“I dig, I dig!” Abby said (impatiently, as usual). “I’ll crawl like a snail, Gail.” And to prove it she flipped on the living room light, dropped down to her hands and knees on the brown linoleum floor, then crawled across the room and stuck her head under the couch.
Anxious to get started myself, I darted into the minuscule kitchen, yanked open the drawer (there was only one), and started rummaging through the utensils. I found it almost immediately-a big knife with a broad, sharp blade; the kind used to cut up meat. I could easily imagine the large knife dripping with blood and gore, but the plain fact was-as of this minute, and as far as my unaided eye could see-it was clean as a whistle. Having no idea if this was the weapon that killed Gray Gordon, and no reasonable way to make that determination, I decided to leave the knife where it was for the time being and continue searching for real evidence (i.e., something with real blood on it).
I looked through the overhead cabinets lining the walls of the doorless, windowless kitchen, finding nothing but a couple of pots and pans, a can of beans, a box of Hi Ho crackers, three cans of Libby’s fruit cocktail, a box of Wheaties, a jar of Ovaltine, and a motley assortment of dishes and glasses. The cabinet under the sink offered nothing but a blue dishrag and a giant-size bottle of Glim dishwashing liquid.
Probably good for cleaning bloody knives, I mused. The oven was empty, and-except for a bottle of milk and a half-eaten can of fruit cocktail-the midget refrigerator was, too.
“I found a knife,” I said, returning to the living room, “but I don’t know if… Abby? Where are you?”
“In the bathroom!” she hollered, which was totally unnecessary since the apartment was so small I would have heard a whisper. “I’m checkin’ out the clothes hamper.”
I walked over to the open door of the bathroom and watched Abby pull a couple of pairs of boxer shorts and a damp bath towel out of a narrow white wicker basket. She was sitting on the edge of the tub, digging around in the hamper like a hobo foraging for food in the trash.
“Is there anything bloody in there?” I asked.
“Not a bloody thing!” she said, sitting upright, brushing a loose lock of hair off her face, then tossing all the stuff on the bathroom floor back into the basket. “This guy is so neat, clean, and organized, all the crap in his medicine cabinet is arranged alphabetically.”
“Really?!” I exclaimed. I could feel my eyes popping in surprise.
“No, Paige! No! That was just a figure of speech-an exaggeration used to illustrate a point. You know, for a writer you’re not too swift.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling embarrassed for a split second, but quickly snapping my attention back to the search. “Did you find anything interesting in the living room, Ab? Anything with blood on it?”
“That’s a big fat
no, Flo!” She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “There isn’t a speck of blood in there, or probably anywhere else in this focockta apartment. I knew there wouldn’t be. Binky may be a murderer, but he isn’t stupid.” She stood up from the tub, shoved the hamper back under the sink, and squeezed past me into the living room. “I did find this, though,” she said, snatching something that looked like a manuscript up off the table and handing it over for my inspection. “It’s the Cat on a Hot Tin Roof script, and the pages have been turned and folded and fondled so much they’re soft as cotton.”
I flipped through the well-worn script, noting several brownish splash stains throughout (Ovaltine, I figured, not blood), and one bright red PROPERTY OF THE ACTORS STUDIO stamp on the back (ink, undoubtedly ink). “The condition of this script shows Binky studied it long and hard,” I said, “which supports my theory that he wanted Gray’s job, but doesn’t prove that he murdered him. For definite proof of that, we have to find something here with blood on it-either Gray’s type O, or the killer’s type A.”
“Then we might as well blow this joint right now,” Abby declared. “We’re never going to find any evidence of blood in this spick-and-span pad. Binky’s way too sharp and clean for that. And I don’t think he’s the killer, anyway! You know who I think did it? Aunt Doobie, that’s who! If he was Gray’s boyfriend like you say, then
he was the one who did Gray in. You, of all people, should know the statistics, Paige. It’s almost always the spouse or the lover.”
“The key word here is
almost,” I said, with a sniff. “Besides, I’ve now come to the definite conclusion that Aunt Doobie is innocent.”
“What?!” she shrieked. “How did you do that? Did you dig up some new clues you didn’t tell me about?”
“No, I just remembered a big clue I’d forgotten about,” I admitted, staring sheepishly at the floor, so ashamed of my faulty memory and slow skills of detection I considered looking for a new job. Something in retail, maybe. Or advertising.
Abby threw her hands up in the air. “
Oy! When the hell are you planning tell me about it? Next Christmas?!”
“Oh, all right, here’s the scoop,” I said, looking up from the floor but unable to look her in the eye. “Remember when I went to the Mayflower Hotel the day after the murder and knocked on the door of room 96 looking for Aunt Doobie? Well, he came to the door naked, with a towel wrapped around his waist. His neck, chest, shoulders, back, legs, and arms were completely bare, and-as I saw at the time, but didn’t recall until today-completely free of any scratches or slashes. He had no wounds of any kind. So he couldn’t have been in a big fight with Gray or shed any of his own blood at the scene. Get the picture? Verdict: not guilty.”
“Okay, so that acquits Aunt Doobie,” Abby said, quickly accepting my conclusion and graciously forgoing the opportunity to scold me for my slack detective work. “But it
doesn’t automatically convict Binky. We’ve still got Blackie and Baldy to deal with, and-if you ask me, Bea-they’re far more likely suspects. I bet they were both down by the river the night of the fireworks. I bet Blackie bonked you on the head and then escaped in Baldy’s limousine.”
“That’s possible,” I said, “but even if it’s true it may have nothing to do with the murder. I’ve been thinking about that night a lot, and there’s no reason to conclude that the person who hit me on the head is the same person who killed Gray.”
“Maybe not, but-”
“And here’s another reason I think Binky is the killer,” I barreled on, anxious to wrap up my explanations and get on with our search. “Last evening, when I met him at the Actors Studio and sat in on his audition, the heat wave was still going strong. The temperature was 96 degrees, and the Studio wasn’t air-conditioned. It was so hot all the other male students were wearing light T-shirts, yet Binky had on a heavy long-sleeved shirt buttoned up tight at the neck and the cuffs. I didn’t guess why he was dressed that way then, but now I think I know. I believe he was hiding the cuts and gashes he got while Gray was fighting for his life.”
Abby and I stood in silence for a moment while she thought over what I’d said. Then, suddenly, her face turned flame red and her eyes flashed hot in anger. “The bastard,” she muttered under her breath, lips curling up over her teeth like a growling dog’s. “Let’s raid the bedroom, Paige. I’m out for blood now.”