Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

by Matetsky, Amanda

  (I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I should have made a clean breast of everything right there and then—told Dan all about Gray’s murder and my subsequent involvement in it. And, looking back, I can see the wisdom of that view. But hindsight is better than foresight—well, my foresight, anyway—and at this particular point in time all I could think about was how I was going to get to the heart of the murder without losing Dan’s heart in the process.)

  “Lies?! Deception?! Confession?!” I squawked, putting on a big show of righteous indignation (which is hard to do when you look like a cross between Al Jolson and the Creature from the Black Lagoon). “I don’t know what you’re talking about! What crime am I being accused of now?” (The best defense is a good offense, they say—or is it the other way around?)

  “Quit stalling, Paige.” Dan pulled a pack of Luckies out of his shirt pocket and fired one up. “It took me nine straight hours to drive here from Portland. I’m too tired to play games. Just tell me the goddamn truth.”

  “Can I wash my face first?” I stalled, walking over to the kitchen sink and turning on the water. “Then I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Promise.”

  He released a loud groan of exhaustion. “Yeah, okay. And make a pot of coffee while you’re at it. I’m really beat.” Setting his burning cigarette in the ashtray, he leaned back in his chair and stretched his long, strong legs out in front of him. Then he crossed one burly arm over the other and closed his bloodshot eyes.

  I scrubbed my face clean and filled the coffeepot with water. Then, spooning Chase & Sanborn into the filtered metal basket, I snuck a long, hard look at Dan while his lids were shut. Maybe his unguarded facial expression and body language would clue me in to the secret workings of his mind . . .

  Nope. I couldn’t see that far inside. All I could see was the outside: . . . the sexy jut of his hips . . . the unusually casual and sporty way he was dressed (khaki shorts, blue and white seersucker shirt opened halfway down the chest) . . . the way his disheveled dark brown hair was flopping down over his forehead.

  Mmmmm. My temperature soared a good ten degrees. I had to open the back door and let in some air. I was so overheated (okay, turned-on), I came this close to throwing myself at Dan’s feet (okay, on his lap) and begging for mercy.

  But I put the coffeepot on the stove instead. And turned the burner on. And then—combing my fingers through my hair, straightening my clothes, and doing my best imitation of Jane Russell, or Lauren Bacall, or Lana Turner, or any other screen goddess you can name (besides Debbie Reynolds, I mean)—I sidled over to the table and sat down in the chair closest to Dan’s.

  “Are you hungry, honey?” I simpered. “I’ve got some bread and cheese. Or I could run down to the bakery and get you a Danish.” (I don’t always act so slavish and subservient—except at work, that is—but I felt the circumstances called for it now.)

  Dan arched an eyebrow, opened one eye and aimed it, as if through a gunsight, at me. “No!” he grumbled, piercing me to the core with his Cyclops stare. “I don’t want any food. And I don’t want you to feed me any more of your flap, either.” He sat up straight, rubbed his tired face in his hands, and then glared at me again (with both eyes this time). “All I want is the truth,” he said, taking one last drag on his nearly burnt-out Lucky and angrily crushing it in the ashtray. “Is that too goddamn much to ask? I want you to tell me where you were—and what you were doing—all day yesterday and last night.”

  Oh, so that’s it! I whooped to myself. Maybe Dan really was just crazy worried about me! Maybe the fact that he couldn’t reach me on the phone sent him into such an insecure and jealous spin that he jumped in his car and drove here in a possessive rage. Maybe he’s just as nuts about me as I am about him!

  And maybe he doesn’t know anything about the murder after all . . .

  “I was with Abby all day and night,” I told him. “We had breakfast at her apartment yesterday morning (true), and we messed around the Village for a while (true—if you can call our mission to the Sixth Precinct police station ‘messing around,’ which, in the meddlesome sense of the phrase, it kind of was), and then, in the afternoon, we went to the Waverly to see Dial M For Murder (total lie, except for the title of the movie and the name of the theater where it was, in truth, playing). We had pizza for dinner at Abby’s apartment (true), and after that we went to watch her boyfriend Jimmy perform his inspiring Independence Day poem at the Vanguard (also true, except for the ‘inspiring’ part).”

  A lot more Trues than Falses, wouldn’t you say?

  I took a deep breath, proudly stuck out my chin and asked, “Anything else you want to know?” I almost added the word “buster,” but thought better of it.

  “Yeah,” he said, not missing a beat. “Why did you tell me your phone was out of order when it wasn’t?”

  Uh oh! How did he find out about that?

  There was no point in contradicting him. (Unlike some people I know, Dan’s a confirmed straight shooter. He wouldn’t make such a bold, accusatory inquiry unless he knew it was legit.) I was stuck. I had to come clean (sort of).

  “You probably won’t understand,” I mumbled, “but I let you believe my phone was out of order because I knew I was going to be out of the apartment a lot—missing most, if not all, of your calls—and I didn’t want you to worry about me.” I was aware of how lame that would sound to him, but it was the only excuse I could think of on such short notice. And besides, every single word of it was true. (It was all the words I left out that would have caused a problem.)

  “You bet I don’t understand!” Dan said, dropping his fist down hard on the tabletop. “Whatever made you think that a goddamn lie was going to keep me from worrying?”

  “I didn’t really lie to you!” I protested. “You jumped to the conclusion that my phone was out of order yourself, and I just let you believe it.”

  “But why? Why didn’t you simply tell me that you weren’t going to be home? Then I wouldn’t have had to keep calling and calling and wondering if you were okay. I wouldn’t have been worried at all.”

  “That’s what you say now, but when we spoke on Saturday night, I had the impression that you were vexed about not being able to get in touch with me, and more than a little concerned about how I was going to be spending the rest of the holiday.” (I didn’t actually use the word “jealous.” Why threaten his pride and arouse his masculine ego? I had enough hard feelings to deal with already!)

  I must have hit a nerve, because for a second Dan looked as though he would accept my explanation. He softened his eyes, relaxed his scowl, and took a deep swig of ice water, clearly giving more thought to the matter. But then his scowl came back, and his eyes narrowed into slits, and he twisted his luscious mouth in a knowing (i.e., nasty) smirk.

  “Nice try, Paige,” he said, “but your cover-up won’t work. You’ve been lying through your teeth all along. You told me two phone company trucks were sitting outside your apartment. You made references to melted cables and blown-out gaskets. You said phone company workers had been hanging around your block for two days. If those weren’t lies, then what do you call them? Misinterpretations?” There was enough sarcasm in his voice to sink a ship.

  “I . . . uh . . . well, I was just trying to—”

  “Stop it!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the table again. “I don’t have the energy to listen to any more of your crap. You must think I’m a total moron, the way you keep telling me one cock-and-bull story after another. But I’ve got news for you, Paige. I’m not a moron. I’m a trained, experienced, and well-connected NYPD detective. It took me all of two minutes to contact the phone company and find out that no repair work was being done in your area—and that your own phone was in perfect working order.”

  “Yes, but I—”

  “So now it’s official,” he barreled on, ignoring my attempts to explain. He looked tireder and sadder than I’d ever seen him look before. “You’re a liar and a fake. And nothing you
can say or do will change those facts—or the way I feel.”

  “Oh, no, Dan! Please don’t say that! Please let me tell you—”

  “No, that’s enough.” He scraped his chair away from the table, rose to his feet, stuffed his pack of cigarettes in his pocket, and turned toward the door. “If you have any more song and dance acts you’d like to perform, I’d thank you to wait until I’m gone.”

  “You’re leaving?” I whimpered, in shock.

  “As fast as I can,” he said, walking over to the door and pulling it open.

  “No! Wait! Please don’t go! Just give me one more chance. I swear I’ll tell you the truth about everything!”

  “It’s too late, Paige,” he said, withering my soul with his weary goodbye glance. “I don’t care anymore.”

  Chapter 18

  DAN HAD WALKED OUT ON ME BEFORE. Several times. And always for the same reason: My willingness to lie to him while I was working on a dangerous murder story. I’d spent untold hours wracking my brain and crying my heart out, trying to find a solution to this pressing problem, but it was no use. There was no solution. Dan was never going to accept my dogged pursuit of the facts at the expense of my own safety, so I was always going to have to dodge the truth to keep him happy (unless I quit my job and gave up my lifelong career goals—which I definitely did not want to do).

  But no matter how many battles and breakups we’d suffered as a result of this predicament, something had always drawn Dan and me back together in the past. Our mutual physical attraction had proved unshakable, and our more emotional attachments—i.e., our sincere affection and grudging respect for each other—had compelled us to stay connected. And even though Dan hated, hated, hated to be lied to (you can blame his lying, unfaithful ex-wife for that near-phobic obsession), I had always had the feeling that—way down deep in his secret heart—he understood my basic motives and would eventually forgive me.

  But I didn’t feel that way this time.

  This time was different.

  Two seconds after Dan stormed out, I ran to the window and snapped open the shade, praying with all my might that when Dan reached the street he would look up and wave at me the way he usually did (when he wasn’t mad at me, I mean). But that didn’t happen, of course. The instant Dan stepped through the door of my building to the sidewalk, he made a sharp right turn and walked briskly away toward Jones Street, where he often parked his car. His eyes were glued to the cement.

  And mine were gushing with tears.

  Oh, Lord! What’s happening? I sobbed to myself. Is this the way it’s going to end? Has Dan left me for good this time? Will I ever see him again?

  I was bereft. I felt more desolate and alone than I’d ever felt in my life (except for the hideous blur of time following my notification of Bob’s death in Korea). I curled myself up in a ball on the couch, hugged my knees in close to my chest, and, wailing like an inconsolable baby, replayed the last few moments of Dan’s dramatic exit scene over and over in my mind.

  He had seemed far more sad than angry, I recalled, hugging my knees tighter and wailing even louder. Rather than looking as if he wanted to kill me, he had looked as though he’d just lost his best friend. That was not a good sign. And what had he said when I begged him to stay and hear my confession? “It’s too late,” he’d insisted. “I don’t care anymore.”

  Dear God. Don’t let it be true. Please don’t let Dan stop caring about me . . .

  Bam! Bam! Bam! Someone was banging on my door.

  My heart did a somersault in my chest. Was it Dan? Had he come back?

  “Let me in, Paige!” Abby shouted. “What’s that horrible howling noise? It sounds like you’re skinning a cat in there!”

  “Go away!” I hollered, mewling and puling and gasping for air. “I want to be alone.”

  “No go, Garbo! You’d better open the door right now, or I’ll break it down. Either way, I’m coming in!”

  Knowing Abby was fully capable of demolishing my door (it wouldn’t surprise me if she kept an axe in her broom closet), I pried myself up off the couch, staggered across the floor, and—wiping my tears on my sweaty forearm—opened it myself.

  “Oy vey!” Abby yelped when she saw me. “You look awful! Are you sick or something?” She breezed into my apartment and gave me a head-to-toe onceover. “Yuck! There’s a glob of snot the size of New Jersey hanging out of your nose!”

  Great. A broken heart and a giant booger. Now my life’s complete.

  “That’s the least of my problems,” I said, slogging over to the kitchen counter and blowing my nose on a paper napkin. As I was throwing the napkin in the trash under the sink, the coffee pot caught my attention. Steam was shooting out of the spout and the loosened lid was rattling and snapping like a pair of novelty store dentures. How long had the pot been perking? I had no idea.

  I turned off the stove and squinted through my swollen eyelids at Abby. “Want some coffee?”

  “Sure,” she said, looking fresh, clean and ravishing as usual. Her shiny black hair was loose and streaming down her back like a waterfall. Her white peasant blouse and bright red capris looked as if they’d just been washed and ironed. There wasn’t a drop of perspiration on her perfectly made-up face—or anywhere else on her person, for that matter.

  (Just par for the course, you should know. Abby usually looks like a Walt Disney princess, while I often resemble a scarecrow . . . or a dead monkey).

  While I was pouring the coffee, Abby popped into the living room and turned the fan to face the kitchen table. Then she walked over to the table, positioned a chair in the center of the airflow, and sat down.

  “So what’s the matter now?” she asked. “Tell me all your troubles, Bubbles.”

  I carried our coffee over to the table and sat down across from Abby. “I don’t even know where to begin,” I said, choking back a rising tide of tears. “So much has happened since I last spoke to you.”

  “You mean since you left the Vanguard last night?”

  “Since five minutes before I left.”

  “But that was just eight hours ago.” She spooned some sugar into her cup. “How much could have happened since then?”

  “Plenty,” I grumbled, disgusted with myself and revolted by my entire lifestyle. I was reluctant to tell Abby about what had happened with Dan (I didn’t want to start crying again), so I lit up an L&M and began recounting the details of my most recent misfortunes from the beginning.

  “Before I left you last night,” I told her, speaking in a voice so dead it was dirgeful, “I went over to talk to the bartenders. I wanted to find out if they knew anything about Rhonda Blake or the man she was with. So I asked them both a few questions and—”

  “Feh!” Abby erupted, spraying coffee out of her mouth and all over the tabletop. “This stuff is foul! It’s as thick as house paint and it tastes like dirt!”

  “Oh . . . I guess I cooked it too long.”

  “Uh, yeah! I’d say you did. When did you put it on the stove? Last summer?”

  “Ha ha,” I said, not laughing, just pronouncing the words.

  “It’s like acid,” she needled. “I wonder if it damaged the spoon.” She picked said utensil up off the table, held it up close to her nose, and—doing a swell imitation of Jerry Lewis at his crazy, cross-eyed best—examined it from every angle.

  I knew what Abby was doing. She was trying to make me smile. She was trying to tease me out of my mournful mental state and nudge me back to the land of the living. But it wasn’t working. I didn’t want to be alive.

  I took a drag on my cigarette and exhaled slowly. “Ha ha,” I said again, as mirthlessly as before.

  “Oh, come on, Paige!” Abby said, slapping the spoon down on the table and throwing her hands in the air. Her patience was fading fast. “Snap out of it! Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I retorted, summoning enough energy to plant myself firmly on the defensive. “First listen to everything that’s happened to me
since I last saw you, and then you can decide how bad it is.”

  A JILLION CIGARETTES AND FOUR CUPS of coffee later (yes, we both drank the filthy stuff anyway), I concluded the tale of my latest pitfalls and perils.

  “That’s really bad!” Abby admitted, referring to the whole disturbing picture, but mostly to my disturbing conflict with Dan. (As you no doubt know by now, Abby believes man trouble is the worst kind of trouble any woman can have.) “Why the hell didn’t you just tell Dan the truth?” she ranted. “Then he wouldn’t have broken up with you! Then he could help us look for the murderer, and protect you from Baldy and Blackie at the same time.”