“You may be right,” Abby conceded. “I wouldn’t peg him as a killer, either. But we’ve been over all of this before, you dig, and
you’re the one always warning me not to jump to conclusions. You always say there has to be solid proof. And right now the only proof we have is the blood type.”
“Which proves nothing.”
“Maybe, baby. But what if you’re wrong? What if you’re screwing up your relationship with Dan and putting yourself in danger to save Willy when you should be trying to bust him instead? Gray’s murder was obviously a crime of passion. And Willy strikes me as both passionate and
meshuga. You might have to call your next mystery novel ‘The Killer in the Yellow Silk Kimono.’ ”
I smiled (finally). “That’s not a bad title,” I said, “but I doubt I’ll ever be using it. I think ‘A Killer Named Cupcake’ is the better choice.”
“Oh, really?” Abby said, arching one eyebrow to the roof. “Have you been holding out on me, Paige? Have you found out who the mysterious Cupcake is?”
“No, but she’s still a prime suspect. Most murderers turn out to be really close to their victims, and if she was Gray’s steady girlfriend as you say, then she was the closest. Her real name will come out eventually.”
“I’ll bet it’s Rhonda Blake,” Abby said, with a sniff. “That dame even
looks like a cupcake-all soft and buttery and slathered with poisonous vanilla frosting.”
“Yes, but remember how annoyed with Gray she was-how she threatened to turn him in to the director if he didn’t show up for the next show? A real girlfriend wouldn’t feel that way. Instead of reporting him, she’d try to protect him.”
“Or slash him to ribbons,” Abby said, refusing to grant Rhonda any concessions. She lit another cigarette, exhaled a thick stream of smoke, and watched it disappear in the churning gust of air from the fan. “So who else is on the table, Mabel? Do you consider Aunt Doobie a prime suspect?”
“Of course. And after last night, Baldy and Blackie have been promoted to the list. I’m still wondering about the guy named Randy, the one who left four messages for Gray, and I don’t know about Binky yet. When I spoke to him on the phone, he sounded very jealous and contemptuous of Gray’s sudden success. But would he have been carrying on that way if he had already eliminated the source of his envy and contempt? I can’t judge until I see him in person.”
“Gee, I forgot about Binky!” Abby exclaimed, perking up considerably. “When are we hooking up with him? Tomorrow, right? And then we’re going to the Actors Studio!” She fastened her bright gaze on my face. “I can’t wait! I’m dying to meet James Dean, and give him my up-close and personal good wishes.”
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. How was I going to get out of this one?
“I don’t have any idea what’s going to happen tomorrow, Ab,” I demurred, looking for a way to let her down easy. “I haven’t spoken to Binky yet. And I have to go back to work in the morning. After a holiday I’m always up to my eyebrows in extra paperwork. If I know Pomeroy,” I said, referring to my immediate boss at
Daring Detective, “he’ll keep me chained to my desk until Christmas. He’ll make me pay through the nose for having the day off today…
“Oh, by the way,” I added, “happy July Fourth.”
“Same to ya,” she chirped, smiling widely, distracted (for the time being, at least) from the subject of Binky. “What’re you going to do today, Paige? Jimmy and I have a really cool sked. We’re going to Child’s for lunch, and then to the Gramercy to see
East of Eden. It stars James Dean, you know! Then we’re going to John’s for spaghetti and meatballs, and to the park later to listen to music, dance like fools around the fountain, and light up some sparklers and firecrackers. Come with us! It’ll be fun.”
“No. I don’t feel like doing anything.”
“You’re just going to sit alone in your hot apartment and mope?”
“Yep.”
“That’s really dumb. Come out and play with us. It’ll take your mind off Dan.”
“No it won’t. Nothing can.”
“But it’ll help you pass the time!” Abby said, growing impatient again. “You can’t just stay here and wallow in your misery like a pig in the mud.”
“I can if I want to,” I said, pouting-sounding, even to myself, like a cranky and stubborn four-year-old. “I don’t care what anybody says, I’m going to wallow in the mud for as long as my piggy little heart desires!”
I really meant it, too. I was going to stay home all day and night, have a few more crying jags, drink some more putrid coffee, smoke a thousand cigarettes, listen to Billie Holiday sing the blues, and pray with all my might for Dan to call. I was going to eat stale bread and cheese for dinner, and commemorate our country’s independence with a glass (or whole bottle) of cheap Chianti. There would be no dancing or fireworks for me. I intended to lock my doors and stay inside where it was safe.
Too bad I didn’t stick to the plan.
Chapter 19
AFTER ABBY LEFT I WENT UPSTAIRS AND took a shower (there’s only so much mud-wallowing a girl can stand). I put on a pair of shorts and a clean blouse, then went back downstairs to sit in front of the fan-or, more importantly, right next to the phone. I wasn’t the least bit hopeful that Dan would call, but I wanted to answer on the double if he did.
So, two seconds later when the phone rang, jerking me to attention and launching my spirits toward the sun, I pounced on the receiver in a flash. “Hello?” I croaked, too excited to even try to sound sexy. “Is that you, Dan? Thank God you called! I’m so sorry I-”
“Who’s Dan?” the caller asked. From the high-pitched voice and slight Southern accent, I knew right away it was Willy.
“He’s my boyfriend,” I said, hoping against hope that that statement was still true.
“So where
is your man Dan? Why isn’t he there?” Willy asked. “Isn’t he spending the holiday with you?”
“Uh, no, he-”
“Good!” Willy exclaimed. “Then can I come over and spend the afternoon at your place?”
I was so taken aback, I didn’t know what to say. “Gee, well, maybe… I mean, I guess you could… But why would you want to-”
“I’ve got to get out of my apartment!” he screeched. “Flannagan’s driving me out of my mind! He keeps calling and calling and calling-every blessed minute of the day and night-asking me one appalling question after another, and making horrible accusations. He says I have the same blood type as the killer. He says he knows I killed Gray and it won’t be long before he can prove it. He’s trying to torture me into confessing. I know he is!”
“Take it easy, Willy,” I said, speaking as calmly and reassuringly as I could. The poor fellow sounded even worse than I felt. “Don’t fly into a panic. That’s what Flannagan
wants you to do. Have you tried taking your phone off the hook?”
“Mercy, no!” he squealed. “That would make it even worse. Then he might show up and torture me in person! I’ve got to get out of here now! Can I come over to your apartment for a while? Please, please, pretty pretty please? He’d never think of looking for me there.”
“Um… uh… okay,” I said, spirits sinking as low as they could go. I didn’t want any company. I wanted to wallow in my own troubles, not Willy’s. “Do you know where I live?”
“Yes, I heard you give your address to the police. It’s two-sixty-five Bleecker, right? Just a few blocks from me.”
“Right. I’m one floor up, over the fish store.”
“Kiss, kiss, kiss,” he said. “I’ll be there in a jiffy.”