Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

Chapter 1

IT WAS A HOT TIME IN THE OLD TOWN that night. Seven o’clock on a Friday evening-July 1, 1955, to be exact-and even though the sun had slipped below the skyscraper skyline, the mercury was still stuck at a blistering 98.3 degrees. The steamy, jam-packed subway ride home from work had left me weak, wobbly, and drenched in perspiration (mine or somebody else’s?-it was hard to tell), and as I staggered down Bleecker Street toward my apartment, the hot sidewalk under my swelling feet was scorching the soles of my stilettos.

I needed a drink, and I needed it now. If Abby wasn’t at home-standing at her kitchen counter and mixing me up a tall, icy-cold Tom Collins-I’d have to kill myself.

No call for concern. The minute I opened the door to our building and began climbing the narrow chute of stairs to the small landing between Abby’s apartment and mine, I heard the ultra cool sounds of John Coltrane pulsing through her open door. Then Abby poked her head and one hand-the hand that was holding my cherry-topped Tom Collins-out into the hall.

“You’re late to the gate, Kate!” she piped, speaking in rhyme as she often liked to do, and giving me a new name in the process. She flipped her thick, black, waist-length braid of hair off her shoulder and stepped all the way out onto the landing. “Half the ice in your drink has already melted! This gunk is sunk.”

I tried to think up a clever reply, but couldn’t. My brain had melted, too. “That’s okay,” I said, wiping my sweaty forehead on my sweaty forearm and trudging the rest of the way up the steps. “I’m so thirsty I’ll drink anything-as long as it’s wet.” To prove my words, I grabbed the glass from Abby’s hand, threw my head back, and poured a good third of the diluted cocktail down my dehydrated throat.

I considered pouring the rest of the drink down inside the front of my lavender linen dress, but quickly ditched that idea. It would cool me off for a few glorious seconds, I knew, but then later-as the sugary concoction warmed to the rising temperature of my skin-I’d feel steamier and stickier than ever. And my new dress would be ruined. So, instead of giving myself a Tom Collins dunk, I guzzled the rest of the watered-down gunk. (Okay, you caught me. I don’t often speak in rhyme, but I have, on occasion-I’m thoroughly embarrassed to admit-been known to write that way.)

“Way to go, Flo!” Abby said, her stunning Ava Gardner face lighting up in a satisfied smile. Aside from drawing and painting, listening to jazz, and pursuing her bohemian interest in the taboo practice of free love, the preparing and sharing of exotic alcoholic beverages was Abby’s all-time favorite pastime. “Come on in,” she said, beaming. “I’ll make you another one.”

A welcome breeze was blowing in Abby’s apartment. Actually, three welcome breezes. One came from the electric fan sitting on the floor at the rear of the kitchen area, right in front of the wide-open back door (which led out to the rusty fire escape landing, which led down to the small, weed- and, no doubt, rat-packed courtyard behind our building). A revolving draft blew from the fan perched on the kitchen counter, and another came wafting from the tall, whirring contraption set near the easel in Abby’s living room-cum-art studio.

I plopped myself down at the kitchen table, in the spot I thought most likely to benefit from all three breezes, and lit up an L &M filter tip. “Oh, God!” I exclaimed. “Please kill me right now! I can’t endure this unbearable heat for even one more second.” (I am, as you will eventually discover, somewhat prone to hyperbole.)

“Yeah, it’s pretty awful,” Abby said, sighing. She poured a healthy dose of gin into my fresh drink, gave it a vigorous stir, then, nestling the glass in a cocktail napkin, carried it from the kitchen counter to my place at the table. “I was working on a new illustration all day,” she said, nodding toward her easel, “a cover for Husky Male magazine, and it was so crazy hot in here I thought I was going to faint.” She sat down at the table, lit up a Pall Mall, and took a deep swig of her own drink. “It got so bad I had to take off all my clothes and work in the nude.”

Uh oh. I knew what that meant. It meant the crazy heat wave had probably been of her own making-that Abby had likely worked with a handsome young Husky Male model that afternoon, and that she’d spent more time seducing (or, as she would say, shtupping) him than painting him.

“I take it you weren’t alone,” I said, letting more than a shred of sarcasm seep into my tone. (I disapprove of Abby’s promiscuous ways, you should know, while she thinks I’m a total prude.) “Anybody I know?” I asked. “Or did the model agency send you a brand-new toy?”

“Oh, shut up, Paige! You’re such a prig!”

“I am not. I’m a healthy, passionate, open-minded woman who just happens to believe that the beautiful and intimate act of procreation should be enjoyed with one’s husband, not every Tom, Dick, and Murray in Manhattan.”

“Yeah, well, that’s all fine and good if you’re married,” Abby snorted. She gave me an impish smirk, hoisted one eyebrow to the hilt, then blew a perfect smoke ring in my direction. “And need I remind you, Little Miss Morality, that neither one of us is?”

Her smoke ring hit the crossbreeze and disappeared.

“I’m not the one who needs reminding,” I said with a sniff. “I’m painfully aware of my single-woman status. You, on the other hand, seem to think you’re married to all mankind.”

Abby laughed out loud. “No, I’m a lover of all mankind, you dig? I’m not ready for marriage yet. Who knows if I’ll ever be?” Taking another big gulp of her drink, she eyed me over the rim of her glass. “And I think any woman who waits till she’s hitched to indulge in the pleasures of sex is a dope. Present company included.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said, putting my mental dukes up for round two of our favorite fight. “Well, I think any woman who gets pregnant out of wedlock is an even bigger dope!”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Do you see anybody here who’s pregnant?” she huffed.

“Not yet,” I needled.

“And you never will!” she said, flipping her long braid from one shoulder to the other. “I’m no dope, you dig? I’ve got a diaphragm, and I know how to use it.”

(I had a diaphragm, too, I should tell you-courtesy of the Margaret Sanger Clinic on 16th Street. I’d had myself fitted for the contraceptive device right after Dan and I started dating, when I came to realize how thoroughly attracted to him I was. I hadn’t used the contraption yet-nor did I intend to anytime in the near future-but my desire for Dan was so intense, I couldn’t be sure of my self-control. And like any good Girl Scout, I believed in being prepared.)

“The diaphragm isn’t infallible, you know,” I said, turning serious and giving Ab the evil eye. I hated to be such a nag and a killjoy, but I felt it was my solemn duty. Abby was the best friend I’d ever had in my life. I loved her like a sister. And if she ever had to suffer the brutal social ostracism of unwed motherhood, or the wrenching torture of giving up her baby for adoption, or-worse-the pain and horror of a squalid backstreet abortion, I didn’t think either one of us would be able stand it.

Abby tossed her head and let out a loud guffaw. “Chastity ain’t the answer, either, babe!” she insisted. “It may keep you from getting pregnant, but it still makes your life miserable!”

“How would you know?” I teased. “You’ve never tried it.”

We were both laughing now-which was the way most of our sex-focused sparring matches ended: in a draw, with a couple of chuckles and no hard feelings.

“Speaking of chastity,” Abby said, “will the sex-starved Detective Street be dropping by to see you tonight?”

“Not a chance,” I said, heaving a pregnant sigh. (No pun intended. I swear!) “He left town early this morning and drove up to Maine with his daughter. They’re spending the holiday weekend with his parents. And since Monday is the big day-July Fourth, I mean-they won’t be back till Tuesday.”

“Did he invite you to go with them?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because Dan planned the trip just for his daughter-he wants Katy to get to know her grandparents better. If I had gone with them, it would have changed everything. The focus would have been on me instead of Katy. Dan has told his daughter about me, but I haven’t met her yet. And I don’t think Dan wants me to-not until he’s absolutely sure our relationship’s going to last.” I snuffed out my cigarette and poured some more gin down my throat, dabbing at my steamy cheeks with the soggy cocktail napkin.

Abby shrugged her shoulders. “Sounds like Danny the dick is as uptight as you are.”

“He’s not uptight, he’s upright!” I cried, springing like a Doberman to Dan’s defense. “He’s strong and sensible and protective and considerate! He went through hell with his unfaithful ex-wife, and their divorce was pretty awful, and he doesn’t want Katy-or himself-to be subjected to anything like that ever again. Katy’s fifteen now-that’s a very emotional age, you know!” I was getting pretty emotional myself.

“Cool down, kiddo,” Abby said, lifting her heavy braid off her neck, letting the breeze circulate underneath. “Don’t say another word. I get the picture already! You’re a prude, and Dan likes it that way. He’d rather trust you than shtup you. And you-you’re even worse! You’d rather suffer than be satisfied! You’re both just a couple of straitlaced shlumps who’ve forgotten how to enjoy life.” She let her braid fall down her back and gave me a goofy grin. “You’re perfect for each other.”

I laughed. In a way, she was right. Dan and I were a couple of straitlaced characters, doing our best to live by-and even help enforce-society’s rules. But Abby was dead wrong about one thing: we had not-repeat, not-forgotten how to enjoy life. (Though I hadn’t yet taken Dan into my bed and we hadn’t yet gone all the way, we’d been having a darn good time taking side trips on the couch.)

“Has he told you that he loves you yet?” Abby wanted to know.

“Well, no,” I sadly admitted.

“Have you told him?”

“No!” I sputtered. “I’m the woman! I can’t say it to him till he says it to me.”

Abby rolled her eyes. She thought my feminine inhibitions were absurd. “Look, I’d like nothing better than to sit around talking about sex all night,” she said, suddenly plunking her empty glass down on the table and adjusting the plunging neckline of her black halter-top dress. “It is, after all, my favorite subject. But I’m afraid I have to cut this conversation short right now.” She squashed her cigarette out in the ashtray, scraped her chair away from the table, and stood up. “There’s no more time for chitchat. We have to get ready to go.”

“Huh? What did you say?”

“I said we have to get ready to go.”

“Go? Where?”

“To the theater, my dear,” she said, pronouncing her words in a snooty British accent and playfully sticking her nose in the air. She turned and began circling her apartment, closing and locking the kitchen door, turning off the hi-fi and all the fans. The dense humidity settled on me like a wet wool blanket. I could barely breathe.

“Drink up!” Abby urged. “We have to hurry. The curtain goes up at eight.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I snarled. I wasn’t in the mood for any jokes or surprises. It was too darn hot.

Abby shot me a mischievous smile. “You’ve heard of the theater, haven’t you, my dear?” she asked, still speaking in a pompous tone. “Because that’s where you and I are going tonight. To a smash-hit play on Broadway. And the show starts at eight.” She looked at her watch. “Oy vey!” she cried, suddenly dropping her British airs and reverting to her Yiddish roots. “It’s almost seven thirty already! We’ve got to leave right this minute or we’ll miss the opening curtain. C’mon, Paige, get up! Let’s go!”

Now I don’t know about you, but I really hate being yanked around like a poodle on a leash.

“I’m not going anywhere!” I growled, crossing my arms over my chest and staying firmly glued to my chair. “I just got home from work! I’m exhausted. I’m hungry. My feet hurt. I’m perishing from the heat!”

“The theater will be air-conditioned,” Abby said.

“Right,” I replied. Then I hopped up, grabbed my purse, and pranced like a poodle to the door.

WE WERE LUCKY. THE VERY MINUTE WE descended into the Sheridan Square subway station and stepped out onto the platform, the uptown local arrived and whisked us away. “Hey, bobba ree bop!,” Abby crowed, lurching against me as the train whipped around a sudden curve in the tracks. “If we can catch an express at fourteenth street, we’ll make it just in time.”

“In time for what?” I snapped. “You still haven’t told me what play we’re going to see. I hope it’s not The Pajama Game-but, knowing you, it probably is.” (I didn’t name this particular play just so I could make a snippy reference to Abby’s love of bedroom sports. No lie. I really didn’t want to see the popular musical. I’d read the reviews and thought it sounded silly.)

Abby gave me a dirty look. “No, it’s not the goddamn PJ Game!” she said, shouting to be heard above the clamor of the train. “It’s a serious drama, not a comedy. It was written by Tennessee Williams-that sensitive Southern cat who wrote A Streetcar Named Desire-and it’s directed by Elia Kazan, whose latest movie, East of Eden, is-to use a moldy but apt expression-the cat’s pajamas. This play is cool, you dig? Everybody says it’s gonna win the Pulitzer.”

I was shocked right out of my seamed (and uncomfortably damp) silk stockings. “You mean Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?” I asked. “We’re going to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof? That’s the hottest ticket in town! Kilgallen and Winchell can’t stop talking about it. They say the show’s booked up until next year. How the hell did you ever get seats? Did you sleep with the producer or something?”

“Very funny,” Abby said with a sneer. “And you can get that snotty look off your face right now, because no, I did not sleep with the producer.”

“Then who did you sleep with?” I bellowed, just as the train pulled to a stop at 14th Street. My question went unanswered as we hopped off the local and changed to an express.

“Knock it off, Paige,” Abby yelled into my ear after the train had resumed its noisy hurtle through the tunnel, “I’m getting tired of your nasty insinuations about my sex life. They’re repetitious and boring.”

She had me there. I was even beginning to bore myself. “Okay, okay!” I cried. “No more catty remarks. I promise! But, please, just tell me this: how in the name of all that’s holy did you ever get tickets to Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?”

“I don’t have them yet,” she admitted. “I have to pick them up at the theater. Somebody was supposed to leave them at the box office for me.”

“Oh, no!” I groaned, feeling a big wave of doubt crash over me. “Who was supposed to do that? How do you know the tickets will be there? And what’ll we do if they’re not? Jesus, Abby! We could be making this miserable trip for nothing!” In an effort to curb my rising temper (and rising temperature), I gazed up at the Catalina swimsuit ad plastered above the seats across the aisle, imagining that I was the pretty redhead in the green-and-white strapless one-piece, bouncing in the surf instead of the subway.

“Hang loose, Paige!” Abby sputtered. “Don’t sweat it. The tickets will be there. Take my word for it. Gray is a very good friend of mine. He won’t let me down.”

“Gray?”

“Yeah, Gray Gordon. He’s the understudy for Ben Gazzara, the actor who plays the male lead in the show. Gray called me up a few hours ago and said that Mr. Gazzara had collapsed from heat stroke this afternoon, and that he-Gray-was going to have to take over for him-Gazzara-and play the lead role in the performance tonight! Isn’t that fabulous? My good friend Gray is making his debut in the peachiest play on Broadway, and he wants me to be there. I’m so proud I could plotz!”

The train zipped into the 34th Street station and then out again, with barely a blink of awareness from me. My brain was focused on more pressing matters.

“Gray who?” I asked again. “What did you say his last name was?”

“It’s Gordon!” Abby shrieked, patience strained to the limit.

“Gray Gordon,” I repeated, still doubtful about the phony-sounding name and the whole iffy situation. “Never heard of him.”

“Of course you never heard of him! He’s an understudy, for cripe’s sake! Tonight will be his first time appearing on the legitimate stage! How the hell could you have heard of him?” She was getting mad now.

“I meant I never heard you mention him before,” I said, barreling on in my naturally inquisitive (okay, normally intrusive) style. “Just how good a friend is he?” I pestered. “How long have you known him? Does he do anything besides act? Where does he live? Does he have any family? Why haven’t I ever met him?”

What I really wanted to know was if he was the one she had slept with, but I didn’t dare ask.

Abby moaned and threw her hands in the air. “God, Paige, you’re worse than my mother!” she wailed. “What the hell does any of that stuff matter? All that matters is that my friend Gray is playing the lead in a hit show tonight, and he left two free tickets for me at the box office. Eighth row center. Thanks to Gray, you and I get to sit in a posh, air-conditioned theater all evening-lolling in the lap of luxury and digging the coolest drama on Broadway-instead of panting like dogs in the stifling heat of our apartments and taking cold showers just to stay conscious.”

Abby glared at me and her cheeks turned crimson. “You should be kissing Gray’s tuchus in Macy’s window,” she fumed, “instead of asking me all these stupid damn questions about him!”

I was about to utter something wise and witty about the importance of being vigilant and well-informed, when our train screeched into Times Square station, cutting off my train of thought. Then, before I knew what was happening, Abby vaulted out of her seat, stomped across the aisle, slipped through the opening doors, and stormed off toward the station exit.

“Hey, wait for me!” I called, running like a fool to catch up with her.

Big mistake. If I’d had any idea of the danger she was leading me into, I’d have run like a thief the other way.