Murder on a Hot Tin Roof (17 page)

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Authors: Amanda Matetsky

BOOK: Murder on a Hot Tin Roof
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“What about Willy?” I asked, flipping the page to a different puzzle. “You don’t think he could be the killer, do you? I’m convinced he’s not. He’s too high-strung and squeamish. The only reason he’d ever use a knife would be to chop celery or carve a radish rose.”
“Who’s jumping to conclusions now?” Abby said, arching one of her eyebrows to a peak and spreading her lips in a contemptuous smirk. “Willy was obviously in love with Gray, and Gray wouldn’t have anything to do with him. Unrequited love, you dig? That’s the likeliest murder motive known to man. And Willy has the same blood type as the murderer! How can you ignore the only bit of real evidence that has come up in the case so far?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling foolish, realizing that Abby was right. “It’s just that I
like
Willy,” I mumbled in self-defense. “And I feel a strong urge to protect him.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jimmy said, speaking in the same deep, sexy baritone that had made him a celebrated reader of his own dopey poems. “Maybe you got it backwards, babe. Maybe what Willy needs is an
erection
, not
protection
.” Jimmy shot up straighter in his chair and started snickering like an idiot, so proud of his feeble rhyme he was about to pop.
Abby giggled and started twirling her fingers through his beard again.
Startled by the sudden noise and movement, Otto jumped off Jimmy’s lap and skittered over to me. He huddled around my ankles and gazed up at me—with the softest, sweetest, sleepiest brown eyes you ever saw in your life. I picked the little pooch up and settled him in my own lap, stroking his head and velvety back until he feel asleep again.
Sometimes,
I mused, happily petting the warm little weiner-shaped pup,
there actually is such a thing as justice in the world.
 
 
LATER IN THE EVENING—AFTER WE’D discussed the inscrutable murder case to death, and worn the grooves off Abby’s new Miles Davis record, and consumed at least five gin and tonics and a hundred cigarettes each—Abby stood up from the table and announced that it was time for us to go.
Oh, no, not again.
“Go where?!” I sputtered. Remembering the last time she’d dragged me off to points unknown, I sat rooted to my chair, firmly deciding that I wasn’t going anywhere but home.
“To the Vanguard, of course,” she said. “Jimmy’s going to recite his new poem there tonight. It’s a masterpiece! It’s a far-out Independence Day epic, and he’s going to read it at the stroke of midnight. Isn’t that cool?”
“It’s totally cool,” I said, “and I appreciate the invitation. But I can’t possibly go out tonight. In the first place, I’m not dressed for it.” (My yellow piqué sundress and red patent stilettos belonged at an afternoon tea party, not a midnight soiree at the local jazz joint.) “And in the second place, Dan’s supposed to call me later—right after twelve, when the rates change.”
“But you already spoke to him this morning!” Abby yelped.
“So what? Is there some law that says I can’t speak to him twice?”
“How can he afford two long-distance calls in one day? It’ll cost him an arm and a leg.”
“Dan’s not a pauper, you know. And maybe he’d rather lose limbs than lose contact with me.” I shot her a stubborn smile.
Abby flipped her long braid from one shoulder to the other and leaned over the back of her chair like a gargoyle. “Oh, come on, Paige!” she said, whimpering (just like Otto does when he has to pee). “Jimmy and I both really want you to be there. It’s important. You dig what I’m saying?”
I dug what she was saying all right. She was dreading the poetry reading every bit as much as I was, and she expected me to come with her—whether I wanted to or not.
I groaned to myself and gave her a nasty, I’m-going-to-make-you-pay-for-this look.
She grinned and gave me a look that said,
Stop whining, sister. I just treated you to a feast of pizza and gin. The least you can do is keep me company in my hour of need.
“Oh, all right!” I snapped, picking Otto up off my lap and setting him down on the floor. “You win! But if Dan has a fit wondering where I am, it’ll be on your head. He worries about me a lot, you know.”
“I worry about you, too,” Abby said, with a snort. “Now hurry up. Go change your clothes.”
Chapter 15
IN SPITE OF THE HEAT AND THE HOLIDAY, the Vanguard was packed. All the tables were full, and black-clad bohemians were standing three-deep at the bar, drinking beer, smoking weed, and snapping their fingers to the live sounds surging from the piano, bass, guitar, and drums ensemble on stage. In my black capris, sleeveless black shell, black ballerina flats, and heavy black eye makeup, I blended in perfectly with the hip, cool (and, if you ask me, corny) crowd.
“Hey, Birmingham!” one of the bartenders called out to Jimmy, as we stood near the entrance looking around for seats. “Come park your pets over here!” I hoped he was referring to Abby and Otto—not me.
Jimmy led us to the single empty stool at the end of the bar and sat down on it himself. Cradling Otto in the crook of his left arm, he rested his other elbow on the counter and ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon. “You girls want anything?” he asked, finally remembering that Abby and I were there.
“I’ll have a beer, too,” I quickly replied, before he could rescind the offer. “Whatever’s on tap. In a frosted mug.”
“And another G and T for me, sweetcakes,” Abby said, slithering up as close to Jimmy’s side as she could. If she was annoyed that he’d taken the seat instead of offering it to her, she didn’t let it show. (As I may have mentioned before, Abby’s a tad more forgiving than I am.)
It was hard to talk above the music and the noisy crowd, so as soon as I got my hands on my beer, I slipped away from the bar scene. Then I wandered into the depths of the club and leaned against the back wall for a while, watching the Negro jazz quartet perform their musical miracles. And when I tired of doing that, I began a thorough, table-to-table survey of the audience. (I can’t help it, you know. I’m just naturally nosy. Even when I’m not looking for a murderer.)
That’s when I saw her.
She was sitting at a table right next to the stage, so close to the spotlights that her face and figure were fully illuminated. Her eyes were closed and her fluffy, platinum-blonde head was thrown back against the shoulder of a large, completely bald man in a suit and a tie. The skirt of her white
Seven Year Itch
-style halter-top dress was hiked high above her knees, and her legs were crossed. (Well, sort of, anyway. One of those slim, shapely appendages—the top one, of course—was also draped across the lap of the huge, hairless man she had either cuddled up to or collapsed upon.)
You could have knocked me over with a feather—or any other flimsy utensil. It was Rhonda Blake (Gray’s
Hot Tin Roof
understudy partner, in case you need reminding), and she looked drunker than any skunk I’d ever seen.
I gasped with delight and started searching for a way to get to her table. What an incredible stroke of luck! I’d been wondering how I was going to get to chat with (okay, interrogate) Rhonda again, and now here she was—laid out like a blooming buffet at a wedding banquet—just waiting for me to help myself to her secrets. Praying that Rhonda wasn’t too intoxicated to carry on a conversation, I handed my beer to the thirsty-looking young man standing next to me and began winding my way through the crowded tables toward the stage.
I didn’t get very far, though. All of a sudden the jazz quartet stopped playing, the audience burst out in applause, and the emcee for the evening bounded onto the stage and took over the microphone. “Are these cats crazy, or what?” he exclaimed. “Let’s have another hand for the Fountainbleu Four!”
Some of the people near me jumped to their feet and began clapping like there was no tomorrow. I ducked my head to my chest and tried to bulldoze a path to Rhonda’s table. I was about halfway there when the emcee motioned for everybody to quiet down and take their seats again. Too polite (and self-conscious) to remain standing like a monument in the middle of the room, I sank to my haunches and tried to waddle my way forward.
It was no use. The tables were too close together, and the thick jumble of jostling legs, knees, and feet at my face-level made further waddling impossible. I was about to stand up and retreat to the rear when the emcee returned his mouth to the mike and announced, “Now it’s time for another treat, guys and dolls. Are you ready to have your socks rocked and your inhibitions defrocked? Are you ready for a hot transfusion? Then let’s hear it for the cat with the dog! Here comes Jimmy Birmingham and his sidekick, Otto, to give us the midnight truth—the groovy, far-out gospel of today and tomorrow!”
Aaaargh.
I was stuck like a pig in a poke. I had no choice but to sit down on the floor and enjoy (okay, endure) the show.
Carrying Otto in the crook of one arm, Jimmy walked onto the stage in a thunderstorm of applause. He pulled a tall stool up close to the mike, planted one buttock on the seat, and arranged his oh-so-young-and-sexy body in an oh-so-casual half-sitting, half-standing pose. Then he stretched Otto out on the shelf of his thigh (the one that was propped up on the stool) and gave him a long, slow stroke from the tip of his pointy nose to the end of his stringbean-size tail. Otto snorted and put his head down on Jimmy’s knee. Was it my imagination, or was the little dachshund as unimpressed with Jimmy’s act as I was?
To signal that he was about to recite his poem, Jimmy cleared his throat into the microphone. Then, when the applause had completely died down, he unleashed his pompous, theatrical baritone and began:
Pounding, resounding
Moonlight noises,
Slams me in
And out of my mind.
A high and low life
Cerebral celebration,
A garden of madness.
Maggot salad
Spiced with lice,
Bottles of holiday frenzy,
All sucked up
Into tomorrow’s rushing,
Failing day
Of push and pull.
Put my snail in your pail.
A love thrill
Keeps me slowly
Burning away,
Smoldering like a fire in
The rain.
The people sitting around and above me were transfixed. They sat in silence for a couple of seconds, letting the full impact of Jimmy’s, um, verses sink into their sodden brains. Then, all at once, they rose from their chairs and broke out in a wild shouting, clapping, cheering, whistling, finger-snapping ovation.
“He’s so deep!” one woman cried out. “He’s real gone.”
“And his words are true, man,” a bearded fellow bellowed. “Like, really true.”
Yeah, true twaddle!
I said to myself, laughing out loud and jumping up off the floor. Then, as Jimmy tucked Otto under his arm and proudly strode off the stage, I began pushing and shoving my way toward Rhonda’s table again.
I could have saved myself the trouble. When I finally got there, she was gone. Real gone.
 
 
“RHONDA BLAKE WAS HERE?” ABBY said. “Are you sure it was her?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said. “She was sitting so close to the stage she was lit up by the spotlights. I got a good look at her.”
“Maybe she’s in the bathroom?”
“Nope. I checked.”
“Did you see when she got up and left?”
“No. I was sitting on the floor. I couldn’t see anything but the people right around me and what was happening up on the stage. Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t see her leave, Ab. With her platinum blonde hair and bright white dress, she really stood out in this dark-as-doom crowd. And she must’ve passed right by you on her way out.”
“I was concentrating on Jimmy’s performance,” she said, with a sniff. “All I could see was the poetic vision of my genius loverboy’s face.” She turned to Jimmy, who was now sitting on the barstool next to hers, and gave him a juicy nibble on his neck. “You were great, babe. Really great.”
“Thanks, doll,” he said, swiveling away from the bar and stepping down off the stool. “Be back in a few. Takin’ Otto for a stroll.”
I hopped onto Jimmy’s vacated seat, ordered another beer, and lit up a cigarette. My head was spinning with questions about Rhonda. What had brought her to the Vanguard tonight? Did she come here often? Did she live in the Village? Did she know that Gray’s apartment was just a few blocks away? Who was that man she was with? Had she been as inebriated as she seemed? Had she heard the news about Gray’s murder and gotten drunk to escape the pain? Or maybe she was trying to wipe out the memory of the hideous crime that she herself had committed! Why did she disappear so suddenly? Had she seen me trying to get to her table?
“I know what you’re thinking,” Abby said, “but please don’t say a word about it.” She gave me a threatening look and took a deep swig of her gin and tonic.
“Huh? What?” I sputtered, wondering what the hell she was talking about.
“Jimmy’s poem,” she said. “I know you didn’t like it.”
I spat forth a great gush of smoke. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I teased, coughing, abandoning the unanswerable questions about Rhonda and returning to the issues at hand. “The ‘maggot salad’ part was pretty darn entertaining.”
Abby giggled. “Yeah, that was a scream, wasn’t it? If only he had
meant
it to be funny. I could really dig it then!”

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