Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

Chapter 28

AFTER EXPLAINING TO WILLY WHO Blackie, Baldy, and Binky were, I told Abby about Willy’s and my expedition to the Keller Hotel to try to dig up some dirt on Aunt Doobie. Then I guzzled some more rum, lit up a cigarette, and gave them a full report on my face-to-face encounter with Aunt Doobie-and the subsequent encounter of a big rock with the back of my head. Then-after they’d both expressed their shock and horror over that little mishap-I told them about Flannagan’s swift arrival and his revelation that the anonymous caller who witnessed the attack had reported seeing a dark-haired man in dark clothing flee the scene in a black limousine.

“So it could have been Aunt Doobie who bonked me,” I said, “or maybe it was Blackie. Or Randy, or anybody else in the world, for that matter. And whoever it was escaped in a limo which may, or may not, belong to Baldy. Get the picture?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Abby said. “It’s like a painting by Jackson Pollock. You don’t have a clue what it means.”

“Right,” I said. “And my trip to the Actors Studio tonight made the whole scene even more confounding.” After reiterating the fact that Binky had auditioned for Gray’s understudy role, I discussed how this opportunistic performance made Binky a very likely-perhaps the

most likely-suspect in the murder. Then I told them about Baldy’s surprise appearance at the audition, and gave them a word-by-word account of his dialogue with Elia Kazan at the end of the tryouts. I concluded my tale with a recap of my flight from the unknown stalker in black clothing.

“See what I mean?” I sputtered. “The deeper I dig, the crazier and more convoluted the clues become. The only concrete piece of evidence I’ve managed to uncover is that Baldy is the producer of

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” A new thought suddenly occurred to me. “Hey, Ab, do you still have your Playbill from the show?” I was getting excited. “The producer’s name will be listed there!”

Abby’s eyes lit up. “Of course I still have it! It’s right here on the table.” She snatched a stack of bills and papers from under the sugar bowl and madly spread them out in front of her. “Here it is!” she gasped, handing the Playbill to me. “You look. I’m too nervous.”

I opened the little booklet, turned to the title page with the opening credits, and there they were: “Directed by Elia Kazan”… “Produced by Randolph Godfrey Winston.” “Eureka!” I shouted, showing the page to Abby and Willy and pointing out the producer’s name. The mysterious Randy had finally been found.

“Do you believe that?” I said. “I’ve been looking for Randy around every corner, and his name was right here on the program, in living black and white, the whole time. I need to have my eyes examined.”

“But so what if Baldy’s name is Randy?” Willy wanted to know. “What does that have to do with the price of egg creams?”

“It shows that Baldy had a pretty intense relationship with Gray,” Abby explained, “apart from the usual producer/understudy connection, I mean. The name Randy appeared on Gray’s telephone message list four, count ’em,

four times in the short period surrounding Gray’s death. That’s kind of weird, you dig?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Willy said, not totally convinced.

“And what about the fact that he was asking the Vanguard bartender all those questions about me?” I broke in. “Why was he doing that? How much did he know about me already?

Did he know that I was looking into Gray’s murder? Had Rhonda told him that I stole Gray’s telephone messages? And was it his black limousine that was hovering around the Keller Hotel last night? And if so, why? Was he the one who clobbered me?” A chill ran down my spine in spite of the heat.

“

Oy vey!” Abby cried. “My head is swimming with all these questions! Everything’s so meshuga, it’s gotten out of hand. And by that I mean dangerous! I think we’d better call a halt to this focockta investigation before somebody gets seriously hurt. And that means you, Paige!”

I was surprised by her sudden willingness to surrender. Abby was usually as tenacious as a pit bull with a meaty bone. “Do you really feel that way?” I asked her. “Because I don’t! My feelings are the exact opposite. I think we’re really close to catching the killer. I think we’re going to break this case in no time!”

“Have you lost your reason?” Abby shrieked. “This is the most complicated, most perilous puzzle you’ve ever tried to solve. You should have your head examined, not your eyes. There’s a very thin line between danger and death, you dig?”

(Okay, so maybe I

had lost my reason. Considering my recent head-banging-not to mention heart-banging-travails, I might have misplaced it somewhere along the way. It wouldn’t be the first time. But I still couldn’t bring myself to accept that idea. Call me a cockeyed optimist-or a cockeyed idiot, if you prefer-but I truly believed that the secrets of the Gray Gordon murder would soon be unlocked. And that I would be the one turning the key.)

“So what are you saying?” I croaked. “Are you saying you don’t want to go with me to Sardi’s tonight? Because I was kind of counting on you and Willy to come and-”

“What?!!” they squealed in unison.

“And help me do a little surveillance,” I finished my sentence. “Two of our prime suspects will be there. Binky

and Baldy. (I couldn’t stop calling him that. Even though I now knew his name was Randy, he would always be Baldy to me.) And they’ll be sitting at the same table. And Rhonda Blake will be there, too. It’s too good a chance to pass up.”

“Good for what?” Abby seethed, arching one eyebrow to the apex. “A good chance to be recognized? To be found out? To be marked for murder?”

“Oh, Mercy!” Willy whimpered. “I wouldn’t like that!”

“No,” I said, taking another sip of rum and eyeing them over the rim of the glass. “I was thinking along different lines. I was thinking it might be a good opportunity for the two of you to see James Dean.” (It was a devious trick, but somebody had to do it. I couldn’t go to Sardi’s alone. They don’t admit unaccompanied females.)

“Come off it, Paige!” Abby snapped. “He won’t be there, and you know it. You’re just dangling a carrot in front of our nose.”

“That’s right!” Willy dittoed.

“I am not!” I yowled, dangling the carrot even closer. “There’s a very good chance he’ll be there. Elia Kazan is going to be there, and he directed Dean’s latest movie,

East of Eden, you know! And I read in Dorothy Kilgallen’s column that they’re very good buddies now. They go out together a lot. And you were the one who said Dean is in town, Ab. You said it just the other day. That’s the reason you wanted to go to the Actors Studio, remember? So the odds are really, really good that Kazan will invite Dean to join him at Sardi’s tonight. I’m not kidding!”

I had ignited a spark in her star-struck eyes. It was obvious. Her lashes were fluttering and her pupils were widening. “I don’t know, Paige,” she hesitated. There’s a chance he’ll be there, I guess, but it’s bound to be a small one. There’s a much greater chance that the murderer will be there.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” I admitted. “And if we’re there, too, maybe we’ll be able to see or overhear something that will reveal the monster’s identity. Wouldn’t you like that, Ab? Wouldn’t you like to help nail the brutal slasher beast who slaughtered your dear friend Gray?”

She gave me a dirty look. “You’re being cruel now, Paige. You’re making me think about the horrible way Gray died just to motivate me to want to find his killer.”

“Is it working?” I asked her.

“No,” she lied, with a wink. “But I

do want to see James Dean, so you can count me in.”

WILLY WASN’T SO EASILY PERSUADED. He wanted to see Gray’s murderer caught, but he didn’t want to take part in the catching.

“I’m a coward,” he confessed. “I’m a yellow, lily-livered pansy. I wouldn’t be any help to you at all. If one of the suspects just

looked at me funny, I’d scream and run the other way.” Great beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead and were beginning to roll down the sides of his cheeks. “And who gives a fig about seeing James Dean? I’m a very patient person. I can wait till his next movie comes out.”

“Oh, come on, Willy,” Abby said, dabbing the sweat off his face with a cocktail napkin and kissing the tip of his nose. “We won’t have any fun without you.” She curled her fingers thorough his Brylcreamed blond hair, and rested her head on his bare shoulder (he was still in a skimpy toga, don’t forget).

Willy snorted (or was it a sigh?). “I’m a homosexual, honey. Haven’t you heard? Your feminine wiles won’t work on me.” The deep pink blush on his face suggested that the last sentence of his statement was patently untrue.

(Leave it to Abby. She could charm the socks off any male, straight or gay.)

“We don’t need you to be brave, Willy,” I urged. “We just need you to be our escort. Sardi’s won’t let us in unless we’re accompanied by a man.”

“Me? A man?” he jeered. “That’s a laugh and a half.”

“Hush, Willy,” Abby cooed into his ear. “Stop putting yourself down. You may be a queer, but you’re still a real, live, red-blooded American man. A real

man’s man, you might say.” She let out a soft giggle. “Trust me. A woman knows these things.”

Abby’s tactics were taking effect, but too slowly for me. It was 10:15, and I was hoping to get to Sardi’s around 11:15-before the cast of suspicious characters showed up. “You’ve got to go with us, Willy,” I insisted. “After all, you’re the main reason we’re doing this. If we don’t find out who the real killer is, Flannagan’s going to try to pin the murder on you. And without some hard evidence to the contrary, he may very well succeed. Your blood type alone could be enough to convict you.”

That did it. Willy jumped up from the table, hopped across the room, and started bounding up the stairs toward Abby’s Vault of Illusions (the little dressing room where she keeps the props and costumes for her paintings). “I can’t go to Sardi’s in a toga,” he yelled down to us. “I’ll change back into my street clothes, then run home and put on my good suit.”

AS SOON AS WILLY LEFT THE APARTMENT, Abby and I went upstairs to change. We both needed to put on dresses and disguises. Only Rhonda would recognize Abby, but Binky, Baldy, and Rhonda would all be able to finger me.

“Want to be a redhead tonight?” Abby asked. “I just got a new wig. They call it the Rita Hayworth.” She held up a white dummy head with long, flowing, auburn tresses for my inspection.

I pinned my own hair back in a bun and tried the wig on. “This is perfect,” I said, looking in the mirror. “I don’t look like Rita Hayworth, but I don’t look like Paige Turner, either. I look a lot like Lassie, but that’ll keep me safe from Sardi’s celebrity hounds. Dogs can’t write. Nobody will ask me for an autograph.”

“Ha ha,” Abby said, not laughing. “You’re just as bad as Willy. Always putting yourself down. You look so fabulous in that wig Kazan’s going to put you in his next picture. Here,” she said, handing me a black sheath dress on a hanger. “This should fit. Try it with the red belt and red satin pumps.”

Thanking my lucky stars, as I often had before, that Abby and I wore the same size (except for our bras), I stepped out of my shocking-pink-and-red-plaid outfit, and stepped into Abby’s little black dress. It looked good on me. Especially with the red belt and shoes. But that was the least of my concerns. I was going to Sardi’s to snatch a murderer, not a beauty crown.

“Well, hellohhh dahhhling,” Abby said, twirling between me and the full-length mirror. “You look lovely tonight. And how about me, sweets? Don’t you think I look swell?”

Swell wasn’t the word for it. Abby looked, as they say, like a million bucks. She had swirled her hair into a high bouffant and hung long, dangly diamonds (okay, rhinestones) from her ears. She was wearing a low, off-the-shoulder, tight-waisted, full-skirted white dress, white stilettos, silver-rimmed sunglasses (yes,

sunglasses!), and she was holding a very long, very slender white cigarette holder up to her glossy red lips. The effect was eye-catching, to put it mildly.

“Wow!” I said. “You look stunning. You’re going to steal the show. And that’s the problem!” I added. “Didn’t anybody tell you this is an undercover operation? You’re supposed to fade into the background, not shimmer like a star in center stage.”

“Phooey to that!” she spat. “You can’t be a good snoop if you look like poop.”

“Who told you that? Milton Berle?”

“It’s common knowledge, silly. The brighter you shine, the harder you are to see.”

I didn’t have time to argue with her. Willy was ringing the buzzer downstairs. We were off to meet our Cowardly Lion and take the yellow brick subway to the land of Oz.