Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

by Matetsky, Amanda

  “Here you go!” Willy said, appearing out of the throng and handing me my beer. “It’s a madhouse in here. I thought I’d never make it back alive!”

  “Well, I’m glad you did,” I shouted. “I was starting to feel lonely and out of place. I thought you said there’d be some other women here.”

  “There are,” he said, standing on his tiptoes and yelling directly into my ear. “Two are sitting at the bar. And I bet a few more are sitting in the booths against the wall. Chivalry is not dead! The girls still get the seats!”

  “Oh, yeah? Then if we went over and stood near the booths, do you think somebody would get up and let me sit down?” (I didn’t really care about getting a seat. I was just hoping it would be quieter in a booth—that maybe I’d get to talk to some people without shouting, and actually be able to hear their replies. It was time to do a little name-dropping and pop a few questions.)

  “Probably,” Willy said. “C’mon, let’s go see.”

  It took us a while to get across the floor. Even more revelers had pushed their way into the party, packing the room so tightly I felt surrounded by sardines instead of chickens. Some of the men were dancing—if you could call it that. Feet rooted in place, they stood locked together like lovers, heads on each other’s shoulders, swaying to the music from the jukebox. The Maguire Sisters were singing “Sincerely,” but you could barely hear their harmony above the clamor of the crowd.

  “Hey, Farley!” Willy cried out, spotting somebody he knew and waving frantically. He was so thrilled to find a friend his metaphorical tail was wagging. “Look, Paige, I want to go talk to Farley for a while, okay?” he hollered. “You stay here. See if you can get a seat in a booth.”

  “Okay,” I said, not eager to be left alone, but wanting Willy to have a good time. As he began moving toward the back of the room where his friend was standing, I turned and took a good look at Farley. He was tall, dark, and skinny, and his neck was as long as his legs (okay, not really—it just seemed that way). He was younger than Willy—in his thirties I guessed—wearing a pink short-sleeved shirt, a pair of gray slacks, and an enormous snaggletoothed smile. He was as glad to see Willy as Willy was to see him.

  Feeling happy for Willy, but very sorry for myself (would I ever see Dan again?), I turned back around and tried to act casual, as though I were perfectly comfortable in this weird, way-out atmosphere. I threw my head back, guzzled my beer like a man, and then made a quick survey of the booths, choosing the one where I wanted to sit.

  The booth closest to the door seemed the most promising. It was occupied by five fellows who seemed to be around Gray’s age. I couldn’t see the faces of the three whose backs were turned toward me, but their thick hair and well-built shoulders sent a clear message of youth and energy. Slumped in the far corner of the booth was a woman. A girl, really. She was small and serious, and she looked sadder than a kitten lost in the rain.

  Looking pretty sad myself, I’m sure, and feeling so nervous my knees were knocking, I staggered toward the door and stationed myself right next to the booth in question. Then I took a cigarette out of the pack in my pocket and held it to my lips. “Anybody got a light?” I asked, doing my suavest Robert Taylor, but probably looking a whole heck of a lot more like Red Skelton.

  “Sure,” said the young man facing me from the outer edge of the booth. He took a Zippo out of his pocket and flicked it into flame. Then he stood up and lit my cigarette. “Would you like to join us?” he asked, snapping his Zippo closed and gesturing toward his empty spot on the bench. “Please sit down.”

  “Thanks,” I said, slipping into his seat in a flash. I took a deep drag on my cigarette, set down my beer, and leveled my gaze at the scarred wood tabletop, trying to think of a good way to introduce myself and launch my inquisition. “Uh, hi,” I finally began. “My name’s Phoebe.” I slowly raised my eyes to meet those of the people sitting across the table. “This is my first time here, and I—”

  A cherry bomb exploded in my brain. And my entire nervous system went into shock. No exaggeration. If President Eisenhower himself had leaned over and kissed me on the mouth, I couldn’t have been more stunned. Because sitting directly opposite me—with his wavy dark hair falling down over his forehead and his deep brown eyes boring like bullets into mine—was the man I had been thinking and wondering about since late yesterday afternoon, when I first saw him standing, half naked, in the doorway of room 96 at the Mayflower Hotel.

  “Aunt Doobie?” I blurted, voice cracking. “Is that you?”

  Which was the worst possible thing I could have said, of course. Because now—thanks to my unbelievably careless and stupid (but totally involuntary) outburst—the man was on full alert. He was staring right through my lesbian disguise and recognizing the face of the aggressive, inquisitive woman who had disturbed him during his nap at the Mayflower. And whether his name was John Smith, or Aunt Doobie, or Randy, or Dagwood Bumstead—one thing was perfectly clear: he was not pleased to see me again.

  Five silent but gut-wrenching seconds passed before the man broke his hostile, dead-on glare. He ripped his eyes away from mine and aimed them at door. Then he sprang to his feet, ducked his chin into the collar of his black linen shirt, and—without another glance in my direction, or a single word to the other people at the table—lunged into the crowd and began shoving his way toward the exit.

  Oh my god! What on earth is he doing?! Is he running away?

  I whipped my head around just in time to see him bolt through the door to the street. And that’s when I really lost it—my mind, I mean, and what was left of my cool (which had gone on a one-way trip to the moon). I should have held fast and questioned the other people in the booth, of course, found out if any of them knew Aunt Doobie’s real name. And then I should have hurried over to Willy to tell him what was going on and enlist his help. But I was too frantic to do either of those things. Aunt Doobie was on the run! If I didn’t act fast, he would make a clean getaway!

  So what did I do? You guessed it. I jumped to my feet, scrambled to the door, and took off after him.

  I HIT THE SIDEWALK RUNNING—EAST on Barrow toward the heart of the Village—straining my eyes through the night, hoping to catch sight of a dark-haired man in black pants and a black shirt. But after I’d gone about seventy-five yards, I came to a sudden stop. It was so dark on the deserted street ahead, I couldn’t see anything at all, much less a man in black clothing.

  And what if he hadn’t come this way when he fled? What if he’d chosen the quickest, easiest, yet shrewdest escape route—dashing under the steel and cement structure of the elevated West Side Highway and darting smack into the teeming, celebrating, fireworks-happy mob near the river? That was certainly the course I would have taken. Except for the rockets’ red glare and the bombs bursting in air, it was pretty darn dark over by the docks. And there’s no better camouflage than an excited, chaotic crowd.

  I turned on my heels and started running back in the opposite direction, past the Keller Hotel, onward across West Street and under the highway. I was so hot I was melting. Sweat was streaming down my face, stinging my eyes and seeping like salty tears into my gasping mouth. I couldn’t breathe. When I reached the edge of the madding crowd, I had to stop running for a second, get my bearings, pull some smoky air into my lungs.

  Firecrackers were popping all over the place, and every few seconds another cannon would boom. Or another person would scream. Or another bomb would shriek its loud whistle and explode. I was so jumpy I flinched at every eruption. Swiveling my head from side to side and racing up and down the sidelines of the action, I madly searched the throng for Aunt Doobie. Back and forth I ran, like a dog chasing a stick, looking for the man in the black linen shirt—the man I now believed to be a black-hearted murderer.

  But it was hopeless. The scene was too crazy. The noise was too noisy. I was too frenzied to see straight. I had to retreat from the fire and fury and fall back to the rear—to the softer, deeper darkness under the highw
ay, where the steady whiz of traffic overhead was almost soothing.

  Maybe if I hide here long enough, I thought, standing still and straight behind this big support beam, Aunt Doobie will think I’m gone—or that I never chased after him in the first place. Maybe he’ll emerge from his own hiding place and head for home, or back to the Mayflower Hotel, or someplace else significant. Then I can follow him, see where he goes, try to pick up some clues to his identity.

  Good plan, wouldn’t you say?

  Well, that’s what I thought, too, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Because the next loud explosion I heard was the bang on the back of my head, and after that came nothing but silence.

  Chapter 22

  HAVE YOU EVER COME AWAKE WITH A start in the middle of the night, so addled and confused you don’t know who, what, or where you are? Well, that’s how I felt that night when my lost consciousness began swooping back into my skull. At first I thought I was a crocodile, lying long and flat against the riverbank, but on my back instead of my belly. Then I thought I was a wounded soldier, bleeding to death in a trench in North Korea, while an unknown enemy warrior was raising his sword to strike again. For a few crazy seconds, I actually believed I was an old, gray-haired woman named Aunt Doobie lying on a slab at the city morgue.

  “Wake up, Mrs. Turner,” a male voice shouted in my ear. “Can you hear me?”

  Turner? Turner who?

  “Paige Turner!” the voice shouted again. “Are you conscious? Open your eyes!”

  Paige Turner? Who’s that? What a ridiculous name!

  I tried to sit up, but couldn’t make it all the way. My aching head was so dizzy I felt nauseous; I couldn’t see anything but stars. Quickly lowering myself back to a prone position, I lay still for a couple of seconds, blindly attempting to make sense of my physical situation, trying to imagine where I was. I was lying on something hard, I knew, and from the rough, gritty feel under my fingers, I was pretty sure it was cement. Horns were honking overhead. I could hear loud booms and blasts in the near distance, and the steamy air smelled like gunsmoke.

  Oh, goody. I’m not in the hospital . . .

  “Hey, move back, boys! Give her some air. She’s starting to come around.” The same man was talking, but he obviously wasn’t alone. “Mrs. Turner!” he shouted again. “Open your damn eyes!”

  They popped open on command. And my sight was now fully restored. But what I saw made me want to black out again. There, looming right above me—lowering his boyish face toward mine and baring his teeth like a vampire preparing to enjoy a midnight snack—was the last man in the world I wanted to see: Detective Sergeant Nick Flannagan.

  Egads! I screamed the word out loud in my head but somehow managed to keep it off my tongue. (Yes, my self-control actually does work sometimes. Not often, but every once in a while.)

  Flannagan must have seen the shock and horror on my face, though, because he quickly pulled away and reared back to a squatting position. “How’s tricks, Mrs. Turner?” he asked, smirking, gazing down at me like a gargoyle. “How do you feel? Do you know what day it is?”

  “I feel like ca-ca,” I said. “And as for the day, I’m assuming it’s still Monday, the fourth of July. But that depends on what time it is. Is it past midnight yet? How long was I out?”

  “Just a few minutes we think.” He looked at his watch. “It’s ten forty-five now. What time did you come down here?”

  “Down where?” I wasn’t being coy. I still wasn’t sure where I was.

  “Down to the river,” he grunted. “West Street and Barrow. Sit up. It’ll clear your head. Need a hand?”

  “No, I can make it,” I said, pushing myself up to my elbows, then all the way to a sitting position. The effort made me dizzy again, but just for a second. And when my head stopped spinning, it actually was a lot clearer. Gently touching the painful but thankfully not bloody bump on the back of my noggin, I straightened up and surveyed my surroundings.

  Two cop cars were parked close by on West Street. One had a cop in it (I’m guessing he was monitoring the radio calls); the other was empty. Two uniformed police were standing to my left and Flannagan was squatting on my right, just a couple of feet away from the steel highway support beam I’d been hiding behind when I was hit. From where I was sitting, I could see the red-lettered HOTEL sign suspended from the corner of the Keller building.

  “You look lousy,” Flannagan said. “I’m going to call for an ambulance.”

  “No!” I screeched. “Please don’t! I’m fine. Really I am!” I was lying, of course. My head felt like somebody had hammered a nail into it. But if Flannagan sent for an ambulance, I knew darn well what would happen. They’d take me straight to St. Vincent’s hospital—and then, even if nothing was wrong, they’d keep me there overnight for observation. Maybe all day tomorrow, too.

  And I really couldn’t handle that. I had to go to work in the morning! I had places to go and people to see! (Binky was supposed to take me to the Actors Studio, in case you’ve forgotten. . . . Okay, so we hadn’t made a definite date for that excursion yet, but I was supposed to call him at noon, and we would be going there tomorrow. I was certain of it.)

  “You gotta be checked out by a doctor,” Flannagan said. “You could have a concussion. Or a hematoma.”

  Hema-what? “Don’t be silly,” I said. “I don’t have a concussion or a hemathingy. I just had a little too much to drink earlier and I guess I passed out. Must’ve bumped my head when I fell. But I’m just fine now. There’s nothing wrong with me that a few hours of sleep can’t fix.” I actually wanted to tell Flannagan the truth at that point—try to convince him to launch a citywide search for Aunt Doobie—but I was too wary to open that box. Who knew what else would come flying out?

  Flannagan rose to full height and glared down at me suspiciously. Very suspiciously. Did he know more about my, er, situation than I thought he did? “Okay, then, get up,” he growled, stepping back and crossing his arms over his narrow chest. I’ve got a few questions to ask you. We’ll go sit in the car.”

  I did not want to go sit in the car with him. And I certainly didn’t want to answer any of his questions. But I didn’t want to stay plopped on the pavement either. So, taking the only path that seemed open to me (besides the hospital, I mean), I reached my hands up to Flannagan, asked for his assistance, and allowed him to pull me to my feet. Then I sucked in a chestful of air, squared my shoulders, surrendered my elbows to the two uniformed officers, and let them guide me—as they would a handcuffed criminal—to the flashing patrol car.

  FORTY FIVE MINUTES LATER, I WAS STILL sitting in the back of that car. And Flannagan was still sitting next to me, asking one question after another, grilling me like a hamburger, giving me an even bigger headache than I’d had before. I had told him as much of the truth as I could without getting myself, or Willy, into too much trouble, and now we were going over everything again, for the third or fourth time, and I was on the verge of losing consciousness again.

  As headaches and hamburgers go, I felt both raw and overcooked.

  But at least the fireworks had stopped. The waterfront was dark and silent now. The ominous presence of the two police cars had put a damper on the frenzied fun, causing the fire-bugs to pack up all their bombs and rockets and move upriver. The area around the Keller Hotel was dead as a doornail, too. Having been alerted that the cops were in the vicinity, the partygoers had—very slowly and systematically—exited the bar in small groups and slunk away in the opposite direction, back toward the heart of the Village. (I know this for a fact because I sat there in the car and watched them go. Willy and Farley left together, by the way, looking quite animated and gay. And by that I mean happy.)

  “Getting tired yet, Mrs. Turner?” Flannagan prodded. “Had enough?” He was taking pleasure in interrogating me. You could tell by the way his thin lips kept curling up in the corners.

  “I’ve had more than enough,” I said, “but apparently you haven’t. How l
ong do you plan to keep me here?”

  “As long as it takes for you to tell me the truth.”

  “And what makes you think I’m not?”

  He let out a nasty chuckle. “And what makes you think I’m a stupid fool?” He loosened his tie (finally) and glared at me across the back seat. “Look, I know your game, Mrs. Turner. I know you’re a nosy reporter for Daring Detective magazine, not just a secretary as you told me at our first meeting. Did you think I never learned how to read? I’ve seen your name in the papers on several occasions—in connection with one murder case or another—and it’s a damn easy name to remember.”

  Aaaargh!

  “But that doesn’t mean I was lying to you,” I insisted. “Ask my boss Brandon Pomeroy if you don’t believe me. He’ll tell you I’m a secretary, and nothing but a secretary.”

  “Then he’d be lying, too.”

  Score one for the perceptive detective.

  “Okay, okay! So I’m a nosy crime writer. I didn’t reveal myself before because I was afraid you might tell my boyfriend, Dan Street, about my connection to this case. I’m sure you know him. He’s in homicide in the Midtown South precinct, and he’s forbidden me to inquire into any more unsolved murder cases—ever! If he thought I was working on a story about the Gray Gordon murder, he’d kill me.”