“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.”
Chapter 35
ABBY TACKLED THE CHEST OF DRAWERS and I took on the bedroom closet. Since it was the only closet in the tiny apartment, I expected it to be packed tight with lots of articles besides apparel. But I was wrong. Aside from the small collection of girlie magazines stacked in one corner of the shelf overhead, there was nothing inside but articles of clothing—and very few of those.
Only two hats occupied space on the shelf—a gray felt fedora and a blue and white Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap—and the closet floor sported just three pairs of shoes: black leather oxfords, brown leather loafers, and tan leather cowboy boots with green stitching on the sides. Spaced along the bar on hangers were two suits, one jacket, two pairs of slacks, one pair of dungarees, one coat, and seven or eight shirts. Some of the shirts had long sleeves, some short, and all but one were white or solid pastels. The only print had long sleeves and a maroon background with a pattern of yellow birds and palm trees.
But no discernible blood. Although I removed each item from the closet and examined it closely in the light—top to bottom, front and back, inside and out—there were no incriminating bloodstains to be found. No other kind of stains, either. Even the soles of the shoes were spotless.
“I give up!” I cried, backing away from the closet and plopping down on the edge of the bed. “Barnabas Kapinsky has to be the most immaculate man in Manhattan—except when he’s slashing people to pieces, that is. Jesus! How did he do it? How did he cover, or rather, erase his tracks so completely?” I turned to Abby and gave her a pleading look. “Did you find anything in his drawers or under the bed, Ab? Please, please say yes!”
“There’s nothing under the bed at all,” she said, “not even dust!” She made an angry face, crossed her arms over her chest, and stamped one ballet-slippered foot on the floor. “And there’s nothing in the damn dresser but the usual crap—undershirts, shorts, socks, handkerchiefs, a couple of sweaters. I unfolded and refolded every single thing in those drawers, and I didn’t find a sign of blood anywhere. Zip, zilch, zero.”
My dwindling hope fell to the floor with a thud. And my sorrow rose up to take its place. “I guess that’s it, then,” I said, in a voice so weak I could barely hear it myself. “We’re not going to find any evidence here today. Maybe we never will.” My throat tightened up and my heart slowed to a near standstill. “I can’t stand it, Abby. I really can’t. I’d bet every cent I have that Binky’s guilty, but I can’t prove it. So Flannagan’s going to pin the murder on Willy. I know he will. Just because he’s gay.” It was all I could do not to start bawling again.
“Not
just
because he’s gay,” Abby contradicted. “There’s also the little matter of his blood type.”
“Yes, but that shouldn’t even be a factor!” I sputtered. “Willy doesn’t have any cuts or bruises or slashes on his body, either. We know that for a fact, remember? Yesterday, when he was modeling for you, he was wearing nothing but a skimpy toga, so we saw lots of bare, unmarked skin. He has a ton of freckles, but not a single scab. They may have found type A blood at the scene, but it definitely wasn’t Willy’s! Flannagan would know that,” I growled, “if he had ever bothered to check Willy’s body for wounds.”
“Okay, so Flannagan’s a lousy detective,” Abby said. “and maybe he
is
looking to penalize Willy for being gay. But he’s the dick in charge of this case and we’ve got to go see him right away, Faye. I mean today! The only way we can help Willy now is by telling Flannagan everything we know about the murder.”
“But we don’t
know
anything,” I said, with a heavy sigh. “All we have are worthless suspicions.”
“That’s not true,” Abby said. “We know a lot of things. We know that Aunt Doobie and Willy don’t have any flesh wounds. We know that Binky’s replacing Gray in the
Hot Tin Roof
cast, and that he’s been wearing long sleeves in sweltering weather. We know that Blackie and Baldy are somehow involved, and that somebody—probably either Blackie or Aunt Doobie—has been following you.”
“But we don’t even know who Aunt Doobie and Blackie are! And I already told Flannagan about them the night I was assaulted, when he was grilling me in the car. I didn’t tell him about Binky, though. At that point there wasn’t anything to tell. You know Flannagan will think we’re nuts if we go to him with this whole crazy story. Binky, Blackie, Baldy, Aunt Doobie! Jeez, I think the whole thing’s crazy myself!”
Abby laughed. “You’re right about that, Pat. It’s crazy, man, crazy! But it’s also the truth,” she said, turning serious again, “and it’s all we’ve got, and we have to hand the information over to Flannagan
now
.”
“I know we do, Ab,” I said, heaving another loud sigh. “I knew it before you said it. It’s just that I’m afraid Flannagan won’t believe a word we say unless we have some tangible proof. I wanted so much to be able to back up our story with some physical evidence, something that would force Flannagan to stop hounding Willy and start looking—”
“Oh, my god, Abby!” I cried, pulse quickening. “What’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
Mouth agape and eyes bulging, Abby was standing right in front of me, staring straight in my direction. But her gaze wasn’t focused on me. It was aimed, instead, at something above and
beyond
me. I whipped my head around to see what she was looking at and found myself peering into the open closet.
“What is it, Abby?” I begged. “What do you see?”
“It
is
a ghost,” she whispered. “The ghost of Gray Gordon.”
“Oh, come on, Ab!” I twisted back around to face her.
“That’s not funny. Stop fooling around. Now’s not the time to—”
“Hush, Paige!” she snapped, still staring straight ahead. “I’m not fooling around. I
have
seen a ghost and, you won’t believe this, but he just brought us the physical evidence we’ve been looking for.” Abby stepped over to the closet and scraped some hangers to one side of the metal bar. Then she removed the hanger holding the maroon shirt with the yellow birds and palm trees and thrust it forward.
“This was Gray’s favorite shirt,” she said, looking sad and excited at the same time. “I saw him wear it lots of times. And I can prove it, too! I
painted
him in this shirt when he modeled for an illustration I did for
All Man
magazine. The picture appeared—in full color—in the March 1955 edition.”
I thought my heart was going to leap right out of my chest. “Oh, my god, Abby! Is that true? Are you sure it’s the same shirt?”
“Of course it’s the same one. It’s a really weird print in a kooky color combination. How many like this could there be?” She took the shirt off the hanger and handed it to me. As she was putting the hanger back in the closet, she looked down at the floor and gasped, “
Oy vey iz mir!
These belonged to Gray, too.” She picked up the cowboy boots and held them out at arm’s length. “He really loved these boots. He wore them all the time.”
I suddenly felt a little sick to my stomach. “So these must be the clothes Binky changed into after the murder,” I said, “after he’d stripped off his own bloody clothes and shoes and taken a shower.”
“Right,” Abby said, tenderly laying the boots down on the foot of the bed.
Every emotion known to man was churning in my chest. Fury, shock, pride, disgust, despair, relief, elation, horror—I was reeling with the intensity and insanity of it all. “There’s no shadow of a doubt now,” I said, voice quivering. “Barnabas Kapinsky murdered Gray Gordon.”
“And we can damn well prove it!” Abby added, all smiles.
“Should we take the evidence to Flannagan now?” I asked, still in shock that we’d solved the case and unsure what our next move should be.
“You bet your sweet tushy!” Abby crowed. “I can’t wait to see his face. Come on! Let’s stash Gray’s stuff in the bike basket and I’ll pedal straight over to the station. You can ride on the back.”
I WAS GATHERING THE SHIRT AND BOOTS together in my arms (and wondering how the heck I was supposed to straddle a bicycle in my extra-tight skirt and ultrahigh heels), when I heard Abby gasp again. Thinking she’d found another article of Gray’s clothing—a pair of pants, perhaps, or a belt—I turned around to see what had caused her sudden intake of air.