Murder on a Hot Tin Roof Read online

  “Did he invite you to go with them?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Dan planned the trip just for his daughter-he wants Katy to get to know her grandparents better. If I had gone with them, it would have changed everything. The focus would have been on me instead of Katy. Dan has told his daughter about me, but I haven’t met her yet. And I don’t think Dan wants me to-not until he’s absolutely sure our relationship’s going to last.” I snuffed out my cigarette and poured some more gin down my throat, dabbing at my steamy cheeks with the soggy cocktail napkin.

  Abby shrugged her shoulders. “Sounds like Danny the dick is as uptight as you are.”

  “He’s not uptight, he’s upright!” I cried, springing like a Doberman to Dan’s defense. “He’s strong and sensible and protective and considerate! He went through hell with his unfaithful ex-wife, and their divorce was pretty awful, and he doesn’t want Katy-or himself-to be subjected to anything like that ever again. Katy’s fifteen now-that’s a very emotional age, you know!” I was getting pretty emotional myself.

  “Cool down, kiddo,” Abby said, lifting her heavy braid off her neck, letting the breeze circulate underneath. “Don’t say another word. I get the picture already! You’re a prude, and Dan likes it that way. He’d rather trust you than shtup you. And you-you’re even worse! You’d rather suffer than be satisfied! You’re both just a couple of straitlaced shlumps who’ve forgotten how to enjoy life.” She let her braid fall down her back and gave me a goofy grin. “You’re perfect for each other.”

  I laughed. In a way, she was right. Dan and I were a couple of straitlaced characters, doing our best to live by-and even help enforce-society’s rules. But Abby was dead wrong about one thing: we had not-repeat, not-forgotten how to enjoy life. (Though I hadn’t yet taken Dan into my bed and we hadn’t yet gone all the way, we’d been having a darn good time taking side trips on the couch.)

  “Has he told you that he loves you yet?” Abby wanted to know.

  “Well, no,” I sadly admitted.

  “Have you told him?”

  “No!” I sputtered. “I’m the woman! I can’t say it to him till he says it to me.”

  Abby rolled her eyes. She thought my feminine inhibitions were absurd. “Look, I’d like nothing better than to sit around talking about sex all night,” she said, suddenly plunking her empty glass down on the table and adjusting the plunging neckline of her black halter-top dress. “It is, after all, my favorite subject. But I’m afraid I have to cut this conversation short right now.” She squashed her cigarette out in the ashtray, scraped her chair away from the table, and stood up. “There’s no more time for chitchat. We have to get ready to go.”

  “Huh? What did you say?”

  “I said we have to get ready to go.”

  “Go? Where?”

  “To the theater, my dear,” she said, pronouncing her words in a snooty British accent and playfully sticking her nose in the air. She turned and began circling her apartment, closing and locking the kitchen door, turning off the hi-fi and all the fans. The dense humidity settled on me like a wet wool blanket. I could barely breathe.

  “Drink up!” Abby urged. “We have to hurry. The curtain goes up at eight.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I snarled. I wasn’t in the mood for any jokes or surprises. It was too darn hot.

  Abby shot me a mischievous smile. “You’ve heard of the theater, haven’t you, my dear?” she asked, still speaking in a pompous tone. “Because that’s where you and I are going tonight. To a smash-hit play on Broadway. And the show starts at eight.” She looked at her watch. “Oy vey!” she cried, suddenly dropping her British airs and reverting to her Yiddish roots. “It’s almost seven thirty already! We’ve got to leave right this minute or we’ll miss the opening curtain. C’mon, Paige, get up! Let’s go!”

  Now I don’t know about you, but I really hate being yanked around like a poodle on a leash.

  “I’m not going anywhere!” I growled, crossing my arms over my chest and staying firmly glued to my chair. “I just got home from work! I’m exhausted. I’m hungry. My feet hurt. I’m perishing from the heat!”

  “The theater will be air-conditioned,” Abby said.

  “Right,” I replied. Then I hopped up, grabbed my purse, and pranced like a poodle to the door.

  WE WERE LUCKY. THE VERY MINUTE WE descended into the Sheridan Square subway station and stepped out onto the platform, the uptown local arrived and whisked us away. “Hey, bobba ree bop!,” Abby crowed, lurching against me as the train whipped around a sudden curve in the tracks. “If we can catch an express at fourteenth street, we’ll make it just in time.”

  “In time for what?” I snapped. “You still haven’t told me what play we’re going to see. I hope it’s not The Pajama Game-but, knowing you, it probably is.” (I didn’t name this particular play just so I could make a snippy reference to Abby’s love of bedroom sports. No lie. I really didn’t want to see the popular musical. I’d read the reviews and thought it sounded silly.)

  Abby gave me a dirty look. “No, it’s not the goddamn PJ Game!” she said, shouting to be heard above the clamor of the train. “It’s a serious drama, not a comedy. It was written by Tennessee Williams-that sensitive Southern cat who wrote A Streetcar Named Desire-and it’s directed by Elia Kazan, whose latest movie, East of Eden, is-to use a moldy but apt expression-the cat’s pajamas. This play is cool, you dig? Everybody says it’s gonna win the Pulitzer.”

  I was shocked right out of my seamed (and uncomfortably damp) silk stockings. “You mean Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?” I asked. “We’re going to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof? That’s the hottest ticket in town! Kilgallen and Winchell can’t stop talking about it. They say the show’s booked up until next year. How the hell did you ever get seats? Did you sleep with the producer or something?”

  “Very funny,” Abby said with a sneer. “And you can get that snotty look off your face right now, because no, I did not sleep with the producer.”

  “Then who did you sleep with?” I bellowed, just as the train pulled to a stop at 14th Street. My question went unanswered as we hopped off the local and changed to an express.

  “Knock it off, Paige,” Abby yelled into my ear after the train had resumed its noisy hurtle through the tunnel, “I’m getting tired of your nasty insinuations about my sex life. They’re repetitious and boring.”

  She had me there. I was even beginning to bore myself. “Okay, okay!” I cried. “No more catty remarks. I promise! But, please, just tell me this: how in the name of all that’s holy did you ever get tickets to Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?”

  “I don’t have them yet,” she admitted. “I have to pick them up at the theater. Somebody was supposed to leave them at the box office for me.”

  “Oh, no!” I groaned, feeling a big wave of doubt crash over me. “Who was supposed to do that? How do you know the tickets will be there? And what’ll we do if they’re not? Jesus, Abby! We could be making this miserable trip for nothing!” In an effort to curb my rising temper (and rising temperature), I gazed up at the Catalina swimsuit ad plastered above the seats across the aisle, imagining that I was the pretty redhead in the green-and-white strapless one-piece, bouncing in the surf instead of the subway.

  “Hang loose, Paige!” Abby sputtered. “Don’t sweat it. The tickets will be there. Take my word for it. Gray is a very good friend of mine. He won’t let me down.”

  “Gray?”

  “Yeah, Gray Gordon. He’s the understudy for Ben Gazzara, the actor who plays the male lead in the show. Gray called me up a few hours ago and said that Mr. Gazzara had collapsed from heat stroke this afternoon, and that he-Gray-was going to have to take over for him-Gazzara-and play the lead role in the performance tonight! Isn’t that fabulous? My good friend Gray is making his debut in the peachiest play on Broadway, and he wants me to be there. I’m so proud I could plotz!”

  The train zipped into the 34th Street sta
tion and then out again, with barely a blink of awareness from me. My brain was focused on more pressing matters.

  “Gray who?” I asked again. “What did you say his last name was?”

  “It’s Gordon!” Abby shrieked, patience strained to the limit.

  “Gray Gordon,” I repeated, still doubtful about the phony-sounding name and the whole iffy situation. “Never heard of him.”

  “Of course you never heard of him! He’s an understudy, for cripe’s sake! Tonight will be his first time appearing on the legitimate stage! How the hell could you have heard of him?” She was getting mad now.

  “I meant I never heard you mention him before,” I said, barreling on in my naturally inquisitive (okay, normally intrusive) style. “Just how good a friend is he?” I pestered. “How long have you known him? Does he do anything besides act? Where does he live? Does he have any family? Why haven’t I ever met him?”

  What I really wanted to know was if he was the one she had slept with, but I didn’t dare ask.

  Abby moaned and threw her hands in the air. “God, Paige, you’re worse than my mother!” she wailed. “What the hell does any of that stuff matter? All that matters is that my friend Gray is playing the lead in a hit show tonight, and he left two free tickets for me at the box office. Eighth row center. Thanks to Gray, you and I get to sit in a posh, air-conditioned theater all evening-lolling in the lap of luxury and digging the coolest drama on Broadway-instead of panting like dogs in the stifling heat of our apartments and taking cold showers just to stay conscious.”

  Abby glared at me and her cheeks turned crimson. “You should be kissing Gray’s tuchus in Macy’s window,” she fumed, “instead of asking me all these stupid damn questions about him!”

  I was about to utter something wise and witty about the importance of being vigilant and well-informed, when our train screeched into Times Square station, cutting off my train of thought. Then, before I knew what was happening, Abby vaulted out of her seat, stomped across the aisle, slipped through the opening doors, and stormed off toward the station exit.

  “Hey, wait for me!” I called, running like a fool to catch up with her.

  Big mistake. If I’d had any idea of the danger she was leading me into, I’d have run like a thief the other way.

  Chapter 2

  ABBY WAS SO MAD SHE DIDN’T TALK TO me during the entire three-block trek uptown. She didn’t even say anything when I asked if I could make a quick stop at Nedick’s for a hot dog. She just shook her head (rather violently, I thought) and kept on walking (okay, charging) past the strip joints, rifle ranges, novelty shops, penny arcades, and peep shows strung, like gaudy charms on a bracelet, along the blinking neon borders of Broadway.

  When we got to 45th Street, Abby made an abrupt right turn and led me halfway up the block to the Morosco Theatre. I was happy to see the words Cat on a Hot Tin Roof displayed on the theater’s marquee. At least that part of Abby’s story was true. And the large posters hung near the theater’s entrance made it clear that Ben Gazzara was, indeed, the male star of the show. Now there were just two questions left to answer: Would Mr. Gazzara’s understudy be playing the lead tonight, and would two free tickets actually be waiting for us at the box office?

  I followed Abby into the crowded lobby, expecting the worst (as I usually do) but praying to be wrong. All I wanted in the whole wide world at that moment was to sit down in a cushioned seat, pry off my painful high-heels, and surrender my feverish body to a comforting blast of refrigerated air. (I had given up all hope of a hot dog.)

  Without a word, Abby turned her back to me and began pushing her way toward the box office, quickly disappearing in the crowd. Exerting an uncharacteristic effort to be confident and optimistic, I decided to wait for her near the main door to the theater, in the ticket-holders line. (I hadn’t read Dr. Norman Vincent Peale’s number-one bestseller, The Power of Positive Thinking, for nothing!)

  I didn’t have to wait long. Abby reappeared within minutes, waving two tickets in the air and wearing a very smug smile on her self-satisfied kisser. “See?!” she crowed. “I told you they’d be here. My friend Gray is a man of his word. And I trust him a hell of a lot more than you trust me! So, what do you have to say about that, Miss Snotnose?”

  “That’s great!” I exclaimed, hoping those two little words, coupled with the joyful-yet-apologetic look on my face, would convey my sincere repentance and gratitude.

  Abby, you should know (if you don’t already), is a more forgiving and accepting person than I am. “This is so groovy!” she said, dropping all signs of anger and impatience and replacing her smug smile with a happy one. “I can’t wait to see Gray perform here tonight. He’s going to be great. I know he will!”

  “What makes you so sure?” I asked, trying, but failing, to suppress my still-burning curiosity. “Have you seen Mr. Gordon perform anywhere before?”

  “You bet I have,” she said, “but it wasn’t on the stage!” She grinned and gave me a big fat bawdy wink that answered my unspoken question. “Now, come on!” she chirped, linking her arm through mine and tugging me toward the ticket taker. “Let’s go inside.”

  HAVE YOU EVER HAD THE SUDDEN DREAM-LIKE sensation that you died and went to heaven? Then you know how I felt the instant I stepped into the hushed, cool, velvet-soft sanctuary of the elegant Morosco Theatre. It was as if I had left the real world altogether and walked into a cushy cloud.

  Abby and I made our way to our seats (eighth row center, just like she said), and sat down in a flurry of excitement and petticoats. (Abby was wearing at least three of the starched and swishy things. I had on just one.) I looked over the playbill and scanned the cast list, spotting three names I recognized: Ben Gazzara in the role of Brick; Barbara Bel Geddes in the female lead of Margaret, a.k.a. Maggie the Cat; and Burl Ives in the role of Big Daddy. I read down the list of the understudy’s names and, sure enough, Gray Gordon was there.

  “Can you see all right?” Abby asked me. Her tone was sarcastic, not serious. She knew we had great seats, and she was prodding me to admit it.

  “Perfectly,” I said, delighted to give her the satisfaction. I didn’t mention that the wide-brimmed hat on the head of the woman sitting in front of me was blocking part of my vision. I’d complained enough for one night. “Everything is ideal, Abby. Especially the air-conditioning. Thanks so much for bringing me. I’m sorry I was such a-”

  My apology was interrupted by an abrupt squeal of static on the loudspeaker, then a brief, static-free announcement: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” a deep male voice intoned, “and welcome to the Morosco Theatre. Due to a sudden but, thankfully, not serious illness, Ben Gazzara is unable to appear in tonight’s performance of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. His leading role-the role of Brick Pollitt-will be played by his understudy, Gray Gordon. We trust you will enjoy Mr. Gordon’s fresh and exciting interpretation, and we thank you for your support of the dramatic arts.”

  A slight murmur of disappointment swept through the audience, but there was no further reaction. No outburst or uprising. Nobody jumped out of their seats and stormed into the lobby for a refund. The only person who seemed deeply affected by the announcement was Abby, who was squeezing my hand so hard I thought my fingers would fall off.

  “This is so atomic,” she whispered, “I think I’m going to explode! Gray must be going out of his mind right now.”

  I sincerely hoped not. I felt cool and comfortable for the first time all day. I wanted to sit in that red-velvet-covered seat forever. I wanted to kick off my shoes, wiggle my toes, and lose myself in the trials and turmoil of somebody else’s drama. Longing for the curtain to rise, and for Gray and the rest of the cast to put on a good show, I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer of encouragement for thespians the world over-but primarily for the one who had shtupped my soon-to-explode best friend.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the loudspeaker voice continued, “the Morosco Theatre is proud to present the most talked-about new play of
the season, Tennessee Williams’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”

  A hush fell over the audience and the theater went dark. Abby gasped and squeezed my hand even tighter. Then the footlights clicked on and the heavy red-and-gold-trimmed curtain began its smooth, otherworldly ascent. I sat back in my chair, slipped off my shoes, and exhaled a grateful sigh. It was showtime.

  I WISH I COULD RELATE THE WHOLE play to you-describe every detail of the lush, dramatically lit stage set and repeat every word of the emotion-charged dialogue-but I can’t. It would take way too long. And I’d be infringing on every copyright law in the book.

  So, in the interest of brevity and legality, just let me say that the play was excellent, the acting was terrific, and Gray Gordon was probably the most gorgeous, glowing, well-built man I’d ever seen in my life. With his golden-brown hair, clear blue eyes, and tall, lean, muscular physique, he looked like a Greek god (or a Hollywood cowboy hero, take your pick). And his stage presence was dynamic. His voice was strong yet mellifluent, and his fake Southern accent (the play was set in Tennessee, but Abby said Gray was born and raised in Brooklyn) was thoroughly convincing.

  Actually, his whole performance was convincing. Assured and utterly believable. The way I saw it, Gray Gordon had been born to play the role of Brick Pollitt-an alcoholic ex-football player who may be more in love with his dead team-mate, Skipper, than he is with his beautiful, sensual, and very much alive wife, Maggie.

  When the curtain came down on the final scene, there were a few breathless moments of silence, followed by a thunderous standing ovation. Everybody in the audience (myself and Abby included) jumped to their feet and shouted “bravo” at the top of their lungs. We applauded and shouted until the curtain was raised again and the cast returned to the stage to take their bows. Lots of bows. And most were taken by Gray, who was showered with so much applause and so many bravos I thought he would break in two from the bending.