Murder on a Hot Tin Roof (32 page)

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Authors: Amanda Matetsky

BOOK: Murder on a Hot Tin Roof
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“Oh, it’s pretty simple, really,” I said, keeping an eye on the suspects while I talked to my sidekicks. “First, there’s the use of the word ‘Aunt,’ which Willy says is a term of endearment between homosexuals, and then there’s the fact that Aunt Doobie left a hotel room number in his phone message to Gray. That’s a pretty clear indication that he expected Gray to meet him there, wouldn’t you say? Add to that the fact that Aunt Doobie was at a party for homosexuals only at the Keller Hotel, and that his virility, youth, and gorgeous good looks were a perfect match for Gray’s . . . you see what I mean? All these little clues suggest that Gray and Aunt Doobie were lovers. And since Gray called his lover Cupcake . . . well, you get the connection.”
“I do now,” Abby said. “And everything you said makes perfect sense. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. There’s just one problem.”
“What’s that?” asked Willy.
“Since we don’t know who Aunt Doobie is,” Abby answered, “we don’t know who Cupcake is either.”
“Right,” I said. “I wanted to go back to the Mayflower Hotel to look for him again, but I couldn’t find the time. And he’s probably checked out by now. I told Flannagan about him, and gave him his hotel room number, but who knows if the not-so-diligent dick ever did anything about it. I’ll call him at the station tomorrow and see what I can find out.”
“You should have sent
me
to the Mayflower,” Abby whined. “I bet
I
could have dug up some answers!”
“Yes, but to which questions?” I said. “We don’t need to know if Aunt Doobie can be seduced by a woman, or how good he is in bed. That information isn’t germane to the case.”
“Oh, shut up, Paige!” Abby snapped. “I would have found out more than that!” She thrust her now cigaretteless holder, like a sword, in my direction.
“Girls! Girls!” Willy cried, patting us each on our arms to steady us. “Behave yourselves! You’re in Sardi’s, for heaven’s sake. You’re supposed to act like ladies.”
I was about to apologize to Abby for my rude remark when I saw Rhonda Blake and Barbara Bel Geddes stand up from their table. They said a few words to the men, picked up their purses, and began to walk, arm-in-arm, toward the far corner of the dining room.
“Look!” I yelped. “Rhonda and Barbara are going to the ladies’ room together!” I scooted my chair away from the table. “I’m going to follow them in there, see what they have to they say to each other.”
“I’ll go with you,” Abby said, jumping to her feet like a jackrabbit.
“No!” I said, standing to face her. “Rhonda will recognize you—if not from your looks, then definitely from your personality. She’ll never even notice me. But here’s what you
can
do. While the ladies and I are in the bathroom, you can hop over to their table and work your magic on the men. Not one of them has ever seen you before. I’m guessing you’ll be able to direct the scene and find out anything you want to know.”
“Good idea,” she said, shooting me a devilish look. “Maybe they’ll tell me when the hell James Dean is going to show up.”
 
 
AS SOON AS ABBY BEGAN MAKING HER way toward the other table, I gave Willy a cagey nod and struck off for the ladies’ lounge. I was excited and energized. Maybe our Sardi’s expedition wouldn’t be a total bust after all. Maybe I’d be able to pick up some tiny yet valuable clue that would lead us, if not directly to the murderer, then at least in the right direction.
If I knew Abby, she would come back loaded with information. Way too much information, probably, but some of it could turn out to be useful. If she would just focus her attentions on Baldy and Binky instead of Gazarra and Kazan (which, I realized, was a very big if!), she might gain some important insights (i.e., killer insights). I just hoped she wouldn’t make too big a show of herself—give away more information than she took in.
These were the thoughts that were spinning around in my head as I hurried toward the ladies’ room. All of my other concerns about the case, including the grave danger it posed to my own personal life and safety, had been shoved to the back burner. I was concentrating on more productive things, primarily the successful execution of my clue-hunting—hopefully fact-finding—excursion to the lavatory.
So when I turned the corner near the bar and caught sight of an amorous couple embracing in the darkened hallway outside the ladies’ room, I was so lost in my own thoughts I didn’t fully understand what my eyes were seeing. It took several seconds for the unexpected and oh-so-intimate image to take shape in my brain. Even then, the picture was fuzzy and incomplete.
I had no idea who the woman was, but I could see that she was young and beautiful, and that her arms were locked around the neck of a very handsome man. I could tell that her body was pressed so tight against his there wasn’t a single molecule of light or air between them. I could see that she was drawing his face closer and closer to hers, and I had no trouble detecting the very moment their mouths came together in a deep, greedy, soul-rocking kiss.
What I
couldn’t
so easily perceive or comprehend was the mind-shattering, heart-wrenching fact that the man being kissed—the man so eagerly engaged in enjoying and returning the passionate embrace—was Dan.
Chapter 30
I ALMOST FAINTED. THE SIGHT OF DAN kissing another woman was so shocking and unbearable to me, my consciousness tried to leap out of my skull and take off for parts unknown. But I wouldn’t let it go. For some perverse reason, I fought like the devil to hold on—to stay cognizant and on my feet. And once I had balanced myself, I continued to stand there in a zombie daze for several seconds, gaping at the torturous scene before me, absorbing every painful detail like a witless sponge.
The woman was astonishingly beautiful (not as beautiful as Abby, but close to it). With her perfect figure, creamy complexion, and long, wavy red-gold hair, she looked a lot more like Rita Hayworth than I did—a fact that became obvious when she finally removed her lips from Dan’s, threw back her head (thus revealing her stunning profile), and released a deep, throaty laugh that sounded so glamorous and seductive I wished I’d been born deaf.
Dan was entranced. I could tell by the way he was studying her every move and expression. His coal-black eyes were crackling with heat, and he was staring at her the way he used to stare at me when something I’d said or done had suddenly put him in the mood.
Heart fracturing into a thousand pieces, and feeling desperate to get out of there before Dan “came to” and caught sight of me, I spun around on Abby’s red satin heels and staggered back toward our table in the dining room. Tears were coursing down my cheeks in torrents.
“Oh, mercy!” Willy squealed, the very second he saw me approach. His big blue eyes were popping out of their sockets. “What’s the matter? What happened? Did somebody hurt you?” He jumped out of his chair, grabbed hold of my shaking shoulders, and gazed up at me in alarm.
“I . . . I . . . yes,” I blubbered. “I’m so hurt . . . I can’t b-b-believe . . .” I couldn’t finish my sentence. I was sobbing and shivering too hard to speak. People at the nearby tables were starting to stare.
Willy put his arm around me and guided me over to my chair against the wall. “Sit down, Paige,” he urged. “Our cocktails have been delivered and our dinner will be here soon. Dry your eyes, have some more champagne, and tell me what happened.” He was doing his best to comfort me, but nothing could.
“No, Willy!” I cried. “I’ve got to get out of here! Right now!” I grabbed my purse off the table and tried to step around him.
But he wouldn’t move out of my way. “My God, Paige, what happened to you? I won’t let you leave like this. You’re too upset! You’ve got to tell me what’s wrong! Abby’s still over at Kazan’s table. Should I go get her?”
Suddenly reminded that I’d sent Abby to snoop on the suspects, I shot a glance in her direction to see what was happening. It was just as I’d expected. She was seated at the table—in Rhonda’s chair between Baldy and Binky—striking a sexy pose, talking a blue streak, and twirling her cigarette holder through the air like a magic wand. Bippity, boppity, boo. All four men were watching her every move and hanging on her every word, completely under her spell.
“No,” I said to Willy between blubbers. “Let Abby stay where she is. She might learn something important. But I’ve got to go!” I wailed. “Please let me out! I don’t want Dan to see me here!”
“Dan?” Willy sputtered. “Your boyfriend? Is
he
here?”
“Yes!” I cried, tears starting to gush again. “And he’s with a woman. I saw him
kissing
her! Oh, please let me pass, Willy.
If I see them again, I’ll die. And if he sees me, I’ll kill myself. I’ve got to go home this minute!”
“Okay, I’ll go with you,” he said. “Just let me pay the bill first.”
“No!” I screeched. “I can’t wait! And we can’t run out and leave Abby here by herself. You’ve got to stay with her. You two should drink your cocktails, enjoy your dinner, and see what you can find out about the murder. I’m going home now to cry myself to sleep.” I elbowed Willy out of the way and brushed past him. “Tell Abby I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
I was at the Sardi’s exit in an instant, and out the door a split second later. And one breathless moment after that, I was running like a madwoman for the subway—with my broken heart in my throat and the Rita Hayworth wig in my hand.
 
 
LOOKING BACK, I WISH I’D LEFT THE wig on my head. Then the dark-haired man in black clothing might not have recognized me or followed me home. And then he wouldn’t have seen me let myself into my building and go upstairs to my apartment. And then maybe he wouldn’t have hidden himself in the recessed, pitch-black entrance of the building across the street and begun watching my apartment like a hawk—or some other deadly predator.
In which case, I never would have sensed his presence behind me on Bleecker, or run to the window and peeked through the blinds the minute I got upstairs to my apartment. And I wouldn’t have seen him duck into the doorway and stay there, becoming as much a part of the darkness as the shadows around him. And I certainly wouldn’t have crouched on the floor by my living room window for over an hour, crying my eyes out over Dan and peering through the blinds (and my tears) at the street, waiting for the man to step out of the doorway so I could get a glimpse of his face.
Will it be Blackie’s sullen mug or Aunt Doobie’s pretty puss?
I asked myself, dead certain it would be one or the other, and totally determined—with all the tiny pieces of my hopelessly shattered heart—to keep watch until I could make a positive identification.
I might have succeeded, too, if Abby hadn’t come home around twenty past three and started banging on my door with both fists. “Open up, Paige!” she shouted. “Let me in! I want to talk to you! I know you’re crying instead of sleeping, so don’t try to pretend anything different!”
I was both upset and relieved. Upset that Abby was interrupting my strict surveillance vigil, and relieved that I wouldn’t have to be alone in the building anymore. (If the stalker—i.e., possible
murderer
—had crept across the street and tried to get into my apartment, I would have keeled over and died on the spot!) Groaning under my breath, I jumped up and ran to the door, unlocked it and flung it wide, then hurried back to my station by the window.
“What the hell is going on here?” Abby bellowed, marching into the room like a soldier on patrol. “What are you doing? Why is it so dark? I’m turning on the lights.”
“No, don’t!” I hissed. “I won’t be able to see out, and I don’t want him to see in. And keep your voice down! The windows are open. He might be able to hear us.”
“Who are you talking about? Blackie? Has he come back again?” She tossed her purse on the kitchen table and scrambled over to join me on the floor by the window. “Where is he? Let me see!” She nudged me aside and stuck her nose through the gap between the blinds and the windowsill. “Oh, there he is!” she shrieked. “I see him! He hopped out of a doorway across the street and he’s running down toward Seventh Avenue.”
“Oh, no!” I sputtered, madly yanking the blinds away from the open window and leaning out over the ledge. The man was halfway down Bleecker already. All I could see was the back of his black-clad body as he ran past a street lamp.
“Jesus, Abby!” I growled, backing away from the windowsill and out from under the venetians. “I’ve been squatting here all night, peeping through these stupid blinds forever, never taking my eyes off the creep’s hiding place for a second! All I needed was one quick look at his face. Then I would have known, once and for all, if the man was Blackie or Aunt Doobie! So what do you do? You bust in and push me away from the window at the very moment he reveals himself. You screwed up the whole thing!”
“But I didn’t mean to!” she cried, getting defensive. “I was just trying to help.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, next time you want to help me, please do me a favor and
don’t
.” I pushed myself up from the floor, turned on the table lamp, and plopped down on the couch in a huff. “How did you think you were going to help me anyway?”
She made a petulant face. “Well, I know what Blackie looks like, you know! I saw him in Stewart’s Cafeteria the same day you did. So I wanted to see if he’s the one who’s been following you.”

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