Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

Chapter 18

DAN HAD WALKED OUT ON ME BEFORE. Several times. And always for the same reason: My willingness to lie to him while I was working on a dangerous murder story. I’d spent untold hours wracking my brain and crying my heart out, trying to find a solution to this pressing problem, but it was no use. There

was no solution. Dan was never going to accept my dogged pursuit of the facts at the expense of my own safety, so I was always going to have to dodge the truth to keep him happy (unless I quit my job and gave up my lifelong career goals-which I definitely did not want to do).

But no matter how many battles and breakups we’d suffered as a result of this predicament, something had always drawn Dan and me back together in the past. Our mutual physical attraction had proved unshakable, and our more emotional attachments-i.e., our sincere affection and grudging respect for each other-had compelled us to stay connected. And even though Dan hated, hated,

hated to be lied to (you can blame his lying, unfaithful ex-wife for that near-phobic obsession), I had always had the feeling that-way down deep in his secret heart-he understood my basic motives and would eventually forgive me.

But I didn’t feel that way this time.

This time was different.

Two seconds after Dan stormed out, I ran to the window and snapped open the shade, praying with all my might that when Dan reached the street he would look up and wave at me the way he usually did (when he wasn’t mad at me, I mean). But that didn’t happen, of course. The instant Dan stepped through the door of my building to the sidewalk, he made a sharp right turn and walked briskly away toward Jones Street, where he often parked his car. His eyes were glued to the cement.

And mine were gushing with tears.

Oh, Lord! What’s happening? I sobbed to myself. Is this the way it’s going to end? Has Dan left me for good this time? Will I ever see him again?

I was bereft. I felt more desolate and alone than I’d ever felt in my life (except for the hideous blur of time following my notification of Bob’s death in Korea). I curled myself up in a ball on the couch, hugged my knees in close to my chest, and, wailing like an inconsolable baby, replayed the last few moments of Dan’s dramatic exit scene over and over in my mind.

He had seemed far more sad than angry, I recalled, hugging my knees tighter and wailing even louder. Rather than looking as if he wanted to kill me, he had looked as though he’d just lost his best friend. That was not a good sign. And what had he said when I begged him to stay and hear my confession? “It’s too late,” he’d insisted. “I don’t care anymore.”

Dear God. Don’t let it be true. Please don’t let Dan stop caring about me…

Bam! Bam! Bam! Someone was banging on my door.

My heart did a somersault in my chest. Was it Dan? Had he come back?

“Let me in, Paige!” Abby shouted. “What’s that horrible howling noise? It sounds like you’re skinning a cat in there!”

“Go away!” I hollered, mewling and puling and gasping for air. “I want to be alone.”

“No go, Garbo! You’d better open the door right now, or I’ll break it down. Either way, I’m coming in!”

Knowing Abby was fully capable of demolishing my door (it wouldn’t surprise me if she kept an axe in her broom closet), I pried myself up off the couch, staggered across the floor, and-wiping my tears on my sweaty forearm-opened it myself.

“

Oy vey!” Abby yelped when she saw me. “You look awful! Are you sick or something?” She breezed into my apartment and gave me a head-to-toe onceover. “Yuck! There’s a glob of snot the size of New Jersey hanging out of your nose!”

Great. A broken heart and a giant booger. Now my life’s complete.

“That’s the least of my problems,” I said, slogging over to the kitchen counter and blowing my nose on a paper napkin. As I was throwing the napkin in the trash under the sink, the coffee pot caught my attention. Steam was shooting out of the spout and the loosened lid was rattling and snapping like a pair of novelty store dentures. How long had the pot been perking? I had no idea.

I turned off the stove and squinted through my swollen eyelids at Abby. “Want some coffee?”

“Sure,” she said, looking fresh, clean and ravishing as usual. Her shiny black hair was loose and streaming down her back like a waterfall. Her white peasant blouse and bright red capris looked as if they’d just been washed and ironed. There wasn’t a drop of perspiration on her perfectly made-up face-or anywhere else on her person, for that matter.

(Just par for the course, you should know. Abby usually looks like a Walt Disney princess, while I often resemble a scarecrow… or a dead monkey).

While I was pouring the coffee, Abby popped into the living room and turned the fan to face the kitchen table. Then she walked over to the table, positioned a chair in the center of the airflow, and sat down.

“So what’s the matter now?” she asked. “Tell me all your troubles, Bubbles.”

I carried our coffee over to the table and sat down across from Abby. “I don’t even know where to begin,” I said, choking back a rising tide of tears. “So much has happened since I last spoke to you.”

“You mean since you left the Vanguard last night?”

“Since five minutes before I left.”

“But that was just eight hours ago.” She spooned some sugar into her cup. “How much could have happened since then?”

“Plenty,” I grumbled, disgusted with myself and revolted by my entire lifestyle. I was reluctant to tell Abby about what had happened with Dan (I didn’t want to start crying again), so I lit up an L &M and began recounting the details of my most recent misfortunes from the beginning.

“Before I left you last night,” I told her, speaking in a voice so dead it was dirgeful, “I went over to talk to the bartenders. I wanted to find out if they knew anything about Rhonda Blake or the man she was with. So I asked them both a few questions and-”

“

Feh!” Abby erupted, spraying coffee out of her mouth and all over the tabletop. “This stuff is foul! It’s as thick as house paint and it tastes like dirt!”

“Oh… I guess I cooked it too long.”

“Uh, yeah! I’d say you did. When did you put it on the stove? Last summer?”

“Ha ha,” I said, not laughing, just pronouncing the words.

“It’s like acid,” she needled. “I wonder if it damaged the spoon.” She picked said utensil up off the table, held it up close to her nose, and-doing a swell imitation of Jerry Lewis at his crazy, cross-eyed best-examined it from every angle.

I knew what Abby was doing. She was trying to make me smile. She was trying to tease me out of my mournful mental state and nudge me back to the land of the living. But it wasn’t working. I didn’t

want to be alive.

I took a drag on my cigarette and exhaled slowly. “Ha ha,” I said again, as mirthlessly as before.

“Oh, come on, Paige!” Abby said, slapping the spoon down on the table and throwing her hands in the air. Her patience was fading fast. “Snap out of it! Whatever it is, it can’t be

that bad.”

“Oh, yeah?” I retorted, summoning enough energy to plant myself firmly on the defensive. “First listen to everything that’s happened to me since I last saw you, and

then you can decide how bad it is.”

A JILLION CIGARETTES AND FOUR CUPS of coffee later (yes, we both drank the filthy stuff anyway), I concluded the tale of my latest pitfalls and perils.

“That’s really

bad!” Abby admitted, referring to the whole disturbing picture, but mostly to my disturbing conflict with Dan. (As you no doubt know by now, Abby believes man trouble is the worst kind of trouble any woman can have.) “Why the hell didn’t you just tell Dan the truth?” she ranted. “Then he wouldn’t have broken up with you! Then he could help us look for the murderer, and protect you from Baldy and Blackie at the same time.”

“But it never would have worked out that way,” I sadly replied. “Don’t you see? Instead of helping us look for the killer, Dan would’ve ordered us to drop our investigation altogether. He would have insisted that we leave the whole case-and poor Willy Sinclair’s entire future-in Detective Flannagan’s homophobic hands. And I could not, in good conscience, allow that to happen. I would never, ever forgive myself if Willy went to jail-or got the death sentence!-for a murder I know he didn’t commit.”

“What makes you so sure he’s innocent?” Abby inquired. “His blood type is guilty as sin.”

“Right. And that may be all Flannagan needs to convict him. But lots of people have type A blood, you know. And they’re probably all more homicidal than Willy. Willy wouldn’t hurt a fly-or even a flea. He’s a nervous little mama’s boy. I’ll bet the closest he ever came to cutting a man was during his girlish youth, when he was cutting out paper dolls. Take my word for it, Ab. Willy’s frilly and he’s silly-but he’s not a murderer.”

“You may be right,” Abby conceded. “I wouldn’t peg him as a killer, either. But we’ve been over all of this before, you dig, and

you’re the one always warning me not to jump to conclusions. You always say there has to be solid proof. And right now the only proof we have is the blood type.”

“Which proves nothing.”

“Maybe, baby. But what if you’re wrong? What if you’re screwing up your relationship with Dan and putting yourself in danger to save Willy when you should be trying to bust him instead? Gray’s murder was obviously a crime of passion. And Willy strikes me as both passionate and

meshuga. You might have to call your next mystery novel ‘The Killer in the Yellow Silk Kimono.’ ”

I smiled (finally). “That’s not a bad title,” I said, “but I doubt I’ll ever be using it. I think ‘A Killer Named Cupcake’ is the better choice.”

“Oh, really?” Abby said, arching one eyebrow to the roof. “Have you been holding out on me, Paige? Have you found out who the mysterious Cupcake is?”

“No, but she’s still a prime suspect. Most murderers turn out to be really close to their victims, and if she was Gray’s steady girlfriend as you say, then she was the closest. Her real name will come out eventually.”

“I’ll bet it’s Rhonda Blake,” Abby said, with a sniff. “That dame even

looks like a cupcake-all soft and buttery and slathered with poisonous vanilla frosting.”

“Yes, but remember how annoyed with Gray she was-how she threatened to turn him in to the director if he didn’t show up for the next show? A real girlfriend wouldn’t feel that way. Instead of reporting him, she’d try to protect him.”

“Or slash him to ribbons,” Abby said, refusing to grant Rhonda any concessions. She lit another cigarette, exhaled a thick stream of smoke, and watched it disappear in the churning gust of air from the fan. “So who else is on the table, Mabel? Do you consider Aunt Doobie a prime suspect?”

“Of course. And after last night, Baldy and Blackie have been promoted to the list. I’m still wondering about the guy named Randy, the one who left four messages for Gray, and I don’t know about Binky yet. When I spoke to him on the phone, he sounded very jealous and contemptuous of Gray’s sudden success. But would he have been carrying on that way if he had already eliminated the source of his envy and contempt? I can’t judge until I see him in person.”

“Gee, I forgot about Binky!” Abby exclaimed, perking up considerably. “When are we hooking up with him? Tomorrow, right? And then we’re going to the Actors Studio!” She fastened her bright gaze on my face. “I can’t wait! I’m dying to meet James Dean, and give him my up-close and personal good wishes.”

I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. How was I going to get out of this one?

“I don’t have any idea what’s going to happen tomorrow, Ab,” I demurred, looking for a way to let her down easy. “I haven’t spoken to Binky yet. And I have to go back to work in the morning. After a holiday I’m always up to my eyebrows in extra paperwork. If I know Pomeroy,” I said, referring to my immediate boss at

Daring Detective, “he’ll keep me chained to my desk until Christmas. He’ll make me pay through the nose for having the day off today…

“Oh, by the way,” I added, “happy July Fourth.”

“Same to ya,” she chirped, smiling widely, distracted (for the time being, at least) from the subject of Binky. “What’re you going to do today, Paige? Jimmy and I have a really cool sked. We’re going to Child’s for lunch, and then to the Gramercy to see

East of Eden. It stars James Dean, you know! Then we’re going to John’s for spaghetti and meatballs, and to the park later to listen to music, dance like fools around the fountain, and light up some sparklers and firecrackers. Come with us! It’ll be fun.”

“No. I don’t feel like doing anything.”

“You’re just going to sit alone in your hot apartment and mope?”

“Yep.”

“That’s really dumb. Come out and play with us. It’ll take your mind off Dan.”

“No it won’t. Nothing can.”

“But it’ll help you pass the time!” Abby said, growing impatient again. “You can’t just stay here and wallow in your misery like a pig in the mud.”

“I can if I want to,” I said, pouting-sounding, even to myself, like a cranky and stubborn four-year-old. “I don’t care what anybody says, I’m going to wallow in the mud for as long as my piggy little heart desires!”

I really meant it, too. I was going to stay home all day and night, have a few more crying jags, drink some more putrid coffee, smoke a thousand cigarettes, listen to Billie Holiday sing the blues, and pray with all my might for Dan to call. I was going to eat stale bread and cheese for dinner, and commemorate our country’s independence with a glass (or whole bottle) of cheap Chianti. There would be no dancing or fireworks for me. I intended to lock my doors and stay inside where it was safe.

Too bad I didn’t stick to the plan.