If Binky had been able to see me, I’d have been gazing at him like a puppy and batting my lashes to beat the band (the way Abby had taught me to do). As it was, though, I was free to cross my eyes and stick out my tongue (just to relieve the pressure, you understand).

“Yeah, maybe,” Binky said. “I guess I could take you to the Studio someday. But not right now. It’s closed for the Fourth. Won’t be open till Tuesday.”

“Oh, Tuesday will be fine!” I exclaimed, jumping to seal the bargain before he could change his mind or delay the day. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Binky! And Gray will be delighted to hear how helpful you’re being. I’ll call you on Monday so we can set up a time and a place to meet.”

“Er… well… okay,” he mumbled, sounding unnerved and somewhat dumbfounded.

And with any luck, I thought-bidding him a fast farewell and hanging up the phone in a flash-he would stay that way.

I WAS AS TIRED AS A MARATHON TAP dancer, but it was too early-and too hot-to go to bed. I considered going uptown to the hopefully air-conditioned Mayflower to pay Aunt Doobie a surprise visit, but simply didn’t have the energy. Thinking I’d call her room at the hotel instead, I got the address and phone number of the Mayflower from the phone book and wrote the info down on the message pad. But then, just as I picked up the receiver and began to dial, I was besieged with second thoughts. Who

was this woman, anyway? Maybe she was Gray’s aunt, and maybe she wasn’t. She could be Eisenhower’s aunt, for all I knew! So, what the devil was I going to say to her? How could I get her to talk about Gray? What kind of story was I going to make up this time?

Aaaargh!

Finally realizing that I was too addled and exhausted to deal with Aunt Doobie at the moment, I dropped the receiver back in the cradle, deciding I’d try to get in touch with her tomorrow.

Shuffling into the kitchen in a daze, I washed Abby’s gloppy makeup off my face at the sink, gave my arms, neck, and shoulders a cold sponge bath, cranked open a new tray of ice, and loaded a tall glass with cubes. Then I held the glass under the faucet and filled it to the brim with tap water. By the time I staggered back into the living room, turned off the radio, and turned on the TV, half the water had been drunk (by me, I guess, but I don’t remember doing it).

Sitting back down in front of the fan, I sucked on an ice cube and tried to focus my attention on the final monologue of

The George Gobel Show. I was hoping the casual comedian’s folksy, down-home humor would soothe my frazzled nerves and take my mind off the murder. Ha! I might as well have hoped for a snow storm. The memory of Gray’s slashed and bloody body was as intense and unrelenting as the temperature.

Even

Your Hit Parade, the next show to come on the screen, offered no relief. The sunny lyrics of the most popular songs-not to mention the beaming faces of the cheerful singers-only made me feel worse. (Mourners like the rain, you know. It makes them feel that the cosmos is crying, too.) And then later in the show, when Gisele MacKenzie came out and sang “It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie,” I got really depressed. If the words to that song were true, I was going to burn in hell for all eternity-not just for the duration of the heat wave.

When Snooky Lanson came on the screen and started singing a heavy rendition of Tennessee Ernie Ford’s smash hit, “Sixteen Tons,” I couldn’t take it anymore. I had too much weight on my shoulders already. Standing up from the couch and turning off my rented Sylvania, I unplugged my electric fan and lugged it into the kitchen. Then I retrieved my glass from the living room, refilled it with ice and water, closed and locked the back door, turned off all the downstairs lights, and trudged-glass grasped in one hand, fan gripped in the other-up the stairs to my oven of a bedroom.

The night would be unbearable, I knew.

What I didn’t know was: The worst nights were yet to come.

Chapter 12

I HAD BREAKFAST NEXT DOOR THE FOLLOWING morning. (My bountiful neighbor is as quick to serve up a bagel as she is to shake up a cocktail.) Jimmy was sleeping upstairs, but Abby was fully awake and “properly” dressed for our command appearance at the police station. In her prim white Ship ’n Shore blouse, navy blue pencil skirt, and navy-and-white spectator pumps, she looked almost innocent.

The key word here is

almost, because one peek at the satisfied smile on her sensual Ava Gardner face and you knew she had to be guilty of something. And it wasn’t hard to fathom what that something was.

“I guess you had a good time with Jimmy last night,” I said, trying to keep the judgmental (okay, jealous) tone out of my voice. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she said, grinning like an idiot, pouring us each a glass of iced coffee. “And how did your evening go? Did Dan call?”

Now it was my turn to smile. “Yep.” I stirred some cream and sugar into my glass and took a sip. “He called me last night and this morning, too. He said he misses me a lot.”

“Did he tell you he loves you?”

“No, but he sounded like he does. He said he really wishes I were there with him. He thinks Katy and I would be getting along great.”

“Yeah? Well, too bad he didn’t think of that before,” Abby said, with a derisive snort. “The temperature’s fifteen degrees lower in Maine, you dig? You could be having a really cool time right now. Ocean breezes, moonlight swims, half-naked bodies on the beach.”

“Yeah,” I said, sighing. “There must be plenty of

those lying around… and I bet none of them are dead.”

I wished I hadn’t said that. Now Gray Gordon’s eviscerated corpse was lying on the table between us, calling a halt to our cheerful banter, wrenching our thoughts from romance to murder.

“Did you go over Gray’s phone messages last night?” Abby asked.

“Yes, of course I did. Several times.”

“Find any clues?”

“A few,” I said, “but nothing really solid. I wish Rhonda had dated the messages, or at least put them down in the order she received them. Then I might have learned something important. But the list is just a mish-mash. It’s as messy and disorganized as Rhonda’s dressing table at the theater.”

“Do the dates really matter that much?”

“Of course they do!” I said, surprised by Abby’s naiveté. “If I had the dates, I’d know which calls came in before Gray was killed, and which ones came in after.”

“But what difference does that make?”

I rolled my eyes at her inane question. “Jeez, Abby! Just think about it for a second. If somebody telephoned Gray the day

after he was murdered, then it’s a pretty safe bet that person wasn’t the murderer, wouldn’t you say? Why would anybody call him up if they knew that he was dead?”

“To plant a false clue,” she said. “To make himself look innocent.”

“Oh,” I said, embarrassed by my own shortsightedness. Abby had a good point. Why hadn’t

I thought of it?

“So what

did you find out?” Abby asked, not rubbing it in. Either she was letting me off the hook, or she hadn’t noticed my impatient tone. (Considering the fact that Abby really loves to one-up me, I figured it was the latter.) “Solid or liquid,” she said, “every clue is worth something.”

Taking her words under advisement, I told Abby about the various names and numbers I’d gleaned from Rhonda’s list, reporting on every aspect of my study. Then I sat back in my chair, lit up one of Abby’s Pall Malls, and related all the details of my phone conversation with Binky.

“Ve-ry interesting,” Abby said, when I’d finished my summary. “Binky-Winky sounds kind of stinky. Maybe he murdered Gray himself. ”

“Could be,” I said, remembering how Binky’s tone and vocabulary had turned angry when we were discussing Gray’s rave review. “I’ll have a better idea after I meet him on Tuesday.”