“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.

“Do you believe that?” I said. “I’ve been looking for Randy around every corner, and his name was right here on the program, in living black and white, the whole time. I need to have my eyes examined.”

“But so what if Baldy’s name is Randy?” Willy wanted to know. “What does that have to do with the price of egg creams?”

“It shows that Baldy had a pretty intense relationship with Gray,” Abby explained, “apart from the usual producer/understudy connection, I mean. The name Randy appeared on Gray’s telephone message list four, count ’em,

four times in the short period surrounding Gray’s death. That’s kind of weird, you dig?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Willy said, not totally convinced.

“And what about the fact that he was asking the Vanguard bartender all those questions about me?” I broke in. “Why was he doing that? How much did he know about me already?

Did he know that I was looking into Gray’s murder? Had Rhonda told him that I stole Gray’s telephone messages? And was it his black limousine that was hovering around the Keller Hotel last night? And if so, why? Was he the one who clobbered me?” A chill ran down my spine in spite of the heat.

“

Oy vey!” Abby cried. “My head is swimming with all these questions! Everything’s so meshuga, it’s gotten out of hand. And by that I mean dangerous! I think we’d better call a halt to this focockta investigation before somebody gets seriously hurt. And that means you, Paige!”

I was surprised by her sudden willingness to surrender. Abby was usually as tenacious as a pit bull with a meaty bone. “Do you really feel that way?” I asked her. “Because I don’t! My feelings are the exact opposite. I think we’re really close to catching the killer. I think we’re going to break this case in no time!”

“Have you lost your reason?” Abby shrieked. “This is the most complicated, most perilous puzzle you’ve ever tried to solve. You should have your head examined, not your eyes. There’s a very thin line between danger and death, you dig?”