Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (3 page)

On the stage, Mort was leaning on the piano talking to Sam Meidner while Sam compulsively ran his hands over the keys without making a sound. The tenor of their conversation could only be assumed. Mort’s body language was rigid.

The piano exploded with sound!

Sam was playing the score for
Hotshot
at a furious pace, beating the rhythms with the foot that was not on the pedal. Everyone’s eyes were drawn to the stage by the shock of the music. With Dilla lying murdered in the mez, there was something inappropriate about the rocking rhythms. But, Wetzon thought, it was also typical of the self-absorption of people in show business, wasn’t it?

When Wetzon turned away from the stage, Phil was no longer in his seat in the rear of the orchestra. Now where had he gone? Had he seized just this moment to disappear? Or had he gone to the men’s room? The assistant stage manager’d been the only one of them to see Dilla’s body up close. And he’d moved it. Wetzon shook herself. Forget it. Phil was a kid and violent death had a way of—

“Darling—”

She spun around. On the stage, Mort was beckoning to someone. She looked behind her, and sideways, then hand on breast, mouthed,
Me?

“Yes,” the producer-director said. “Come up here. I want to talk to you.” It was an order, and she obeyed.

She walked up the pass stairs and came on stage from the wings. Immediately she felt that peculiar, joyous lurch in her midsection, followed by the tingling anticipation she’d always felt when her feet touched the stage. She looked out at the rows of seats, fantasizing all the faces eagerly awaiting the dance number ...

“Darling!” Mort threw his arm around her as if not a day had passed and nothing was different. Yet more than a dozen years had elapsed since she’d worked in one of his shows. “Listen, Leslie, you know all these moneybags now.” Mort was giving her his most charming toothpaste-ad smile, walking her a little to the side. He’d had some dental work done, bonding maybe, for the gap between his two prominent front teeth was gone. He was wearing a blue sweater that set off his eyes, and jeans, his
auteur
costume when he went into his director’s mode. Producers—
business
people—wore suits and ties. A brown suede jacket covered Mort’s shoulders, and a semipermanent tweed cap covered his balding crown. He looked fairly trim, less paunchy than last year when she’d run into him at Lincoln Center.

“Overture ends,” Sam said. “Ah, the beauteous Leslie.”

“Hi, Sam.” She was astonished the composer remembered her. She’d only worked in one of his shows early in her career, and he’d been very nice. In New Haven he’d bought her a drink at Kaysey’s after the show and told her funny show business stories. And he’d been charming when she’d rejected him.

But he wasn’t charming now. “Not particular about the company you keep.” Sam’s hostility was venomous. He gave it off in great waves, and it shook her.

Mort moved her away from the piano, not happy to share her attention, even with Sam. “He’s pissed about Dilla,” Mort whispered loud enough for Sam to hear. “Afraid it’ll hurt the show.”

Wetzon stifled her response, which would have been, “And you’re not?” Sam hadn’t written the score for a musical in over five years. Something about writer’s block. He’d had two breakdowns and then a stay at the Betty Ford Clinic for substance abuse. His career had been a geographic map of dips and peaks, two hit shows—mega hits—and three flops, then years of not being able to get arrested.
Hotshot
was to mark his triumphant return to the Broadway stage.

“ ... moneybags,” Mort repeated in a half-seductive, half-teasing tone.

Wetzon was utterly confused. “What are you talking about, Mort?”

“Darling, all these financial types you know. Isn’t one of them interested in the Theatre?” You could hear the capital
T.

“Some, of course.” Mort smelled of stale gin and Obsession for Men. She tried to ease herself out of his grasp. “What’s this about?”

Two spots of pink hit Mort’s cheeks just above the gray of his beard. “The truth is, Leslie, and I know you’ll keep this under your hat—?” He paused. The question hung between them.

“First act ballad,” Sam announced, and drove into the music. The sound was deafening.

“Give me a break, Mort,” Wetzon protested. “I’m out of the loop. Who would I tell except maybe Carlos, and I presume he’s clued in on whatever this is—?” It was her turn to hang a statement with a question.

Mort shrugged and looked down at his Bally loafers. Still the unreconstructed shitkicker, she thought. God, he’s not wearing socks. It’s freezing and he’s not wearing socks.

“The truth is, we’re short three-quarters of a mil.”

“You’re
what?”
Wetzon’s voice rose over Sam’s musical recital.

“Shsh! Keep your voice down.” Mort sneaked a look around over each shoulder, then adjusted the contents of his jockeys in full view of everyone. That, too, hadn’t changed. It was like a nervous tic. “You see, Dilla had a guy who was giving her the check today after the run-through.”

“‘Show Her Your Hot .45,’” Sam sang, pounding away. There was nothing melodic about the comedy patter song, at least not the way Sam was playing it. The spot over Wetzon’s right eye began to hammer. A raging migraine was in the offing.

“Why wouldn’t you still be able to get the money from him? Just talk to him—”

Mort was looking at her with actual pity in his eyes for her stupidity. “He was Dilla’s investor.”

“So? Spell it out for me, Mort. I’m not too bright.”

“She was keeping his name to herself. You know Dilla. Someone who owed her, she said.”

“Jesus, Dilla was a piece of work.” Wetzon shivered and hugged herself, rubbing her arms to keep warm. “Maybe he’ll make himself known.”

“Not bloody likely. And we can’t wait. We’ve got only enough left to get us to Boston. We have a decent advance for the first two weeks, but if the reviews aren’t good and business falls off the last week, we’re dead. You must know somebody.”

Wetzon thought, I do know somebody, and I’ll go straight to hell for this, bringing poor old Twoey into the theatre. On the other hand, I may be doing everyone a favor, and then I’ll get to heaven. So she said, “I may know somebody, Mort. He’s been a partner with a big Wall Street firm, and he’s going through a midlife crisis. The poor fool wants to be a Broadway producer.” In reality, Twoey’s crisis had been triggered by Smith’s dumping him the year before for the notorious and flamboyant criminal attorney, Richard Hartmann. Devastated, Twoey had taken a leave of absence from Rosenkind Luwisher and was determined to change his life.

“Leslie, darling!” Mort grabbed her elbows and lifted her off her feet. “You’re a sweetheart! Who is he? When can I meet him?”

The guiding principle of her partner Xenia Smith flashed in front of Wetzon’s eyes in bright red neon: NO FREEBEES.

Well, maybe in this instance Smith was right. While Dilla was already getting billing as associate producer, Wetzon knew damn well Dilla would also have demanded points—percentage points—of the producer’s share of the profits of the show. George Abbott, the legendary Broadway director, had maintained actors would always go for billing over money. Give ‘em billing, he’d advised. And he was right. Because it’s fame they’re after. But, Dilla had given up acting long ago. No doubt she would have preferred the money.

Leslie Wetzon, ex-actor and Wall Street headhunter, didn’t give a hoot about billing; she, too, would rather have the money. And as producers were extremely protective about points because points always came out of their piece of the profits, she would have to pry points out of Mort. She would do it with relish.

“Reprise!” Sam shouted.

“You’d better put me down, Mort,” Wetzon said to the top of his suede cap. “We have to talk seriously.”

“Sure, darling.” He set her on her feet and straightened her clothing for her, fussing. “What?”

She squelched a giggle. “I’m going to introduce you to someone who will put up the money you need ... on the condition that you let him hang around and learn.”

“Done! You’re—”

“And
I want a finder’s fee.”

“Leslie—” Mort put his hand on his breast and looked pained.

“Come on, Mort. You were giving Dilla points, weren’t you?”

“That was different.”

“Why?”

“She was working on the show. But okay. We’ll work it out. Set up a meeting.” He looked at his watch.

“First act finale. Everyone on stage,” Sam called to a void. He’d lost it.

“Two percent, Mort. I want two percent of the gross from day one.”

“Leslie, goddammit—”

“Deal, Mort?”

He shook his head in disbelief. She’d obviously wounded him to the quick. “You’ve gotten hard, Leslie.... Two percent of the net, after payback.”

“One percent of the gross from day one.”

“You’re holding me up.” She was silent. He sighed. “Very well. One percent of the gross.”

“From day one.” He nodded. “Deal,” she said, extending her hand. Peripherally, she could see Carlos was still dancing a morose funereal ballet.

“Second act opening!” Sam yelled.

“Okay, vampire. Dilla’s not even cold yet.”

“Did I start this, Mort?” She was pissed and moved away.

He came after her. “Okay, okay, that was unfair of me ...”

“Lunch tomorrow, twelve-thirty at the Four Seasons.”

“Christ, the Four Seasons—”

“Be a sport, Mort.” She grinned at him, emphasizing the cheap rhyme. Then, she saw Aline in the wings about to bear down on them, and Wetzon faded back. She dropped her bag at the rear wall and fell into step with Carlos as if they were still dancing together. Slowly, she began to tease him into the old Fosse combinations, splayed fingers, small soft steps, moving long from the hipbones. He was wearing a gorgeous new watch. She caught his hand and inspected it. Carlos lifted his head and smiled at her, one of her Carlos’s dazzling smiles. “Present from Arthur. Cartier Panthere.”

“Snazzy.”

“Birdie, what would I do without you?”

“What would I do without you?”

They held each other for a long moment. Then she pulled back and looked at him. “Aline mentioned there was a meeting here last night.”

“Yeah.” His smile faded.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I went ballistic, that’s why. I left early.” He put his hand on her shoulders. His eyes glinted. “If I’d stayed here I might have been tempted to kill her.”

“Aline?”

“No,” Carlos said, his face grim. “Dilla.”

“Can we cut down on the noise, please! We’re going to start our interviews. Please be patient and we’ll get you out of here as quickly as possible.” Bernstein was out front leaning over the orchestra pit.

With five crashing chords, Sam concluded his bizarre recital and slumped on the keys, arms akimbo. He looked like some great damaged bird, downed.

The interruption drew Wetzon’s eyes from Carlos momentarily, then back. “What do you mean, you would have killed Dilla?”

Carlos looked wretched. “That’s the way I felt when I left here last night, Birdie. I wanted to put my hands around that scheming throat of hers and squeeze—” He grabbed Wetzon’s hand and pulled her into the wings, stage right. The stale, almost fruity smell of the closed theatre was more pervasive here. “The late great Killa Dilla was working on getting me fired. And my dear friends and collaborators were not exactly rushing to my defense. It seems her big secret investor was insisting on Gideon Winkler for choreographer. The bitch told Mort my work was totally derivative and was dragging down the show.” He turned his head away from her and blinked rapidly.

“Oh, baby.” Wetzon took him in her arms, her cheek against his. He had been her best friend since they’d first danced together. When he was hurting, she felt the pain. “And what, may I ask, did your dear collaborators say to that?”

“They hedged.”

“The wusses. And you say Wall Street is sleazy.”

“I told them to do whatever they pleased and, may I tell you, I breezed out of here. When I got home, I called Arthur—he’s been in Virginia since Thursday doing up a complicated trust thing—and we went over my contract carefully. Shit, I’m in good shape financially—they have to pay me or buy me out—but the creative part of me was taking a beating.”

“Show business!” Wetzon almost spat the words. She surprised herself with how bitter she sounded.

“Yeah, well, then Mort called me at twelve-thirty and said not to worry, that he loved me, that they all did, and they wouldn’t think of doing the show without me.”

“You’re kidding? What about Dilla and the phantom money guy?”

“Mort said he’d taken care of Dilla.”

“Huh?”

“Those were his very words.”

“Dear Mort always had a way with words, don’t you think?” Wetzon and Carlos smiled at each other.

“Mort would never have killed her.”

“How can you say that, Carlos? If I’ve learned one thing over these last few years, it’s that we are all capable of killing ... and if there’s a lot of pressure—”

“Not Mort, darling. He doesn’t have the balls.”

“Then what is he always shifting and stroking in his pants?” She couldn’t control the laughter that bubbled up and out. Nor, it seemed, could Carlos. It was suddenly unspeakably hilarious. But in the back of Wetzon’s mind she knew it wasn’t that funny. Four hundred feet from where they stood the police were combing the bloodstained mezzanine for any evidence that might reveal Dilla’s murderer.

And with Arthur away, Carlos had no alibi for last night.

“Where’s Miss Wesson? We’ll start with her.” Bernstein again.

Wetzon swallowed her laughter and choked, coughing. Carlos clapped her on the back. Laughter streamed through hands clasped over mouths. “Oh, God.” She was a whimpering wreck. “We’d better get straight.”

Carlos lowered one eyelid halfway. “Maybe you, Birdie, but not me.”

That was enough to set them off again.

“Miss Wesson?” A detective. A woman, but obviously a detective. How did she know? It was something Wetzon couldn’t quantify. Stance? Tone? Gestures?