“Because I

saw it, that’s how!” I screeched. “I saw them mashing their lips and bodies together like two halves of a goddamn sandwich. Jesus, Abby! How could you ask me that question and make me relive that horrible scene? Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough?” All of a sudden I wasn’t crying anymore. Now I was just ranting.

“Things aren’t always as they seem,” Abby said, still pacing. “You’re the one who taught me that! And how many times have you told me not to jump to hasty conclusions? At least a thousand, I bet!” She stomped over to the kitchen table, snatched a cigarette out of the pack in her purse, stuck it between her lips and lit it. (No holder, thank God. I wasn’t in the mood to watch another act in

that silly show.)

“I wasn’t jumping to conclusions,” I insisted, wiping my eyes with a tissue and blowing my nose. “I was just facing the facts.”

Abby refused to back down. “Maybe you were, and maybe you weren’t,” she said, scowling. “All I know is, when I saw Dan and that redhead having dinner together, they didn’t look the least bit amorous to me. The woman’s infatuated with herself, not Dan. She’s a raving exhibitionist. She looked flashy, wild, and demanding; Dan just looked bored.”

“They had dinner together?” I whimpered, diving into a fresh pool of pain.

“Yes, but he wasn’t having a good time.”

“Now who’s jumping to conclusions?” I said. “I’ll give you a hint: It isn’t me.”

“Oh, hush, Paige! You’re always so negative. I had a very good view of their table, and I could see that Dan was miserable. He looked trapped and exhausted. And that’s the truth, Ruth.”

“Did he see you?”

“No, I don’t think so. I thought of going over and saying something to him, but I didn’t. I figured you wouldn’t want me to.”

I heaved a huge sigh of relief and gave her a grateful nod. “You get a gold star for that one, Ab.”

“You mean I finally did something right?” Her tone was sarcastic, but her posture was proud. “I was beginning to think you were going to kick me off the case.”

I laughed (for real this time). “How could I kick you

off the case when neither one of us has a right to be on it at all? Except for the negligible fact that I’m now working on a story assignment, this is a totally illegitimate investigation. So it’s every girl for herself! Speaking of which, how did you make out at Kazan’s table tonight? Did you find out anything interesting?”

“A couple of things,” she said, eyes twinkling.

“Like what?” I yelped, tail wagging. (Call me a ghoul, but I felt much better discussing the murder than I did talking about Dan.)

“I discovered that Ben Gazzara is a real dreamboat!” she exclaimed. “He’s my kind of man, Fran! He’s so yummy and clever you could just

plotz. I’m not kidding. For Ben, I would convert to Italian. Elia Kazan, on the other hand, is-”

“Abby!” I screeched. “Gazzara and Kazan aren’t suspects! They’re of no concern to me. And I certainly don’t need to know how yummy they are-or aren’t, as the case may be. I only want to know about Binky and Baldy. Remember them? They were the

other two guys at the table-the ones who are under suspicion-the ones you were supposed to observe. Did you, by some remote chance or accident, happen to discover anything about them?!” To say that I was exasperated would be like calling a hurricane breezy.

“Cool it, Paige!” Abby said, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray and shooting me a nasty look. “Why do you have to make such a

tsimmis out of everything?”

“A what?”

“A

tsimmis,” she said. “It’s a stew, a mess-oh, never mind!” She crossed her arms over her chest and stamped her foot on the floor. “The point is I did learn some things about Binky and Baldy, and I was getting around to that, but you wouldn’t give me a chance. Instead of listening to my story, you had to kick up a big fuss and make me feel like a fool. That wasn’t very nice, you dig? And it was a big dumb waste of time, too.”

Abby was right. I was a jerk, a shrew, a total

tsimmis-maker. “I’m sorry, Ab,” I said. “I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat the way I did. I’ve had a hard day. Please forgive me.”

“Okay!” she chirped, mood changing on a dime. “Now, where was I?” She lowered her gaze to the floor and began pacing around the living room again. “Oh, yeah, now I remember,” she said, curling her blood red lips in a sardonic (make that satanic) smile. “I was telling you about Ben and Elia…”

Chapter 31

I DIDN’T INTERRUPT HER THIS TIME. I just let her talk until she got it all out of her system. (It was either that or sit through another speech about how impatient and critical I am.) I endured a long dissertation about Gazzara’s strong, extra-wide shoulders, and his powerful chest, and his beautiful hands, and his wry sense of humor, and the way his deep, lusty voice made Abby’s insides quiver. I was told that Kazan was brilliant and insightful and tender and adorable-and so what if he informed McCarthy’s goons that a bunch of his old friends were commies? That didn’t make him a stoolie-it just showed he was honest. And you have to be honest to be a good director, you know!

Aaaargh! It wasn’t until I had reached the breaking point-the point where I was about to tear my hair out by the roots and run screaming from the room-that Abby finally mentioned Baldy and Binky.

“Both of our suspects are attractive, too,” she said. “And guess what! Randy isn’t really bald. When you’re sitting as close to him as I was, you can see that his head is

shaved. Do you believe it? I never heard of such a thing in my life! He looks really sexy that way-so naked, if you know what I mean-but, still, why would a big, strapping, successful theatrical producer like Randy shave off all his hair?”

“Maybe he has ringworm,” I said, hoping to put a damper on Abby’s sex fixation and steer the conversation in a more serious direction (i.e., away from hairstyles and on toward homicide).

“No way, Doris Day!” Abby crowed. “Except for a little stubble, the skin on his head was as smooth and soft as a baby’s. I ran my fingers over his scalp, so I know what I’m talking about. There wasn’t even any evidence of razor burn.”

My patience hit the wall with a splat. “Was there any evidence of anything

else?” I seethed, forcing my words through clenched teeth. “Any evidence, for instance, that Baldy killed Gray Gordon?”

“No,” she said, oblivious to my surly tone. “I couldn’t tell if Randy has a violent streak or not. I was at their table for just a short while, you know, and he acted sweet as a puppy the whole time. There’s one thing I

did find out, though.” She finally stopped her fitful pacing and sat down next to me on the couch. “Randolph Godfrey Winston is a total fruit.”

“You mean he’s gay?”

“One hundred percent.”

“How do you know?”

“It was obvious. Randy didn’t respond to me in a manly way at all, you dig? He enjoyed my style and my company, but he never once looked at me as a woman. Not even when I put my hand on his thigh! He studied my clothes and makeup carefully, but he didn’t look into my eyes, or at my lips or breasts, the way most men do. Take my word for it, Paige. He’s a pansy… Hey, I’ve got a good idea!” she said, light bulb flashing over her head. “We should fix him up with Willy!”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Not if he’s a

murderer, we shouldn’t!”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.”

See what I was up against? Getting Abby to focus on foul play instead of foreplay was like fighting a forest fire with a squirt gun.

“What about Binky?” I asked. “How did he behave? Did you find out anything about him?”

“Plenty,” she said, giving me a frisky grin. “He’s got a fabulous build and the most hypnotic hazel eyes I’ve ever seen. And there’s nothing queer in