Murder on a Hot Tin Roof (33 page)

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Authors: Amanda Matetsky

BOOK: Murder on a Hot Tin Roof
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“And
did
you?” I asked, dashed hopes rising again. “Did you get a good look at the guy’s face?”
“Not really,” she said, bowing her head in embarrassment. “You can’t see very much through these sunglasses.” She took the dark specs off her nose and meekly folded them in her hand.
That was when I started laughing.
It wasn’t normal laughter, you should know—not the bubbly, congenial kind brought on by a funny joke or a humorous situation. It was crazy laughter—the fierce, frenetic kind that comes from a place of deep trouble and pain (i.e., more of a howl than a hoot). It was the kind of laughter that, after a brief spell of hysterical cackling, turns into an all-out crying jag.
When I stopped laughing and started sobbing Abby jumped up from the floor and sat next to me on the couch. She threw her arms around me and squeezed hard. “Go ahead, Paige,” she cooed, still hugging me tight, “let it all out. Under circumstances like these, crying is the best release. Maybe the only release.”
“Willy told you what happened?” I yowled. “Do you know about—”
“Yes,” she broke in, “I know all about it.” She took a deep breath and squeezed me even harder. “I still don’t believe it, though. I’m in shock. I never thought Dan would behave this way.”
“M-m-me neither,” I blubbered, shoulders shaking so violently I felt they would collapse. “Oh, Abby! I’m so hurt . . . so devastated . . . I’ll never get over this!”
“Oh, yes you will,” she said, releasing her hold and patting me on the back. “I know it seems like the end of the world, but it isn’t. There are worse things than losing a man.” Abby meant her assurances to be soothing, but they weren’t. How could I take comfort in her words when I knew she didn’t believe them herself? “And besides,” she added, standing up from the couch and pacing around the living room, petticoats swishing with every step, “how do you know that kiss was real?”
“Because I
saw
it, that’s how!” I screeched. “I saw them mashing their lips and bodies together like two halves of a goddamn sandwich. Jesus, Abby! How could you ask me that question and make me relive that horrible scene? Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough?” All of a sudden I wasn’t crying anymore. Now I was just ranting.
“Things aren’t always as they seem,” Abby said, still pacing. “You’re the one who taught me that! And how many times have you told me not to jump to hasty conclusions? At least a thousand, I bet!” She stomped over to the kitchen table, snatched a cigarette out of the pack in her purse, stuck it between her lips and lit it. (No holder, thank God. I wasn’t in the mood to watch another act in
that
silly show.)
“I wasn’t jumping to conclusions,” I insisted, wiping my eyes with a tissue and blowing my nose. “I was just facing the facts.”
Abby refused to back down. “Maybe you were, and maybe you weren’t,” she said, scowling. “All I know is, when I saw Dan and that redhead having dinner together, they didn’t look the least bit amorous to me. The woman’s infatuated with herself, not Dan. She’s a raving exhibitionist. She looked flashy, wild, and demanding; Dan just looked bored.”
“They had dinner together?” I whimpered, diving into a fresh pool of pain.
“Yes, but he wasn’t having a good time.”
“Now who’s jumping to conclusions?” I said. “I’ll give you a hint: It isn’t me.”
“Oh, hush, Paige! You’re always so negative. I had a very good view of their table, and I could see that Dan was miserable. He looked trapped and exhausted. And that’s the truth, Ruth.”
“Did he see you?”
“No, I don’t think so. I thought of going over and saying something to him, but I didn’t. I figured you wouldn’t want me to.”
I heaved a huge sigh of relief and gave her a grateful nod. “You get a gold star for that one, Ab.”
“You mean I finally did something right?” Her tone was sarcastic, but her posture was proud. “I was beginning to think you were going to kick me off the case.”
I laughed (for real this time). “How could I kick you
off
the case when neither one of us has a right to be on it at all? Except for the negligible fact that I’m now working on a story assignment, this is a totally illegitimate investigation. So it’s every girl for herself! Speaking of which, how did you make out at Kazan’s table tonight? Did you find out anything interesting?”
“A couple of things,” she said, eyes twinkling.
“Like what?” I yelped, tail wagging. (Call me a ghoul, but I felt much better discussing the murder than I did talking about Dan.)
“I discovered that Ben Gazzara is a real dreamboat!” she exclaimed. “He’s my kind of man, Fran! He’s so yummy and clever you could just
plotz
. I’m not kidding. For Ben, I would convert to Italian. Elia Kazan, on the other hand, is—”
“Abby!” I screeched. “Gazzara and Kazan aren’t suspects! They’re of no concern to me. And I certainly don’t need to know how yummy they are—or aren’t, as the case may be. I only want to know about Binky and Baldy. Remember them? They were the
other
two guys at the table—the ones who
are
under suspicion—the ones you were
supposed
to observe. Did you, by some remote chance or accident, happen to discover anything about
them?
!” To say that I was exasperated would be like calling a hurricane breezy.
“Cool it, Paige!” Abby said, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray and shooting me a nasty look. “Why do you have to make such a
tsimmis
out of everything?”
“A what?”
“A
tsimmis
,” she said. “It’s a stew, a mess—oh, never mind!” She crossed her arms over her chest and stamped her foot on the floor. “The point is I
did
learn some things about Binky and Baldy, and I was getting around to that, but you wouldn’t give me a chance. Instead of listening to my story, you had to kick up a big fuss and make me feel like a fool. That wasn’t very nice, you dig? And it was a big dumb waste of time, too.”
Abby was right. I was a jerk, a shrew, a total
tsimmis
-maker. “I’m sorry, Ab,” I said. “I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat the way I did. I’ve had a hard day. Please forgive me.”
“Okay!” she chirped, mood changing on a dime. “Now, where was I?” She lowered her gaze to the floor and began pacing around the living room again. “Oh, yeah, now I remember,” she said, curling her blood red lips in a sardonic (make that satanic) smile. “I was telling you about Ben and Elia . . .”
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.”

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