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

“I can’t believe you and Alton are going to eat those scraps of food.”

“Alton’s in Caracas this week.”

Smith nodded sagely. “I might have guessed. You’ve gone back to being a church mouse.” The biscotti arrived with the espresso.

Wetzon dipped the tip of one of the biscotti into the espresso, and nibbled it. “Sublime.”

Sudden inspiration shone on Smith’s face. “You know, she could have been mugged. This city is being overwhelmed by derelicts. Lord, I wish Pat Buchanan would run for mayor of New York.”

“Oh yuk. Now you’ve really gone off the deep end. And what does Patrick Buchanan have to do with Dilla’s murder, may I ask?”

“Why are you being so difficult? I only meant that some derelicts could be sleeping in empty theatres.”

“Possibly.”

“So what’s going to happen with the show?”

“I don’t know. They’re supposed to open in Boston next Saturday.”

“Will the cops let them?”

“We’re talking about a Mort Hornberg show, darling,” Wetzon drawled. “Mort’s an institution. He has but to pick up the phone and call his senator, the mayor, the attorney general, the district attorney. It’ll be tricky, but mark me, they’ll go to Boston. The only thing that could stop them really is the three-quartets of a mil they need to cover road costs, and I may have taken care of that.” Should she tell Smith about Twoey?

“You?” Smith burbled, “We’ll have the check, dear,” to the waiter when he asked if they wanted anything else.

“Mort asked me to see if I could come up with an investor, and I may have. I’ve arranged for them to have lunch tomorrow at the Four Seasons with me as chaperone and agent.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, Smith said, with dangerous calm, “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it. You would have been proud if you’d heard me negotiate my share.”

“Your share?” Smith looked as if the marvelous biscotti had turned to ashes in her mouth.

“Yes.” It was hard for Wetzon not to feel smug, and finally she gave up trying.

“When did this happen?”

“While we were waiting to be interviewed by the police. I had a good teacher, partner,” she quipped.

Smith smiled, pleased. “Who did you get? I didn’t know you knew people who invest in the theatre. Every fool knows it’s like throwing your money into a bottomless pit.”

“Yes. Maybe. But the person I set up with Mort is much more interested in learning the business, and he’s willing to pay three-quarters of a mil for the privilege.” She’d called Twoey, Smith’s previous lover, from the theatre before coming uptown to meet Smith for dinner. “And then, of course, losses in the theatre can be offset against ordinary income.”

“Well, very nice,” Smith said grudgingly. “What did you work out for yourself?”

“One percent of the box office gross from day one.”

“That’s not such a big deal.”

“It is if the show grosses $600,000 a week, which is what it can do at capacity.”

“Humpf. Who’s your investor?”

Wetzon paused. Smith would have a fit. Smith always felt that even if she ended an affair, all of her ex-lovers still belonged to her. “Goldman Barnes Two.”

“Twoey?” Smith’s voice rose. “You can’t mean that!”

“Oh, but I can.”

“Well,” Smith said ungraciously. ‘I should get a piece of that. After all, Twoey was—”

Putting as much starch in her voice as she could muster on short notice, Wetzon said, “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Smith.”

“I was only kidding, sweetie.”

Wetzon watched her cautiously. What was she up to? Then she thought:
This is wrong. We’re partners, and I have no right to act alone
. “I was kidding. We’ll go fifty-fifty on this.”

Smith smiled her Cheshire cat smile. “Imagine, Twoey a Broadway producer.” Her smile became radiant. “Mark will be thrilled. He just loves the Theatre. Maybe we can arrange an internship for him.”

“Maybe. I’ll talk to Mort.” Wetzon was particularly fond of Smith’s seventeen-year-old son, Mark, and knew the boy was enamoured of the Theatre. She would see what she could do.

“No,” Smith said. “I will.”

“You?”

“Yes.” She nodded emphatically. “I may be interested in making a little investment myself.”

“But—”

“So I’ll just be joining you three for lunch tomorrow.”

When Wetzon unlocked the door to her apartment and pushed it open, she had the strange sensation that she had opened the wrong door.
Chez
Wetzon was still
chez
Wetzon, but the environment was radically different, thanks to Louise Armstrong, contractor extraordinaire.

It had been Louie who had persuaded Wetzon to knock down instead of replaster the wall between the living and dining rooms. Now, the foyer extended, even swelled, into the living-dining room. The whole area had a decided loftlike personality. Sweeping, open space.

Her barre had been restored, along with the mirrored wall between the dining area and her bedroom, and although Louie had found her a wonderful old coromandel screen, all red lacquer and long-legged cranes, Wetzon used it for decoration behind a love seat rather than as a space divider. She had no desire to cut into the exultation she felt whenever she realized this was her home.

It was like coming to terms with being grown up.

The antique Muller Freres chandelier with the blue and yellow globes was still hanging from the ceiling in the foyer, and the centennial sunburst quilt was still mounted behind her sofa. But the drunkard’s path quilt had lost its wall in the foyer and had been moved to the space between the living room windows and the former dining room windows.

Wetzon had splurged on a Stickley dining table and six chairs, thanks to the placement late last year of a broker whose gross came to two and a half million dollars, the biggest placement she had ever made. In fact, she had gone overboard on mission furniture, adding a rocker, side tables, and a love seat with lots of slats, and three different sizes of footstools.

She switched on all the table lamps and let the ambiance creep into her pores. Earth colors. Nothing sharp or alien. She hung her coat from the doorknob, spreading its skirt out on the floor to dry. The rain had changed to sleet, back to rain and back again to sleet. There was a chill in the apartment, and she turned the radiator on to bring up the heat.

Ambiance or no, she still felt edgy as she toured her apartment, turning on radiators in each room. Dilla’s murder, then dealing with Smith, had taken their toll. Her nerves were raw.

Oh, hell, she thought. She stripped down to her leggings and bodysuit and kicked off her low boots. The barre beckoned and she responded, first putting the
Goldberg Variations
cassette in the boom box. She began with
battements tendus,
going from
simples
to
grandes jetés
, until she felt her equilibrium returning. It was so lovely that her body still responded to the movements.

Gathering up her sweater and boots from where she’d dropped them, she went down the short hall to her bedroom and put everything away.

Her bedroom had also been totally renovated and redecorated so that it looked as if it had been lifted from an English country house. She had taken Alton with her when she bought everything, but he had never seen the final version. For whatever reason she was not quite able to give words to, she spent their weekends together at Alton’s apartment in the Beresford on Eighty-first Street and weekdays solo in her very private space.

She had been seeing Alton Pinkus exclusively for the last eight months, and he seemed satisfied with their relationship, now that Silvestri was out of the picture. At least, he wasn’t pushing her to make any further commitment, which was fine.

Mirrors told her that time was marching on, but she pretended not to hear. Let Smith worry for the two of them. Alton was twenty years older than Wetzon. He had three grown children and had been a widower for five years. Although retired, he had a hefty pension and investments and because of his expertise in the American labor movement, he was constantly called on to consult, particularly since the breakup of the Soviet Union. His celebrity had even spilled over onto her, and she’d found she liked it.

After a hot shower and a cold rinse, Wetzon wrapped her head in a hand towel, her body in a huge bath sheet, and went into the kitchen to check her phone messages. Two. She played them back. Carlos. Detective Morgan Bernstein.

Carlos answered on the first ring.

“God, were you sitting on the phone?”

“Close. Birdie—”

“How are you—” They’d spoken at the same time and both stopped. “I’m sorry—”

Carlos said, “In answer to your question, I don’t know. I needed to talk. I went up with Bernstein and his shadow to talk to Susan Orkin—”

“Susan Orkin? What does she have to do with this? The only Susan Orkin I know is the one that’s married to our handsome, somewhat retarded Congressman Greg Orkin.”

“Was.”

“Was?”

“Was
married. Remember when Greg came out of the closet six or seven years ago?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it turned out that Susan and Dilla had been lovers since high school.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope. They’ve been living together almost six years.”

“I don’t know why that should surprise me. I always knew Dilla was gay—or at the very least, AC/DC.”

“Let me tell you, she wasn’t anything but gay,” Carlos said. “Everything else was for profit. She fucked men only to get ahead.”

Wetzon giggled. “I’m certainly glad I didn’t say that.”

“And you say I’m bad.” But the spark was missing. Carlos sounded so depressed.

“I’m sorry, Carlos. My reaction to Dilla’s murder has been weird, even for me. My mind keeps making jokes.”

Carlos sighed. “No, you’re all right. It’s me. I’m bone weary.”

“When does Arthur get home?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Do you want me to come over and give you a big hug and spend the night?”

“Yes, but no. It’s just the reaction to the shock, I guess. Susan took it very hard. She’s sort of fragile, I think, or maybe it’s just that she looks fragile, you know. She’s got that kind of transparent skin you can see blue veins through. All I could think was, if anything happened to Arthur—”

“Oh, Carlos. I’m coming over right now.”

“No! Get some sleep. I love you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He hung up before she could say another word.

Wetzon stared at the receiver in her hand, then cradled it. She padded back to the bathroom and hung up the wet towels. Deep sadness enveloped her, and she tried only half-heartedly to shake it off. She slathered herself in moisturizers and combed her hair, peering into the mirror, fingertips seeking and finding the tiny indentation just above her hairline. Her hair had grown back around it, but she would never comb her hair again without remembering the searing light, the explosion, the smell of cordite. Her shudder was involuntary. She was freezing.

In the bedroom she began opening drawers, looking for a nightgown and came up with an old T-shirt, this one with a V-neck—one of Silvestri’s that she’d appropriated. She pulled it on and got into bed. A minute later she was back in the living room turning all the lights out. She double-locked the door and got back into bed. Her clock said ten-thirty. She was exhausted. Reaching up, she turned out the light, and lay in the soft darkness, easing herself into sleep.

The phone rang, jerking her out of that sliding-into-feather-bed sensation, and her hand shook as she reached out and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Ms. Wesson,” Bernstein said, almost jovially. “Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“You’re not.” She’d be damned if she’d let him know he’d caught her just as she was drifting off. “What do you want?”

“Don’t you believe in returning phone calls?”

“Don’t start with me, Bernstein.”

“That’s what I like about you, lady. You get right to the point.”

“What is the point, Detective?” She hated this cat-and-mouse thing he instigated.

“We found Dilla Crosby’s raincoat and umbrella on a table on the side of the stage where you and Carlos Prince were standing.”

“We were standing in the wings, Detective, stage right.”

“Yeah. But we know she always carried a big handbag, and that we haven’t found. You didn’t by any chance see it?”

Wetzon closed her eyes and saw the area where she and Carlos had stood talking.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“One second, Detective. I’m trying to remember. On the stage manager’s table, I remember seeing a raincoat—a Burberry, I think—and an umbrella —it was wet—and ...” She opened her eyes and stared into the darkness.

“And what, Ms. Wesson?”

“And a large, black leather bag.”

“So maybe you know what happened to it,” Bernstein said amiably.

“How would I? Detective Gross came for me and I never saw it again. Are you sure it wasn’t just put away for safekeeping?”

“Hardly. Are
you
sure you saw it?”

“Yes.” She was emphatic. “I’m sure Carlos saw it, too. We were both right there.”

“He didn’t see it.”

“What?”

“I just got finished talking to him, and he says he didn’t see it.”

“He must—”
Shut your mouth, Wetzon.
“I guess I could have been mistaken. We were both very upset.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“Excuse me?”

“Detective Gross tells me you were laughing up a storm.”

“We were under a lot of stress.” Wetzon measured her words. “Detective Gross misunderstood.”

“Did she really? Then I’ll say good night to you, Ms. Wesson.” He leaned on the
Ms.

Wetzon lay still for what seemed like a long time after her conversation with Bernstein, replaying her stream of memory. Dilla’s bag had been on the desk when Detective Gross had come for her. She was sure of that. And there weren’t that many people on stage and in the wings. Mort Hornberg, Gerry Schoenfeld. The woman with Mort, whom she didn’t know. Aline Rose and body-beautiful Edward, probably. Sam Meidner. JoJo Diamond.