virginia became a prostitute is directly and conclusively linked to the reason she was murdered.” (I wasn’t certain of anything, of course. I just used the word for dramatic purposes-to get a rise out of Sabrina.)
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” Sabrina said. Her tone was angry and adamant. “ Virginia joined my agency for very private, very personal reasons which had nothing at all to do with her death. Nothing whatsoever. You have my word on that.”
“I’d rather have the facts.”
Sabrina heaved a loud sigh. “I won’t say anything more on this point, Paige. Seriously. I promised Melody-or Virginia, as you seem to prefer-that I would never, under any circumstances, reveal her true motives to anyone. And I swear to God I never will.”
“Even though it could help me catch her killer?”
“But it won’t!” Sabrina shrieked, losing the last shred of her icy composure. “How can I get that into your stubborn head? Melody’s motive for becoming an escort had absolutely nothing to do with her murder. Nothing, nothing, nothing! I know this for a fact because I’m the only one who knows the whole story. Melody never confided in anyone but me.”
“Oh, really?” I said, temper and suspicions rising. “Then I guess your name will have to be added to the prime suspect list.”
This time the silence was deafening. I mashed the receiver tight to my ear, straining to pick up any word or sound, but all I could hear was a slight, almost imperceptible click, then the whooshing in and out of my own breath.
Sabrina had hung up.
Chapter 10
FOUR HOURS OF FITFUL SLEEP, A LONG, HOT shower, and a forty-five-minute subway ride later, I was back at the office brewing coffee, eating a buttered English muffin at my desk, and combing the pages of the morning newspapers for more articles about Virginia. There were new write-ups about the murder in every paper (including the ones owned by Oliver Rice Harrington) but not a single photo of the victim or scrap of new information. The reports were just sensationalized recaps- yesterday’s news rehashed with an emphasis on the more lurid aspects of the crime; they could have come straight out of Daring Detective.
As I was refolding the papers and arranging them in a neat stack for Mr. Crockett (Daily News on top, the way he liked it), the phone rang. Thinking it might be Sabrina calling to apologize for her rude behavior and divulge all her fiercely guarded secrets about Virginia, I snatched up the receiver in a hurry.
“Daring Detective,” I croaked, dispensing with my usual spiel.
“Hellohh? Hellohhhh?” The voice-not Sabrina’s-was female, nervous, and reminiscent of Gertrude Berg’s (the actress who used to play Molly Goldberg on the radio, and still does on TV).
“Yes, hello,” I said, speaking softly, trying to put the caller at ease. “This is Daring Detective magazine. How may I help you?”
“Don’t be meshuga. A magazine can’t talk.”
“You’re right, of course,” I said, smiling. “I meant to say this is the office of Daring Detective magazine.
“Oy! Are you trying to trick me? I know what’s an office, and it can’t talk, either.”
“Yes, well…” I was at a sudden loss for words.
“Enough already!” the woman exclaimed, mood swinging from nervous to nervy. “A big secret you’re keeping? I’m plotzing here! Why don’t you tell me who you really are?”
I usually don’t give my name out over the phone until I know who’s on the other end, but this time it seemed like a good idea. “My name is Paige Turner,” I said, wondering what I was letting myself in for.
“Oy, vey iz mir! Why didn’t you just say it? Paige Turner is the lady I want!”
“Well, here I am,” I said, “at your disposal. Is there something I can do for you?”
“You bet your life!” she said, adding nothing.
I was starting to feel dizzy. And more than a little curious. “May I ask who’s calling, please, and what this call is in reference to?”
“Reference, shmeference! I’m Sadie Zimmerman, and I’m calling about my son.”
Zimmerman?… son?… “Oh!” I blurted, “you’re Lenny’s mother!”
“Who else would I be?”
I didn’t have an answer for that one.
“I’m so glad you called, Mrs. Zimmerman,” I said. “I’ve been worried about Lenny. He was very sick yesterday. How is he feeling today?”
“Nisht git. Not good. That’s why I’m standing in the hall in my housedress talking on this farshtinkener phone.”
I didn’t quite get the connection. “You mean you called to tell me Lenny won’t be coming in to work today?”
“Work, shmerk. He has to stay in bed. I’m making soup.”
“Good,” I said. “That’s what Lenny needs. Please tell him I’ll take care of everything, and that he shouldn’t come back to work until-”
My words were cut short when the office entry bell jingled and Mr. Crockett tromped in. Seeing that I was on the phone, he didn’t say anything. He just looped his hat and coat on the tree, scooped the stack of newspapers up off my desk, and-snorting like a rhino and pointing urgently at the coffeepot-waddled off to his office.
“Hellohh? Hellohhhh?” Lenny’s mom repeated, sounding even more like Molly Goldberg than before. “Who’s there? Am I talking to my own ear?”
“I’m still here, Mrs. Zimmerman. Tell Lenny not to worry. Tell him that you spoke to me, and I said he should stay home until he feels better.”
“Better, shmetter. I’m keeping him home till he’s perfect.”
“Good idea,” I said, smiling again. “Tell Lenny I said to eat all his soup and get perfect soon.”
THE REST OF THE MORNING WENT AS SMOOTHLY (i.e., shakily) as my phone conversation with Sadie Zimmerman. Mike and Mario came in shortly after I hung up, making their usual stupid, sexually suggestive jokes, demanding that I serve them coffee, and generally acting like total boobs.
When Mario found out that Lenny wasn’t coming in, he went insane. His face turned purple, he broke out in a profuse sweat, and he started cursing like a sailor. Most of those curses were aimed, as you might expect, at poor little defenseless me.
I didn’t pay much attention, though. It wasn’t my fault that Mario hadn’t done his job. Only he could be held responsible for slacking off every chance he got, making Lenny do all the work, and looking at girlie magazines all day. And I certainly couldn’t be blamed for the fact that he was going crazy right now, knowing the art deadline had been missed yesterday, and that-without Lenny-there wasn’t a chance in hell it would be met today.
(Okay, so maybe I could have been blamed a little. I was the one who made Lenny leave early and put him in a cab to go home. And I also told his mother he could take the day off today. But be that as it may, I absolutely refused to take one ounce of responsibility for the fact that Lenny had gotten sick!)
“Yelling at me is just a waste of time,” I told Mario. “You’d better focus on finishing the paste-ups instead. Since Mr. Pomeroy wasn’t here yesterday afternoon to see that the boards went out on time, he’s sure to come in early today. And when he finds out that you missed your deadline, he’s going to be really mad. And if you don’t get the completed boards out to the printer today, he’s going to be even madder.