Killer On A Hot Tin Roof Read online

  CHAPTER 2

  That stopped everybody in their tracks. I didn’t really blame them. I wasn’t even a professor, and I was surprised by the old man’s statement. Here they were, going off to a five-day literary festival honoring one of America’s most distinguished playwrights, and Howard Burleson wanted them to believe that he had been intimate with that very playwright.

  At the same time, I wanted to shoo the group back into motion. The loudspeakers had already announced that our flight was boarding, and we didn’t have the luxury of standing around gawking at Burleson, no matter how outrageous the claim he had just made.

  And maybe it wasn’t really all that outrageous. Even though most of my knowledge about Tennessee Williams and his life came from the movies based on his plays, I knew that he had been gay and had been involved with a lot of different men in his life. If Burleson was eighty now, he would have been in his twenties during Williams’s heyday as a playwright. He could have been young and good-looking and just the sort that Williams went for. I didn’t know.

  But I knew it would be a big hassle if we missed our flight, so I forced those thoughts out of my head and raised my voiceto say, “We’d better move along, folks. We don’t want that airplane leavin’ without us.”

  Dr. Tamara Paige turned her head toward me and said, “You can’t expect us to just … just …”

  Frasier clamped a hand on the old man’s arm and tugged him toward the gate. “Not another word, Howard,” he warned. “Do you understand me?”

  I didn’t like the browbeating tone that Frasier took with Burleson, but the old man just nodded and said, “All right, Doctor.”

  “What are you up to, Frasier?” Dr. Paige snapped.

  “Be there when I present my paper,” Frasier said. “You’ll see.” He steered Burleson toward the gate, and the others followed along behind them, chattering again now.

  The routine of getting on the plane quieted them down. I spend a lot of time in airports, and even when you’re an experienced traveler like I am, all the rigamarole can’t help but remind you of why the extra precautions are in place. A lot of people still turn solemn when they get on or off a plane.

  I took advantage of the opportunity to lean close to Will Burke as we were waiting to board and ask, “Do you believe that?”

  “You mean do I believe what Mr. Burleson said about being Tennessee Williams’s lover? Or that Frasier would drag him to this conference?”

  “Actually, I was speakin’ more in general, like you might say, ‘Well, what do you know about that?’ But I’d take an answer to either of the questions you asked.”

  “I have no idea whether Mr. Burleson is telling the truth,” Will said. “It’s not like we have a list of everybody Williams was involved with. We know the most significant ones, like Frank Merlo, but there were plenty of others.”

  I looked at the pink flush spreading across Will’s face. “Why, Will Burke, you’re blushin’,” I said in surprise.

  “I was raised in a pretty strict environment in a little Georgia town,” he said. “There were more things going on in the world than I really knew about until I got to college.”

  Once I stopped to think about it, I knew what he meant. We get bombarded by so much all the time these days, we forget that there are still plenty of folks walking around who didn’t have the Internet and cable TV when they were growing up. I should know, I’m one of them. Especially in rural areas, there were some things you just didn’t see very often, so you didn’t think about them all that much. Like Will said, you had to get out into the world before you started forming opinions, and even then, it was hard to escape your upbringings.

  “Anyway,” Will went on, “I’m not surprised that Frasier dug him out of the woodwork somewhere, or that he’s taking Burleson to the festival. Like I said, he’s all wrapped up in his work, and if what he says is true, it might be the basis for a good paper.”

  “And that’s important to his career?”

  He nodded. “Really important.”

  “Are you going to, what do you call it, give a paper at the festival?” I hadn’t really had a chance to talk to Will about his schedule over the next few days.

  “Present a paper. And no, not this year, although I have presented papers at the Williams Festival before. I’m just on some panels this year.”

  “I’ll try to attend some of them,” I promised … although if the panelists started in on that ethnological, gynocentric, English professor gobbledygook, I wasn’t sure I’d know what they were talking about.

  Will and I were the last ones in our group to board theplane. We found our seats–I’d made sure they were together, of course–and settled back for the ride, which would only take a little more than an hour. As soon as the plane was in the air and it was all right to get up and move around, I unfastened my seat belt and started up the aisle to check on my clients and see that they were all settled in okay.

  When I came to Dr. Frasier and Howard Burleson, I stopped and asked, “How’re you folks doin’? That take-off bother you any, Mr. Burleson?”

  “Not a blessed bit. I have been on an airplane before, you know. I was quite the world traveler in my time.” He had taken off his hat and held it precisely squared in his lap, revealing a mostly bald, liver-spotted scalp that had just a few strands of white hair draped over it. “Matter of fact, it was in Italy where I first met Tom. Venice is such a romantic city, you know.”

  Frasier put a hand on his arm. “I told you, Howard, save it for the conference.”

  “Very well,” Burleson said. “The memories are quite clear, though, of the sun on the canals and the warm breeze blowin’ through my hair.”

  “Yes, fine,” Frasier said, obviously trying to suppress the impatience he felt. “You can tell everyone about it when we get to New Orleans.”

  I heard a snort from one of the seats ahead of them, and when I looked in that direction, I saw the close-cropped hair of Dr. Tamara Paige. She hadn’t looked around, but I knew she could hear what Frasier and Burleson were saying and figured there was a good chance the snort had come from her.

  “Where is it we’re goin’ again?” Burleson asked.

  “New Orleans,” Frasier said. “I’ve told you several times now, Howard.”

  “Oh, yes. New Orleans.” Burleson sighed. “The French Quarter. Such wonderful memories. I can see it all like it was just yesterday I was there.”

  I wondered if Burleson might have a touch of Alzheimer’s. He seemed a little fuzzy about what was going on in the present, but evidently his memories of the distant past were crystal clear.

  Of course, my memory wasn’t what it once was, either. Age and trying to juggle too many things will do that to a person.

  I moved on along the aisle and stopped next to two more seats that contained a man and a woman. She was a blonde in her thirties, pretty except for the fact that her jaw was maybe a little too wide for her face. The fella with her was older, maybe fifty, with thinning dark hair and broad shoulders that strained the sports jacket he wore. He didn’t look like a professor to me. I know that’s stereotyping, but he just didn’t.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Delilah Dickinson–”

  “We know,” the woman said, smiling brightly up at me. That broad jaw accommodated a lot of white teeth. “I’m Dr. Callie Madison, and this is my husband, Jake.”

  “Hello,” he said, not exactly surly but not all that friendly, either.

  “Thank you so much for setting up this tour,” Dr. Madison went on. “I’ve been to the festival before, of course, but never with a group like this. I understand that we’re going to be seeing some of the other sights in New Orleans while we’re there.”

  “Well, sure,” I said. “Didn’t you do that when you went to the festival before?”

  “No, I always had to get back as soon as possible.” She turned her smile on her husband. “Somebody has to take care of this big lug here.”

  I tried to think how long it had been sin
ce I’d heard anybody call somebody else a “big lug,” but gave up after a second, when I couldn’t remember. Instead I asked, “Are you interested in Tennessee Williams, too, Mr. Madison?”

  He grunted. “Not really. I’m not much on plays and things like that. But Callie convinced me that this would be a good vacation for us.”

  He didn’t sound to me like she had completely convinced him.

  “And I’ve always wanted to try some of that food they have there,” he went on, getting a little more animated now. “I want to go to that fat guy’s restaurant.”

  “Paul Prudhomme,” Callie said.

  “Yeah, him. That fat guy. I like that Cajun stuff.”

  “Well, you’re goin’ to the right place, then,” I told him. “New Orleans has some of the best Cajun cooking in the world.”

  Jake Madison nodded. “We’ll see about that.”

  His wife rested her hand on his. “Surely you want to do more in New Orleans than just eat, Jake.”

  “I might take in some of that Dixieland jazz, too. ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ and all that.”

  “And you’ll come see me present my paper on Williams’s use of imagery in Suddenly, Last Summer?”

  “What? Oh, yeah, sure. Last summer. Can’t wait.”

  I felt the growing strain in the air and thought that I might be contributing to it, so I figured I’d better move on. I said, “If there’s anything I can do for you folks to make y’all’s trip better, you just let me know.”

  Callie turned that hundred-watt smile on me again. “Oh, we certainly will.”

  I wondered how much cajoling it had taken for her to get her husband to come along with her on this trip. Quite a bit, I suspected. Without the Cajun food and the saints marching in, I wasn’t sure if Jake Madison would have ever agreed.

  Dr. Paige was sitting next to Dr. Jeffords in the next pair of seats. She was in the aisle and he was next to the window. She looked up and gave me a curt nod, but Dr. Jeffords, the one who looked like Orville Redenbacher to me, was friendlier.

  “I’d say we’re off to a good start, wouldn’t you, Ms. Dickinson?”

  “We’re all here, we left on time, and the plane didn’t crash on take-off. Three for three.”

  He laughed. “That’s a rather fatalistic way to look at it, but I suppose you’re right.”

  “Are the two of you looking forward to the festival?”

  Dr. Paige said, “I was … until I realized that it’s liable to turn into a sideshow, rather than a serious literary conference.”

  Dr. Jeffords frowned and leaned toward her. “Now, Tamara–”

  “You’re the head of the English Department, Andrew,” she said. “You must have known about this ridiculous stunt that Frasier’s trying to pull.”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t.” A crisp note edged into his voice. “Dr. Frasier didn’t have to clear his presentation with me. You could take it up with the festival organizers, though. I’m sure he had to submit an abstract of his paper to them for approval before it was placed on the program.”

  Dr. Paige gave a little shake of her head. “It’s not worth the trouble. Let him go ahead and make a fool of himself. He’ll never be allowed to present again.”

  “But what if he has something worthwhile to say? Shouldn’t we give him the benefit of the doubt?”

  “You think that old man was really some cabana boy that Williams picked up?”

  “I don’t have any proof that he’s not,” Jeffords said.

  That made Dr. Paige frown. She couldn’t disprove Burleson’s claim, at least not at this point, because she didn’t evenknow the details of it. She’d have to attend Frasier’s presentation for that.

  Me, I didn’t give a hoot ‘n’ holler one way or the other. I just wanted to shepherd this bunch to New Orleans and then get ‘em all back home safely to Georgia. If I did that, it would be a good trip.

  “I’ll see y’all later,” I told them. “If you need anything, you let me know. That’s what I’m here for.”

  Two of the professors who’d been arguing in the airport terminal were sitting in front of Drs. Paige and Jeffords. I paused beside them, but they didn’t look up at me. They were still going at it, each one trying to talk over the other. I heard the words “anthropomorphism,” “epistemological,” and “phallophobia” and decided it was better just to move on.

  The next pair of seats held only one passenger, but he was a big one. I recalled that somebody in the group had paid for two seats, and this fella had to be the one. He had a round face, graying brown hair, balding at that, and a grayish-brown goatee. His shirt gapped a little between buttons because of the pressure that the massive belly put on it. Whoever said fat men were jolly got it wrong, at least in this case. He wore a pained scowl.

  I leaned over him. “You need something, sir?”

  “You’re not a stewardess, are you?”

  I didn’t bother correcting him on his choice of terminology. I just said, “No, I’m Delilah Dickinson. I’m the tour director.”

  “Well, there’s nothin’ wrong with me that a good stiff drink won’t fix. Why don’t you go see if you can get me one of those little bottles of booze?”

  I tried not to bristle, but like I said, I’ve got a temper, so it wasn’t easy. I managed to smile and said, “I’ll speak to the flight attendant.”

  A woman sitting in front of the man turned around in her seat and said, “No, you won’t. He’s not allowed to drink.”

  “Now, damn it, Junebug–” the big man began.

  “Don’t you Junebug me, Papa Larry. Edgar and I are just trying to see to it that you take care of yourself, and you know the doctor said you can’t drink anymore.”

  A rumble came from the big man. I swear, it sounded almost like a big dog growling. “How’m I supposed to feel better if I can’t drink? Do you know what this is gonna do to my creative juices?”

  “I know what whiskey will do to your belly,” the woman he’d called Junebug said. She didn’t look like a june bug to me. She had a narrow face with short, wispy brown hair around it. “It’ll burn out what little of the stomach lining you have left, and then you’ll die,” she went on.

  “You don’t know that,” he said in a sullen voice.

  “I know what the doctor said. I was there.” She elbowed the man sitting beside her, who had an open laptop computer balanced on his thighs. “Tell him, Edgar.”

  The man didn’t seem to want to tear his attention away from whatever he was doing on the screen, but he turned his head long enough to say, “June’s right, Dad. No booze for you.”

  The big man settled back against the two seats and glared. “What the hell kind of a trip is this?” he muttered.

  “It’ll be a good one,” I said, trying to sound optimistic.

  He just gave a disgusted snort and looked out the window.

  “Don’t mind that old grump,” Junebug said to me when I stepped up alongside the seats where she and her husband sat. “He ought to be happy. He’s going to direct a performance of three of Williams’s one-act plays. It’s very prestigious to be asked to do something like that at this festival.”

  “I expect it is,” I agreed. “I’m Delilah Dickinson.”

  She held out a hand to me. “Dr. June Powers.” She nodded toward the man beside her. “This is my husband, Dr. Edgar Powers.”

  He didn’t look up at me. His attention was fixed on his computer screen again. But he lifted a hand and said, “Hi.”

  “Glad to meet you, Doctor,” I said.

  “And you met my father-in-law, Dr. Lawrence Powers. He’s one of the most esteemed theater directors and teachers of drama in the country.”

  I’d never heard of him, but I was willing to take her word for it. “All of you teach together at the university?”

  “That’s right. Well, we’re in different departments. I teach American Literature, and Edgar’s in … engineering.”

  I caught the little hesitation, as if sh
e were slightly ashamed to admit that her husband was in the sciences rather than the arts. Every family has its dirty little secrets, I suppose.

  “Well, if y’all need anything, you let me know, hear?”

  I was about to move on when Dr. Lawrence Powers, a.k.a. Papa Larry, said, “Get me a drink and there’s twenty bucks in it for you, Red.”

  I swung around toward him. I don’t like being called Red any more than I like somebody commenting on my temper because I have red hair. But before I could say anything, I realized that Will was there. He must have come up behind me in time to hear what Powers said. He knew me well enough that he got between me and Powers with a slick little move that kept me from saying anything.

  “Larry, it’s good to see you again,” he said. “June, Edgar, a pleasure as always.”

  Junebug simpered a little. That’s the only way to put it. I wondered if she might have a little crush on Will. I didn’t figure I had any reason to be jealous, though. Edgar just grunted.

  And I moved on to talk to the other members of the tour group, thinking that if anybody else called me Red or used the word “phallophobic,” they might wind up having to call the sky marshal on me.

  CHAPTER 3

  For about a quarter of a century, the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival has been held every year in New Orleans, and while the scope of it has expanded somewhat to include other New Orleans-based literature and Southern literature in general, the focus is still on Thomas Lanier Williams and his plays, short stories, poetry, and novels, as well as how various aspects of his life influenced his work.

  I’d done some research on him before starting the tour, as I always do. I consider myself a reasonably well-read person, but I suspect most folks know Willliams not from actually reading his plays but from seeing them performed, either on stage or on the screen. Women remember Paul Newman’s blue eyes and brooding intensity as Brick; men remember Elizabeth Taylor walking around in that slip as Maggie the Cat. And I suspect that a lot of guys of a certain age, at some point in their life, have bellowed, “Stella!”