Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

Chapter 17

HAVE YOU EVER HAD TO FACE THE MAN you love with gobs of mascara smeared all over your cheeks, a hairstyle that resembles a bathmat, a damp, wrinkled, all-black costume fit for a witch (or a crow), and a great big suitcase full of secrets? Then you know how I felt as I scraped myself up off the floor, steadied myself against the refrigerator for a second or two, and then wobbled over to open the door. (

Aghast, appalled, and ashamed are the first words that come to mind, starting with the A’s.)

I flipped the latch, released the deadbolt, slipped off the chain, and slowly cracked the door open. “Hi,” I said, gazing down at my feet as if they were the eighth wonder of the world. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow.”

Dan pushed the door wide and lunged inside. His anger was so intense I could taste it. “Don’t give me that crap,” he said. “You know why I’m here.”

“No I don’t!” I cried, telling the god’s honest truth (for once). I raised my eyes and met his irate glare head-on. “What’s the matter?” I begged. “What are you so upset about? Has something bad happened? Oh, my god! Where’s Katy?”

“She’s still in Maine with my folks,” he said, quickly relieving my mind on that score, but letting my other questions dangle.

“So what’s going on?” I spluttered. “Are you okay? Why are you so mad? Please tell me what’s wrong!!!” I was teetering on the edge of another emotional breakdown.

Dan grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me close, and peered deep into my eyes for a moment, obviously trying to judge the credibility of my frantic and concerned response. (I couldn’t blame him for that. Dan was a trained and efficient homicide dick; it was his duty to be suspicious. And, then, there was always the little matter of my less-than-stellar track record in the honesty department…)

Finally satisfied that I wasn’t putting on an act, Dan squeezed my shoulders, gave them a shake and growled, “Okay, so maybe you

don’t know why I’m here.” Then, in a very sarcastic tone, he added, “But since you’re such a cunning, clever, and daring little detective, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

His voice was still angry, and his fingers were still digging into the flesh of my upper arms, but as he stood there staring at me, the expression on his gorgeous, stubbled, well-tanned face underwent a conspicuous change. Instead of fierce and furious, he now looked kind of quizzical and… well, amused.

“What is it?” I snapped, unnerved by his sudden shift in mood. “What are you smiling about?”

“Your face is all black,” he said, “and your hair’s kind of frizzy. Have you joined a minstrel troupe?”

“Very funny,” I said, resisting the urge to run and hide in the coat closet. I was embarrassed about my appearance, but really glad it had given Dan a chuckle. (Call me a boob, but I’d rather be laughed at than yelled at.)

“Hey, what’s your refrigerator doing in the middle of the room?” Dan let go of my shoulders and walked over to the wayward appliance, brow wrinkled in a Mr. Fixit frown. “Is it broken? How long has it been unplugged?”

“Oh, er, just for a little while,” I stammered, feeling even more embarrassed than before. “And, no, it’s not broken. I’ve been thinking of redecorating the kitchen, and I wanted to see what it would look like on a different wall.” (Well, what was I

supposed to say? That I was trying to shove it in front of the door so a deranged slasher couldn’t burst in and kill me?)

Dan shot me a sneer of disbelief, stuck the plug back in the socket, and-with barely an oof or a grunt-wriggled the Frigidaire back into place. Then he took a tray of ice out of the freezer, cranked the cubes loose, and stacked a bunch of them in a glass. “Okay, out with it, Paige,” he said, filling the glass with water and carrying it over to the kitchen table. “No more lies and deception.” He yanked a chair away from the table and sat down. “I want a full confession and I want it

now.”

My head started spinning again. How was I going to deal with this one? Dan had obviously learned something about me since I’d last spoken to him-something that upset him so much he’d cut his vacation a day short, left his daughter with his parents in Maine, and driven all night to get to my apartment. But what exactly had he learned, and how had he learned it? How could I make (okay, make up) a good confession when I had no idea what I had to confess to?

(I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I should have made a clean breast of everything right there and then-told Dan all about Gray’s murder and my subsequent involvement in it. And, looking back, I can see the wisdom of that view. But hindsight is better than foresight-well,

my foresight, anyway-and at this particular point in time all I could think about was how I was going to get to the heart of the murder without losing Dan’s heart in the process.)

“Lies?! Deception?! Confession?!” I squawked, putting on a big show of righteous indignation (which is hard to do when you look like a cross between Al Jolson and the Creature from the Black Lagoon). “I don’t know what you’re talking about! What crime am I being accused of now?” (The best defense is a good offense, they say-or is it the other way around?)

“Quit stalling, Paige.” Dan pulled a pack of Luckies out of his shirt pocket and fired one up. “It took me nine straight hours to drive here from Portland. I’m too tired to play games. Just tell me the goddamn truth.”

“Can I wash my face first?” I stalled, walking over to the kitchen sink and turning on the water. “Then I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Promise.”

He released a loud groan of exhaustion. “Yeah, okay. And make a pot of coffee while you’re at it. I’m really beat.” Setting his burning cigarette in the ashtray, he leaned back in his chair and stretched his long, strong legs out in front of him. Then he crossed one burly arm over the other and closed his bloodshot eyes.

I scrubbed my face clean and filled the coffeepot with water. Then, spooning Chase & Sanborn into the filtered metal basket, I snuck a long, hard look at Dan while his lids were shut. Maybe his unguarded facial expression and body language would clue me in to the secret workings of his mind…

Nope. I couldn’t see that far inside. All I could see was the outside:… the sexy jut of his hips… the unusually casual and sporty way he was dressed (khaki shorts, blue and white seersucker shirt opened halfway down the chest)… the way his disheveled dark brown hair was flopping down over his forehead.

Mmmmm. My temperature soared a good ten degrees. I had to open the back door and let in some air. I was so overheated (okay, turned-on), I came this close to throwing myself at Dan’s feet (okay, on his lap) and begging for mercy.

But I put the coffeepot on the stove instead. And turned the burner on. And then-combing my fingers through my hair, straightening my clothes, and doing my best imitation of Jane Russell, or Lauren Bacall, or Lana Turner, or any other screen goddess you can name (besides Debbie Reynolds, I mean)-I sidled over to the table and sat down in the chair closest to Dan’s.

“Are you hungry, honey?” I simpered. “I’ve got some bread and cheese. Or I could run down to the bakery and get you a Danish.” (I don’t always act so slavish and subservient-except at work, that is-but I felt the circumstances called for it now.)

Dan arched an eyebrow, opened one eye and aimed it, as if through a gunsight, at me. “No!” he grumbled, piercing me to the core with his Cyclops stare. “I don’t want any food. And I don’t want you to feed me any more of your flap, either.” He sat up straight, rubbed his tired face in his hands, and then glared at me again (with both eyes this time). “All I want is the truth,” he said, taking one last drag on his nearly burnt-out Lucky and angrily crushing it in the ashtray. “Is that too goddamn much to ask? I want you to tell me where you were-and what you were doing-all day yesterday and last night.”

Oh, so that’s it! I whooped to myself. Maybe Dan really was just crazy worried about me! Maybe the fact that he couldn’t reach me on the phone sent him into such an insecure and jealous spin that he jumped in his car and drove here in a possessive rage. Maybe he’s just as nuts about me as I am about him!

And maybe he doesn’t know anything about the murder after all…

“I was with Abby all day and night,” I told him. “We had breakfast at her apartment yesterday morning (true), and we messed around the Village for a while (true-if you can call our mission to the Sixth Precinct police station ‘messing around,’ which, in the meddlesome sense of the phrase, it kind of was), and then, in the afternoon, we went to the Waverly to see

Dial M For Murder (total lie, except for the title of the movie and the name of the theater where it was, in truth, playing). We had pizza for dinner at Abby’s apartment (true), and after that we went to watch her boyfriend Jimmy perform his inspiring Independence Day poem at the Vanguard (also true, except for the ‘inspiring’ part).”

A lot more Trues than Falses, wouldn’t you say?

I took a deep breath, proudly stuck out my chin and asked, “Anything else you want to know?” I almost added the word “buster,” but thought better of it.

“Yeah,” he said, not missing a beat. “Why did you tell me your phone was out of order when it wasn’t?”

Uh oh! How did he find out about that?

There was no point in contradicting him. (Unlike

some people I know, Dan’s a confirmed straight shooter. He wouldn’t make such a bold, accusatory inquiry unless he knew it was legit.) I was stuck. I had to come clean (sort of).

“You probably won’t understand,” I mumbled, “but I let you believe my phone was out of order because I knew I was going to be out of the apartment a lot-missing most, if not all, of your calls-and I didn’t want you to worry about me.” I was aware of how lame that would sound to him, but it was the only excuse I could think of on such short notice. And besides, every single word of it was true. (It was all the words I left out that would have caused a problem.)

“You bet I don’t understand!” Dan said, dropping his fist down hard on the tabletop. “Whatever made you think that a goddamn lie was going to keep me from worrying?”

“I didn’t really lie to you!” I protested. “You jumped to the conclusion that my phone was out of order yourself, and I just let you believe it.”

“But why? Why didn’t you simply tell me that you weren’t going to be home? Then I wouldn’t have had to keep calling and calling and wondering if you were okay. I wouldn’t have been worried at all.”

“That’s what you say now, but when we spoke on Saturday night, I had the impression that you were vexed about not being able to get in touch with me, and more than a little concerned about how I was going to be spending the rest of the holiday.” (I didn’t actually use the word “jealous.” Why threaten his pride and arouse his masculine ego? I had enough hard feelings to deal with already!)

I must have hit a nerve, because for a second Dan looked as though he would accept my explanation. He softened his eyes, relaxed his scowl, and took a deep swig of ice water, clearly giving more thought to the matter. But then his scowl came back, and his eyes narrowed into slits, and he twisted his luscious mouth in a knowing (i.e., nasty) smirk.

“Nice try, Paige,” he said, “but your cover-up won’t work. You’ve been lying through your teeth all along. You told me two phone company trucks were sitting outside your apartment. You made references to melted cables and blown-out gaskets. You said phone company workers had been hanging around your block for two days. If those weren’t lies, then what do you call them? Misinterpretations?” There was enough sarcasm in his voice to sink a ship.

“I… uh… well, I was just trying to-”

“Stop it!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the table again. “I don’t have the energy to listen to any more of your crap. You must think I’m a total moron, the way you keep telling me one cock-and-bull story after another. But I’ve got news for you, Paige. I’m

not a moron. I’m a trained, experienced, and well-connected NYPD detective. It took me all of two minutes to contact the phone company and find out that no repair work was being done in your area-and that your own phone was in perfect working order.”

“Yes, but I-”

“So now it’s official,” he barreled on, ignoring my attempts to explain. He looked tireder and sadder than I’d ever seen him look before. “You’re a liar and a fake. And nothing you can say or do will change those facts-or the way I feel.”

“Oh, no, Dan! Please don’t say that! Please let me tell you-”

“No, that’s enough.” He scraped his chair away from the table, rose to his feet, stuffed his pack of cigarettes in his pocket, and turned toward the door. “If you have any more song and dance acts you’d like to perform, I’d thank you to wait until I’m gone.”

“You’re leaving?” I whimpered, in shock.

“As fast as I can,” he said, walking over to the door and pulling it open.

“No! Wait! Please don’t go! Just give me one more chance. I swear I’ll tell you the truth about everything!”

“It’s too late, Paige,” he said, withering my soul with his weary goodbye glance. “I don’t care anymore.”