Dial Me for Murder

Epilogue

THE ENSUING EVENTS OF THAT MURDEROUS BUT miraculous Saturday night are kind of blurry in my mind. Except for a piece of bacon that morning, and a catnap that afternoon, I hadn’t eaten or slept in eons. And considering the fact that I had gotten engaged to the love of my life that morning and my life had been nearly obliterated that very afternoon-well, I think you can understand why my body and brain were running on empty.

I wasn’t totally oblivious, though, so I was able to take note of the major stuff that happened that evening. And for those of you who are still interested, here’s a brief report.

I remember Dan telling Flannagan that he (Dan) had been put in charge of the case and that his (Flannagan’s) services were no longer needed, and I have a pretty sharp recollection of Flannagan spewing out a stream of curses and leaving my apartment in a huff. (I found that part rather amusing.)

I recall that Dan made sure the ME’s team collected, tagged, and bagged all the important evidence-the silenced pistol, Hogarth’s knit cap, the greasy skillet, etc.-even though it was an attempted rather than actual murder scene and Hogarth was the perpetrator rather than the victim. (Dan was leaving nothing to chance.)

I saw that several samples of blood, bone, and shoe leather were collected before my gory Woolworth’s area rug was rolled up and removed, and then I watched while the bullet was pried out of the floor. (Luckily, it hadn’t blasted all the way through Luigi’s ceiling. Otherwise, the fish odor would have had a direct duct to my living room.)

After all the work was done, and all the officers and evidence collectors were gone, Dan left to “take care of business” at the hospital and the station house. Telling Abby and Jimmy to take good care of me, he gave me a parting soul kiss and said he’d be back later.

As soon as he split, I walked across the bare wood floor to the couch and picked up the phone. I couldn’t put it off any longer-I had to call Sabrina. Although I was busting to tell her that Dan had arrested Corona for the murder of Virginia, I really did not want to tell her that Jocelyn had been killed. (I can’t bear to be the bearer of bad news.) I finally faced the music, though, and dialed her private number.

Our conversation was short and bittersweet. She already knew about Corona’s arrest (Detective O’Connor had leaked the news to Sabrina as well as to Hogarth), and she had learned about Jocelyn’s death from the manager of the Barbizon, whom she contacted after all her phone calls to Jocelyn had gone unanswered. She had tried to call me, too, she said, but my line had been busy for hours. (I knew this was true, since my receiver was off the hook from the moment I fell asleep and dropped it on the floor, until a few dreadful decades later, when I snatched it up to call for an ambulance.)

Sabrina didn’t know whether Jocelyn had drowned by accident or been murdered, but she wasn’t surprised when I gave her the lowdown. And she wasn’t shocked that the DA had done the dirty deed. She was shocked, however, that Hogarth had tried to kill me, and she felt so sad and guilty about it that I thought she’d never stop apologizing. When I told her how Hogarth had suffered for his sins, however, she felt a lot better. And when I described in detail how Otto and Jimmy had saved my life, she was euphoric. She was going to send Jimmy a cash reward, she said, and Otto a ten-year supply of dog biscuits.

When my phone call with Sabrina ended, the celebration began. And that’s when my brain and body really went on the blink. I have a fuzzy recollection of drinking glass after glass of Chianti, eating slice after slice of pepperoni pizza, smoking a jillion cigarettes, laughing my head off over nothing in particular, crying my eyes out over the tragic deaths of Virginia and Jocelyn, and rejoicing in the knowledge that Hogarth and Corona were, in one way or another, going to pay for their atrocious crimes.

I was also raving on and on about Dan’s and my engagement, clinking glasses with Abby and Jimmy in a never-ending series of silly toasts, and stroking Otto’s soft, warm, brave little back till it was almost bald.

Sometime around midnight (I think), Dan came back. He had a glass of wine and tried to join in the festivities, but he looked exhausted. Taking their cue from Dan’s tired eyes and sagging shoulders, Abby and Jimmy said good night and went across the hall. They would have taken Otto with them, but I had grown so attached to his sweet, protective presence, I wouldn’t let him go. I begged them to let Otto spend the night with me, and they cheerfully agreed.

As soon as they left, Dan guided me upstairs and helped me get undressed. (Well, I was sort of tipsy, you know! And it’s hard to take off your sweater when you’re cradling a dachshund in your arms and won’t, even for a minute, put him down.) Then, after Dan got Otto and me into the bed and tucked us in, he went back downstairs and slept on the couch, in his clothes. I guess he thought one guard dog wasn’t enough.

WHEN OTTO AND I GOT UP IN THE MORNING, Dan was already gone. He’d left a note on the kitchen table saying he was going to his own apartment to shower and change, then heading uptown to pick up his daughter, Katy, for our ritual Sunday lunch and afternoon movie. He said I should meet him and Katy at Schrafft’s at the usual time. I gave Otto a bowl of water and a leftover piece of pizza, and ran upstairs to get ready.

I was happy as a clam (or any other merry mollusk). I’d had a good night’s sleep and I felt almost sane. Corona was in jail, Hogarth was in the hospital, and I was engaged to be married! I took a long, hot shower, washed and dried my hair, slathered on some makeup, and put on my favorite slim gray skirt and pale blue sweater (Sears Roebuck, of course). I even put on a string of pearls (cultured, not real) and a dressy pair of black suede pumps (Thom McAn, $7.99). In spite of my low-cost attire, I thought I looked like a million bucks.

When I went next door to return Otto, Abby was sitting at her kitchen table in her red negligee, long black hair fanned out over her shoulders, drinking coffee, and smoking a Pall Mall. Jimmy was still sleeping upstairs. “Hey, babe,” she said when I stepped inside. “You’re looking pretty slick this morning. Pearls and pumps, no less. Just like a married lady.”

I let out a goofy giggle, walked over to the stove to pour myself a cup of coffee, then sat down at the table with her. I had thought Abby was happy for me, but when I took a good look at her face, I saw I was mistaken. She had a sulk the size of Kentucky on her kisser.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, nothing much,” she said with an overly dramatic sigh. “I’m just losing my best friend, that’s all. She’s getting married and moving away, you dig? I’ll probably never see her again.” If her lips had been any poutier, they’d have been drooping down over her chin.

“That’s nuts!” I said, hurrying to reassure her. “I may be getting married, but I’m not moving away. No way, Doris Day! I like it here.” I really hadn’t given this matter much thought before, but now that I was, I felt a very strong desire to stay put. “Dan will move in with me!” I declared, hoping my words would turn out to be true. “I couldn’t live anywhere else but here. And we could fix the place up a lot-carpet the living room, buy a real couch, plant a garden in the courtyard. The apartment’s small, but it’s fine for two people… even three,” I added, thinking ahead, imagining how I could turn my office into a neat little nursery.

“Absolutely not, Dot!” Abby cried, pounding her fist like a gavel on the tabletop. “That’s a big fat no, Flo! I refuse to live next door to a screaming baby! I think you and Dan better move to Levittown.” It was obvious that she was joking. Her sulk had turned into a smile so wide you could slide a ruler through it sideways.

Crisis over, we laughed and chatted together for a while, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, feeling good about the future. Then it was time for me to go. “Gotta split, Ab,” I said, standing up and walking to the door. “I’m meeting Dan and Katy uptown for lunch.”

“Later, gator,” she chirped, tying her hair up in a pony and waving bye-bye with the tail.

The minute I got back to my place the phone started ringing.

Thinking it was Dan calling to make sure I got his note and would be leaving on time, I picked up the receiver and cooed, “Don’t worry, baby cakes. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“No rush,” Mr. Crockett said. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough.”

“Huh?” I was a tad confused.

“Tomorrow is Monday,” Crockett grunted. “Be in the office at the usual time. Sort the mail, clip the papers, make the coffee.”

I finally got the message. “You mean I haven’t been fired? I’ve still got a job?”

“Right. Harrington wants you to come back to work. And he wants to see you in his office tomorrow at eleven.”

I was too stunned to speak. What was this all about? Did Harrington want to apologize for the way he kicked me out before, or did he just want to do it again?

“So?” Crockett asked.

“So what?” I replied.

“So are you coming in?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” I mumbled, knowing I wanted to keep my job, but also knowing that Dan wouldn’t want me to.

“Good. See ya tomorrow.”

Click.

I stood there for a few seconds, holding the dead receiver to my ear like a dope, trying to figure out how I should deal with this new development. Then, realizing I couldn’t make an informed decision until I spoke with Crockett and Harrington again, I gave up trying. I slammed down the phone, put on my jacket and beret, stuffed my ciggies in my purse, and took off for Schrafft’s.

THE POPULAR BUT DIGNIFIED RESTAURANT WAS packed, as it always was on Sunday. All the seats at the long wood and marble counter near the entrance were occupied- mostly by middle-aged women in furs and hats, their purses and white gloves nestled securely in their laps. They were sipping martinis or manhattans or hot tea, and savoring their creamed chicken on toast or lobster pie or tomato surprise. A couple of men were sitting at the counter, too, but in their dark suits and fedoras, and with their platters of steak and potatoes, they looked out of place.

I made my way through the crowd to the doorway of the dining room, hung my jacket and beret on the nearby coatrack, and looked around for Dan and Katy. They were sitting at a table for four in the corner, lost in an intimate but animated conversation, looking very happy to be together. I felt like an intruder as I walked toward them, but the minute they saw me approaching, both of their faces lit up.

“Hi, Paige!” Katy said, as Dan jumped to his feet and pulled out a chair for me. “You look so pretty today.”

“Thanks!” I said. “I appreciate the compliment, but if anybody looks pretty, it’s you.” I wasn’t just being polite. With her pale blonde hair, perfectly proportioned features, porcelain complexion, and bright blue eyes, Katy is a portrait painter’s dream. She’s fifteen years young, fresh as a flower, and so poised she makes other girls her age seem gawky and rude- which is a flat miracle when you consider the fact that her beautiful mother is a bitch and a tramp. (Hey, don’t blame me! Those are Dan’s words, not mine. I’ve never even met the woman, so I certainly wouldn’t presume to categorize or condemn her behavior-no matter how bitchy and trampy it is.)

Dan sat back down and put his hand on my arm. “I was just telling my daughter about us,” he said, with an earnest wink. “She knows that I’ve asked you to be my wife. And she’s very happy about it, aren’t you, Katy?” He turned and put his other hand on her arm, encouraging her to speak.

I held my breath and crossed my fingers. Had Katy given Dan her honest opinion? Did she really approve of our engagement? Was she truly okay with the thought of me being her stepmother, or was she just trying to please her dad?

“Are you kidding?” she said, beaming at me across the table. “I’m crazy about the idea! I like you so much, Paige, and it’s fun when we’re all three together, and I love seeing my father so happy. He was sad for a long, long time, and I knew that he was lonely, and I was always worried about him. Now I won’t have to worry anymore!”

So, I ask you, who was the most parental person at our table? (I’ll give you one guess.)

“You can’t imagine how glad I am to hear that, Katy,” I said, stretching my free arm across the table and putting my hand on hers. “I love your father, and I love you, and I think our collective future is going to be great.”

“Cool!” she said, giving me and Dan a cheerful nod, then gently removing her arm and hand from our grasp. She picked up her menu and scanned it. “I’m starving! I want a bacon, avocado, and tomato sandwich on cheese bread, and a hot fudge sundae for dessert.” Her bright blue eyes were twinkling in anticipation.

I placed the same order (well, it sounded really good), and Dan ordered-yep!-a platter of steak and potatoes. And then we relaxed and proceeded to have a wonderful time-laughing, chatting, eating, telling jokes-enjoying each other’s company to the hilt. We could have posed for a Norman Rockwell illustration.

After lunch we went to see the new movie Oklahoma!, starring Gordon MacRae and Shirley Jones. It was a fabulous, wide-screen, Technicolor production, with gorgeous scenery and great Rodgers and Hammerstein music. Katy loved it. I probably would have loved it, too, if every time MacRae came on screen I hadn’t been reminded of the previous Friday night at the Copa, when Abby spotted him sitting with the other celebrities up in the mezzanine, and we were all waiting for a Mafia-connected murderer to come out and sing to us.

WHEN THE MOVIE WAS OVER, DAN TOOK KATY back to the Upper East Side, where she lived with her mother, then went to the station house to tackle the pressing paperwork on the Hogarth and Corona cases. I took the subway home. I was sorry that I wouldn’t be spending the evening with Dan, but I was glad to have the free time to write up the final notes for my story. Since I was going back to work in the morning, I needed all the free time I could get.

I had wanted to tell Dan that Crockett had called-that I hadn’t been fired and was still a staff writer at Daring Detective -but I couldn’t see discussing it in front of Katy. It would have disturbed the peace and spoiled our lovely afternoon. And I knew Dan didn’t want that to happen any more than I did. I would tell him tomorrow, I decided, after I felt out the scene at the office, and met with Harrington, and had a better idea of what I wanted to do.

As soon as I got home, I changed my clothes and washed my face. Then I sat down at the typewriter and added all the details about Corona’s arrest, Jocelyn’s murder, and my own near demise to my story notes. When I was finished, the document numbered thirty-six pages. I was almost out of paper, and my typewriter ribbon had faded to gray. It had been a busy few days.

Too tired and ill equipped to do any more writing, I went downstairs and called Sabrina. I wanted to see how she and Charlotte were doing. I also wanted to know if she’d heard any further talk about the murders, or received any phone calls or unannounced visits from reporters or police. She hadn’t. O’Connor and I were the only ones who’d contacted her about the crimes. She said that she and Charlotte were both thrilled that Melody’s and Candy’s killers had been caught, but were still shaken by Hogarth’s attempt to murder me, and very concerned about how the soon-to-erupt scandal would affect their own lives.

I told Sabrina that Dan and I would do our best to keep her name out of the papers, but we couldn’t promise anything. She understood completely. Having already come to terms with the fact that Virginia and Jocelyn would be exposed as prostitutes, she knew her call girl enterprise was likely to be exposed as well. She had, therefore, called an emergency meeting with the rest of her girls to tell them that she was-for personal reasons-disbanding the agency. She gave each one a check for a thousand dollars and urged them to find legal occupations. Ethel Maguire (aka Brigitte) would have no trouble making the transition, she said, since she would be graduating from nursing school soon.

In the event that she was arrested and sent to jail, Sabrina had arranged with the landlord for Charlotte to stay on in her apartment as maid and caretaker. And she had set aside enough money for Charlotte to pay both the rent and Virginia’s brother’s bills for up to a year. After that, she said, she’d be bankrupt.

Sabrina was still hoping, however, that she wouldn’t be imprisoned for so long, and that she’d be able to set up and finance the new business she wanted to launch: the Stanhope Modeling Agency. Some of her girls would make wonderful models, she thought, and she’d already spoken to some of her wealthy clients about investing in her perfectly legitimate new enterprise. She didn’t know a whole lot about the modeling business yet, she laughingly admitted, but how much different from her previous profession could it be?

I GOT TO THE OFFICE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, and the place was a complete mess. The Coffeemaster had an inch-thick layer of muck on the bottom, and all the cups were dirty. The contents of the cream pitcher had curdled, and sugar was scattered all over the table and the floor. Lenny’s drawing table was heaped with so many unfinished layouts and boards, I figured he hadn’t been in to work since the day I sent him home sick, and my desk was piled halfway to the ceiling with unclipped newspapers, unopened mail, unsorted deliveries, unedited manuscripts, and uncorrected page proofs.

Ugh. Maybe I didn’t want my job back after all.

The first thing I did was check out the morning papers. The main headline on every front page of every edition was TONY CORONA ARRESTED FOR MURDER!, or words to the same effect. Virginia was named in some of the headlines and all of the stories, of course, but the reporters had-for obvious reasons- focused ninety-nine percent of their attention and copy on the accused killer rather than the murder victim. A world-famous singer and movie star would sell a hell of a lot more newspapers than a lowly secretary for an accounting firm (or even a high-priced hooker-a fact not mentioned in any of the articles).

Each paper had a brief write-up about the death of a young Saks Fifth Avenue hat designer named Jocelyn Fritz, who drowned in the pool at the Barbizon Hotel for Women, but none of the accounts mentioned murder. It was also reported that Manhattan District Attorney Sam Hogarth had been admitted to the hospital late Saturday afternoon with severe head and foot injuries. He was in critical condition. The cause of his injuries had yet to be determined, but some newswriters suggested they might have been mob-inflicted, in retaliation for the DA’s courageous crusade against organized crime.

So much for accurate journalism. If the full truth about Hogarth and Corona was ever going to be reported, I realized, the reporter would have to be me.

I slapped all the papers closed and carried them into Mr. Crockett’s office. I wanted to put them out of my sight. As I was returning to the main workroom, Mr. Crockett came through the front door and gave me-wonder of wonders!-a hearty hello. He was clearly glad to see me. Knowing that now was the best time to talk to him-while he was weak from a debilitating caffeine deficiency-I walked right up to him and asked why Harrington had changed his mind about firing me, and why he wanted to see me in his office.

“Harrington didn’t fire you,” he said. “Pomeroy did it without his knowledge.”

“You mean Pomeroy lied?”

“Right. Scummy thing to do. I wanted to fire him, but Harrington said no. Family reasons. And blood is thicker than whatever, so we’re stuck with the bastard.”

Figures. “So why does Harrington want me to come to his office?

“Don’t know. You gotta go see for yourself.” He hung up his hat and coat. “But make the coffee first, okay?”

As I carried the Coffeemaster into the hall and headed for the ladies’ room to wash it, Lenny burst out of the stairwell, huffing and puffing like a marathon runner at the finish line. He was thinner and more red-faced than usual, but he’d made it up nine flights of stairs, so I knew he’d made a full recovery. I walked over, patted him on the back, and, while I was waiting for him to catch his breath, gave him a quick rundown of recent office events.

He was shocked that I’d been fired, relieved that I’d been re-hired, and very upset that his illness had caused me so much trouble. I told him not to worry about it-that I’d been glad to have the time off, and that our crabby bosses and lazy coworkers had been at such a loss without us, we’d probably be treated with kid gloves from now on. Or for a couple of hours at least.

As if to prove my words, Mike and Mario stepped out of the elevator and walked toward us-faint but detectable smiles slipping across their faces. They were surprised to see me, but not sorry. You could tell by the way they each nodded and said, “Good morning, Paige,” without a single snicker, rude comment, or lousy joke about my name. They even gave Lenny a civil hello.

OLIVER RICE HARRINGTON GAVE ME AN EQUALLY civil welcome when I arrived at his office later that morning.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, ushering me inside and guiding me to the guest chair closest to his desk. He offered me a cigarette, lit it, then sat down and extended his “sincere” apologies for the “inappropriate” actions of his “headstrong” cousin Pomeroy, and for the “unseemly” way in which I was “terminated,” and for the “unpleasantness” of our last “visit,” for which he took full responsibility, asking me to forget it ever happened. (I knew I wouldn’t, but I said I would.)

After that, he raked his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses on his prominent nose, and got down to business.

“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.

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.