Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

Chapter 19

AFTER ABBY LEFT I WENT UPSTAIRS AND took a shower (there’s only so much mud-wallowing a girl can stand). I put on a pair of shorts and a clean blouse, then went back downstairs to sit in front of the fan-or, more importantly, right next to the phone. I wasn’t the least bit hopeful that Dan would call, but I wanted to answer on the double if he did.

So, two seconds later when the phone rang, jerking me to attention and launching my spirits toward the sun, I pounced on the receiver in a flash. “Hello?” I croaked, too excited to even try to sound sexy. “Is that you, Dan? Thank God you called! I’m so sorry I-”

“Who’s Dan?” the caller asked. From the high-pitched voice and slight Southern accent, I knew right away it was Willy.

“He’s my boyfriend,” I said, hoping against hope that that statement was still true.

“So where

is your man Dan? Why isn’t he there?” Willy asked. “Isn’t he spending the holiday with you?”

“Uh, no, he-”

“Good!” Willy exclaimed. “Then can I come over and spend the afternoon at your place?”

I was so taken aback, I didn’t know what to say. “Gee, well, maybe… I mean, I guess you could… But why would you want to-”

“I’ve got to get out of my apartment!” he screeched. “Flannagan’s driving me out of my mind! He keeps calling and calling and calling-every blessed minute of the day and night-asking me one appalling question after another, and making horrible accusations. He says I have the same blood type as the killer. He says he knows I killed Gray and it won’t be long before he can prove it. He’s trying to torture me into confessing. I know he is!”

“Take it easy, Willy,” I said, speaking as calmly and reassuringly as I could. The poor fellow sounded even worse than I felt. “Don’t fly into a panic. That’s what Flannagan

wants you to do. Have you tried taking your phone off the hook?”

“Mercy, no!” he squealed. “That would make it even worse. Then he might show up and torture me in person! I’ve got to get out of here now! Can I come over to your apartment for a while? Please, please, pretty pretty please? He’d never think of looking for me there.”

“Um… uh… okay,” I said, spirits sinking as low as they could go. I didn’t want any company. I wanted to wallow in my own troubles, not Willy’s. “Do you know where I live?”

“Yes, I heard you give your address to the police. It’s two-sixty-five Bleecker, right? Just a few blocks from me.”

“Right. I’m one floor up, over the fish store.”

“Kiss, kiss, kiss,” he said. “I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

Click.

(Okay, you can stop shaking your head that way! I get the message already! You’re thinking I was certifiably crazy to let Willy come to my apartment when I had no sure way of knowing whether he was the murderer or not. And you’re one-hundred-percent right, of course. It was a really stupid move. Dan and Abby would be tearing their hair out if they knew what I’d just done. And there’s nothing I can say in my own defense, either-except that I truly believed in Willy’s innocence, and I trusted him completely, and I was bound by my own sense of justice and compassion to help him in any way I could. If that makes me a brainless twit, so be it.)

MY BUZZER RANG TWENTY MINUTES later. I darted over to the living room window and peeked through the shade to make sure it was Willy. (At least I was being

somewhat cautious. I even shot a glance across the street to see if Blackie was lurking in the laundromat doorway. He wasn’t. There was no black limousine parked at the curb, either.) After taking a second look at Willy’s slicked-back bleach-blond hairdo and the plump contours of his colorful shoulders (he was wearing a pink and orange Hawaiian shirt!), I went over to the door and buzzed him in.

Willy climbed the steps to my apartment with difficulty; his legs were short and his arms were full of packages. He carried a foil-wrapped bunch of long-stemmed roses in one hand. “Greetings!” he said, when he reached the top landing. His pale lips were stretched in an ear-to-ear grin. “I come bearing gifts!”

“I can see that,” I said, pulling the door wide and motioning him inside. “But what’s the occasion? My birthday was over a month ago.”

“It’s the Fourth of July, silly,” he said, setting the packages down on the kitchen table and handing the roses to me. “Better put these in water quick. It’s so hot they’re already starting to wilt.”

I stepped over to the kitchen counter, filled my empty flour cannister with water, and plunked the flowers in. “What else have you got there?” I asked, carrying the roses across the room and setting them down on the table. I hoped he’d brought something edible.

Anything edible. (I was so hungry I’d have eaten a hamster, providing it was properly cooked).

“Just wait till you see!” he warbled, his enormous blue eyes glistening with glee. “I’ll open this one first.” Tearing the brown paper wrapping off one of the parcels, he proudly produced a bottle of champage. “Voilà! Isn’t this fabulous? I believe every holiday should be celebrated with sparkling French wine, don’t you? Quick! Put it in the refrigerator before it gets warm.”

I happily did as I was told. (Nothing like a bottle of champagne to turn a blue mood bubbly.) When I returned to the table, Willy was unwrapping a box of Russell Stover chocolates.

“Here!” he said, opening the box and holding it out toward me. “Have one. You look like you need it.”

“Thanks,” I said, popping a chocolate-covered caramel in my mouth and chewing it like gum. “Mmmm. Thith ith good.” (It’s hard to enunciate when your teeth are stuck together.)

When I swallowed that, I took a nougat. My mood was sweetening by the second.

“I’ve brought other goodies, too,” Willy chirped, taking lots of small jars and tins out of a large paper bag and arranging them on the table. “We’ve got beluga caviar, Vienna sausages, deviled ham, smoked oysters and clams, sardines and anchovies, lichee nuts, pickled beets, Greek olives, and capers!” The way his pudgy, freckled hands were gesturing toward the lavish display of delicacies, you’d have thought he was presenting jewels at Tiffany’s. “And here’s a beautiful baguette!” he added, pulling a long, thin loaf of French bread from another brown paper bag and setting it down on the table with a flourish.

All I could say was, “Mmmm.” My mouth was watering too much to speak. I had never tasted any of those unusual things before in my life (except for sardines), but I couldn’t wait to get started.

“Shall we have our feast now, or wait till later?” Willy asked.

“Now, please,” I said. I was probably whimpering like a hungry puppy.

Willy took a step back, folded his arms over the top of his pink-and-orange-swathed potbelly, and studied the table scene as if it were a movie set. “Do you have a pretty tablecloth, honey? No offense, but this yellow formica is atrocious! I won’t be able to eat a thing until it’s hidden from my sight.”

Oh, brother! I was annoyed by Willy’s criticism. I’d always thought my yellow tabletop was cheerful. “I’ve got one,” I reluctantly admitted, “but I never use it. It’s on the top shelf of my closet upstairs. It’s hand-embroidered white linen and it belonged to my grandmother.”

“Perfect!” Willy whooped, clapping his hands in delight. “While you’re getting the tablecloth, I’ll open the wine. Where do you keep your champagne glasses?”

Ha! Did Willy think I was a relative of the Rockefellers?

“I don’t have any,” I said. “All I have are four tall water glasses and three small jellyglasses.”

He wrinkled his freckled nose and shrieked, “Eeeeeeeek! What a disaster! If only I’d known, I would have brought some from home. You can’t drink champagne from a jellyglass! It’s a travesty!”

“Would you rather drink it from a shoe?” I snapped. I was getting a little tired of Willy’s high-pitched histrionics. “I’ve got an old pair of pumps upstairs.”

Startled by my peckish tone, Willy gasped and gave me a hurt look. Then he stared down at the floor in shame. “I’m sorry, Paige,” he mumbled. “I can be a little overbearing sometimes. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just trying to forget about Gray, and Flannagan, and all the ghastliness of the last few days. I was just trying to make everything elegant and festive.”

I felt like a heel. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Willy! Please forgive me for being so short-tempered. I was in a really bad way before you came, and now, thanks to you, I’m about to enjoy some fabulous food, fine wine, and good company. You

have made everything festive, Willy. And as soon as I bring down my grandmother’s tablecloth, it’s going to be elegant, too!”

Willy raised his eyes from the floor and gave me a shaky smile. “You really mean it, Paige?”

“Of course I mean it. And to prove it, I’m going to run upstairs and get the tablecloth right now. It’s party time! So hurry up, pal. Pop the cork and pour the champagne, willya?”

“You bet I will!” he squealed, bounding over to the refrigerator to get the bottle. “Where do you keep your jellyglasses?”

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER WE WERE still sitting at the kitchen table, telling each other our life stories, nibbling chocolates and sipping champagne. My grandmother’s tablecloth was littered with bits of caviar, a few stray capers and olive pits, and enough bread crumbs to feed all the pigeons in the park (I’m talking Central!). Our plates and most of the tins and jars were empty; our stomachs were full.

Except for the lichee nuts, which I found to be pretty yucky, I had relished every peculiar morsel.

“That was really good, Willy. Weird but wonderful. Where did you get all this stuff anyway? Every store in the city is closed.”

“I had it all at home. Even the roses. I’m always prepared for emergencies.”

“That’s good to know,” I said, smiling. “Next time I have a smoked oyster crisis I’ll give you a call.”

He giggled, took another sip of his wine, then turned serious. “Thanks for letting me come over today, Paige. You saved my life. One more afternoon of Flannagan’s relentless questions and accusations, and I’d have jumped right out the window.” His bulbous blue eyes were on the verge of tears.

“I’m glad you came, Willy,” I said, really meaning it (and hurrying to stop the saline flow). “You saved my life, too. But now do you think you could stand it if I asked you a few more questions? About you and Gray and the murder, I mean. I’m working on a story, and I’m hoping I can figure out who the real killer is before Flannagan hangs the rap on you. And there’s so damn much I need to know!”

“Fire away!” Willy said, poking a chocolate-covered cherry in his mouth. “I’m really grateful for your support.

You can ask me anything.”

“Okay, here goes.” I sat up straighter in my chair, determined to find out everything Willy might know, even if my intrusive inquiries embarrassed him. I took a deep breath and began: “First things first. Are you a homosexual?”

“Of course I am, honey!” he squeaked. “I thought you knew that already!”

“I sort of did, but since we’ve never spoken the actual

word…”

Willy gave me an indulgent smile. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, and words will also hurt me. So let’s get them all out in the open right now. I’m not just a homosexual; I’m a fairy and a queer and a faggot, too. I’m a flit, a fruit, a queen, a pansy, and an auntie. I’m a sodomite and a pervert and a deviant. And according to some people-Detective Flannagan included-I’m also a sex fiend and a psychopath. There! Are those enough words for you? Did I leave anything out?”

“Gay,” I said. “You didn’t mention that you were gay.”

Willy cracked up laughing, as I’d hoped he would. (Laughing feels better than crying, wouldn’t you say?) He laughed so hard his pale face turned as pink as the hibiscus blooms on his Hawaiian shirt.

I waited until he’d expelled his last snicker, then continued the discomforting inquest. “‘Auntie?’” I probed. “I never heard that word used in this context before. Is it a very common term?”

“It’s not as popular as ‘fairy’ or ‘queer,’ but it gets tossed around a bit. Even by the fags themselves.”

“You mean they call each other ‘auntie’?”

“Not exactly. What they do is use the word in a nickname. If I had a good friend named Salvatore, for example, I might call him Auntie Sal or Aunt Sally. It’s a term of endearment. But only when it’s used by one homosexual talking to another. When a straight man uses the word, it’s totally derogatory.”

“I see,” I said, wheels turning. “So it wouldn’t be strange for a gay man to call another gay man Aunt Doobie.”

“Not at all. It would just signify that they had a close relationship.”

“A sexual relationship?”

“Most likely.”

“As I mentioned to you yesterday, Gray had somebody in his life called Aunt Doobie. Would that mean that Gray was gay?”

Willy slicked his fingers through his heavily pomaded hair. “That’s a tough one to answer, Paige, but offhand, I’d say yes. Gray never

told me that he was queer, but I always sensed that he was. It takes one to know one, you know!”

“But yesterday you told me you

didn’t know!”

“And I don’t know for sure. I just have a feeling. Gray never gave me or anybody I know a tumble, so I can’t swear that he was gay. And you can’t go by the whole ‘auntie’ thing, either. It’s possible Gray had a real aunt called Aunt Doobie.”

Back to square one.

I paused to collect my thoughts, then proceeded. “Okay, here’s another question I’ve already asked you, but now feel pressed to ask again: Are you quite sure you never heard the name Aunt Doobie before?”

“I’m positive. That’s not the kind of name you forget.”

“Aaaargh!” I growled, rolling my eyes at the ceiling in despair. “Aunt Doobie could be the murderer, for God’s sake, but I may never be able to find out who he or she is!”

“Maybe I can help,” Willy said. “I’m going to a private party at the Keller Hotel tonight. It’s for gays only. Should I bounce the name around and see if anybody’s heard of it?”

“Absolutely not!” I insisted. “You could be putting yourself in grave danger that way. And with Flannagan hot on your tail, you’re in more than enough trouble already.” I lifted my jellyglass to my lips and drained the rest of my champagne. “You said the party is for gays only. Does that mean no women are allowed?”

“Mercy, no!” Willy said, tossing his head and flipping one pinkie-extended hand in the air. “There’ll probably be quite a few women there. But they’ll all be lesbians.”

“Then you’d better give me lesbian lessons,” I said, “because I’m going to the party with you.”