Dial Me for Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

receptionist—except when I like it.
    There was a long pause, and then a curt reply. “But you just said you wanted to tell her who was calling. How could you do that if she isn’t there?”
    Smart cookie.
    “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Turner just stepped out of the office. If you’ll leave your name and number and the reason for your call, I’ll make sure she calls you back.” (I like to think I’m a member of the smart cookie club myself.)
    There was another long pause. “I already gave you my name. It’s Sabrina Stanhope.”
    “And your phone number is . . . ?”
    “Never mind. I’ll call Mrs. Turner back at a more convenient time. When is she expected to return?” She sounded anxious now—as though my whereabouts really mattered to her.
    “Well, I’m not sure, but I’ll—”
    “Look, if you’ll just tell me when Mrs. Turner is expected, I’ll call her back at the appropriate—”
    “Okay, okay!” I surrendered, mentally throwing both hands in the air. (My curiosity always gets the best of me. Every single time.) “This is Paige Turner,” I confessed—so breathless I was bug-eyed. “How can I help you?”
    “ You’re Paige Turner?” I could almost hear her smiling.
    “Yes,” I said, with a defensive sniff.
    “Are you quite sure?” At first I thought she had an English accent, but then I decided she was just putting on a high-class act.
    “As sure as I am that you’re Sabrina Stanhope,” I said, puffing on my ciggie, ear suctioned to the receiver.
    She laughed (rather nervously, I thought) and tossed me a flip “Touché.”
    “Okay, now that we think we know each other’s names,” I said, “what’s next on the agenda? Are you going to tell me why you’re calling, or do we have to engage in a round of Twenty Questions?” I was playing it as tough and cool as I could— trying to make my white flag colorful.
    “I called to invite you to lunch today, Mrs. Turner.” Her tone was challenging and apprehensive at the same time. The flag she was waving was red.
    “Lunch?!” That was the last thing I expected her to say. I was thoroughly discombobulated, and—to make my composure even more difficult to maintain—I was hungry.
    “Yes,” she politely replied. “I’d like you to join me for lunch at twelve thirty this afternoon, at my place on Gramercy Park. There’s a very important matter I need to discuss with you.”
    The last time a woman needed to discuss an important matter with me, I almost got killed for my trouble. “You’ll have to do better than that,” I said, crushing my cigarette in the ashtray. “For me to give up my feast at Horn and Hardart and come all the way down to Gramercy Park to eat, you’ll have to tell me what you’re serving.”
    She laughed again, but instead of nervous, she sounded relieved. “Poached salmon,” she said, “with onion soup, asparagus vinaigrette, and a freshly baked baguette.”
    “Anything for dessert?”
    “Chocolate mousse.”
    My mouth was watering so much that my next words sailed out on the tide. “Sounds good,” I said, with a slurp that I dearly hoped was silent. “But I’m still not satisfied. You left something off the menu.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The topic of the conversation. I want to know what the ‘very important matter’ is.”
    She heaved a loud sigh. “That’s impossible. The subject is too sensitive and complicated to discuss over the phone.”
    “Then can you at least give me a clue? I’ve got a lot of work on my plate today, and I can’t leave the office without good reason.”
    “Oh, all right!” she said, annoyed. “It has to do with the death of a friend of mine. You may have read about it in the paper this morning. Her name was Virginia Pratt.”
    I almost swallowed my tongue. I was so stunned—so close to speechlessness—I barely managed to ask for Sabrina Stanhope’s address and confirm that I’d be there at twelve thirty sharp.
     
I SPENT THE REST OF THE MORNING CLIPPING