Free Murder on a Hot Tin Roof by Amanda Matetsky Page B

THE VERY second we hit the sidewalk. “You sure took your own sweet time!” she croaked. “How could you keep me standing there like that? I almost fainted dead away from the heat.”

    “I’m sure you never fainted in your life,” I replied. “You aren’t the swooning type.”

    She gave me a dirty look. “There’s always the first time, you know!”

    “Yeah, but this wasn’t it.” I wasn’t in the mood for Abby’s fiery histrionics; I had more burning issues on my mind.

    “So, what do you want to do now?” she asked, abandoning her temper fit as soon as she realized it wasn’t having the desired effect. “I know! Let’s walk over to Washington Square Park. It’ll be a lot cooler there. We can sit in the shade under the trees, eat ice cream, and dig the folksingers at the fountain.”

    Folksingers, my foot. What she really wanted to do was look for Jimmy Birmingham. I knew from Abby’s and my talk earlier that morning that she was missing Jimmy (or rather, missing sex with Jimmy) like crazy, and I also knew there was a very good chance he’d be at the park that afternoon, reciting one or two of his preposterously silly poems at the fountain. So, it didn’t take me more than a split second to deduce why Abby wanted to go there . . . and why I didn’t.

    “You can go to the park if you want to,” I said, “but I’ve got other plans.”

    “Huh? What plans?”

    “I’m going to Times Square, not Washington Square.”

    “What the hell for? Don’t tell me you’re still craving a Nedick’s hot dog.”

    I snorted and shook my head. “No, I’m going back to the Morosco Theatre. I want to see if I can talk to some of Gray’s fellow cast members and friends.”

    “Are you out of your mind?” she cried, looking as if she might fly into another fury. “That’s the craziest idea I ever heard in my life! The lead actor must’ve recovered from his heatstroke by now, so he and the rest of the cast are kind of busy on stage at the moment, you dig? The matinee performance is in full swing! And they’ll never let you inside without a ticket. And just look at what you’re wearing! You’re dressed for a goddamn hayride, not a Broadway show!” (That’s Abby for you. Always concerned about the clothes. She’s a regular Coco Chanel—or Edith Head, take your pick.)

    “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” I sputtered, about to fly into a fury of my own. “I’m not going to sit in the theater and watch the damn show! I’m going to look for a back door and try to sneak backstage. I don’t have to be all dolled up for that.”

    Abby gave me the kind of look Dan would’ve given me if he’d gotten wind of what I was up to. “ Now I get the picture,” she said, one eyebrow arched to the limit, dark eyes boring into mine. “You’re angling for another big fat news flash—another sensational exclusive inside story. You think you’re gonna ace-out the whole Homicide force and find Gray’s killer all by yourself. Oy vey iz mir ! You’re cruisin’ for another bruisin’, Paige, and if I know you, you’re gonna get it. You won’t stop snooping until you’re dead yourself.”

    “Thanks, Ab. Your encouragement and support mean a lot to me.”

    “Well, what am I supposed to do?” she screeched. “Knit you a sweater? Send you off to battle with a fresh-baked batch of cookies in your duffle bag? Pray night and day for your immortal soul, and then—when the unimaginable but inevitable finale occurs—praise God that you didn’t die in vain?” Gasping for air, Abby wiped the perspiration off her forehead with her hand and then wiped her hand on her hip. “Sorry, Laurie,” she said, voice cracking with emotion, “but that’s not the way this cookie crumbles.”

    I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the shade under the awning of the candy store next door to Stewart’s. “Jeez, Ab, you’d better calm down or you’ll catch a case of heatstroke yourself. You’re getting all worked