“I asked you here to discuss a matter of some importance to us both, Mrs. Turner,” he said, eyes fastened on mine. “I know that you’re working on a story about the murders of Virginia Pratt and Jocelyn Fritz, and I want to purchase exclusive rights to that story for my newspapers and magazines,
Daring Detective
included. And after your report has been featured in the selected Harrington News publications, I want you to turn the story into a full-length crime novel for Harrington House Books. I am, of course, prepared to pay a large sum for your efforts, with a twenty-five percent advance due the day you sign the contracts.”
I was agog. I took a deep drag on my cigarette and exhaled slowly, through my nose, hoping the sting of the rising smoke would scare my eyeballs back into their sockets.
“So what do you say, Mrs. Turner? Does my proposal interest you?”
“Well, uh . . . sure,” I said, doing my best to act blasé. “But I can’t give you a commitment right now. I have to talk things over with my fiancé first.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, “the indefatigable Detective Dan Street. You must consult with him, of course. And congratulations on your engagement.”
Harrington was starting to spook me out. “How do you know so much about me?” I asked. “Are you having me tailed or something?”
He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “I run a successful
news
empire, Mrs. Turner. There isn’t much that escapes my notice.”
I decided to test the validity of his statement. “Are you aware that District Attorney Sam Hogarth murdered Jocelyn Fritz?”
“I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”
“And that he also tried to murder me?”
“Yes . . .”
“And are you willing to publish all the dirty details about the DA’s many crimes—including the fact that he had a hot and heavy relationship with
your
favorite call girl?”
A storm cloud fell over his face, but he remained calm and in control. “I was getting to that point, Mrs. Turner,” he said, “and these are my terms: I
expect
you to write the truth about Hogarth and Melody, but I want you to keep
my
name out of it.”
“Oh, so that’s it,” I sneered. “You’re trying to buy me off. I should have known your offer was too good to be true. Tell me, Mr. Harrington,” I said, in the most scathing tone I could summon, “are there any other special clauses in your contract I should know about?”
“Just one,” he said. “Somebody else I want you to protect.”
“And who, pray tell, is that?”
“Sabrina Stanhope.”
SO THERE I SAT, IN A CUSHY LEATHER CHAIR IN the luxurious penthouse office of the most powerful media mogul in the country (maybe even the whole world), wondering what crazy quirk of fate had determined that said mogul should want to defend the same high-class madam that
I
had pledged to protect. (Well, it was a pretty bizarre situation, don’t you think?) It took me a good half hour to gather my wits, ask the right questions, extract the true answers, and get to the mind-boggling bottom of things.
And here’s what it all boiled down to: Harrington had known Sabrina during her debutante days. He was twelve years her senior—too old for her, he knew—but that hadn’t stopped him from admiring her beauty and style. He took her out on a few dates, hoping she would find his maturity, keen mind, and vast wealth attractive, but she’d been more interested in the young, dark, and dangerous type. They remained friends for a while, but lost touch after he married and started his family.
Harrington didn’t hear from Sabrina again until many years later, when she called to tell him about her new call girl enterprise. He’d been shocked to learn that she’d become a madam, but after she told him about her abusive husband, and the physical, emotional, and financial damage she’d suffered at his hands, he understood her motivation. And he approved of the “respectable” way she was running her business. And since he was a man with a healthy sexual appetite, a frigid wife, and a huge discretionary income, he soon signed on as a client.
Shortly after that, Sabrina introduced him to Melody. And he became so enamored with the beautiful young call girl that he started phoning Sabrina two or three times a week to schedule appointments with her. And as a result of those regular phone conversations, Harrington and Sabrina became friends again. At first they just talked about old times, but then they began having intimate chats about their personal and business lives—sharing confidences, offering and asking for advice, listening to each other’s problems.
“And now I feel like a brother to Sabrina,” Harrington concluded. “A very close and concerned older brother. And I don’t want to see her get hurt by the sex-and-murder scandal that’s about to rock the city. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s worked very hard to protect me and her other clients from the press and police, and I want to return the favor.”
“But if you’re so close to Sabrina, why didn’t you call her after Melody was murdered?” I asked. “She was suffering a lot, and scared to death the killer might go after her other girls. She could have used some comforting and encouraging words from you, but you didn’t call even once!”
“I was too devastated to speak with anybody,” Harrington said, his massive shoulders falling into a slump. “Melody’s death hit me really hard. I was so upset that I told my family I thought I was getting sick, and then I locked myself in my study for days, swilling bourbon, eating nothing, sleeping on the couch. It was a childish and cowardly thing to do, but I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t leave my study until late Friday morning, when I finally sobered up and dragged myself back to the office. That was the day you burst in and accused me of firing you.”
“Right,” I said, looking down at my lap, suddenly feeling ashamed of my brash behavior. “I’m sorry I made such a fuss.”
“Don’t be. You had a right to be angry and hurt. Pomeroy treated you very unfairly. He thought he was helping
me
, of course, but still . . . that’s no excuse.”
“How was hurting me supposed to help you?”
Harrington gave me a sad look. “I’m not proud of that part of the story, Mrs. Turner, but here’s what happened. Pomeroy came to my home last Wednesday morning to ask me for a loan, but found me drunk and sobbing in my study. I had learned about Melody’s murder on Tuesday—the day before the news hit the papers—so I was in the depths of depression. Pomeroy asked me what was wrong, and—too weak and stupid and inebriated to know what I was doing—I blubbered out a full confession.
“And
that
,” he went on, “is why Pomeroy gave the Virginia Pratt assignment to Mike Davidson instead of you. He knew that you would conduct a thorough, relentless search for the truth, and he was afraid that you’d uncover my infidelities in the process. He had you fired for the same reason. He wanted to derail any thoughts you might have about investigating the story on your own in order to save me and my family—and, by extension,
his
family—from the ruination of a raging sex scandal. I didn’t know about any of this at the time, of course. I was too busy wallowing in pain and self-pity and booze. As soon as I found out about it, though, I told Crockett to give you your job back.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said.
If Harrington noticed my sarcastic tone, he didn’t let on. He just pushed his glasses higher on his nose, raised his bushy eyebrows, and said, “Now about that contract, Mrs. Turner. May I have my lawyers draw up a draft for your approval?”
I sat quietly for a few seconds, giving the matter further thought, coming to the realization that I was already in accord with Harrington’s terms. He had had nothing to do with the murders of Virginia and Jocelyn, so I saw no earthly reason to expose his private affairs to the public. And as for his brotherly resolve to protect Sabrina . . . well, given the fact that I was determined to protect her myself, I certainly couldn’t find fault with that.
“Okay,” I finally agreed. “Give me a buzz when it’s ready.”
ABBY THREW A SURPRISE ENGAGEMENT PARTY for Dan and me that night. Well, it wasn’t exactly a surprise, since she called us both at work to tell us to be at her place at seven, and it wasn’t exactly a party, since Jimmy, Otto, Lenny, Dan, and I were her only guests. What it was, actually, was an engagement dinner—with an enormous turkey cooked by Abby, and about a thousand potato pancakes cooked by Lenny’s mother. (Lenny carried them across town in a suitcase.)
Oh, yeah, there was some champagne, too. Quite a few bottles, as I recall.
Abby had strung colorful Christmas lights all around her studio and decorated her kitchen table with a dark blue madras bedspread and a small vase of yellow mums. We dined by candlelight, listening to the hi-fi sounds of Thelonious Monk and the Modern Jazz Quartet. Everything was swell. With Otto curled up on my lap, and Dan’s arm resting on the back of my chair, and my best friends gathered so closely around me, I would have been content to sit at that table forever.
Abby cleared the dishes and served the dessert and coffee (she wouldn’t let me lift a finger!). Then, motioning for us to quiet down, she stood up and said, “It’s time for another sweet treat, you dig? While I spent the day basting the bird, our soulful hero, Jimmy ‘The Bard’ Birmingham, was writing a poem for this engaging occasion. And he’s going to read it for you now, kids, so listen up!”
Abby sat down and Jimmy stood up. Fingering his beard and looking slightly embarrassed, he took a crumpled piece of paper out of his hip pocket and began to read.
Slam pan man
Doin what you can
Hip hound
A cool hot dog
Blowin his tune
Rockin and sockin
With the mood
Mother of toils
Who told us so much
How high to climb
How low to fall
All been written
All been said
Wrongfully repeated
Often misread
Happy endings inside my head
A day anew
A lot too few
Umm . . . well, what can I say? There seemed to be a message in there somewhere, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. But who cared what the words meant, anyway? They were written by Jimmy Birmingham! The grooviest poet in Greenwich Village! The original slam pan man! The man who, along with his cool hot dog, had snatched me from the jaws of death! It was the best poem I ever heard in my whole darn life, and if I live to be a hundred (which is beginning to seem like a distinct possibility), I will never hear another one like it. (Unless Jimmy writes a sequel tomorrow—which is also a distinct possibility.)
After the poem, the chocolate cake, the coffee, and several additional rounds of champagne, Abby put a stack of 45s on the record player and tried to get everybody up to dance. Lenny, Jimmy, and Otto joined her on the floor—cavorting to the beat of Chuck Berry’s hot new single about a car named Maybellene— but Dan and I remained seated at the table, smooching, nuzzling, sighing, and making plans for the future.
We decided to get married in two weeks on the coast of Maine, in the small fishing village where Dan’s parents lived. We would take Katy with us, of course, but after the brief ceremony in the office of the local justice of the peace, she would spend the rest of the weekend with her grandparents in their cozy cottage on the bay. The weather would be cold and wet this time of year, but Dan and I would be warm and happy— making love by the fire in the Marrytime Suite at the Moby Dick Inn.
We wouldn’t be able to go on our honeymoon right away (I had a big story to write and Dan had two complex murder cases to wrap up, don’t ya know), but we were looking forward to the spring, when we would squander the advance from my Harrington House contract on a fabulous two-week holiday in—where else?—Hawaii. (I wanted to see how my dream would come out.)
As we sat cuddling at the table, sipping champagne and watching our goofy friends rock around the clock with Bill Haley and The Comets, I finally screwed up the courage to tell Dan that I had decided to keep my job at
Daring Detective.
I thought he was going to flip out and start yelling at me—maybe even (gasp!) threaten to break off our engagement—but I was wrong. He just gave me a sexy wink and said, “Look, I’ll be moving in with you soon, Paige, and I intend to keep a
very
close eye on you and keep you out of trouble. So if you want to hold on to your job, it’s fine with me. Just promise me one thing. No more unsolved murder stories, okay? No more dangerous investigations. No more chasing killers and meddling in police business. No more telling lies and keeping secrets.”
That sounded like
six
things to me, but I was in no mood to argue. “Don’t worry, babe,” I said. “I learned my lesson this time. I really like my life—especially now that I’ll be spending it with you—and I won’t risk it again. I promise you my sidewalk sleuthing days are over. For good.”
I meant it then, and I still mean it now. I’m going to stay in the office and stay out of danger—even if it kills me. I’m going to make coffee and clip newspapers and write in-house stories only. And no matter what happens—no matter how curious or fixated on a breaking murder story I become—I am never, ever, ever going to play detective again.
Honest.
About the Author
Amanda Matetsky
has been an editor of many magazines in the entertainment field and a volunteer tutor and fund-raiser for Literacy Volunteers of America. Her first novel,
The Perfect Body
, won the NJRW Golden Leaf Award for Best First Book. Amanda lives in Middletown, New Jersey, with her husband, Harry, and their two cats, Homer and Phoebe, in a house full of old movie posters, original comic strip art, and books—lots of books. You can visit the author online at
www.amandamatetsky.com
.