Read Online Murder on a Hot Tin Roof by Amanda Matetsky - Free Book Online
Authors: Amanda Matetsky
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glory?
After I finished my shower and dried myself off, I put on another pair of capris, a different halter top, and my white ballerina flats. Then I gathered up the clothes on the bathroom floor and carried them downstairs, thinking I’d throw them in the garbage. I never wanted to see them—much less wear them—again.
But as I was about to toss the clothes in the trash, I changed my mind and stuffed them into a brown paper shopping bag instead. Then I set the bag on the floor of my coat closet and kicked it deep into the darkest corner. Maybe some of the blood on my sandals and capris had been shed by the killer instead of Gray. (There had, after all, been a whole lot of slashing going on!) Maybe Flannagan would want to run tests on the bloodstains. If two different blood types were discovered—either at the scene or on Abby’s or my clothes—then the police would have at least one true, indisputable clue to the killer’s identity. I decided I would take the bag of bloody clothes to Flannagan tomorrow.
Feeling much more alert and responsible than I’d felt all morning, I closed the closet door, grabbed my white leather clutch bag off the kitchen table, and hurried next door to Abby’s.
“Let’s go!” she said, lunging out onto the tiny landing between our apartments before I’d even had a chance to knock. “I’m so hungry I could eat a moose. Do they serve moose at Chock Full?”
“Sure,” I said, chuckling. “They make a great moose-burger. But you won’t be having one today since that’s not where we’re going.”
“Oh, really?” she said, leading the way down the stairs to the street, long black ponytail swaying with every step. “Then where are we going? To Twenty-One? El Morocco? The Copa?” She was trying to act gay and chipper, but I could tell from the catch in her voice she was still feeling as sad and shaky as I was.
“None of the above,” I said, as we exited the building and came together on the sidewalk. “We’re going to Stewart’s Cafeteria, on Christopher near Seventh. We passed it twice today. Looked like a nice place to eat.” I turned and began walking down Bleecker toward Seventh Avenue.
Abby caught up with me and followed alongside, face screwed up in a crabby frown. “Why the hell do you want to go there?!” she squawked. “The food is lousy. Mostly steam-table stuff. And you have to stand in line and get it yourself.”
“How do you know? Have you been there before?”
“Sure. Lots of times.”
“But if the food’s so bad, why did you go so often?”
“I didn’t go there to eat, silly. I was just looking for models.”
“What?!” Now I was the one who was squawking. (Just when you think you know everything there is to know about her, Abby pulls another squirming rabbit out of her hat.) “Looking for models? !” I cried, tossing my hands up in wild confusion. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“Enough with the dramatics, Paige. It’s not as crazy as it sounds.” We came to a stop at Seventh Avenue and stood waiting for the light to change. “I’ll explain everything when we get there,” she said. “It’s too hot to talk while we’re walking. And the cafeteria’s right across the street.”
As rabidly curious as I was, I didn’t try to argue with her. When Abby set her mind to something, it was carved in stone. And besides—it really was too hot to walk and talk at the same time.
THE LIGHT CHANGED AND WE CROSSED over Seventh to Christopher. Stewart’s was right around the corner and the double entry doors were propped wide open. My heart sank at the sight. The gaping portal could mean only one thing: no air-conditioning. And if Abby was right about the steam tables, it was probably hotter inside the restaurant than out.
Yep. The indoor temperature was at least five degrees higher. And the air was so moist and heavy you could barely breathe—which turned out to be a good thing since the sickening
After I finished my shower and dried myself off, I put on another pair of capris, a different halter top, and my white ballerina flats. Then I gathered up the clothes on the bathroom floor and carried them downstairs, thinking I’d throw them in the garbage. I never wanted to see them—much less wear them—again.
But as I was about to toss the clothes in the trash, I changed my mind and stuffed them into a brown paper shopping bag instead. Then I set the bag on the floor of my coat closet and kicked it deep into the darkest corner. Maybe some of the blood on my sandals and capris had been shed by the killer instead of Gray. (There had, after all, been a whole lot of slashing going on!) Maybe Flannagan would want to run tests on the bloodstains. If two different blood types were discovered—either at the scene or on Abby’s or my clothes—then the police would have at least one true, indisputable clue to the killer’s identity. I decided I would take the bag of bloody clothes to Flannagan tomorrow.
Feeling much more alert and responsible than I’d felt all morning, I closed the closet door, grabbed my white leather clutch bag off the kitchen table, and hurried next door to Abby’s.
“Let’s go!” she said, lunging out onto the tiny landing between our apartments before I’d even had a chance to knock. “I’m so hungry I could eat a moose. Do they serve moose at Chock Full?”
“Sure,” I said, chuckling. “They make a great moose-burger. But you won’t be having one today since that’s not where we’re going.”
“Oh, really?” she said, leading the way down the stairs to the street, long black ponytail swaying with every step. “Then where are we going? To Twenty-One? El Morocco? The Copa?” She was trying to act gay and chipper, but I could tell from the catch in her voice she was still feeling as sad and shaky as I was.
“None of the above,” I said, as we exited the building and came together on the sidewalk. “We’re going to Stewart’s Cafeteria, on Christopher near Seventh. We passed it twice today. Looked like a nice place to eat.” I turned and began walking down Bleecker toward Seventh Avenue.
Abby caught up with me and followed alongside, face screwed up in a crabby frown. “Why the hell do you want to go there?!” she squawked. “The food is lousy. Mostly steam-table stuff. And you have to stand in line and get it yourself.”
“How do you know? Have you been there before?”
“Sure. Lots of times.”
“But if the food’s so bad, why did you go so often?”
“I didn’t go there to eat, silly. I was just looking for models.”
“What?!” Now I was the one who was squawking. (Just when you think you know everything there is to know about her, Abby pulls another squirming rabbit out of her hat.) “Looking for models? !” I cried, tossing my hands up in wild confusion. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“Enough with the dramatics, Paige. It’s not as crazy as it sounds.” We came to a stop at Seventh Avenue and stood waiting for the light to change. “I’ll explain everything when we get there,” she said. “It’s too hot to talk while we’re walking. And the cafeteria’s right across the street.”
As rabidly curious as I was, I didn’t try to argue with her. When Abby set her mind to something, it was carved in stone. And besides—it really was too hot to walk and talk at the same time.
THE LIGHT CHANGED AND WE CROSSED over Seventh to Christopher. Stewart’s was right around the corner and the double entry doors were propped wide open. My heart sank at the sight. The gaping portal could mean only one thing: no air-conditioning. And if Abby was right about the steam tables, it was probably hotter inside the restaurant than out.
Yep. The indoor temperature was at least five degrees higher. And the air was so moist and heavy you could barely breathe—which turned out to be a good thing since the sickening
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