“Nope,” Abby said, giving me a nasty look, then stepping back from her canvas and studying it through squinted eyes. “It’s an illustration for
Coronet. They’re running a three-part serial about the fall of the Roman Empire.”
“Oooh! Is
that what this is all about?!” Willy squealed, feigning outrage. “I thought you asked me to pose in this skimpy little dress just so you could gaze at my gorgeous legs.”
I smiled. Willy’s short, pale, pudgy appendages looked as if they belonged on a giant baby instead of a grown-up man.
Abby stared at her watch, and then glared at me. “You’re way overdue, Sue,” she said. “I expected you home three hours ago. When Willy showed up here looking for you, I was so sure you’d be here soon, I convinced him to wait. How come you’re so late? What the hell are you wearing? Where the hell have you been?” She was hovering on the borderline between upset and irate. Abby worried about me (and my poor fashion sense) a lot more than she liked to let on.
“It’s a long story,” I said, not sure I had the energy to tell it. “Where’s Jimmy?” (What I meant was, “Where’s Otto?,” but I didn’t have the nerve to put it that way.)
“Never mind where Jimmy is!” Abby sputtered, angrily sticking her brush in a jar full of turpentine and wiping her hands on her smock. “What I want to know is, where the hell were you?”
“Yeah!” Willy chimed in. “That’s what I want to know, too!” He pulled himself up and sat crosslegged, like a plump little Roman Buddha, on the floor. “We’ve been really concerned, you know!”
“So concerned you decided to have a toga party?” I wasn’t being snippy (there was no sarcasm in my voice at all, I swear!). I was just poking fun, stalling for time, giving myself a chance to relax (and take a few swigs of rum). I needed to calm down and catch my breath before recounting (i.e., reliving) all my troubles during the last twenty-four hours. And I needed to shore up the strength to face the troubles I felt the next few hours would bring.
“This wasn’t a goddamn party!” Abby snapped, yanking her long braid off of one shoulder and plopping it over the other. “We’ve been
working. And we only did it to pass the time and take our minds off you!”
“That’s right,” Willy concurred, snatching the ivy wreath off his head and slapping it down on the floor. Now he was angry, too.
“Oh, all right!” I gave in, returning to my formerly freaked-out state. “I was at the Actors Studio, okay? I went there right after work to watch Binky audition for Gray’s understudy role.”
“You went without me?” Abby said, pouting. “I told you I wanted to go! Why didn’t you call me? I wanted to see James Dean!”
“There wasn’t time,” I said. “And I had more important things on my mind than taking you to see some pretty boy screen idol.”
“Oh, but he’s the
prettiest!” Willy protested. “Mercy! I’d give my right arm to see him myself!”
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. “Have you both gone soft in the head? Didn’t you hear what I said before? I said Binky was auditioning for
Gray Gordon’s understudy role. Shouldn’t that little nugget of information have grabbed your attention more than the prospect of seeing James Dean?”
“You mean the
lost prospect of seeing James Dean,” Abby snorted. (Does she have a one-track mind, or what?)
I shook my head in dismay. “Please forgive me,” I said, “but I thought we were looking for a
murderer, not a movie star.” To further dramatize my words, I stood up, walked over to the window, pried a tiny peephole between the closed shade and the window frame, and peered down at the shadowy doorways on the dark street below. “When I left the Studio tonight,” I added, “a man was following me. He was dressed in black and I never saw his face. I think I gave him the slip, but I can’t say for sure. He may have followed me here.”
“Oh, my Gawd!” Willy squealed, jumping to his feet. “Is anybody out there? What if it’s the killer? Mercy, me! We’d better call the police!”
“Cool it, Willy,” I said, returning to my seat on the little red couch and gulping down the rest of my punch. “The coast looks clear. And even if the guy is out there, we don’t know if he’s the killer. So if we called the police, what would we tell them? And do we really feel like spending the rest of the night with Detective Flannagan?”
“Perish the thought!” Willy said, with a visible shudder.
Abby walked over to the window and looked out. “I don’t see anybody, either. Do you think it was Blackie?” She wasn’t mad anymore. Now she was as curious and compatible as she should have been in the first place.
“Maybe,” I said. “Or it could have been Aunt Doobie. Or even the elusive Randy. I know it wasn’t Baldy.”
“How do you know that?” she asked.
“Because when I left the Actors Studio he was still inside with Binky.”
“Blackie, Baldy, Binky!” Willy shrieked, throwing his hands in the air. “Who the hell are they? A new singing group?”
Abby and I laughed. It really was pretty crazy and confusing.
“You know what I think?” I said. “I think we’d better pour ourselves another rum punch and sit down at the kitchen table for a confab. A lot has happened since I last saw either of you, and I’ve got some stories to tell.”
“I’m all ears,” Willy warbled.
Abby grinned and nodded. “Give us the skinny, Minnie.”
Chapter 28
AFTER EXPLAINING TO WILLY WHO Blackie, Baldy, and Binky were, I told Abby about Willy’s and my expedition to the Keller Hotel to try to dig up some dirt on Aunt Doobie. Then I guzzled some more rum, lit up a cigarette, and gave them a full report on my face-to-face encounter with Aunt Doobie-and the subsequent encounter of a big rock with the back of my head. Then-after they’d both expressed their shock and horror over that little mishap-I told them about Flannagan’s swift arrival and his revelation that the anonymous caller who witnessed the attack had reported seeing a dark-haired man in dark clothing flee the scene in a black limousine.
“So it could have been Aunt Doobie who bonked me,” I said, “or maybe it was Blackie. Or Randy, or anybody else in the world, for that matter. And whoever it was escaped in a limo which may, or may not, belong to Baldy. Get the picture?”
“Yeah, I get it,” Abby said. “It’s like a painting by Jackson Pollock. You don’t have a clue what it means.”
“Right,” I said. “And my trip to the Actors Studio tonight made the whole scene even more confounding.” After reiterating the fact that Binky had auditioned for Gray’s understudy role, I discussed how this opportunistic performance made Binky a very likely-perhaps the
most likely-suspect in the murder. Then I told them about Baldy’s surprise appearance at the audition, and gave them a word-by-word account of his dialogue with Elia Kazan at the end of the tryouts. I concluded my tale with a recap of my flight from the unknown stalker in black clothing.
“See what I mean?” I sputtered. “The deeper I dig, the crazier and more convoluted the clues become. The only concrete piece of evidence I’ve managed to uncover is that Baldy is the producer of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” A new thought suddenly occurred to me. “Hey, Ab, do you still have your Playbill from the show?” I was getting excited. “The producer’s name will be listed there!”
Abby’s eyes lit up. “Of course I still have it! It’s right here on the table.” She snatched a stack of bills and papers from under the sugar bowl and madly spread them out in front of her. “Here it is!” she gasped, handing the Playbill to me. “You look. I’m too nervous.”
I opened the little booklet, turned to the title page with the opening credits, and there they were: “Directed by Elia Kazan”… “Produced by Randolph Godfrey Winston.” “Eureka!” I shouted, showing the page to Abby and Willy and pointing out the producer’s name. The mysterious Randy had finally been found.