Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

by Matetsky, Amanda

  I hurried over to where the two busboys were standing and gave them both a cursory once-over. One was young, tall, thin, and had shoe-polish black hair. The other was young, tall, thin, and had peroxide blond hair. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder in their identical white uniforms, they looked like a matched pair of salt and pepper shakers.

  “Hello, boys!” I said, baring my teeth in a huge Dinah Shore smile. “Enjoying the heat wave?”

  “Not much, ma’am,” the blond one said, in a sincere, awshucks kind of way. “Guess we better get used to it, though. Radio says it’s gonna last another week.”

  “I may not live that long,” I said.

  Blondie smiled; Blackie scowled.

  Okay, that was enough small talk. “Hey, do either of you guys know Gray Gordon?” I blurted. “He’s a busboy here, too. I was hoping to see him here today, but I guess this isn’t his shift. Do you know if he’ll be working tonight?”

  “No he won’t, ma’am,” Blondie said. “Not tonight or any other day or night.”

  The hair on the back of my neck bristled. Did Blondie know that Gray was dead? “Gee, why not?” I asked, flapping my lashes in imitation innocence. “Is he on vacation or something? Gosh, I hope he’s not sick!”

  Blondie smiled again and shook his head. “No, ma’am. He’s not sick. He just quit this job and took a better one. He’s in a play on Broadway now.”

  “What?!” I exclaimed, agape, agog, and aghast. “I don’t believe it! I knew he wanted to be an actor, but I never dreamed . . . Broadway, you say? Wow! When did this happen?”

  “About four months ago,” Blondie answered. “Sometime in March. Gray was supposed to work the lunch shift with me one day, but he marched in and quit instead. Right on the spot. Said he got a job as an understudy in a play on Broadway, and if the play was a hit, he wasn’t ever coming back. I haven’t laid eyes on him since.”

  “I guess the play was a hit,” I mused.

  “Sure was,” Blondie said. “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. You must’ve heard of it. Everybody’s talking about it . . . or at least whispering about it.”

  “Whispering?” I coaxed. “Why are they whispering?”

  Blondie gave me another smile, but this one was kind of crooked. “I haven’t seen the play myself, but a lot of the customers here have, and they’re all excited and hopped-up about it. They say it has something to do with a man being in love with another man, and—”

  “Shut your trap!” Blackie cut in, jabbing Blondie in the ribs with his elbow. “You shouldn’t be telling her what Stew-art’s customers do and say. It’s against the rules. And it’s none of her business.”

  Blondie stared at Blackie for a couple of seconds, then turned his eyes back to me. “He’s not very polite, ma’am, but he’s right. I’ve got a big mouth sometimes. But you don’t need me to tell you about Gray Gordon or the play he’s in. You can read all about it in today’s Times. They say the star of the show got sick last night, and Gray had to step in and play the lead, and he was so good he’s now the toast of the town. They put his picture in the paper and everything.”

  “Really?” I said. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll pick up a paper as soon as I leave. But before I go, may I ask if either one of you knows where Gray lives? I’m an old friend of his from Brooklyn, and I haven’t seen him in quite some time, and I sure would love to pay him a surprise visit and congratulate him on his success.” I wasn’t fishing for an address, you realize (the location of Gray’s apartment was permanently—and painfully—fixed in my brain). I was just trying to find out if either Blondie or Blackie was privy to that information.

  “Yeah, I know where he lives,” Blondie replied. “His pad is right down the—”

  Blackie jabbed him in the ribs again.

  There was no point in continuing my little charade. Blackie was determined to keep Blondie from revealing any significant information, and Abby was so restless she was having an all-out nervous breakdown (a detail I discovered when I glanced over in her direction and saw that her face was turning blue). I took a deep breath, thanked the busboys for their time, and made a beeline for the door.

  ABBY STARTED COMPLAINING THE VERY second we hit the sidewalk. “You sure took your own sweet time!” she croaked. “How could you keep me standing there like that? I almost fainted dead away from the heat.”

  “I’m sure you never fainted in your life,” I replied. “You aren’t the swooning type.”

  She gave me a dirty look. “There’s always the first time, you know!”

  “Yeah, but this wasn’t it.” I wasn’t in the mood for Abby’s fiery histrionics; I had more burning issues on my mind.

  “So, what do you want to do now?” she asked, abandoning her temper fit as soon as she realized it wasn’t having the desired effect. “I know! Let’s walk over to Washington Square Park. It’ll be a lot cooler there. We can sit in the shade under the trees, eat ice cream, and dig the folksingers at the fountain.”

  Folksingers, my foot. What she really wanted to do was look for Jimmy Birmingham. I knew from Abby’s and my talk earlier that morning that she was missing Jimmy (or rather, missing sex with Jimmy) like crazy, and I also knew there was a very good chance he’d be at the park that afternoon, reciting one or two of his preposterously silly poems at the fountain. So, it didn’t take me more than a split second to deduce why Abby wanted to go there . . . and why I didn’t.

  “You can go to the park if you want to,” I said, “but I’ve got other plans.”

  “Huh? What plans?”

  “I’m going to Times Square, not Washington Square.”

  “What the hell for? Don’t tell me you’re still craving a Nedick’s hot dog.”

  I snorted and shook my head. “No, I’m going back to the Morosco Theatre. I want to see if I can talk to some of Gray’s fellow cast members and friends.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” she cried, looking as if she might fly into another fury. “That’s the craziest idea I ever heard in my life! The lead actor must’ve recovered from his heatstroke by now, so he and the rest of the cast are kind of busy on stage at the moment, you dig? The matinee performance is in full swing! And they’ll never let you inside without a ticket. And just look at what you’re wearing! You’re dressed for a goddamn hayride, not a Broadway show!” (That’s Abby for you. Always concerned about the clothes. She’s a regular Coco Chanel—or Edith Head, take your pick.)

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” I sputtered, about to fly into a fury of my own. “I’m not going to sit in the theater and watch the damn show! I’m going to look for a back door and try to sneak backstage. I don’t have to be all dolled up for that.”

  Abby gave me the kind of look Dan would’ve given me if he’d gotten wind of what I was up to. “Now I get the picture,” she said, one eyebrow arched to the limit, dark eyes boring into mine. “You’re angling for another big fat news flash—another sensational exclusive inside story. You think you’re gonna ace-out the whole Homicide force and find Gray’s killer all by yourself. Oy vey iz mir! You’re cruisin’ for another bruisin’, Paige, and if I know you, you’re gonna get it. You won’t stop snooping until you’re dead yourself.”

  “Thanks, Ab. Your encouragement and support mean a lot to me.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do?” she screeched. “Knit you a sweater? Send you off to battle with a fresh-baked batch of cookies in your duffle bag? Pray night and day for your immortal soul, and then—when the unimaginable but inevitable finale occurs—praise God that you didn’t die in vain?” Gasping for air, Abby wiped the perspiration off her forehead with her hand and then wiped her hand on her hip. “Sorry, Laurie,” she said, voice cracking with emotion, “but that’s not the way this cookie crumbles.”

  I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the shade under the awning of the candy store next door to Stewart’s. “Jeez, Ab, you’d better calm down or you’ll catch a case of heatstroke yourself. You’re getting all worked up over nothing.”

  “
Nothing?!” she shrieked, stamping her foot on the cement. “A good friend of mine was just murdered! You call that nothing? And now my best friend in the whole world is about to run off half-cocked looking for the killer, putting herself in so much danger she’ll probably get slashed to ribbons, too. If that’s nothing, then I hope to high heaven I never find out what something is!”

  “I’m sorry, Ab. You’re upset about what happened to Gray and I understand that. You wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t wigged out about it. But there’s no reason on earth for you to be so wigged out about me. I won’t be putting myself in any danger today at all. I swear! I just want to sniff around a little bit, get the lay of the land. And it’s important that I do this right away, before the news about the murder gets out. It’s a cinch that Flannagan hasn’t notified the show’s cast and crew yet, so they won’t be suspicious or try to hide anything from me. They don’t even know that Gray is dead.”

  “The murderer knows,” she said.

  “Yes, but he doesn’t know that I know. And who says he’ll be there anyway? The killer may have nothing whatsoever to do with the theater. Maybe he’s a member of Gray’s family, or one of his old friends or enemies from Brooklyn—in which case I won’t be running into him today. And besides, the chances that I’ll actually be able to get inside the theater and talk to anybody who was closely connected with Gray are practically nil. See? What I said before is true, Ab. You really are getting worked up over nothing.”

  “But I worry about you, you know!” she whined. (Which prompts me to point out something else I’ve learned about Abby during our tight three-year friendship: As bold and brazen a sexpot as she most assuredly is, she is also, at heart, a ranting, raving—i.e., loving—Jewish mother. But please don’t tell her I said so!)

  “Gosh and golly, Polly—what’s gotten into you?” I said, chuckling and nudging her with my elbow, trying to cheer her up and make light of the situation. “You used to egg me on and call me a sissy. You said if I had any chutzpah, I’d live up to my absurd name and go after the big, sensational stories. You told me if I was going to write for a magazine called Daring Detective, I should have the balls to become one myself. Remember?”

  “Yeah, well, that was before,” she muttered.

  “Before what?”

  “Before you were nearly raped and strangled on the stairs at your office . . . before you were almost thrown to your death over a mezzanine railing . . . before I saw you shot and bleeding on your kitchen floor.”

  “Oh,” I said, staring down at the sidewalk, unable to dispute those disturbing particulars.

  A heavyset woman in a flowered sundress came out of the candy shop, peeling the wrapper off a large Hershey Bar. She had a copy of Confidential magazine tucked under arm. Abby and I moved aside to let her pass by, then waited for her to walk a few yards down the block before continuing our conversation.

  “Look, Ab, I know some awful things have happened in the past,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean something awful’s going to happen today. If anything, today will be the safest time of all to snoop around. That’s why I’m so anxious to get going. Maybe I can pick up a few clues to deliver to Flannagan tomorrow—something that will help him in his investigation, and also help me get over my embarrassing and incompetent behavior at the crime scene this morning. Most importantly, I want to do whatever I can to make sure the sick monster who killed Gray is caught as soon as possible.”

  “Okay, you convinced me,” she said, changing her attitude in a snap. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

  Chapter 8

  I REALLY DIDN’T WANT ABBY TAGGING along. I was afraid she would complicate my undercover (and hopefully inconspicuous) investigation with her passionate and unpredictable antics. But I didn’t bother to protest. I knew it wouldn’t do any good. I could see that invincible, uncompromising, stubborn-as-a-mule look in her eye. She was coming with me, and that was all there was to it.

  “Hold your horses, Ab,” I said, with a plaintive sigh. “I want to get a couple of newspapers before we go.” I turned and stepped toward the open door to the candy store. “You want anything?”

  “That’s a definite yes, Bess!” she whooped, following close on my heels as I entered the tiny shop. “I want a Tootsie Roll. A great big one!”

  Abby headed straight for the candy counter while I checked out the news rack. I picked up the last copy of the New York Times, and also a copy of the Journal American, thinking Dorothy Kilgallen had probably written something about Gray in her daily column, “The Voice of Broadway.” I would have grabbed the New York Daily News as well—just to take a look at Ed Sullivan’s “The Toast of the Town” column—but there weren’t any left.

  Abby and I reconnected at the cash register and paid for our items. Her giant-sized Tootsie Roll was half-eaten already. I folded the newspapers, cradled them in the crook of my elbow, and led the way out of the store. Abby joined me on the sidewalk, then we strolled in total silence around the corner and up the block toward the Sheridan Square subway stop. It was too hot to walk fast, and Abby was too busy chewing to chat.

  It was a bit cooler underground and the train came almost immediately. We got on, sat down, and I handed Abby the Journal American, telling her to search for write-ups about Gray. I opened the Times and looked for the article Blondie had mentioned.

  I found it in the middle of the second section, near the theater listings and movie ads. There, under the headline A STAR IS BORN, was a short article by Brooks Atkinson, and a small photo of Gray. It was an extreme close-up, and the rapturous, ecstatic smile on Gray’s face led me to believe that the picture had been taken just the night before, in the star dressing room, while the very much alive, but unsuspecting, understudy was reveling in the triumph of his stellar Broadway debut.

  The article accompanying the photo was brief and to the point. An unknown actor by the name of Gray Gordon had played the lead in last night’s performance of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and his portrayal had been so brilliant he would not remain unknown for long. Mr. Gordon was—according to the famous Times theater critic, and as the title of his article proclaimed—the brightest new star in the Broadway firmament.

  Although the Atkinson piece was full of praise, it was sadly short on information. Aside from the fact that Gray had come from the Carnarsie section of Brooklyn, and that he was currently studying his craft under the “admirable tutelage” of Lee Strasberg at the “renowned” Actors Studio in Manhattan, there were no useful (for me) revelations. I dropped the paper to my lap and heaved another mournful sigh, wishing with all my heart that Gray were alive to read this fabulous review, but sickened by the knowledge that tomorrow’s Times could very easily (and very truthfully) run the headline A STAR IS DEAD.

  “Look,” Abby said, shoving the Journal American under my nose. “Kilgallen gave Gray a rave. She says he’s handsomer than Marlon Brando and James Dean put together. A lot more talented, too. She says if Gray doesn’t become an even bigger star than Brando or Dean, she’ll eat the chic new sunbonnet she bought for her upcoming Mediterranean cruise.”

  I hope Dorothy enjoys her lunch, I thought, keeping my bitterly sarcastic reaction to myself. Abby seemed to be in an equable mood, and I didn’t want to upset it. “Brooks Atkinson gave Gray a good review, too,” I told her. “You want to read it?”

  “Absolutely not!” she said emphatically, emphasis on the not. “My heart’s broken enough as it is. Life’s so freaking unfair! I can’t stand reading these bubbling accolades. They would have made Gray so happy—but they make me want to kill somebody.”

  So much for equable.

  I refolded the newspapers with the articles about Gray on top, then set them down on the seat beside me, hoping other passengers would pick them up and read about Gray’s success. If more people read the reviews, I reasoned (i.e., intentionally deluded myself), it would be like keeping Gray and his budding career alive just a little while longer.

  “We should have changed our
focockta clothes, you know!” Abby griped, still worrying about the wardrobe. “It isn’t proper for us to go uptown like this. We should have put on dresses. Or at least skirts.”

  “Since when do you care about being proper? I never even heard you use that word before. And besides, this is the hottest Fourth of July weekend in history. The way I see it, all clothing rules have been suspended until Tuesday.”

  “Have it your own way,” she said, with a disparaging sniff. “But when everybody stares at us like we’re creatures from another planet, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  When we emerged from the subway at Times Square and began walking up Broadway toward the theater, I saw that Abby was right. All of the women were wearing summer dresses, seamed stockings, and heels. Some even had on hats and white gloves. I’d have bet my last dollar they had on girdles, too. (From the stiff and snooty way they were glaring at Abby and me, you could tell they weren’t too comfortable.)