“Thanks, Ab. Your encouragement and support mean a lot to me.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” she screeched. “Knit you a sweater? Send you off to battle with a fresh-baked batch of cookies in your duffle bag? Pray night and day for your immortal soul, and then-when the unimaginable but inevitable finale occurs-praise God that you didn’t die in vain?” Gasping for air, Abby wiped the perspiration off her forehead with her hand and then wiped her hand on her hip. “Sorry, Laurie,” she said, voice cracking with emotion, “but that’s not the way this cookie crumbles.”
I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the shade under the awning of the candy store next door to Stewart’s. “Jeez, Ab, you’d better calm down or you’ll catch a case of heatstroke yourself. You’re getting all worked up over nothing.”
“Nothing?!” she shrieked, stamping her foot on the cement. “A good friend of mine was just murdered! You call that nothing? And now my best friend in the whole world is about to run off half-cocked looking for the killer, putting herself in so much danger she’ll probably get slashed to ribbons, too. If that’s nothing, then I hope to high heaven I never find out what something is!”
“I’m sorry, Ab. You’re upset about what happened to Gray and I understand that. You wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t wigged out about it. But there’s no reason on earth for you to be so wigged out about me. I won’t be putting myself in any danger today at all. I swear! I just want to sniff around a little bit, get the lay of the land. And it’s important that I do this right away, before the news about the murder gets out. It’s a cinch that Flannagan hasn’t notified the show’s cast and crew yet, so they won’t be suspicious or try to hide anything from me. They don’t even know that Gray is dead.”
“The murderer knows,” she said.
“Yes, but he doesn’t know that
I know. And who says he’ll be there anyway? The killer may have nothing whatsoever to do with the theater. Maybe he’s a member of Gray’s family, or one of his old friends or enemies from Brooklyn-in which case I won’t be running into him today. And besides, the chances that I’ll actually be able to get inside the theater and talk to anybody who was closely connected with Gray are practically nil. See? What I said before is true, Ab. You really are getting worked up over nothing.”
“But I worry about you, you know!” she whined. (Which prompts me to point out something else I’ve learned about Abby during our tight three-year friendship: As bold and brazen a sexpot as she most assuredly is, she is also, at heart, a ranting, raving-i.e., loving-Jewish mother. But please don’t tell her I said so!)
“Gosh and golly, Polly-what’s gotten into you?” I said, chuckling and nudging her with my elbow, trying to cheer her up and make light of the situation. “You used to egg me on and call me a sissy. You said if I had any chutzpah, I’d live up to my absurd name and go after the big, sensational stories. You told me if I was going to write for a magazine called Daring Detective, I should have the balls to become one myself. Remember?”
“Yeah, well, that was before,” she muttered.
“Before what?”
“Before you were nearly raped and strangled on the stairs at your office… before you were almost thrown to your death over a mezzanine railing… before I saw you shot and bleeding on your kitchen floor.”
“Oh,” I said, staring down at the sidewalk, unable to dispute those disturbing particulars.
A heavyset woman in a flowered sundress came out of the candy shop, peeling the wrapper off a large Hershey Bar. She had a copy of
Confidential magazine tucked under arm. Abby and I moved aside to let her pass by, then waited for her to walk a few yards down the block before continuing our conversation.
“Look, Ab, I know some awful things have happened in the past,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean something awful’s going to happen today. If anything, today will be the safest time of all to snoop around. That’s why I’m so anxious to get going. Maybe I can pick up a few clues to deliver to Flannagan tomorrow-something that will help him in his investigation, and also help me get over my embarrassing and incompetent behavior at the crime scene this morning. Most importantly, I want to do whatever I can to make sure the sick monster who killed Gray is caught as soon as possible.”
“Okay, you convinced me,” she said, changing her attitude in a snap. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
Chapter 8
I REALLY DIDN’T WANT ABBY TAGGING along. I was afraid she would complicate my undercover (and hopefully inconspicuous) investigation with her passionate and unpredictable antics. But I didn’t bother to protest. I knew it wouldn’t do any good. I could see that invincible, uncompromising, stubborn-as-a-mule look in her eye. She was coming with me, and that was all there was to it.
“Hold your horses, Ab,” I said, with a plaintive sigh. “I want to get a couple of newspapers before we go.” I turned and stepped toward the open door to the candy store. “You want anything?”
“That’s a definite yes, Bess!” she whooped, following close on my heels as I entered the tiny shop. “I want a Tootsie Roll. A great big one!”
Abby headed straight for the candy counter while I checked out the news rack. I picked up the last copy of the
New York Times, and also a copy of the Journal American, thinking Dorothy Kilgallen had probably written something about Gray in her daily column, “The Voice of Broadway.” I would have grabbed the New York Daily News as well-just to take a look at Ed Sullivan’s “The Toast of the Town” column-but there weren’t any left.
Abby and I reconnected at the cash register and paid for our items. Her giant-sized Tootsie Roll was half-eaten already. I folded the newspapers, cradled them in the crook of my elbow, and led the way out of the store. Abby joined me on the sidewalk, then we strolled in total silence around the corner and up the block toward the Sheridan Square subway stop. It was too hot to walk fast, and Abby was too busy chewing to chat.
It was a bit cooler underground and the train came almost immediately. We got on, sat down, and I handed Abby the
Journal American, telling her to search for write-ups about Gray. I opened the Times and looked for the article Blondie had mentioned.
I found it in the middle of the second section, near the theater listings and movie ads. There, under the headline A STAR IS BORN, was a short article by Brooks Atkinson, and a small photo of Gray. It was an extreme close-up, and the rapturous, ecstatic smile on Gray’s face led me to believe that the picture had been taken just the night before, in the star dressing room, while the very much alive, but unsuspecting, understudy was reveling in the triumph of his stellar Broadway debut.
The article accompanying the photo was brief and to the point. An unknown actor by the name of Gray Gordon had played the lead in last night’s performance of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and his portrayal had been so brilliant he would not remain unknown for long. Mr. Gordon was-according to the famous Times theater critic, and as the title of his article proclaimed-the brightest new star in the Broadway firmament.
Although the Atkinson piece was full of praise, it was sadly short on information. Aside from the fact that Gray had come from the Carnarsie section of Brooklyn, and that he was currently studying his craft under the “admirable tutelage” of Lee Strasberg at the “renowned” Actors Studio in Manhattan, there were no useful (for me) revelations. I dropped the paper to my lap and heaved another mournful sigh, wishing with all my heart that Gray were alive to read this fabulous review, but sickened by the knowledge that tomorrow’s