Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

Chapter 31

I DIDN’T INTERRUPT HER THIS TIME. I just let her talk until she got it all out of her system. (It was either that or sit through another speech about how impatient and critical I am.) I endured a long dissertation about Gazzara’s strong, extra-wide shoulders, and his powerful chest, and his beautiful hands, and his wry sense of humor, and the way his deep, lusty voice made Abby’s insides quiver. I was told that Kazan was brilliant and insightful and tender and adorable-and so what if he informed McCarthy’s goons that a bunch of his old friends were commies? That didn’t make him a stoolie-it just showed he was honest. And you have to be honest to be a good director, you know!

Aaaargh! It wasn’t until I had reached the breaking point-the point where I was about to tear my hair out by the roots and run screaming from the room-that Abby finally mentioned Baldy and Binky.

“Both of our suspects are attractive, too,” she said. “And guess what! Randy isn’t really bald. When you’re sitting as close to him as I was, you can see that his head is

shaved. Do you believe it? I never heard of such a thing in my life! He looks really sexy that way-so naked, if you know what I mean-but, still, why would a big, strapping, successful theatrical producer like Randy shave off all his hair?”

“Maybe he has ringworm,” I said, hoping to put a damper on Abby’s sex fixation and steer the conversation in a more serious direction (i.e., away from hairstyles and on toward homicide).

“No way, Doris Day!” Abby crowed. “Except for a little stubble, the skin on his head was as smooth and soft as a baby’s. I ran my fingers over his scalp, so I know what I’m talking about. There wasn’t even any evidence of razor burn.”

My patience hit the wall with a splat. “Was there any evidence of anything

else?” I seethed, forcing my words through clenched teeth. “Any evidence, for instance, that Baldy killed Gray Gordon?”

“No,” she said, oblivious to my surly tone. “I couldn’t tell if Randy has a violent streak or not. I was at their table for just a short while, you know, and he acted sweet as a puppy the whole time. There’s one thing I

did find out, though.” She finally stopped her fitful pacing and sat down next to me on the couch. “Randolph Godfrey Winston is a total fruit.”

“You mean he’s gay?”

“One hundred percent.”

“How do you know?”

“It was obvious. Randy didn’t respond to me in a manly way at all, you dig? He enjoyed my style and my company, but he never once looked at me as a woman. Not even when I put my hand on his thigh! He studied my clothes and makeup carefully, but he didn’t look into my eyes, or at my lips or breasts, the way most men do. Take my word for it, Paige. He’s a pansy… Hey, I’ve got a good idea!” she said, light bulb flashing over her head. “We should fix him up with Willy!”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Not if he’s a

murderer, we shouldn’t!”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.”

See what I was up against? Getting Abby to focus on foul play instead of foreplay was like fighting a forest fire with a squirt gun.

“What about Binky?” I asked. “How did he behave? Did you find out anything about him?”

“Plenty,” she said, giving me a frisky grin. “He’s got a fabulous build and the most hypnotic hazel eyes I’ve ever seen. And there’s nothing queer in

his closet. He kept touching my hand and brushing his leg against mine under the table. If Jimmy and I weren’t tight right now, I would’ve made a big play for Binky tonight. He’s really hot, Dot!”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I jumped up from the couch and fled into the kitchen. (It was either that or strangle my best friend.) “I’m going to make a pot of coffee,” I told her, struggling to keep my voice and emotions down to a temperate level. “It’s almost five o’clock. I have to go to work soon.”

Abby followed me into the kitchen and sat down at the table, propping her elbows on the yellow Formica and planting her chin in her upturned hands. “Hey, what’s your problem, Paige?” she asked. “Why the brush-off? Don’t you want to hear the rest of my story?”

“That depends,” I said, filling the coffeepot with water.

“On what?”

I set the pot down on the counter and turned to look her square in the face. “On whether you have anything to report about Binky besides his physical attributes and sexual inclinations.”

Her cheeks reddened and her nostrils flared. “So

that’s it!” she snorted. “You’ve got your uptight tushy in a twist again. You think I’m too preoccupied with the sex angle.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Yes-but that’s the most important part!” she cried. “And if you weren’t such a prig, you’d know I’m right. Whoever killed Gray was in a vicious rage-so vicious he slashed poor Gray to shreds. This wasn’t one of your average, grab-the-money-and-run murders, you dig? It was a crime of real

passion. And where does passion come from, Miss Prissy Pants? Love, hate, jealousy, or sex-that’s where!”

Okay, she had a good point. But it certainly wasn’t the only point. I mean, as helpful as it was to know the sexual leanings of our suspects, it wasn’t all we needed to know. Not by a long shot. And right now I was looking for more practical information. Something useful and definitive. Something we could roll up our sleeves and work with.

“Look, I know sex is important, Ab,” I said, softening my tone and sitting down across from her at the table. “It’s a major force in life, and sometimes death. It’s the primary cause of most passion crimes. But there are other kinds of passion, too, you know. People can be fiercely passionate about their families, or their bank accounts, or their careers-or even their

wardrobes,” I stressed. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“Ha ha,” she said, with a menacing sneer.

I gave her a friendly wink and went on. “So that’s why I was questioning the narrow focus of your investigation, Ab. Especially in relation to Binky. I could be wrong, but it seems to me that something other than sex-namely professional jealousy and a raging desire to advance his own career-might have given Barnabas Kapinsky a strong motive for murder.”

Abby cocked her head and arched both eyebrows. “Aha!” she whooped. “I get your drift. You think Binky did it!”

“I didn’t say that!” I protested. “I was just saying that

if Binky did kill Gray, it probably didn’t have anything to do with sex. It was more likely because he was jealous of Gray and wanted his job.”

Abby gave me a sober look. “Well, if that was the case, he got what he wanted.”

“Huh?”

“Gray’s job,” she said. “They gave it to Binky. He starts tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really!” she said, rolling her eyes. “Why would I lie?”

“But how could he start tomorrow?” I probed. “Doesn’t he have to learn the part first and rehearse the role on stage?”

“Sure, but Binky swears that won’t take him very long. I heard him talking about it with Elia. He says he knows the whole part backwards and forwards already-that all he needs is a little stage direction.”

“Ver-r-ry interesting,” I said, wheels turning.

Proud that she’d captured my attention, Abby quickly continued her report. “Elia told Binky he’d have to be at the theater first thing in the morning to rehearse, and that he’d have to stay there for the rest of the day, through both the matinee and the evening performances, to study the play’s presentation and be available in case he’s needed on stage.”

“Gosh, that was fast!” I said. “These Broadway boys don’t mess around.”

“In this case, they didn’t have to. Binky is perfect for the part and very well-prepared.”

“Yeah, a little

too well-prepared, if you ask me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Binky must have been preparing to take over this role long before Gray was murdered.”

“Ohhhhh…” Abby said, as my words sank in. “I see what you’re saying. Maybe Binky knew Gray’s job was going to become available because he intended to create the opening himself.”

“Exactly.”

“

Oy vey!” she shrieked, eyeballs bulging. “Somebody better warn Ben right away!”

“Who? Wha-”

“Ben!” she cried. “Ben Gazzara! If Binky killed Gray just to get the

understudy role, how far do you think he’ll go to land the lead? Ben better get himself a bodyguard immediately. His days are numbered!”

“Simmer down, sis,” I said, smiling at Abby’s dramatic outburst. “Now

you’re making a tsimmis. Let me remind you that we don’t have any idea if Binky is guilty or not. In fact, what little knowledge we do have points in other directions entirely. The creep who was shadowing me tonight definitely wasn’t Binky, and the creep who bashed me on the head last night had to be either Blackie or Aunt Doobie-not Binky.

“We’ve got more suspects than we can handle,” I went on. “We can’t run around making any wild, unfounded accusations. And we certainly can’t tell Gazzara his life may be in danger. He would call in the cops, and Flannagan would arrest

us instead of Binky.”

“Well, we’ve got to do something!” Abby blustered. She jumped up from the table and started pacing the floor again.

“I agree with you,” I said. “Not because I’m afraid for Gazzara’s life-which, at this point, I can assure you I’m

not-but because I’m determined to discover who ended Gray’s life. I’m not kidding, Abby. I’m going to find out who killed Gray Gordon if it’s the last thing I do!” (The minute those words escaped my mouth, I wished I’d put them a different way.)

“Any idea how you’re going to accomplish this stunt?” Abby asked, suddenly stopping her pacing. She stepped over to the kitchen counter and began spooning coffee into the waiting pot.

“The only way I know how,” I said. “By following every lead and digging up all the evidence I can.”

“So what’s next on the agenda?”

“The first thing I want to do is get inside Binky’s apartment,” I said. “There are a couple of things I want to look for, and tomorrow-I mean, today-will be the perfect opportunity. Binky won’t be home all day, so I’ll have plenty of time to pick the lock and comb the place for clues.”

“Do you know where Binky lives?”

“Yes, over on Third Avenue between Thirty-second and Thirty-third. I got the address from the phone book. There’s only one Barnabas Kapinsky listed, and the phone number matches the one in Gray’s message pad.”

Abby snapped the lid on the coffee and put the pot on the stove to perk. Then she twirled around, folded her arms across her chest and-speaking in a voice as firm as flint-announced, “I’m going with you.”

“Oh, no you’re not!” I sputtered. “I can’t have you snooping around underfoot, messing up the evidence, making noise and alerting the neighbors!”

“Then I’ll go without you,” she declared. “I have as much right to case Binky’s apartment as you do. You said every girl for herself, remember?”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean-”

“I don’t care what you meant! I’m going to search Binky’s pad and that’s final. I’ve got a good eye and I might spot something you’d miss. So what’s it gonna be, Lee? With you or without you-it’s all the same to me.”

I couldn’t let her go alone, but I couldn’t stop her, either. “I give up,” I groaned. “I’ll call you from the office later and tell you when to meet me.”

“Good,” she said, snatching her purse, sunglasses, and Rita Hayworth wig off the table and heading for the door. “Your coffee will be ready soon. Better drink lots of it or you’ll fall asleep at work.”

“Don’t you want some?” I asked.

“Not a drop, pop!” she said, with a goofy grin. “I’m going home to take a nap.”