Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

Epilogue

I NEVER FILED CHARGES AGAINST AUNT Doobie-I mean Christopher Dubin. I knew if I did, the secret of his homosexuality might come out, and I had no desire to expose him to the social persecution-or criminal prosecution-that could result from that sort of disclosure. Yes, he had assaulted me and knocked me out-but I hadn’t really been hurt all that much. No concussion; no hematoma. And, anyway, it wasn’t as if Dubin had

wanted to hurt me. He had just been trying to keep me from finding out his real name. He had been desperate to protect himself and his family from hatred and oppression. Where’s the crime in that?

Willy wanted me to keep his real name a secret, too. Although he isn’t totally closeted like Dubin-Willy’s distinctive clothes and flamboyantly girlish ways have made him a gay icon in and around the Village-he still lives in fear that he’ll lose his elderly parents’ love, his extended family’s respect, and his managerial job at Brentano’s bookstore if the truth about his sexuality comes out. So, when I wrote the story about Gray’s murder for

Daring Detective, I gave Willy a phony name. And then, when I started writing this masterpiece-i. e., the dime-store paperback novel you’re reading right now-I gave him another one. (Two aliases are better than one, I always say.)

In my story for Daring Detective I avoided the gay issue altogether. After all, it had nothing whatsoever to do with the murder. And I knew all too well what Brandon Pomeroy would do with the information if he got hold of it. He would turn it into the sex scandal of the century. He would plaster the cover of the magazine with lurid headlines like GAY LOVERBOY ACTOR SLASHED TO DEATH IN JEALOUS RAGE!, or QUEER BROADWAY STAR KILLED IN BLOODBATH OF SICK DESIRES!

And the sensational, misleading headlines would just multiply from there. All the newspapers and other crime magazines would pick up the story and run with it (I hated to think how Confidential would handle the subject!), and poor Gray Gordon would be remembered as a deranged and depraved pansy pervert instead of a nice, talented young man who’d had a brilliant acting career ahead of him.

And I couldn’t, in good conscience, allow that to happen. (Sometimes you have to withhold the truth in order to preserve it.) So I wrote the story straight-never using the words gay or homosexual, and using pseudonyms for the people whose lives would be harmed if another reporter ever learned about the sexual inclinations of Gray Gordon and company. And by omitting all homosexual references, I was able to focus all my nouns and adjectives on the true villain of the story-the envious, greedy, vain, brutal, heterosexual murderer, Barnabas (a.k.a. Binky) Kapinsky. He was, after all, the one who deserved the bad publicity.

Pomeroy still doesn’t know that I soft-pedaled the story. He was so happy to get my exclusive inside scoop for Daring Detective that he never pressed me for a sex angle-which was highly unusual since he always demands that every story have a sex angle, whether it’s a real one or not. I was surprised by Pomeroy’s immediate, no-questions-asked acceptance of my manuscript, until I heard through the grapevine that DD’s owner, wealthy publishing baron Oliver Rice Harrington (Pomeroy’s second cousin and benefactor), had ordered him to publish more exclusive, first-person stories in Daring Detective -or else. Which was the only reason Pomeroy gave me the assignment in the first place, of course. (I should have known it wasn’t his own idea.)

I’ll be getting a lot more assignments from now on, though, since the issue that featured my Gray Gordon story on the cover was a total sellout. (It seems the next best thing to a sex murder is a show business murder.) Pomeroy’s even been giving me more clip stories to write now that my byline has gained some weight. (I write under the abbreviated name of P. Turner, you should know. If I put my full name on my work, I’d be laughed right out of the business.)

Needless to say, Mike and Mario aren’t too happy about my new (i.e., higher) status on the staff. Knowing they no longer have the power to get me fired, and finding it harder and harder to make me the brunt of all their stupid jokes, they’ve been moping around the office like punished children-kids who’ve been barred from the playground and denied all access to ice cream. It’s a welcome change for Lenny and me, and-as you might expect-we’ve been enjoying their petulant frustration to the hilt.

But my greatest new source of enjoyment is Willy. He’s become a very dear friend of mine and Abby’s, dropping in on us often, bringing us flowers, fruit, candy, champagne, and the pleasure of his ebullient company. He also brought me a beautiful new set of four crystal champagne glasses, which have-thanks to our mutual fondness for fizz and bubbles-been put to frequent use.

Now that he’s no longer a murder suspect, the bold, unfearful side of Willy’s personality has emerged, and we’re seeing him at his wise, funny, charitable, insightful, and oh-so-lovable best. Abby is downright crazy about him. And Otto has made his deep affection for Willy known by curling up in his lap-instead of mine!-at every opportunity. At first I was jealous, but I’ve gotten used to it now.

Even Jimmy likes him. The last time we all got together (for pizza, smoked oysters, and champagne) Jimmy insisted on reciting his new poem, and-though I can’t be one hundred percent sure, of course-I would swear it’s all about Willy:

When the whistles blow

And snow falls

The sun shines still

As we know.

Never been rightly teached

Love’s always up front

Only way to go!

Okay, maybe it isn’t about Willy. Who the hell can tell? All I know is that Jimmy laughs a lot when Willy is around, and participates more in the conversation (if you can call it that), and he even lets Willy take Otto out for an occasional walk-which is Jimmy’s way of showing that he trusts you.

Dan trusts Willy a lot, too. Though he hasn’t spent that much time with him-Dan has to work late most nights, solving one grisly homicide right after another-he’s very glad that I have a new friend to keep me company (and out of trouble) when he’s working on a new case. I suspect Dan’s especially glad that my new friend is a

man (better protection, don’t you know), but one he never has to worry about or be jealous of. He hasn’t said as much, but he doesn’t have to. I know the way his wary, watchful (and intermittently wicked) mind works.

As for Dan’s relationship with me-well, that just couldn’t be finer. He introduced me to his daughter a little over a month ago, and he’s been taking us both out to Schrafft’s and to the movies every Sunday since then. And you know what that means, don’t you? It means Dan trusts me now, too. It means he believes our relationship is really going to last.

Katy is really great, by the way-a petite blonde with a keen mind, a fabulous sense of humor, and a wealth of human understanding far beyond her fifteen years. We like each other as much as Dan predicted we would. We even like the same kind of movies. I got a bang out of her favorite, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and she got a big kick out of mine-Lady and the Tramp. (No lie. I’ve seen it three times.) I look forward to getting to know Katy better, and I know Dan’s really happy about that. I can tell by the way he keeps staring at us when we’re together, with a goofy, mile-wide grin on his face that puts Red Skelton’s cockeyed smile to shame.

But who am I to talk? I’ve been walking around with a permanent smile on my kisser ever since that day in the police station when Dan first told me that he loved me. I’ve tried to hide it, but I can’t. I’ve done scowling exercises and eaten about a thousand lemons, but nothing works. No matter how hard I try to force my features into a frown, they pop right back into a beaming smile the instant I relax my cheek muscles. Abby says I look like a dumbstruck fool.

“I can’t take it anymore,” she said to me this morning over coffee, holding her hand up to shield her face. “Your freaking teeth are shining in my eyes!”

“I’m sorry, Ab,” I said, laughing. “I just can’t help it. I’m floating on cloud nine.”

She groaned and gazed up at the ceiling. “Oy gevalt, Paige! How many times do I have to tell you? Cloud nine is for the birds; it’s the mattress that counts!”

I laughed again. “Thanks for the advice,” I said, “but Dan and I are sticking to the couch for now.”

“Still waiting for the stupid wedding band?” she scoffed.

“Well, no, not really… but I saw a pretty nice one in Macy’s the other day.”