“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.”
A GOOD TEN MINUTES LATER-AFTER I’D WORN tracks in the carpet and studied every flower, bow, tuft of tulle, and bird wing on every silly hat in the place-another tall, willowy woman appeared. This one was younger, prettier, and more sophisticated-looking. Her long, light brown hair was styled in a sleek pageboy, and she wore a simple, formfitting black wool sheath.
“Come with me, Paige,” she said, as she whisked right by me and strode toward the exit. “They gave me only a fifteen-minute break.” The scent of Chanel No. 5 wafted in her wake.
I spun around and dashed after her. “I guess you’re Jocelyn,” I said, catching up at the elevator.
“Good guess.” She gave me a quick glance, then pushed the UP button. “Let’s go to the café and have a cup of something.”
“Okay,” I said, as the elevator doors opened and we stepped in.
The car was full of well-dressed shoppers, so we remained silent until we reached the eighth floor. Jocelyn led the way to the café and asked the hostess for a table for two near the window.
The minute we were seated and alone, Jocelyn craned her neck toward me and snapped, “You aren’t too smart, are you? Why did you come to see me at work?” She brushed a wave of beige hair off her cheek and fixed her intense green eyes on my face. “Surely it occurred to you that I couldn’t talk openly at my place of employment.”
“Yes, that thought did cross my mind,” I admitted, “but I had to ignore it. My time isn’t my own, and I have to make every free minute count.” I pulled Abby’s Pall Malls out of my purse and offered her one as a peace offering. She took it, and we both lit up.