Murder on a Hot Tin Roof by Amanda Matetsky Page A

unpredictable antics. But I didn’t bother to protest. I knew it wouldn’t do any good. I could see that invincible, uncompromising, stubborn-as-a-mule look in her eye. She was coming with me, and that was all there was to it.

    “Hold your horses, Ab,” I said, with a plaintive sigh. “I want to get a couple of newspapers before we go.” I turned and stepped toward the open door to the candy store. “You want anything?”

    “That’s a definite yes, Bess!” she whooped, following close on my heels as I entered the tiny shop. “I want a Tootsie Roll. A great big one!”

    Abby headed straight for the candy counter while I checked out the news rack. I picked up the last copy of the New York Times , and also a copy of the Journal American , thinking Dorothy Kilgallen had probably written something about Gray in her daily column, “The Voice of Broadway.” I would have grabbed the New York Daily News as well—just to take a look at Ed Sullivan’s “The Toast of the Town” column—but there weren’t any left.

    Abby and I reconnected at the cash register and paid for our items. Her giant-sized Tootsie Roll was half-eaten already. I folded the newspapers, cradled them in the crook of my elbow, and led the way out of the store. Abby joined me on the sidewalk, then we strolled in total silence around the corner and up the block toward the Sheridan Square subway stop. It was too hot to walk fast, and Abby was too busy chewing to chat.

    It was a bit cooler underground and the train came almost immediately. We got on, sat down, and I handed Abby the Journal American , telling her to search for write-ups about Gray. I opened the Times and looked for the article Blondie had mentioned.

    I found it in the middle of the second section, near the theater listings and movie ads. There, under the headline A STAR IS BORN, was a short article by Brooks Atkinson, and a small photo of Gray. It was an extreme close-up, and the rapturous, ecstatic smile on Gray’s face led me to believe that the picture had been taken just the night before, in the star dressing room, while the very much alive, but unsuspecting, understudy was reveling in the triumph of his stellar Broadway debut.

    The article accompanying the photo was brief and to the point. An unknown actor by the name of Gray Gordon had played the lead in last night’s performance of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof , and his portrayal had been so brilliant he would not remain unknown for long. Mr. Gordon was—according to the famous Times theater critic, and as the title of his article proclaimed—the brightest new star in the Broadway firmament.

    Although the Atkinson piece was full of praise, it was sadly short on information. Aside from the fact that Gray had come from the Carnarsie section of Brooklyn, and that he was currently studying his craft under the “admirable tutelage” of Lee Strasberg at the “renowned” Actors Studio in Manhattan, there were no useful (for me) revelations. I dropped the paper to my lap and heaved another mournful sigh, wishing with all my heart that Gray were alive to read this fabulous review, but sickened by the knowledge that tomorrow’s Times could very easily (and very truthfully) run the headline A STAR IS DEAD.

    “Look,” Abby said, shoving the Journal American under my nose. “Kilgallen gave Gray a rave. She says he’s handsomer than Marlon Brando and James Dean put together. A lot more talented, too. She says if Gray doesn’t become an even bigger star than Brando or Dean, she’ll eat the chic new sunbonnet she bought for her upcoming Mediterranean cruise.”

    I hope Dorothy enjoys her lunch , I thought, keeping my bitterly sarcastic reaction to myself. Abby seemed to be in an equable mood, and I didn’t want to upset it. “Brooks Atkinson gave Gray a good review, too,” I told her. “You want to read it?”

    “Absolutely not!” she said emphatically, emphasis on the not . “My heart’s broken enough as it is. Life’s