Amanda Matetsky - Dial Me for Murder

It was a gold St. Christopher medal. The very same one I’d seen dangling from Tony Corona’s neck just a few hours ago. I could prove it, too. His name was engraved-like a signed confession-on the back.

NEITHER DAN NOR O’CONNOR RESPONDED TO the desk clerk’s frantic call to the police. Several cops in uniform and a team from the medical examiner’s office were the first to arrive, and just a couple of seconds after that, Detective Sergeant Dominick Mudd from the 19th Precinct swaggered into the Barbizon lobby and took charge of the investigation.

Great, I thought. Just what we need-another daring detective mucking up the case. Pulling my jacket tighter around my soggy sweater and shivering shoulders, I sat hunched in a wet armchair in the middle of the lobby, wondering how I should deal with the distressing new developments.

After a quick word with the desk clerk, Mudd dispatched four of his men and the ME’s team to the pool room. Then he strode over to me and stood-legs apart-right in front of my chair. In his dark suit, white shirt, tan trench coat, and gray fedora, he looked just like every other dick in the city. Except for the scar. Etched across the entire right side of his face, it was long, wide, and jagged-like a Z. I wondered if he’d had a run-in with Zorro.

“You’re the dame that discovered the body,” he said.

It was a statement, not a question, so I didn’t bother to answer.

“I want to talk to you after I inspect the scene,” he added, “so don’t leave the premises. Stay here in the lobby until I get back. Give your name, address, and phone number to Officer Murphy while you’re waiting.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, suppressing the urge to salute.

Mudd hurried away, and I gave Murphy the required information. Then I got up and moved to a dry chair. Opening my purse and checking to see that the St. Christopher medal was still there-safe in the zippered side pocket where I’d stashed it-I took out my comb and pulled it through my soggy hair. What the hell am I supposed to do now? What should I say to Mudd when he comes back? How can I handle his questions?

I felt strongly that I shouldn’t tell him the truth. It would take too long to relate the whole story, and even longer to explain all the ramifications. And how would he react to the information? Was he honest or corrupt? Did he have secret mob connections? Close ties with the DA? Would he arrest Corona or protect him? And what would he do to Sabrina?

No, the truth was too risky. I couldn’t give it away to a stranger with a Zon his face. I had to save it for Dan. My best bet, I decided, was to stay as close to the truth as I could without revealing the link between Jocelyn’s death and Virginia’s, or disclosing any significant facts.

By the time Mudd returned, I had my story down pat. When he asked me how I knew the victim, I told him I’d met her at Saks (which was true). I said she was a hat designer (also true), and that she made the most stylish berets in the city (which, as far as I knew, could have been true), and that we’d become such good friends, she designed this special red one just for me. (This statement was totally false, of course, but when I picked up my crimson cap and angled it on my cold, damp head, I almost believed it myself.)

When Mudd asked me why I had such a weird name and what I did for a living, I told him the truth, but when he wanted to know why I’d come to see Jocelyn at such an “ungodly” hour (his word, not mine), I lied through my teeth. I said I’d had a big fight with my boyfriend and was desperate for company. (Actually, when I think about it now, that wasn’t such a big lie after all!)

After Mudd informed me that Jocelyn’s death appeared to be murder, our Q &A session turned fierce. Mudd probed, poked, and prodded me to the hilt, and I gave him a song and dance worthy of Ann Miller. When he asked if I had any idea who killed Jocelyn, I hugged my purse (and the precious evidence it carried) close to my side and said, “None whatsoever.” To his query about how I got so wet, I replied that while leaning over the edge of the pool to take Jocelyn’s pulse, I had slipped and fallen in.

At this point Mudd gave me a skeptical smirk. “You expect me to believe that?” he jeered.

“Well, yes,” I said, taken aback. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because you’re the one who found the body.”

“So…?”

“So the one who discovers the corpse often turns out to be the killer.”

Uh-oh.

“You could have jumped into the pool on purpose,” he said, still smirking. “It could have been you that held the victim’s head underwater until she died.” He stuck a cigarette between his lips, lit it, and went on. “Maybe you were crazy jealous of her. Maybe she was the reason you had a big fight with your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend never even met her!” I declared, realizing- as I spoke-that I didn’t know if he had or not.

Mudd took a quick puff on his cigarette and flicked some ashes on the carpet. “The desk clerk says that, besides himself, you and the victim were the only people here on the ground floor at the time of the murder. He says Miss Fritz came in about three and went straight to the pool for a swim like she always did, and that nobody else entered or left the hotel until an hour later, when you showed up.”

“What a crock!” I sputtered, on the verge of blowing my stack. “The desk clerk can’t possibly be sure of that. He was sound asleep when I came in! A full-grown elephant could have tromped through the lobby and gone for a dip without him knowing it.”

“Be that as it may,” Mudd grunted, “you’re still a prime suspect in this case.”

Great.

“And I’ve got a lot more questions to ask you.”

Swell.

“And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll give me straight answers.”

I was too weary to put up a fight. “I’ll be happy to answer your questions, Detective Mudd,” I said, “but does it have to be now? It’s been a very long, hideous night, and I’m exhausted. I had a blowup with my boyfriend, and found one of my dearest friends dead, and fell into a swimming pool, and now I can’t think straight. I need to go home and get some sleep.”

He looked at his watch and nodded. “Monday morning, then,” he replied, being far more accommodating than I’d thought possible. (Maybe he was weary, too.) “Come to the station for further questioning. Nine o’clock sharp.”

“Thank you, Detective. I’ll be there on time. May I have your permission to leave now?”

“You can leave the hotel,” he said, scar twitching, “but don’t leave town.”

THANKS TO THE PROTECTIVE (AND SURPRISINGLY polite) public policy of the NYPD, Officer Murphy drove me home. It was eight o’clock Saturday morning. The sky was bright, the traffic was light, and the Italian merchants of Bleecker Street had begun opening the doors to their food shops, eager to rake in their weekend windfalls. When I got out of the squad car and headed into my building, the aroma of fresh-baked bread wafting from Zito’s bakery made my mouth water. Normally, I would have rushed to buy a loaf while it was still warm, but today I was too tired. I had barely enough energy to climb the stairs to my apartment and let myself in.

The second I stepped through the door, however, and caught sight of the large, manly figure lounging in my living room, my energy returned with a vengeance. It was Dan! And he was all in one piece! One great big, gallant, gorgeous, glorious piece. Sitting on the couch in his shirtsleeves, with his long, strong legs stretched out in front of him, he was casually smoking a cigarette and reading Sabrina’s lavender list.

“Thank God you’re here!” I cried, ripping off my jacket and beret and tossing them, with my purse, on a kitchen chair. “I’ve been so worried about you!” I bounded into the living room, leapt over Dan’s outstretched legs, and plopped down on the couch beside him. “How long have you been here?” My tail was wagging out of control, but I managed to stop myself from licking his face.