Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

by Amanda Matetsky

  So when I turned the corner near the bar and caught sight of an amorous couple embracing in the darkened hallway outside the ladies’ room, I was so lost in my own thoughts I didn’t fully understand what my eyes were seeing. It took several seconds for the unexpected and oh-so-intimate image to take shape in my brain. Even then, the picture was fuzzy and incomplete.

  I had no idea who the woman was, but I could see that she was young and beautiful, and that her arms were locked around the neck of a very handsome man. I could tell that her body was pressed so tight against his there wasn’t a single molecule of light or air between them. I could see that she was drawing his face closer and closer to hers, and I had no trouble detecting the very moment their mouths came together in a deep, greedy, soul-rocking kiss.

  What I

  couldn’t so easily perceive or comprehend was the mind-shattering, heart-wrenching fact that the man being kissed-the man so eagerly engaged in enjoying and returning the passionate embrace-was Dan.

  Chapter 30

  I ALMOST FAINTED. THE SIGHT OF DAN kissing another woman was so shocking and unbearable to me, my consciousness tried to leap out of my skull and take off for parts unknown. But I wouldn’t let it go. For some perverse reason, I fought like the devil to hold on-to stay cognizant and on my feet. And once I had balanced myself, I continued to stand there in a zombie daze for several seconds, gaping at the torturous scene before me, absorbing every painful detail like a witless sponge.

  The woman was astonishingly beautiful (not as beautiful as Abby, but close to it). With her perfect figure, creamy complexion, and long, wavy red-gold hair, she looked a lot more like Rita Hayworth than I did-a fact that became obvious when she finally removed her lips from Dan’s, threw back her head (thus revealing her stunning profile), and released a deep, throaty laugh that sounded so glamorous and seductive I wished I’d been born deaf.

  Dan was entranced. I could tell by the way he was studying her every move and expression. His coal-black eyes were crackling with heat, and he was staring at her the way he used to stare at me when something I’d said or done had suddenly put him in the mood.

  Heart fracturing into a thousand pieces, and feeling desperate to get out of there before Dan “came to” and caught sight of me, I spun around on Abby’s red satin heels and staggered back toward our table in the dining room. Tears were coursing down my cheeks in torrents.

  “Oh, mercy!” Willy squealed, the very second he saw me approach. His big blue eyes were popping out of their sockets. “What’s the matter? What happened? Did somebody hurt you?” He jumped out of his chair, grabbed hold of my shaking shoulders, and gazed up at me in alarm.

  “I… I… yes,” I blubbered. “I’m so hurt… I can’t b-b-believe…” I couldn’t finish my sentence. I was sobbing and shivering too hard to speak. People at the nearby tables were starting to stare.

  Willy put his arm around me and guided me over to my chair against the wall. “Sit down, Paige,” he urged. “Our cocktails have been delivered and our dinner will be here soon. Dry your eyes, have some more champagne, and tell me what happened.” He was doing his best to comfort me, but nothing could.

  “No, Willy!” I cried. “I’ve got to get out of here! Right now!” I grabbed my purse off the table and tried to step around him.

  But he wouldn’t move out of my way. “My God, Paige, what happened to you? I won’t let you leave like this. You’re too upset! You’ve got to tell me what’s wrong! Abby’s still over at Kazan’s table. Should I go get her?”

  Suddenly reminded that I’d sent Abby to snoop on the suspects, I shot a glance in her direction to see what was happening. It was just as I’d expected. She was seated at the table-in Rhonda’s chair between Baldy and Binky-striking a sexy pose, talking a blue streak, and twirling her cigarette holder through the air like a magic wand. Bippity, boppity, boo. All four men were watching her every move and hanging on her every word, completely under her spell.

  “No,” I said to Willy between blubbers. “Let Abby stay where she is. She might learn something important. But I’ve got to go!” I wailed. “Please let me out! I don’t want Dan to see me here!”

  “Dan?” Willy sputtered. “Your boyfriend? Is

  he here?”

  “Yes!” I cried, tears starting to gush again. “And he’s with a woman. I saw him

  kissing her! Oh, please let me pass, Willy.

  If I see them again, I’ll die. And if he sees me, I’ll kill myself. I’ve got to go home this minute!”

  “Okay, I’ll go with you,” he said. “Just let me pay the bill first.”

  “No!” I screeched. “I can’t wait! And we can’t run out and leave Abby here by herself. You’ve got to stay with her. You two should drink your cocktails, enjoy your dinner, and see what you can find out about the murder. I’m going home now to cry myself to sleep.” I elbowed Willy out of the way and brushed past him. “Tell Abby I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

  I was at the Sardi’s exit in an instant, and out the door a split second later. And one breathless moment after that, I was running like a madwoman for the subway-with my broken heart in my throat and the Rita Hayworth wig in my hand.

  LOOKING BACK, I WISH I’D LEFT THE wig on my head. Then the dark-haired man in black clothing might not have recognized me or followed me home. And then he wouldn’t have seen me let myself into my building and go upstairs to my apartment. And then maybe he wouldn’t have hidden himself in the recessed, pitch-black entrance of the building across the street and begun watching my apartment like a hawk-or some other deadly predator.

  In which case, I never would have sensed his presence behind me on Bleecker, or run to the window and peeked through the blinds the minute I got upstairs to my apartment. And I wouldn’t have seen him duck into the doorway and stay there, becoming as much a part of the darkness as the shadows around him. And I certainly wouldn’t have crouched on the floor by my living room window for over an hour, crying my eyes out over Dan and peering through the blinds (and my tears) at the street, waiting for the man to step out of the doorway so I could get a glimpse of his face.

  Will it be Blackie’s sullen mug or Aunt Doobie’s pretty puss? I asked myself, dead certain it would be one or the other, and totally determined-with all the tiny pieces of my hopelessly shattered heart-to keep watch until I could make a positive identification.

  I might have succeeded, too, if Abby hadn’t come home around twenty past three and started banging on my door with both fists. “Open up, Paige!” she shouted. “Let me in! I want to talk to you! I know you’re crying instead of sleeping, so don’t try to pretend anything different!”

  I was both upset and relieved. Upset that Abby was interrupting my strict surveillance vigil, and relieved that I wouldn’t have to be alone in the building anymore. (If the stalker-i.e., possible

  murderer-had crept across the street and tried to get into my apartment, I would have keeled over and died on the spot!) Groaning under my breath, I jumped up and ran to the door, unlocked it and flung it wide, then hurried back to my station by the window.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Abby bellowed, marching into the room like a soldier on patrol. “What are you doing? Why is it so dark? I’m turning on the lights.”

  “No, don’t!” I hissed. “I won’t be able to see out, and I don’t want him to see in. And keep your voice down! The windows are open. He might be able to hear us.”

  “Who are you talking about? Blackie? Has he come back again?” She tossed her purse on the kitchen table and scrambled over to join me on the floor by the window. “Where is he? Let me see!” She nudged me aside and stuck her nose through the gap between the blinds and the windowsill. “Oh, there he is!” she shrieked. “I see him! He hopped out of a doorway across the street and he’s running down toward Seventh Avenue.”

  “Oh, no!” I sputtered, madly yanking the blinds away from the open window and leaning out over the ledge. The man was halfway down Bleecker already. All I
could see was the back of his black-clad body as he ran past a street lamp.

  “Jesus, Abby!” I growled, backing away from the windowsill and out from under the venetians. “I’ve been squatting here all night, peeping through these stupid blinds forever, never taking my eyes off the creep’s hiding place for a second! All I needed was one quick look at his face. Then I would have known, once and for all, if the man was Blackie or Aunt Doobie! So what do you do? You bust in and push me away from the window at the very moment he reveals himself. You screwed up the whole thing!”

  “But I didn’t mean to!” she cried, getting defensive. “I was just trying to help.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, next time you want to help me, please do me a favor and

  don’t.” I pushed myself up from the floor, turned on the table lamp, and plopped down on the couch in a huff. “How did you think you were going to help me anyway?”

  She made a petulant face. “Well, I know what Blackie looks like, you know! I saw him in Stewart’s Cafeteria the same day you did. So I wanted to see if he’s the one who’s been following you.”

  “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 in
sides 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.”