Murder on a Hot Tin Roof (22 page)

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Authors: Amanda Matetsky

BOOK: Murder on a Hot Tin Roof
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“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 afternoon 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?”
“Of course I am, honey!” he squeaked. “I thought you knew that already!”
“I sort of did, but since we’ve never spoken the actual
word
. . .”
Willy gave me an indulgent smile. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, and words will also hurt me. So let’s get them all out in the open right now. I’m not just a homosexual; I’m a fairy and a queer and a faggot, too. I’m a flit, a fruit, a queen, a pansy, and an auntie. I’m a sodomite and a pervert and a deviant. And according to some people—Detective Flannagan included—I’m also a sex fiend and a psychopath. There! Are those enough words for you? Did I leave anything out?”
“Gay,” I said. “You didn’t mention that you were gay.”
Willy cracked up laughing, as I’d hoped he would. (Laughing feels better than crying, wouldn’t you say?) He laughed so hard his pale face turned as pink as the hibiscus blooms on his Hawaiian shirt.
I waited until he’d expelled his last snicker, then continued the discomforting inquest. “‘Auntie?’” I probed. “I never heard that word used in this context before. Is it a very common term?”
“It’s not as popular as ‘fairy’ or ‘queer,’ but it gets tossed around a bit. Even by the fags themselves.”
“You mean they call each other ‘auntie’?”
“Not exactly. What they do is use the word in a nickname. If I had a good friend named Salvatore, for example, I might call him Auntie Sal or Aunt Sally. It’s a term of endearment. But only when it’s used by one homosexual talking to another. When a straight man uses the word, it’s totally derogatory.”
“I see,” I said, wheels turning. “So it wouldn’t be strange for a gay man to call another gay man Aunt Doobie.”
“Not at all. It would just signify that they had a close relationship.”
“A sexual relationship?”
“Most likely.”
“As I mentioned to you yesterday, Gray had somebody in his life called Aunt Doobie. Would that mean that Gray was gay?”
Willy slicked his fingers through his heavily pomaded hair. “That’s a tough one to answer, Paige, but offhand, I’d say yes. Gray never
told
me that he was queer, but I always sensed that he was. It takes one to know one, you know!”
“But yesterday you told me you
didn’t
know!”
“And I don’t know for sure. I just have a feeling. Gray never gave me or anybody I know a tumble, so I can’t swear that he was gay. And you can’t go by the whole ‘auntie’ thing, either. It’s possible Gray had a real aunt called Aunt Doobie.”
Back to square one.
I paused to collect my thoughts, then proceeded. “Okay, here’s another question I’ve already asked you, but now feel pressed to ask again: Are you quite sure you never heard the name Aunt Doobie before?”
“I’m positive. That’s not the kind of name you forget.”
“Aaaargh!” I growled, rolling my eyes at the ceiling in despair. “Aunt Doobie could be the murderer, for God’s sake, but I may never be able to find out who he or she is!”
“Maybe I can help,” Willy said. “I’m going to a private party at the Keller Hotel tonight. It’s for gays only. Should I bounce the name around and see if anybody’s heard of it?”
“Absolutely not!” I insisted. “You could be putting yourself in grave danger that way. And with Flannagan hot on your tail, you’re in more than enough trouble already.” I lifted my jellyglass to my lips and drained the rest of my champagne. “You said the party is for gays only. Does that mean no women are allowed?”
“Mercy, no!” Willy said, tossing his head and flipping one pinkie—extended hand in the air. “There’ll probably be quite a few women there. But they’ll all be lesbians.”
“Then you’d better give me lesbian lessons,” I said, “because I’m going to the party with you.”
Chapter 20
HAVE YOU EVER HAD THE FEELING THAT you’ve lost touch with your real self altogether—that you’re floating around in the stratosphere without any skin? Then you know how I felt that night, as I dressed myself in long pants and a white shirt—just as Willy had told me to do—and prepared to make my fraudulent debut as a lesbian. I was uncomfortable, not to mention too warm, in the stiff masculine attire, and I couldn’t wait for the painful charade to be over.
I went downstairs, put some money in my pants pockets (Willy had forbidden me to carry a purse), then stuck a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket of my white cotton shirt. I looked at the clock on my living room table. I was too early. It was 8:00 P.M. and I wasn’t supposed to meet Willy until 9:00. I had plenty of time to call Binky.
Taking the pad with Gray’s phone messages out of the table drawer, I sat down on the couch, lit up an L&M, and dialed Binky’s number. He answered on the second ring.
“Hello. Who is it? Speak up! I’m in a hurry.”
“Hi, Binky,” I said. “It’s Pa—I mean Phoebe Starr. I spoke to you the day before yesterday, remember? I’m the actress who wants to enroll in the Actors Studio. You said you’d take me there tomorrow and show me around, so I’m calling to confirm that appointment.”
There was a short silence, then Binky said, “You’re Gray Gordon’s friend, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then what the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you nuts? Why are you calling me
now
? Maybe you haven’t heard, but Gray’s dead! He doesn’t friggin’ exist anymore!” Binky sounded like an overactive volcano—boiling and ready to blow.
“Yes, I know,” I said. “It’s so horrible, I still can’t believe it. It’s a sickening, hideous tragedy. Gray was such a wonderful person. Who would do such a terrible thing to him?”
“Don’t ask me,” he said, lowering his voice to a more mournful tone. “But you want to know something, sweetheart? I think what
you’re
trying to do is pretty terrible, too.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, starting to squirm. What did he think I was trying to do? And why was it so terrible? “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Binky let out a derisive snort. “I’ll tell you what I’m talking about! I’m talking about the way you’re swooping in like a vulture, trying to pick the meat off Gray’s bones and fill the sudden vacancy at the Studio. Gray’s only been dead for three friggin’ days, little girl. He’s probably not even cold yet. And here you are, already trying to take his place in Strasberg’s class.”
“I am not!” I cried, defending myself vociferously. “How could you say such an awful thing? I called you tonight because I
told
you I would the last time we spoke. And that was
before
I knew that Gray was dead. Don’t you remember? We spoke on Saturday and the news of Gray’s murder didn’t appear in the papers until Sunday!”
“Saturday, Sunday—what’s the difference? You’re still just trying to get into the Studio.”
“Yes, I would like to join, but so would every other actress under the sun. We
all
want to study under Lee Strasberg, you know. I’ve wanted to work with him for as long as I can remember. So I am not—repeat
not
—trying to take advantage of Gray’s tragic misfortune. I’m just continuing my pursuit of a lifelong dream. And Gray wanted to help me achieve that dream, if you recall. That’s why he told me to call you.”
“Oh, all right!” Binky said, letting out a loud groan of exasperation. “I’ll take you to the damn Studio sometime. But I can’t talk about it now. I’m late for work.”
“So when
can
you talk about it?” I urged, desperate to pin him down. “Can I call you later, when you get off work?”
“Are you nuts? I won’t get home till five in the morning. On big holidays like this, the Latin Quarter bar stays open all night. You can call me tomorrow if you want to—but not before noon.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Binky’s only goodbye was a beastly grunt, plus the sound of the receiver crashing into the cradle.
 
 
EVEN IN THE DARK OF NIGHT, I FELT extremely self-conscious when I left my building and stepped out onto the sidewalk. What if somebody I knew saw me looking like this? No makeup, no high heels, no purse, no wavy, shoulder-length hairdo (I had pulled my hair back in a rubber band, the way Willy told me to do). Thank God Abby and Jimmy weren’t there to witness my defeminization. Abby would have a heart attack and die; Jimmy would just die laughing. Otto would probably bark his head off for a few seconds and then cover his little brown eyes with his paws.
I was glad all the neighborhood stores were closed. If Angelo or Luigi got a load of my lesbian get-up they’d probably run down the street to St. Joseph’s to light candles and pray for the salvation of my soul. And I hated to think how Dan would react—so I tried not to. One good thing could come from my disguise, though, I realized. If Baldy or Blackie happened to be hiding in the shadows in ambush, they might not know who I was!—a lucky ramification which could save me from a shanghaiing (or any other dastardly deed either one of them might have in mind).
Keeping my head down and walking as fast as I could in the stifling heat, I crossed Seventh Avenue, made my way over to Christopher, and—shielding my face whenever I passed a streetlamp—made a beeline for the four-story brownstone where Willy lived. I stepped into the well-lit vestibule and, feeling a very strong sense of déjà vu, rang the buzzer for 2A.
As I stood there waiting for Willy to answer, I couldn’t help noticing that both the mailbox and the buzzer for 2B still bore the name GRAY GORDON. The sight of Gray’s carefully hand-printed capitals broke my heart. He had probably been very happy when he’d lettered those labels, I mused—excited about beginning a new life in his new apartment and looking forward to a fabulous future.
“Is that you, Paige?” Willy sputtered into the intercom.
“Yes, it is,” I said, although considering the way I looked and felt, I wasn’t at all sure.
“Okay, hang on! I’m coming right down.”

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