Abby laughed. “In
Men’s Wild Adventure
magazine,
all
the women wear bikinis—unless they’re going swimming, of course, in which case they just wear seaweed or lily pads.”
I snickered and said, “What’s the cover line for this one? Wait, don’t tell me. It’s ‘Busty Blonde Gets a Hatchet Haircut!’ Am I right?”
“Close,” she teased. “It’s ‘Scalped Blondes Have More Fun!’ ”
We giggled while we prepared our lunch. Except for the tomato juice, everything I brought needed slicing. After stirring our drinks and assembling assorted slices of food on two plates, we sat down to eat.
“Here’s blood in your eye,” Abby said, raising her glass in a toast, then taking a big gulp of her Bloody Mary.
I did the same, and we were quiet for a while after that. (It’s not polite to talk with your mouth full.)
“SO, WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN UP TO?” I ASKED, AS soon as we finished our feast. “You said you had something to tell me.”
“Yeah, I do,” Abby murmured, “but you’re not gonna be very happy about it, so I think we’d better have another drink first.”
She took our glasses over to the counter and plunked in a few more ice cubes.
“Oh, no!” I said, stomach churning. “Why won’t I be happy? What have you done now?”
She measured out the vodka and poured in the tomato juice. “Nothing really bad, babe. And it was for your own good. But you’re still not gonna like it.” She squeezed a segment of lime into each glass, then added more than a few drops of Tabasco and brought them over to the table. “Stir it with your finger,” she said, setting one of the drinks in front of me. “All the hot stuff’s on top.”
Too upset to listen, I grabbed the glass and guzzled down a third of the fiery cocktail. It didn’t even faze me. My brain and tongue were already ablaze. “Stop stalling!” I screeched. “What the hell happened? What are you afraid to tell me?”
Abby sat down and lit a cigarette. Then she propped her feet up on an empty chair, blew a perfect smoke ring in my direction, and announced with an air of defiance, “I went to see Sabrina this afternoon.”
“What?” I thought my skull would explode. “Are you crazy? How could you do that to me? I told you it would be disastrous if you met Sabrina! Whatever made you—”
“Oh, hush, Paige,” she said, untying her ponytail and shaking her shiny black mane down her back. “You always make such a
tsimmis.
” (For those not familiar with Yiddish, that means stew, fuss, mess.)
“But there was no reason for you to go there!” I shrieked, making another
tsimmis.
“I spent the whole morning with Sabrina, and she answered every single one of my questions, and now I
know
she didn’t kill Virginia. You hear what I’m saying? She’s not a suspect anymore, and that’s all there is to it!”
“Well, now that I’ve met the woman, I agree with you. But I needed to see for myself.”
“But how did you know where to go? I never gave you her address.”
“No, but you told me she lived on Gramercy Park, and you gave me a very vivid description of her building. How many white castles with gargoyles and cherubs and knights in shining armor could there be? The minute I stepped onto the sidewalk surrounding the park, I spotted the right place.”
I took another swig of my drink. And then another. “So what did you do then?” I whimpered, wondering if she’d destroyed my credibility with Sabrina altogether. “Burst into her apartment and tell her that Paige Turner sent you? Claim that I had appointed you my deputy?”
Abby rolled her eyes. “No way, Doris Day. I wouldn’t dream of such a thing! You said Sabrina had sworn you to secrecy, so I was careful not to jeopardize your pact with her. I told her I heard about her operation from a friend of a friend of a friend who used to be one of her girls. Trust me, babe, your name was never spoken.”
I found that heartening but hard to believe.
“So what did you say after that? What reason did you give for suddenly appearing at her apartment and sniffing around like a demented beagle?”
“I told her I was broke and wanted to join her escort service.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I said I wanted to become one of her call girls.”
Aaargh!
“Well, that’s just great,” I spluttered. “My best friend wants to be a whore.”
“Oh, shut up, Paige! You know it’s not like that. I went there for one reason, and one reason only: to protect you.”
“Protect me?” I cried, incredulous. “That’s a laugh and a half. I fail to understand how pretending you want to be a call girl—if, indeed, you
were
pretending—could afford me any protection at all. What the hell were you thinking?”
Abby shot me a furious look and blew another smoke ring. “Can’t you figure that out for yourself, Miss Marple? For a crime writer, you’re not too swift. My motives were simple and pure, you dig? I thought I’d talk to Sabrina for a while, and study her behavior up close, and then—if I came away from the interview convinced that she was capable of murder—I’d do whatever I could to pry you out of her evil clutches.”
“Pry?” I questioned. “Evil clutches?” I scoffed. “Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic? You make it sound as though I’d been brainwashed or something.”
“Well, it was possible, you know!” Abby said, pouting. “Sabrina
was
in control of your actions to a degree. And she
could
have been feeding you false clues, steering you to pin the murder on somebody else. And the way I saw it, you weren’t anywhere
near
as suspicious of her as you should have been. I mean, what if she
did
lead you to identify and incriminate an innocent man? Wouldn’t she then have to kill
you
to make sure the truth never came out? Sorry, Paige, but I was really wigged out about this. I thought you weren’t watching your back, so I decided to watch it for you.”
“Well, that was very sweet of you,” I said, with just the slightest hint of sarcasm, “but I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. I was supicious of Sabrina’s motives from the outset, and—though I admit to being more focused on her list of primary suspects than I was on her—I never once lost sight of her possible involvement in the crime.
“That’s all changed now, though,” I added, giving Abby a potent Bette Davis gaze. “After my emotional heart-to-heart with Sabrina this morning, I’m convinced she would have killed herself before lifting a finger against Virginia.”
Abby nodded and smiled. “I’m with you, Lulu. Sabrina and I never discussed the murder or even mentioned Virginia’s name, but I could tell from the way she treated me during our interview, and by the kind of questions she asked, that she’s a real mensch. Sure, she was sizing me up—trying to judge how good a prostitute I’d be—but she was also concerned about me as a person. My welfare actually mattered to her. I could see it in her eyes. I tell you, Paige, if I ever
do
decide to become a call girl, Sabrina’s the madam for me!”
“So, when do you start?” I asked, only half kidding.
“Tonight,” Abby said, not kidding at all.
Chapter 25
“OKAY, WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON, AB?” I SAT rigidly in my chair, struggling to keep my voice down and my emotions under control. “You’re just playing games with me, right? You haven’t actually signed on with Sabrina, have you?”
“Not yet,” Abby admitted. “She insisted that I think things over before making my final decision. I’m supposed to call her tonight and tell her if I’m ready to take the plunge.”
“And what, may I ask, do you plan to say to her?” My voice was low, but my tone was scathing.
“Nothing,” Abby said, smiling.
“Huh?”
“Nothing at all,” she repeated, eyes gleaming.
“What do you mean?” I pleaded, wondering if I’d live long enough to hear the whole story. “C’mon, Abby! Come clean! Are you going to call Sabrina or not?”
“Nope,” she said, still smiling. “
I’m
not going to call her,
you
are.”
If there had been any bedcovers nearby, I’d have pulled them over my head and nailed them in place. “I can’t take this anymore,” I said, too tired to shriek or screech. “Stop winding me up. I’m not a toy. Just tell me what’s going on in your twisted and perverted little mind.”
“Oh, all right!” Abby scowled and smashed her cigarette in the ashtray. “You’re no fun anymore, you know that? I was just fooling around a little—trying to lighten things up and have a few laughs. And where’s the harm in that? A little silliness never hurt anybody, you dig? It might even help us put things in perspective! But noooo, that’s totally impossible now, thanks to you, because you’re so sensitive and serious and impatient and boring, a girl can’t even—”
“Abby!”
“All right, already!” she snapped, raising her hands in surrender. Then she took a sip of her drink, twirled a lock of ink-black hair around her index finger, and said, “Okay, here’s the skinny, Minnie. There’s a reason you need to call Sabrina, and it’s a good one. Remember I said I would get Jimmy to take us to the Copa tonight? Well, he can’t go. He’s got a poetry gig at the Vanguard. I called around for a substitute, but all my backup boyfriends are busy, so now we’re up the creek without a male escort.
“And that’s not all,” she continued. “I also called a girlfriend of mine—a model who works the coat check at the Copa—and she told me the club is booked so tight tonight not even an ant could sneak inside. She said Corona has so many bodyguards standing around backstage his own mother couldn’t get anywhere near him.”
Kerplunk
. Our scheme to ambush Tony Corona in his dressing room hit the water and sank like a stone.
“Well, that’s that,” I said, shoulders slumping in defeat. “It was a foolish idea to begin with, I guess. I should have known it wouldn’t work out.” My head was hanging so low it almost touched the table. “Now I’ll have to revert to my original plan and try to corner Corona at his hotel. It’ll be tough to crash his suite at the Plaza, and a heck of a lot more dangerous, but what other choice do I—”
“Hold the phone, Joan!” Abby broke in. “Did you lose your faith along with your sense of humor? I told you I’d dream up a scheme to get us into the Copa, didn’t I? Where’s your confidence, babe?” She arched one eyebrow to the hilt, stuck her chin out, and said, “What would you say if I told you I know a way we can catch Corona’s show tonight, be treated to a free dinner and a slew of champagne cocktails, and then be invited—that’s right,
invited
—backstage to his dressing room?”
“I’d say you’re playing poker with half a deck.”
Abby stretched her scarlet lips from one earlobe to the other.
“Then you’d lose the game, Mame. Because all you have to do to make this happen is call Sabrina.”
IT TOOK A WHILE FOR ABBY TO EXPLAIN HER crazy plan to me, and even longer for me to accept it. After I thought it over, however, and realized how snugly the pieces of the puzzle fit into place, I came to the conclusion that Abby’s scheme was not only feasible—it was perfect. So, without further delay, I picked up the phone and dialed Sabrina.
First I told her the truth about Abby: that the bold and beautiful brunette who had suddenly appeared at her apartment earlier today was my best friend and next-door neighbor—
not
a potential prostitute—and that she was helping me search for Virginia’s killer. Then, seeing that my broken secrecy pledge didn’t upset Sabrina nearly as much as I thought it would (it seemed we’d both become more trusting and forgiving since our chummy morning chat), I went on to outline the way that she could help us get in to see Corona at the Copa.
At first she flatly refused. It was too dangerous, she said, and she’d never forgive herself if something awful happened to me or Abby as a result of her actions. But after I spoke to Sabrina awhile—pointing out that trying to hunt down a murderer was
always
dangerous, regardless of the methods used, and that the crowded Copacabana was probably the safest possible setting for such a venture—she agreed to set our scheme in motion.
She said that as soon as she hung up with me, she’d call Tony (he’d been a client for so long she always used his first name). And once she got him on the line (she knew he’d take her call—he always did), she would tell him about the two gorgeous, shapely, incredibly sexy young women who had just that day joined her escort service. Then she’d offer him first dibs, saying she would send the two young ladies to the Copa this evening and—if he’d arrange for them to be admitted at the door and seated at a good table for dinner and the eight o’clock show—they’d be pleased to meet him in his dressing room afterward, where he could look them over and choose the one he wants for the night.
(I would have been happy to forgo the dinner and the show, but Abby wouldn’t hear of it. “All work and no play makes Paige a dull detective,” she insisted.)
I gave Sabrina Abby’s number and told her to call us back when she got off the phone with Corona. Then, while we waited to learn whether or not Corona would take the bait, I guzzled the rest of my Bloody Mary, lit up a cigarette, and filled Abby in on the earlier details of my day—my heart-to-heart talks with Charlotte and Sabrina and my explosive confrontation with Oliver Rice Harrington.
“I
told
you not to bother with him,” Abby snorted. “Harrington’s not the murderer. You just got yourself fired—
really
fired—for nothing.”
“I’m sure you’re right about my job,” I said, “but you could be dead wrong about Harrington. He’s a very brutal man, Ab. He’s a cold-hearted cutthroat, a ruthless tycoon, a merciless bastard who probably commits some form of murder every day. Look at how easily—not to mention guiltlessly—he killed my career!”
“That’s not the same as killing a person.”
“Oh, no? Well, you should have seen the way he reacted when I mentioned Virginia Pratt! He went insane, Jane. He was breathing fire! I swear, if he had gotten his hands on me, he would have killed me, too. He would have hauled me up under his arm, lugged me across the room, plowed my head through the glass of the penthouse window, and then chucked me— screaming and flailing—over the ledge.” (Okay, that was a pretty rash and gruesome conclusion, but what can I say? I was in a rash and gruesome mood.)