Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

by Matetsky, Amanda

  “But it never would have worked out that way,” I sadly replied. “Don’t you see? Instead of helping us look for the killer, Dan would’ve ordered us to drop our investigation altogether. He would have insisted that we leave the whole case—and poor Willy Sinclair’s entire future—in Detective Flannagan’s homophobic hands. And I could not, in good conscience, allow that to happen. I would never, ever forgive myself if Willy went to jail—or got the death sentence!—for a murder I know he didn’t commit.”

  “What makes you so sure he’s innocent?” Abby inquired. “His blood type is guilty as sin.”

  “Right. And that may be all Flannagan needs to convict him. But lots of people have type A blood, you know. And they’re probably all more homicidal than Willy. Willy wouldn’t hurt a fly—or even a flea. He’s a nervous little mama’s boy. I’ll bet the closest he ever came to cutting a man was during his girlish youth, when he was cutting out paper dolls. Take my word for it, Ab. Willy’s frilly and he’s silly—but he’s not a murderer.”

  “You may be right,” Abby conceded. “I wouldn’t peg him as a killer, either. But we’ve been over all of this before, you dig, and you’re the one always warning me not to jump to conclusions. You always say there has to be solid proof. And right now the only proof we have is the blood type.”

  “Which proves nothing.”

  “Maybe, baby. But what if you’re wrong? What if you’re screwing up your relationship with Dan and putting yourself in danger to save Willy when you should be trying to bust him instead? Gray’s murder was obviously a crime of passion. And Willy strikes me as both passionate and meshuga. You might have to call your next mystery novel ‘The Killer in the Yellow Silk Kimono.’ ”

  I smiled (finally). “That’s not a bad title,” I said, “but I doubt I’ll ever be using it. I think ‘A Killer Named Cupcake’ is the better choice.”

  “Oh, really?” Abby said, arching one eyebrow to the roof. “Have you been holding out on me, Paige? Have you found out who the mysterious Cupcake is?”

  “No, but she’s still a prime suspect. Most murderers turn out to be really close to their victims, and if she was Gray’s steady girlfriend as you say, then she was the closest. Her real name will come out eventually.”

  “I’ll bet it’s Rhonda Blake,” Abby said, with a sniff. “That dame even looks like a cupcake—all soft and buttery and slathered with poisonous vanilla frosting.”

  “Yes, but remember how annoyed with Gray she was—how she threatened to turn him in to the director if he didn’t show up for the next show? A real girlfriend wouldn’t feel that way. Instead of reporting him, she’d try to protect him.”

  “Or slash him to ribbons,” Abby said, refusing to grant Rhonda any concessions. She lit another cigarette, exhaled a thick stream of smoke, and watched it disappear in the churning gust of air from the fan. “So who else is on the table, Mabel? Do you consider Aunt Doobie a prime suspect?”

  “Of course. And after last night, Baldy and Blackie have been promoted to the list. I’m still wondering about the guy named Randy, the one who left four messages for Gray, and I don’t know about Binky yet. When I spoke to him on the phone, he sounded very jealous and contemptuous of Gray’s sudden success. But would he have been carrying on that way if he had already eliminated the source of his envy and contempt? I can’t judge until I see him in person.”

  “Gee, I forgot about Binky!” Abby exclaimed, perking up considerably. “When are we hooking up with him? Tomorrow, right? And then we’re going to the Actors Studio!” She fastened her bright gaze on my face. “I can’t wait! I’m dying to meet James Dean, and give him my up-close and personal good wishes.”

  I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. How was I going to get out of this one?

  “I don’t have any idea what’s going to happen tomorrow, Ab,” I demurred, looking for a way to let her down easy. “I haven’t spoken to Binky yet. And I have to go back to work in the morning. After a holiday I’m always up to my eyebrows in extra paperwork. If I know Pomeroy,” I said, referring to my immediate boss at Daring Detective, “he’ll keep me chained to my desk until Christmas. He’ll make me pay through the nose for having the day off today . . .

  “Oh, by the way,” I added, “happy July Fourth.”

  “Same to ya,” she chirped, smiling widely, distracted (for the time being, at least) from the subject of Binky. “What’re you going to do today, Paige? Jimmy and I have a really cool sked. We’re going to Child’s for lunch, and then to the Gramercy to see East of Eden. It stars James Dean, you know! Then we’re going to John’s for spaghetti and meatballs, and to the park later to listen to music, dance like fools around the fountain, and light up some sparklers and firecrackers. Come with us! It’ll be fun.”

  “No. I don’t feel like doing anything.”

  “You’re just going to sit alone in your hot apartment and mope?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s really dumb. Come out and play with us. It’ll take your mind off Dan.”

  “No it won’t. Nothing can.”

  “But it’ll help you pass the time!” Abby said, growing impatient again. “You can’t just stay here and wallow in your misery like a pig in the mud.”

  “I can if I want to,” I said, pouting—sounding, even to myself, like a cranky and stubborn four-year-old. “I don’t care what anybody says, I’m going to wallow in the mud for as long as my piggy little heart desires!”

  I really meant it, too. I was going to stay home all day and night, have a few more crying jags, drink some more putrid coffee, smoke a thousand cigarettes, listen to Billie Holiday sing the blues, and pray with all my might for Dan to call. I was going to eat stale bread and cheese for dinner, and commemorate our country’s independence with a glass (or whole bottle) of cheap Chianti. There would be no dancing or fireworks for me. I intended to lock my doors and stay inside where it was safe.

  Too bad I didn’t stick to the plan.

  Chapter 19

  AFTER ABBY LEFT I WENT UPSTAIRS AND took a shower (there’s only so much mud-wallowing a girl can stand). I put on a pair of shorts and a clean blouse, then went back downstairs to sit in front of the fan—or, more importantly, right next to the phone. I wasn’t the least bit hopeful that Dan would call, but I wanted to answer on the double if he did.

  So, two seconds later when the phone rang, jerking me to attention and launching my spirits toward the sun, I pounced on the receiver in a flash. “Hello?” I croaked, too excited to even try to sound sexy. “Is that you, Dan? Thank God you called! I’m so sorry I—”

  “Who’s Dan?” the caller asked. From the high-pitched voice and slight Southern accent, I knew right away it was Willy.

  “He’s my boyfriend,” I said, hoping against hope that that statement was still true.

  “So where is your man Dan? Why isn’t he there?” Willy asked. “Isn’t he spending the holiday with you?”

  “Uh, no, he—”

  “Good!” Willy exclaimed. “Then can I come over and spend the afternoon at your place?”

  I was so taken aback, I didn’t know what to say. “Gee, well, maybe . . . I mean, I guess you could . . . But why would you want to—”

  “I’ve got to get out of my apartment!” he screeched. “Flannagan’s driving me out of my mind! He keeps calling and calling and calling—every blessed minute of the day and night—asking me one appalling question after another, and making horrible accusations. He says I have the same blood type as the killer. He says he knows I killed Gray and it won’t be long before he can prove it. He’s trying to torture me into confessing. I know he is!”

  “Take it easy, Willy,” I said, speaking as calmly and reassuringly as I could. The poor fellow sounded even worse than I felt. “Don’t fly into a panic. That’s what Flannagan wants you to do. Have you tried taking your phone off the hook?”

  “Mercy, no!” he squealed. “That would make it even worse. Then he might show up and torture me in person! I’ve got to get out
of here now! Can I come over to your apartment for a while? Please, please, pretty pretty please? He’d never think of looking for me there.”

  “Um . . . uh . . . okay,” I said, spirits sinking as low as they could go. I didn’t want any company. I wanted to wallow in my own troubles, not Willy’s. “Do you know where I live?”

  “Yes, I heard you give your address to the police. It’s two-sixty-five Bleecker, right? Just a few blocks from me.”

  “Right. I’m one floor up, over the fish store.”

  “Kiss, kiss, kiss,” he said. “I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

  Click.

  (Okay, you can stop shaking your head that way! I get the message already! You’re thinking I was certifiably crazy to let Willy come to my apartment when I had no sure way of knowing whether he was the murderer or not. And you’re one-hundred-percent right, of course. It was a really stupid move. Dan and Abby would be tearing their hair out if they knew what I’d just done. And there’s nothing I can say in my own defense, either—except that I truly believed in Willy’s innocence, and I trusted him completely, and I was bound by my own sense of justice and compassion to help him in any way I could. If that makes me a brainless twit, so be it.)

  MY BUZZER RANG TWENTY MINUTES later. I darted over to the living room window and peeked through the shade to make sure it was Willy. (At least I was being somewhat cautious. I even shot a glance across the street to see if Blackie was lurking in the laundromat doorway. He wasn’t. There was no black limousine parked at the curb, either.) After taking a second look at Willy’s slicked-back bleach-blond hairdo and the plump contours of his colorful shoulders (he was wearing a pink and orange Hawaiian shirt!), I went over to the door and buzzed him in.

  Willy climbed the steps to my apartment with difficulty; his legs were short and his arms were full of packages. He carried a foil-wrapped bunch of long-stemmed roses in one hand. “Greetings!” he said, when he reached the top landing. His pale lips were stretched in an ear-to-ear grin. “I come bearing gifts!”

  “I can see that,” I said, pulling the door wide and motioning him inside. “But what’s the occasion? My birthday was over a month ago.”

  “It’s the Fourth of July, silly,” he said, setting the packages down on the kitchen table and handing the roses to me. “Better put these in water quick. It’s so hot they’re already starting to wilt.”

  I stepped over to the kitchen counter, filled my empty flour cannister with water, and plunked the flowers in. “What else have you got there?” I asked, carrying the roses across the room and setting them down on the table. I hoped he’d brought something edible. Anything edible. (I was so hungry I’d have eaten a hamster, providing it was properly cooked).

  “Just wait till you see!” he warbled, his enormous blue eyes glistening with glee. “I’ll open this one first.” Tearing the brown paper wrapping off one of the parcels, he proudly produced a bottle of champage. “Voilà! Isn’t this fabulous? I believe every holiday should be celebrated with sparkling French wine, don’t you? Quick! Put it in the refrigerator before it gets warm.”

  I happily did as I was told. (Nothing like a bottle of champagne to turn a blue mood bubbly.) When I returned to the table, Willy was unwrapping a box of Russell Stover chocolates.

  “Here!” he said, opening the box and holding it out toward me. “Have one. You look like you need it.”

  “Thanks,” I said, popping a chocolate-covered caramel in my mouth and chewing it like gum. “Mmmm. Thith ith good.” (It’s hard to enunciate when your teeth are stuck together.)

  When I swallowed that, I took a nougat. My mood was sweetening by the second.

  “I’ve brought other goodies, too,” Willy chirped, taking lots of small jars and tins out of a large paper bag and arranging them on the table. “We’ve got beluga caviar, Vienna sausages, deviled ham, smoked oysters and clams, sardines and anchovies, lichee nuts, pickled beets, Greek olives, and capers!” The way his pudgy, freckled hands were gesturing toward the lavish display of delicacies, you’d have thought he was presenting jewels at Tiffany’s. “And here’s a beautiful baguette!” he added, pulling a long, thin loaf of French bread from another brown paper bag and setting it down on the table with a flourish.

  All I could say was, “Mmmm.” My mouth was watering too much to speak. I had never tasted any of those unusual things before in my life (except for sardines), but I couldn’t wait to get started.

  “Shall we have our feast now, or wait till later?” Willy asked.

  “Now, please,” I said. I was probably whimpering like a hungry puppy.

  Willy took a step back, folded his arms over the top of his pink-and-orange-swathed potbelly, and studied the table scene as if it were a movie set. “Do you have a pretty tablecloth, honey? No offense, but this yellow formica is atrocious! I won’t be able to eat a thing until it’s hidden from my sight.”

  Oh, brother! I was annoyed by Willy’s criticism. I’d always thought my yellow tabletop was cheerful. “I’ve got one,” I reluctantly admitted, “but I never use it. It’s on the top shelf of my closet upstairs. It’s hand-embroidered white linen and it belonged to my grandmother.”

  “Perfect!” Willy whooped, clapping his hands in delight. “While you’re getting the tablecloth, I’ll open the wine. Where do you keep your champagne glasses?”

  Ha! Did Willy think I was a relative of the Rockefellers?

  “I don’t have any,” I said. “All I have are four tall water glasses and three small jellyglasses.”

  He wrinkled his freckled nose and shrieked, “Eeeeeeeek! What a disaster! If only I’d known, I would have brought some from home. You can’t drink champagne from a jellyglass! It’s a travesty!”

  “Would you rather drink it from a shoe?” I snapped. I was getting a little tired of Willy’s high-pitched histrionics. “I’ve got an old pair of pumps upstairs.”

  Startled by my peckish tone, Willy gasped and gave me a hurt look. Then he stared down at the floor in shame. “I’m sorry, Paige,” he mumbled. “I can be a little overbearing sometimes. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just trying to forget about Gray, and Flannagan, and all the ghastliness of the last few days. I was just trying to make everything elegant and festive.”

  I felt like a heel. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Willy! Please forgive me for being so short-tempered. I was in a really bad way before you came, and now, thanks to you, I’m about to enjoy some fabulous food, fine wine, and good company. You have made everything festive, Willy. And as soon as I bring down my grandmother’s tablecloth, it’s going to be elegant, too!”

  Willy raised his eyes from the floor and gave me a shaky smile. “You really mean it, Paige?”

  “Of course I mean it. And to prove it, I’m going to run upstairs and get the tablecloth right now. It’s party time! So hurry up, pal. Pop the cork and pour the champagne, willya?”

  “You bet I will!” he squealed, bounding over to the refrigerator to get the bottle. “Where do you keep your jellyglasses?”

  AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER WE WERE still sitting at the kitchen table, telling each other our life stories, nibbling chocolates and sipping champagne. My grandmother’s tablecloth was littered with bits of caviar, a few stray capers and olive pits, and enough bread crumbs to feed all the pigeons in the park (I’m talking Central!). Our plates and most of the tins and jars were empty; our stomachs were full.

  Except for the lichee nuts, which I found to be pretty yucky, I had relished every peculiar morsel.

  “That was really good, Willy. Weird but wonderful. Where did you get all this stuff anyway? Every store in the city is closed.”

  “I had it all at home. Even the roses. I’m always prepared for emergencies.”

  “That’s good to know,” I said, smiling. “Next time I have a smoked oyster crisis I’ll give you a call.”

  He giggled, took another sip of his wine, then turned serious. “Thanks for letting me come over today, Paige. You saved my life. One more afternoo
n of Flannagan’s relentless questions and accusations, and I’d have jumped right out the window.” His bulbous blue eyes were on the verge of tears.

  “I’m glad you came, Willy,” I said, really meaning it (and hurrying to stop the saline flow). “You saved my life, too. But now do you think you could stand it if I asked you a few more questions? About you and Gray and the murder, I mean. I’m working on a story, and I’m hoping I can figure out who the real killer is before Flannagan hangs the rap on you. And there’s so damn much I need to know!”

  “Fire away!” Willy said, poking a chocolate-covered cherry in his mouth. “I’m really grateful for your support. You can ask me anything.”

  “Okay, here goes.” I sat up straighter in my chair, determined to find out everything Willy might know, even if my intrusive inquiries embarrassed him. I took a deep breath and began: “First things first. Are you a homosexual?”