Killer On A Hot Tin Roof

by Livia J. Washburn

  Will said, “That’s why you were in the bookstore that day when you ran into Michael.”

  Burleson nodded. “Exactly. I confess, I snuck out and called a cab.” He laughed. “I’m a terrible old man, ain’t I?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “But something bothers me.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want so lovely a young woman as you to be bothered, my dear. What is it? Tell me.”

  “No offense, but it seems strange to me that Dr. Frasier would just believe your story about writing Cat on a Hot Tin Roof when you didn’t have any proof.”

  Tamara nodded. “I thought of the same thing. You don’t have any real evidence to back up your story, Mr. Burleson.”

  He smiled at us. “Oh, but I do. I have the manuscript … the original, handwritten manuscript of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof … by Howard Burleson.”

  CHAPTER 7

  For the second time tonight, we were left staring in mingled surprise and disbelief at the old man. Will spoke up first, saying, “You have the original holographic manuscript?”

  “That’s right. Written in my own hand, on this very table.” Burleson ran his fingers over the table again. “I can show you the places where my pen slipped into the scars and irregularities of the wood and it left marks on the paper … just like our lives slip into the scars and irregularities of the world and it leaves marks on our hearts.”

  I thought he was reaching a little with that one, but what do I know?

  Tamara said, “That’s how you convinced Michael? By showing him the manuscript?”

  “Yes, indeed. He was quite fascinated. And when he was through pouring over it, he believed what I had told him. He knew that I was the true author of that wonderful play.”

  “You’re aware that any such manuscript would have to be subjected to extensive textual analysis, not to mention forensic testing to determine the age of the paper and ink, before the academic community could even begin to lend any credence to your claims?”

  Burleson nodded. “Dr. Frasier has done so. He is convinced.”

  “Yes, but he’s just one man. To achieve any real acceptance, you’re going to have to convince many, many more people. Hundreds, maybe thousands.”

  “I stand prepared to do so, my dear,” Burleson declared.

  “You brought the manuscript with you?” Will asked.

  Burleson shook his head. “Certainly not. Michael made me understand that it’s far too valuable for that. I did, however, bring a few sample pages from the original so that they could be displayed as part of Michael’s presentation and then examined by the appropriate people.” He smiled at Tamara. “Includin’ you, I hope, Dr. Paige. Michael tells me that you’ve made a special study of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in your career. In fact, he says that everything you’ve ever done depends on it.”

  “He does, does he?” Tamara asked tightly. She understood, and so did I, what Frasier really meant by that. By dropping this bombshell at the conference, Frasier hoped to knock the legs out from under everything Tamara had ever written about the play. In light of his discovery, all her work and research would be meaningless.

  If Howard Burleson was telling the truth, of course.

  “Where are those manuscript pages?” I asked.

  “In my bag at the hotel.”

  “The bag Dr. Frasier wouldn’t let that porter carry in?”

  “That’s right.”

  I understood now why Frasier had been so protective about that bag. He was actually taking a pretty big gamble here. If he couldn’t convince his fellow professors that Burleson was telling the truth, he could easily wind up a laughingstock and ruin his own career instead of Tamara Paige’s. For him, everything was riding not only on Burleson but also on those sample pages from the manuscript.

  “This has all been fascinating, Mr. Burleson,” Tamara said,“but I think we should get back to the hotel now before it gets too late. You have a big day coming up tomorrow, and you need your rest.”

  Burleson sighed and nodded. “I am gettin’ a mite tired. But it’s been so nice spendin’ part of the evenin’ with you young people.”

  “Maybe when we get back,” Tamara went on, “you could show me those pages …”

  Burleson began to frown and shake his head. “I don’t know. Michael told me not to let anyone look at them until the presentation…. Of course, now that I think about it, I believe he told me not to tell anyone about how I wrote the play, either, and I’ve just done that, now, haven’t I?”

  Tamara leaned closer to him and said, “I really don’t think it would hurt anything–”

  “What?” Frasier said suddenly from beside the booth. “You don’t think what would hurt anything?”

  He had been sitting at the bar nursing a beer while Will, Tamara, and I talked to Burleson–well, listened to the old man more than anything, really. Frasier was risking his career and his reputation.

  Burleson looked up at Frasier, ignoring Tamara’s attempt to shush him, and said, “This charmin’ young woman wants to look at those pages from my play, Michael. I don’t think it would hurt anything to show them to her, do you?”

  Frasier glared at Tamara and said, “You bitch! What are you trying to do?”

  Her eyes blazing with anger, she started to get to her feet. Burleson put a hand on her arm to stop her, though, and said, “Now, Michael, there’s no call for language like that. You shouldn’t insult Dr. Paige just because she’s interested in my play.”

  “She’s not interested in your play, Howard, she’s interested in ruining me. She probably wants to destroy those pages so no one can ever study them.”

  “I most certainly do not,” Tamara insisted. “I’m as much of a Williams scholar as you are.” She paused, and rolled her eyes, for a second. “More, actually. If there’s any chance Mr. Burleson is telling the truth, I want to know about it. I just want to confirm his story.”

  “Forget it. I’ve already confirmed it. You’ll hear all about it tomorrow, and you’ll see all the proof you need. Until then, just leave us the hell alone.” Frasier looked at Burleson. “Come on, Howard. I let you talk to these people, even though I shouldn’t have. It’s time to go back to the hotel now.”

  “I … I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” Burleson said, starting to look like a little kid who’s been caught getting into mischief. “I just wanted to see this old place again, where I had so many happy times, and listen to the music–”

  Frasier got control of his anger with a visible effort. “It’s all right, Howard. I’m not mad at you. Just remember who brought you here to New Orleans so you could relive those old times. Remember who’s going to make you famous, so that you’ll finally get credit for your work.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Burleson gave Tamara a sad smile. “If you’ll pardon me, my dear …” He looked across the table at Will and me. “And if you two lovely people will excuse me … I suppose I should return to the hotel with my friend Michael.”

  I wanted to tell him that Frasier wasn’t his friend, that the professor was just using him.

  But what if Burleson really was telling the truth, I suddenly asked myself. What if he really had written that play? Didn’t he deserve to finally get some credit for it, as Frasier had said? Maybe Frasier’s motives weren’t the purest in the world–Iwas convinced he was doing this in hopes of hurting Tamara Paige’s career as much as he was to advance his own–but he was the one who believed what the old man was saying. He was the only one who had demonstrated any faith in Howard Burleson.

  Maybe the best thing to do, I realized, was to just let this thing play out.

  “You go on with Dr. Frasier,” I told Burleson. Then I looked at Frasier and added, “And keep a better eye on him this time, Doctor.”

  “I will,” Frasier said grimly. “You can count on that.”

  Tamara frowned at me. “You’re taking quite a bit of responsibility on yourself, aren’t you, Ms. Dickinson?”

  “I am responsible,” I
told her. “I’m the leader of this tour. And I don’t see how spendin’ the rest of the evening fussin’ over all this is going to help anything.”

  “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of Mr. Burleson’s story.”

  “You’ll have a chance to do that tomorrow,” I pointed out. “We just got a sneak peak of what the whole conference will hear about soon enough. I imagine you’ll have plenty of chances to ask questions of Mr. Burleson and examine those manuscript pages.”

  “That’s right,” Frasier said. “Thank you, Ms. Dickinson, for being the voice of reason.”

  I didn’t want Frasier’s gratitude. He still struck me as a smarmy little weasel. But Burleson had started to look pretty worn out from all the talking and arguing, and I didn’t see any point in putting him through more.

  “You professors can hash all this out tomorrow. Mr. Burleson needs to go get some rest, though.”

  He smiled and said, “I am startin’ to feel a mite peaked.”

  Tamara slid out of the booth so he could get up. “All right,

  Mr. Burleson,” she said. “I’m going to want to ask you a lot of questions tomorrow, though.”

  He smiled at her as he slowly climbed out of the booth. “Of course, my dear. I’d be tickled pink to talk to you about whatever you want.”

  Will and I slid out of the booth, too. As we stood up, Frasier looked at the two of us and Tamara and said, “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ll all keep your mouths shut about this.”

  “Why should I do you any favors?” Tamara shot back at him. “Ruining your big surprise would be just about what you deserve.”

  Burleson turned to her and said, “Oh, please don’t do that, honey. The boy’s worked so hard to impress y’all.”

  Something made Frasier’s jaw tighten with anger, I saw; probably being called “the boy.” But he didn’t say anything, and after a second, Tamara shrugged.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll let you go ahead and make a fool of yourself, Michael. I’ve said all along that I was all right with that.”

  “I won’t say anything, either,” Will promised. He smiled. “I’d sort of like to see the reaction when Mr. Burleson gets up and tells his story. It’s quite a yarn.”

  “Thank you, young man,” Burleson said with a smile of his own.

  Frasier looked at me. “What about you?”

  I held up both hands, palms out. “Leave me out of this. I’m not a professor, and I don’t care who wrote Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”

  They all looked at me then like I was a little crazy, even Burleson. But really, it didn’t matter to me. I didn’t have any stake in this controversy. All I cared about was keeping things running smoothly and getting everybody back to Atlanta safely.

  As far as I was concerned, somebody could claim Tennessee Williams was really an alien from outer space, and it would be just fine.

  “All right.” Frasier took Burleson’s arm, and I was glad to see that he was more careful about it this time. “Come along, Howard.”

  “Oh,” Burleson said, “my hat.”

  Will picked the hat up and handed it to him. Burleson held it poised over his head for a second before he put it on and nodded to us.

  “Good evenin’, y’all,” he said. “Pleasant dreams.”

  He shuffled out of Petit Claude’s with Frasier at his side. When they were gone, Tamara turned to us and said, “Don’t believe all that nonsense. It was a good story, but he’s either delusional or he’s made the whole thing up on purpose, to try to get some attention. There’s no way on earth that old man really wrote Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”

  “I’d say that’s yet to be determined,” Will replied. “I’ll admit, I’m pretty skeptical, but I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt for now.”

  Tamara said, “How can you say that? Cat is obviously the work of the same author who wrote all the other Tennessee Williams plays. The themes and structure are similar, the rhythm of the language is the same–”

  “Mr. Burleson said he was a fan of Williams’s work,” Will pointed out. “Plus, if he really was romantically involved with Williams, they would have spent a lot of time together. He could have picked up the speech patterns, understood the way Williams thought–”

  Tamara cut him off by shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t buy it. I just don’t buy it.”

  I said, “I’m sure you academic types will figure it all out.” I had looked at my watch and seen that by now the festival’sopening ceremonies were over. I thought Will and I could still make it for that late supper reservation, though. I slipped my arm through his and said, “Can you get back to the hotel by yourself, Dr. Paige?”

  “Of course. It’s right around the corner.”

  “Then Dr. Burke and I have a previous engagement we need to get to.”

  “Oh. All right.” She nodded to us. “Good night.”

  She went one way when we left Petit Claude’s, and Will and I went the other. “That was an amazing story, wasn’t it?” he said as we walked along Bourbon Street.

  “Amazing,” I agreed. “But sometimes the truth is pretty farfetched.”

  “Yes, I’ve learned that.” He grinned. “Especially since meeting you.”

  I thought about punching him on the arm for that one. But instead I just grinned back at him, and we went on to supper.

  We made it to the intimate little bistro a few blocks from the hotel in time for our supper reservation. I had been there before, back when I was married and my husband and I vacationed in New Orleans. The place hadn’t changed much, and I realized that it might have been a mistake to come here with Will. Remembering the good time I’d had here with my ex didn’t do much for the romantic atmosphere.

  I tried to put all that out of my mind and concentrate on the present. The food was as good as ever. Instead of ordering from the menu, I explained to Will, you could just tell the chef, “Feed me,” and he would come to the table and tell you what he was going to prepare, which was always delicious. He started us off with gumbo and fried green tomatoes, then followed up with chicken creole and crab and asparagus salad.

  The wonderful food, along with the dimly lit elegance and comfort of the café, made me relax after the stressful evening.

  Even so, I wasn’t quite able to get in the mood I’d hoped to, and Will seemed to sense that. Over brandy after we’d finished the meal, while soft music played from hidden speakers, he said, “It’s been a pretty tiring day, Delilah, and the conference starts at nine in the morning. I hope you won’t mind if I turn in early tonight.”

  I smiled at him and said, “I was thinking the same thing myself. Herdin’ a bunch of folks around will just wear you out, won’t it?”

  He grinned. “Especially when some of them hate each other and don’t mind making a scene.”

  “We’ve had some doozies, haven’t we?”

  “I expect excitement on one of your tours. I remember–”

  I held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t start talkin’ about what happened on that plantation. I’ve tried to put all that behind me.”

  “All right. I understand. Anyway, I never expected anything as potentially mind-boggling as this business about Tennessee Williams to come up.”

  “Is it really that big a deal?” I asked. “Would it be such a shock if it turned out the old man was tellin’ the truth?”

  “Well, I suppose in the big scheme of things, the question of who really wrote Cat on a Hot Tin Roof doesn’t mean much. It doesn’t have any effect on people’s everyday lives. Such a discovery would definitely cause a stir in university English and drama departments around the world, but not as much as it once would have. Williams is a DWM, after all.”

  I frowned at him, not knowing what he meant.

  “Dead white male,” Will elaborated. “English departments in general don’t lavish as much attention on authors as theyonce did. This particular crowd, though, the folks at this festival, it’ll be a big deal to them. You can coun
t on that.”

  “There won’t be a riot or anything when Frasier makes his presentation, will there?”

  “I don’t know,” Will said, but then his smile told me that he was just joking.

  We left the café a short time after that and headed back to the hotel. We had lingered over supper, so it was fairly late by now, about eleven o’clock. Of course, even at this hour, the streets of the French Quarter were fairly busy. The sidewalks still had plenty of people on them, talking and laughing, and I could still hear music in the air.

  I looked around the lobby when we got to the St. Emilion and saw several people I recognized from our group sitting around talking, and I figured there would be more of them in the bar. Will nodded pleasantly to some of the folks we passed, but we didn’t stop to talk. We went up in the elevator to the third floor, and when we got to my room, he stepped just inside with me and gave me an old-fashioned good-night kiss that made me reconsider my decision to turn in early. Only for a moment, though. I really was tired and wanted to get some sleep. I planned on being up bright and early the next morning, in case anybody from the group needed help with anything.

  He said, “I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”

  “‘Night, Will. It was a nice evenin’ … after we got past the disappearin’ old man and all that.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah. See you.”

  I eased the door closed, threw the deadbolt, and put the chain on. Then I sighed and shook my head. Will Burke was probably the nicest fella I knew and I sure enjoyed spending time with him, but I didn’t know if I wanted things to get any more serious than they already were. I knew I wouldn’t mindgetting married again someday, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a professor’s wife.

  “Don’t go gettin’ ahead of yourself, Delilah,” I told myself out loud, then turned away from the door and went on into the sumptuous room without turning on any lights. There was enough glow from the windows for me to find my way around.

  Something drew me toward the balcony on the other side of the room. I opened the curtains, unfastened the French doors, and stepped out to look around the atrium and down into the garden. Discreetly placed lamps in the trees gave off enough light for folks to find their way around. It was peaceful and beautiful, and once again I was struck by how much it looked like a little piece of jungle right here inside the hotel.