Murder on a Hot Tin Roof by Amanda Matetsky

up over nothing.”

    “Nothing?!” she shrieked, stamping her foot on the cement. “A good friend of mine was just murdered! You call that nothing ? And now my best friend in the whole world is about to run off half-cocked looking for the killer, putting herself in so much danger she’ll probably get slashed to ribbons, too. If that’s nothing, then I hope to high heaven I never find out what something is!”

    “I’m sorry, Ab. You’re upset about what happened to Gray and I understand that. You wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t wigged out about it. But there’s no reason on earth for you to be so wigged out about me . I won’t be putting myself in any danger today at all. I swear! I just want to sniff around a little bit, get the lay of the land. And it’s important that I do this right away, before the news about the murder gets out. It’s a cinch that Flannagan hasn’t notified the show’s cast and crew yet, so they won’t be suspicious or try to hide anything from me. They don’t even know that Gray is dead.”

    “The murderer knows,” she said.

    “Yes, but he doesn’t know that I know. And who says he’ll be there anyway? The killer may have nothing whatsoever to do with the theater. Maybe he’s a member of Gray’s family, or one of his old friends or enemies from Brooklyn—in which case I won’t be running into him today. And besides, the chances that I’ll actually be able to get inside the theater and talk to anybody who was closely connected with Gray are practically nil. See? What I said before is true, Ab. You really are getting worked up over nothing.”

    “But I worry about you, you know!” she whined. (Which prompts me to point out something else I’ve learned about Abby during our tight three-year friendship: As bold and brazen a sexpot as she most assuredly is, she is also, at heart, a ranting, raving—i.e., loving—Jewish mother. But please don’t tell her I said so!)

    “Gosh and golly, Polly—what’s gotten into you?” I said, chuckling and nudging her with my elbow, trying to cheer her up and make light of the situation. “You used to egg me on and call me a sissy. You said if I had any chutzpah , I’d live up to my absurd name and go after the big, sensational stories. You told me if I was going to write for a magazine called Daring Detective , I should have the balls to become one myself. Remember?”

    “Yeah, well, that was before,” she muttered.

    “Before what?”

    “Before you were nearly raped and strangled on the stairs at your office . . . before you were almost thrown to your death over a mezzanine railing . . . before I saw you shot and bleeding on your kitchen floor.”

    “Oh,” I said, staring down at the sidewalk, unable to dispute those disturbing particulars.

    A heavyset woman in a flowered sundress came out of the candy shop, peeling the wrapper off a large Hershey Bar. She had a copy of Confidential magazine tucked under arm. Abby and I moved aside to let her pass by, then waited for her to walk a few yards down the block before continuing our conversation.

    “Look, Ab, I know some awful things have happened in the past,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean something awful’s going to happen today. If anything, today will be the safest time of all to snoop around. That’s why I’m so anxious to get going. Maybe I can pick up a few clues to deliver to Flannagan tomorrow—something that will help him in his investigation, and also help me get over my embarrassing and incompetent behavior at the crime scene this morning. Most importantly, I want to do whatever I can to make sure the sick monster who killed Gray is caught as soon as possible.”

    “Okay, you convinced me,” she said, changing her attitude in a snap. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

Chapter 8

    I REALLY DIDN’T WANT ABBY TAGGING along. I was afraid she would complicate my undercover (and hopefully inconspicuous) investigation with her passionate and