Authors: Amanda Matetsky

Murder on a Hot Tin Roof (31 page)

BOOK: Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

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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,
sun
glasses!), 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.

Chapter 29

WE ARRIVED AT THE RENOWNED RESTAURANT at 11:20 and took a table in the darkest reaches of the plush dining room, away from the lights and the action. Since the Broadway stars all came to Sardi’s to be seen, and the celebrity-gawkers all came to see them, the tables tucked against the walls in the back were usually the last to be filled. (I picked this little tidbit up from Ed Sullivan’s column in the
Daily News
.) Figuring that the
Hot Tin Roof
clan would be sitting at one of the large reserved tables in the very middle of the room, I sat down in the chair that offered the best view of that area.

As I was basking in the glorious air-conditioning and glancing around at the hundreds of framed and autographed caricatures covering the bright red walls, a waiter materialized, handed us menus, and asked what we wanted to drink. I was about to order a Dr Pepper when Willy jumped in and ordered a round of champagne cocktails.

“Jeez, Willy, that’ll be really expensive!” I said, as soon as the waiter walked away. “And I don’t have that much money on me. We should have gotten a pitcher of beer.”

Abby laughed. “We’re in Sardi’s, Paige, not the San Remo.”

“Don’t worry about the cost,” Willy said. “I’m picking up the tab tonight. I’ve been saving up for a Fire Island vacation, but I think finding the murderer is a better investment for my future. You can’t frolic on Fire Island when you’re in jail.”

“Gee, thanks, Willy!” Abby said, patting him on one chubby cheek. She stuck a Pall Mall in the tip of her long cigarette holder and leaned toward him for a light. “You’re the best kind of man there is—a
gentleman
.” Once lit, she sat back in her chair and put on a big smoking show, waving her thin white holder around in the air like an orchestra conductor’s baton.

The restaurant wasn’t crowded yet, but it would soon be packed. All the shows were ending. Large groups of people were pouring out of the theaters and surging straight into Sardi’s—spreading, like waves on the shore, throughout the vast dining room. I kept my eyes glued to the entrance, watching for Baldy and Binky (and Rhonda, too, though she was not one of my prime suspects). When the waiter set my champagne cocktail down in front of me, I picked it up and took a few sips, never changing the direction of my gaze.

So when Elia Kazan entered the restaurant with his two lead stars in tow (Barbara Bel Geddes and Ben Gazzara, in case you’ve forgotten), I perked up and took notice. Smiling and chatting continuously, they followed the maitre d’ to their table (yep!—one of the ones in the middle) and sat down next to each other, facing the entrance. Baldy and Rhonda came in two minutes later and sat opposite them, facing me. I couldn’t hear what anybody was saying, of course (I was seated a good forty feet away), but I could see that all five were engaged in lively conversation.

Binky was fashionably late. He arrived around 11:45 and, holding his head high and his shoulders erect, searched the room till he spotted his party. Then, looking very cool and composed in his pinstriped suit and paisley tie, he slowly made his way to the center of the now crowded dining room and stood next to his empty chair, waiting for Baldy to introduce him to the others. There was a cocky smile on his lean, clean-shaven face.

“That’s Binky,” I said to Abby and Willy, “also known as Barnabas Kapinsky, the soon-to-be lead understudy in Broadway’s hottest drama. What do you think? Does he look like a killer to you?”

Willy shuddered and rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes!” he squeaked. “He really does!”

Abby wasn’t so quick to judge. “Gee, I don’t know, Flo,” she said. “I think he’s kind of cute. And if he’s as good an actor as you say he is, it’ll be hard to determine his true personality. Maybe I should ask him to model for me so I can do an up close and personal study of his character.”

“You mean his anatomy,” I scoffed, trying not to lose my temper. Couldn’t Abby control her libido for a single second? “What about Baldy?” I probed. “Don’t you think he looks deadly?”

“He’s so big!” Willy sputtered. “And so bald! He terrifies me. He could play the lead in a monster movie.”

“You can’t judge a book by its cover,” Abby teased. “I’ll bet he’s gay.”

“You can be gay and still be monstrous,” Willy said, with a sniff.

Abby scowled and blew a perfect smoke ring. “As far as I’m concerned, the only monster at that table is Rhonda Blake.” She punctuated her statement by punching her cigarette holder, like an exclamation point, straight up in the air. “By the way, Paige,” she added, “you haven’t mentioned Cupcake in a while. Are you still looking for her, or have you finally come to agree with me that the mysterious Cupcake is none other than the bitchy Miss Blake?”

“I think Cupcake is a he, not a she,” I said.

“What?!” Abby exclaimed. “You’re crazy! Cupcake was Gray’s
girlfriend
, remember? He stopped seeing me so he could spend all his time with her!”

“Or so you assumed,” I said. “But now I’ve come to a very different conclusion.”

“Oh, really!” she huffed. “And what conclusion is that, Pat?”

I drank the rest of my cocktail and set the empty glass down on the table. “I believe Gray was a homosexual,” I said, looking her straight in the eye (or, rather, straight in the sunglasses). “I know he slept with you a couple of times, Ab, and I’m sure you both enjoyed the experience enormously, but I’m convinced that Gray loved men a whole lot more than he did women. I believe he broke it off with you so he could commit himself to a special boyfriend, not girlfriend—that Cupcake is, therefore, a man.”

Abby tilted her head down, lowered her dark specs, and stared at me over their silver frames. “I don’t believe it! It can’t be true! Gray was so gorgeous, so masculine, so sexy!”

“All the best fairies are,” Willy said, smirking.

“So who do you think Cupcake is?” Abby demanded, snorting smoke out of her nostrils like a cartoon bull. “He must be really fabulous if Gray left
me
for
him
.”

I smiled. (If Abby had a sense of humility, she never let it show.) “I don’t have a scrap of evidence,” I confessed, “but I
do
have a very strong feeling that Cupcake and Aunt Doobie are one and the same.”

OUR CONVERSATION CAME TO A SUDDEN halt when the waiter reappeared at our table and asked if we were ready to order dinner.

Dinner? At midnight?
Not only was it past my dinnertime, it was past my bedtime, too. I was kind of hungry, though . . .

“Yes, we’re ready,” Willy said, assuming a very masculine tone, taking complete control of the situation. “We’ll each have the filet mignon, medium rare, with roasted potatoes and asparagus hollandaise. And another round of champagne cocktails, please.”

Abby and I glanced at each other and grinned.

As the waiter wrote down our order and began collecting our empty glasses, I took another long hard look at the
Hot Tin Roof
table. Everybody was chatting and laughing and eating and drinking—enjoying themselves to the hilt. Baldy and Binky were laughing the hardest. I was dying to find out what they thought was so funny, but how was I supposed to do that? Walk over and stand by their table till they let me in on the joke?

That was when the realization hit me. Rita Hayworth disguise aside, I probably wasn’t going to learn a darn thing about the murder tonight! How could I? I wasn’t able to hear a word the suspects were saying. And even if I
could
pick up on their discussion, and even if they
did
happen to talk about the murder of Gray Gordon, what difference would that make? They’d just be saying things like, “It’s so horrible!” and “What a shame!” and “Tut tut tut.” Not much to be learned from that. The stakeout of Sardi’s, I sadly admitted to myself, had been a stupid idea. It seemed all I would be able to do was just sit there and watch the suspects have a good time.

“So what makes you think Aunt Doobie is Cupcake?” Abby asked, as soon as the waiter disappeared.

“Yeah, Paige!” Willy echoed. “You’d better fill us in.”

BOOK: Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

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