Murder on a Hot Tin Roof Read Online Free PDF

comfort of the air-conditioned theater.

    Abby stopped at the end of our row, waited for the aisle to clear, then sauntered over to the side door closest to the stage. “I’ll bet this leads to the dressing rooms,” she said, pulling the door wide and sashaying through it as if she owned the place. I scurried through right behind her, surprised that no usher or doorman sprang from the shadows to turn us away.

    The narrow, dimly lit corridor on the other side of the door led to a short flight of steps, which led up to a wider, slightly brighter hallway. And when I climbed the steps and saw that this hallway was full of laughing, chattering, well-dressed people—each holding a cigarette in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other—I knew we had come to the right place.

    Wriggling her way through the crowd, Abby headed straight for the star dressing room, which actually had a gold star painted on the door. I scooted after her as quickly as I could. Was that where the champagne was being served? Maybe they were handing out canapés, too! I was so hungry I’d have swallowed a fistful of live tadpoles, no questions asked.

    But there was no such delicacy in sight. No more champagne, either. Just five empty bottles piled in the trash can near the door. Jeezypeezy! I complained to myself. These show-biz vultures work fast!

    There were so many people crammed in the tiny star dressing room I knew we’d never work our way inside. The entire cast was in there, including all five of the child actors (or, as Maggie the Cat had called them, “no-neck monsters”) who had provided the play with some very unruly and annoying moments. Several columnists, reporters, and photographers were in there, too, shouting out toasts and questions and popping flashbulbs to beat the band.

    “Gray! Gray!” Abby yelled, standing on her tiptoes and waving her arms furiously in the air. “It’s Abby! I’m over here! Can you see me? Thanks for the tix, babe. You were great! Better than Humphrey Bogart or Cary Grant. Way better than Marlon Brando!”

    If Gray actually saw Abby waving out in the hall, or managed to hear any of her enthusiastic accolades, it was impossible to tell. He was completely surrounded by fellow cast members and other well-wishers, who were all kissing him and slapping him on the back and sticking to him like glue. (When the vultures sense you’re taking off for the top, they all want to hitch a ride. At least that’s what I’ve been told. I can’t speak from firsthand experience since I’m still squirming around on the bottom.)

    “Oh, it’s no use!” Abby said, finally lowering her waving arms and coming down off her tiptoes. “He can’t hear me. Those no-neck monsters are making too much noise. And I’ll never get into that dressing room. It’s packed tighter than an old maid’s hope chest.”

    “There’s no more champagne, either,” I whined. “And nothing to eat.”

    “Come on then,” Abby said. “Let’s make like a tree and leave. I’ve got some more gin at home and we can grab a pie at John’s.” (She meant John’s Pizzeria, which was on Bleecker, right across the street from us.)

    “Sounds good to me,” I said. “But what about Gray? I thought you wanted to give him your ‘up-close and personal congratulations.’ ” My tone was just the teensiest bit sarcastic. I swear.

    “I’ll do it tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll hop over to his apartment in the morning, before he has to leave for the theater. And you’ll come with me, you dig? He lives real close to us, just a couple of blocks away on Christopher Street.”

    I didn’t say anything. It was sweet of Abby to invite me, but I had no intention of tagging along to watch her give Gray a gooey french kiss (or whatever else she had in mind). Tomorrow was Saturday! I didn’t have to go to work. I didn’t have to hop around all day serving coffee to my demanding male bosses and coworkers. I wouldn’t have to work like a