Murder on a Hot Tin Roof Read Free Page B

springing like a Doberman to Dan’s defense. “He’s strong and sensible and protective and considerate! He went through hell with his unfaithful ex-wife, and their divorce was pretty awful, and he doesn’t want Katy—or himself—to be subjected to anything like that ever again. Katy’s fifteen now—that’s a very emotional age, you know!” I was getting pretty emotional myself.

    “Cool down, kiddo,” Abby said, lifting her heavy braid off her neck, letting the breeze circulate underneath. “Don’t say another word. I get the picture already! You’re a prude, and Dan likes it that way. He’d rather trust you than shtup you. And you—you’re even worse! You’d rather suffer than be satisfied! You’re both just a couple of straitlaced shlumps who’ve forgotten how to enjoy life.” She let her braid fall down her back and gave me a goofy grin. “You’re perfect for each other.”

    I laughed. In a way, she was right. Dan and I were a couple of straitlaced characters, doing our best to live by—and even help enforce—society’s rules. But Abby was dead wrong about one thing: we had not—repeat, not —forgotten how to enjoy life. (Though I hadn’t yet taken Dan into my bed and we hadn’t yet gone all the way, we’d been having a darn good time taking side trips on the couch.)

    “Has he told you that he loves you yet?” Abby wanted to know.

    “Well, no,” I sadly admitted.

    “Have you told him?”

    “No!” I sputtered. “I’m the woman! I can’t say it to him till he says it to me.”

    Abby rolled her eyes. She thought my feminine inhibitions were absurd. “Look, I’d like nothing better than to sit around talking about sex all night,” she said, suddenly plunking her empty glass down on the table and adjusting the plunging neckline of her black halter-top dress. “It is, after all, my favorite subject. But I’m afraid I have to cut this conversation short right now.” She squashed her cigarette out in the ashtray, scraped her chair away from the table, and stood up. “There’s no more time for chitchat. We have to get ready to go.”

    “Huh? What did you say?”

    “I said we have to get ready to go.”

    “Go? Where?”

    “To the theater, my dear,” she said, pronouncing her words in a snooty British accent and playfully sticking her nose in the air. She turned and began circling her apartment, closing and locking the kitchen door, turning off the hi-fi and all the fans. The dense humidity settled on me like a wet wool blanket. I could barely breathe.

    “Drink up!” Abby urged. “We have to hurry. The curtain goes up at eight.”

    “What the hell are you talking about?” I snarled. I wasn’t in the mood for any jokes or surprises. It was too darn hot.

    Abby shot me a mischievous smile. “You’ve heard of the theater , haven’t you, my dear?” she asked, still speaking in a pompous tone. “Because that’s where you and I are going tonight. To a smash-hit play on Broadway. And the show starts at eight.” She looked at her watch. “ Oy vey !” she cried, suddenly dropping her British airs and reverting to her Yiddish roots. “It’s almost seven thirty already! We’ve got to leave right this minute or we’ll miss the opening curtain. C’mon, Paige, get up! Let’s go!”

    Now I don’t know about you, but I really hate being yanked around like a poodle on a leash.

    “I’m not going anywhere!” I growled, crossing my arms over my chest and staying firmly glued to my chair. “I just got home from work! I’m exhausted. I’m hungry. My feet hurt. I’m perishing from the heat!”

    “The theater will be air-conditioned,” Abby said.

    “Right,” I replied. Then I hopped up, grabbed my purse, and pranced like a poodle to the door.

     
     
    WE WERE LUCKY. THE VERY MINUTE WE descended into the Sheridan Square subway station and stepped out onto the platform, the uptown local arrived and whisked us away. “Hey, bobba ree bop!,” Abby crowed,