A Cat in the Wings: (InterMix) (4 page)

Chapter 6

It was dark when I got home. I felt as if I hadn’t seen my own apartment in days.

There were only a few pebbles left in the cats’ dry food bowl, so I rushed to open their favorite smelly entrée. But all in all, the beasts were not at all happy about eating a midnight supper. Finally they quieted down, forgave me.

I sat down heavily on the sofa. Well, Lucia was in jail. As crazy as that sounded, it was true. Her attorney was still at the station house.

Then I remembered my visitor from what seemed like last week: Tony. I spotted the message on a ripped-out piece of note paper he’d taped to the front door. I went over to retrieve it.

Swede: The only thing you’re too old for is celibacy. And too beautiful. Staying at the Pickwick Arms. Wish they were yours.

Basillio

I knew of that hotel. It was a reasonably priced one on East Fifty-first that catered for the most part to South American tourists.

Holding the note, I sat back on the sofa. Bushy leaped up beside me. We both watched Pancho fly around my legs twice and disappear into the kitchen.

The events of the day had unhinged me. How could all this be happening? Prim and proper Lucia in jail, accused of murder. A gun found taped under her desk at work—
taped
there, something out of a gritty
policier
. I knew that she hadn’t done anything wrong, but it was just as disturbing to think that someone might be trying to frame her for the murder.

After a few minutes I took an appraising look around the apartment. There was a little picking up to be done; I should sort the laundry and do a dozen other little domestic chores, but I couldn’t focus on them now. On one of the chairs, in a light green binder, was a script I’d tossed there the other day and then promptly put out of my mind. My agent had described it as a black comedy, written, he said, by a woman in New Hampshire who was willing to put her own money into the production.

I drifted over to the chair and distractedly picked the thing up. The title was
The Bitches of Endor
. I leafed through it halfheartedly. A three-woman cast. All three are inmates at a posh mental hospital called “Endor.” One is bulemic. One paranoid. And the third, a catatonic who makes bizarrely choreographed gestures and lurches.

Ah, yes. The stuff of raucous hilarity. The typical Nestleton vehicle. Was it something I wanted to do? I didn’t know. All I could do was just stare at the words, just pass the time—it was like mental knitting. My head was somewhere else—at the ballet, in Lucia’s apartment, at the precinct house, where old iron bars threw shadows across Lucia’s lovely face. The vowels on the page seemed grotesquely familiar. They seemed to remind me of the hole in Peter Dobrynin’s forehead.

I don’t know how long I would have sat turning the pages of that script if the telephone hadn’t sounded. It was very late for anyone to be calling me. I hoped it wouldn’t be horrible news.

The caller was Frank Brodsky, Lucia’s attorney. I asked how she was faring.

“She’ll be all right,” he assured me. “We’ll have her out on bail by morning.”

Then he requested that I come to his office tomorrow, saying that the Maury family would very much appreciate my help. Of course, I agreed immediately.

Frank Brodsky’s office was in a beautiful whitestone building in the east eighties, half a block off Central Park. I rang the bell, was buzzed in, and saw the elderly white-haired man standing at the top of a circular staircase.

“This way, Miss Nestleton.”

Up I climbed. Finally we were face-to-face, shaking hands. He was much shorter than I, but still presented an imposing picture. He was meticulously dressed in a charcoal pin-striped suit and moiré silk tie with a ruby stickpin. High above us, the sun streamed in through skylights.

Mr. Brodsky ushered me past his secretary and into an exquisite room that served as a study. On the walls were breathtaking Hudson River School paintings—paradisiacal glades and ravines and gorges. Even with my complete lack of expertise, I could tell they were the genuine article. It reminded me of the tea party I’d once attended in the garden of a wealthy widow’s townhouse; I knew in an instant that the sculpture near the nasturtiums was a
real
Rodin—you just know.

We sat down at a brilliantly high-polished table. On it were china cups and saucers and a silver coffee server filled with heady French roast. Brodsky poured for both of us, also offering me a basket of miniature rolls and marmalade. I was a little hungry, but felt I ought to decline. Wealth, power—what, stuffiness?—can have that effect on a person.

“This whole . . .
situation
is just terrible for Lucia,” he began. “You and I know the charges are false. Absurd, Miss Nestleton. And we know how greatly our friend is suffering. But the fact is, if, after the ballistics tests are performed, the weapon that killed Mr. Dobrynin is proved to be the same one found in Lucia’s office . . . Well, I’m afraid the grand jury will surely indict.”

He sipped his coffee. “As you know, Miss Nestleton, the Maurys are quite well off.”

I nodded, a little embarrassed for some reason.

“The family has empowered me with absolute discretion in defending Lucia. We need an investigator who can devote complete attention to this . . . situation. Now, I’ve heard that you have some experience in matters such as these.”

“Yes.”

“And I’ve heard also that, while you are a brilliantly accomplished actress, you have difficulty obtaining parts that are . . . ah . . . on your level. So that you have started a practice of . . . of . . . caring for other people’s animals, their cats, specifically.”

I laughed at his convoluted, patronizing, but ultimately kind way of telling me that he knew I was perpetually broke.

“I am so sorry,” he said, his face wreathed with concern. “Have I offended you?”

“Not at all, Mr. Brodsky.”

“Good. Well. Will you accept the assignment?”

“Of course.”

“That’s just fine. Lucia will be much relieved.”

“Tell me, Mr. Brodsky. What, exactly, are my instructions?”

He folded his hands in front of his face, thumbs touching, as if to convey his pensiveness. That moth-eaten gesture would have invited a torrent of invective from any good director.

“You know, Miss Nestleton, I am now semi-retired. Most of the work I do these days involves trusts and estates. But I did have my share of excitement in the criminal area as a younger attorney. Believe it or not, I once defended Meyer Lansky in a tax-evasion case.” He sat up a little straighter. “Mr. Lansky was acquitted, I might add. But I am rambling. What I meant to say is that when I used investigators on a case, I found that specific instructions to them were counterproductive. That is, it was best to give the investigator free reign to explore the case. I assume that a trusted investigator is both professional and wise, and will penetrate to the heart of the matter.”

“Heart?”

“Yes, the heart of the matter: Who murdered Peter Dobrynin? That is what you must find out. It is ultimately the best defense against a murder indictment of Lucia Maury.”

He pulled open a drawer then and removed a slip of paper. He used one finger to push it across to me. I stared at the check, drawn on a Delaware bank and signed in an illegible hand. It had been made out to me—in the amount of five thousand dollars.

I was speechless for a moment. In an elaborate one-second fantasy I found the killer, paid all my debts, moved into Lucia’s building, endowed a small theater troupe, and zipped into Bendel’s to demand that the saleslady find and sell me that incredible two-hundred-and-forty-dollar straw hat with the linen flowers I’d salivated over last summer. I’d expected a token payment, perhaps. But surely everyone knew I would have wanted to help Lucia even if no money whatsoever had been involved, even if she had had less in the bank than I.

Mr. Brodsky obviously had faith in my professionalism, and I thanked him for it.

“Will you try one of these?” He motioned once more to the rolls in the wicker basket. “They’re from our favorite bakery. Really excellent.”

I looked at the rolls and the pot of marmalade.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Brodsky,” I said, “but I’m not hungry.”

Chapter 7

“What’s going on, Swede? You pick me up in a cab and whisk me here to glamour city. Since when can you afford this kind of restaurant?”

Basillio was hunched over, glaring at the people at the other tables. He may have been a little embarrassed at being underdressed. I had “whisked” him to a new, hyper-chic restaurant in the West Twenties. Nouvelle American, cum Southwestern, cum junk-bond traders was the way it had been described to me.

We were sipping our Zinfandel and inhaling the appetizer that had just arrived at the table—tiny braised scallops, each one covered with a dot of green paste and placed oh so artfully on the plate in a miniature forest of herbs. It was breathtaking. It cost seventeen fifty.

“Okay, Swede,” Tony said, fixing me with a smirk. “I got it all figured now. You swallowed your pride and finally took a part in a soap. And you just picked up the advance on your salary. Right? And realized at the same time that your recent coolness toward me is absurd. So now you’re trying to buy my affections. You’ve finally admitted you’re mad for my body—right? This is, plain and simple, a seduction dinner.”

“Wrong on all counts, buddy,” I said, after I’d ingested one of the scallops, which was pleasingly hot. “I have been retained to investigate the murder of Peter Dobrynin.”

He stared at me incredulously. “You mean that crazy—the dancer who was shot over the holidays?”

“Yes.”

“Why you?”

“I was there at the ballet when it happened—Christmas Eve. And an old friend, Lucia Maury, is about to be charged with the murder. Unless I can turn up something to clear her.”

“Lucia . . .” Tony turned the name over on his tongue. “I don’t know her, do I?”

“You may have met her once at my apartment, years ago. When I was living on the West Side.”

I then told him all that had transpired: finding the body . . . the search of Lucia’s apartment . . . the gun taped under her desk . . . my meeting with the lawyer Frank Brodsky.

He finished the scallops one by one, fastidiously, as he listened.

“And you want my help with the investigation?”

“Yes, Tony, I do. I think you ought to take a rest from seducing those young actresses . . . for reasons of health.”

He laughed and finished his wine. An emaciated young waiter started toward the table to refresh our glasses, but Tony waved him off and did the job himself.

“I also thought,” I said, “you might be able to use half of my fee—twenty-five hundred dollars. Less, of course, what this silly meal is going to cost me.”

He stared at me slyly. “Now, isn’t that odd, Swede? In fact, I
am
in a bit of a financial bind. The character who bought the copy shops from me seems to be going belly-up. That means the notes he gave me will probably turn out to be worth about ten cents on the dollar after the bankruptcy court finishes with him. And I’m two months behind on child support; my ex is threatening me with a long prison term. Plus, that Brecht production at the University of Texas at Austin, which has all kinds of grant money, is not going to use me. So twenty-five hundred for my body seems reasonable.”

“Not your body, Tony, your brain.”

“Six of one . . .” he let his voice trail off.

We had delayed ordering our main courses. But now the time was at hand. Tony called for a spicy stew of wild rabbit. I ordered brook trout with dirty rice and peppers.

We continued to drink while we waited for the food.

“I’ve got to be honest, Swede. I’m not a big ballet fan.”

“Irrelevant,” I assured him. “It’s a murder investigation, Tony. Not a culture quiz.”

“It’s not that I dislike ballet, mind you. On the contrary. I love it.”

“I think you’ve lost me, Tony. The logic of that escapes me.”

“I’m not surprised, Watson. I’m a very subtle guy. Look—the last ballet I saw was about seven years ago. My wife had friends who used to take us. We saw Antony Tudor’s
Dark Elegies
. You ever catch it, Swede?”

“No.”

“Well, it was mesmerizing. I was totally overwhelmed. Literally the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And as I watched it, I realized I was seeing the absolute definition of beauty. The music. The steps. The scenery. The mix. And then, as I sat there watching this gorgeous thing, I began to loathe myself. Because I had to admit that I could never in my life, under any circumstances, even approximate the intensity and scope of what was going on on that stage. I loved it as much as I’ve ever loved anything that happened on a stage. But it made me profoundly depressed. Like I said, it made me loathe myself. So I never went again.”

Like most of Tony’s exegeses, this was a bit much. And like all of his explanations, it held a kernel of shining truth—maybe.

We were both hungry. So when the food arrived we fell upon it and ate in happy, lusty silence. Everything was excellent. We mopped up the good juices left on our plates using hunks of (very inventive) sourdough with flecks of jalapeno. Yes, it was all excellent, we agreed a little grudgingly—even the chairs and the table and the low-key Georgia O’Keeffe colors, even the track lighting, which I usually hate—it was all excellent—and expensive as hell.

When we’d finished our desserts—I couldn’t pass up the Bananas Foster and Tony had the Mexican chocolate soufflé, then we switched—we ordered coffee and brandy. We sat back in our chairs and looked around at the other diners, soaking up the ambience of the place because we knew we’d never be back here again.

Then I had to turn to serious matters. I told him what would happen next. “I want you to go to the Performing Arts library tomorrow. I’ll get over to the Mid-Manhattan. What I need is a biography of Peter Dobrynin.”

“You mean somebody wrote one?”

“No, no. I mean we have to construct one. The Mid-Manhattan Library has all the back issues of
The New York Times
on microfiche—all the news magazines, too. What you’re going to do is go through the back issues of the dance journals. We need any and all information that will help us to flesh out the obituary.”

“I’m with you, Swede. Know the character before you interpret the role. In other words, prepare.”

“Exactly. And we’ll meet tomorrow evening at that place on Seventy-second. You know, the one near West End.”

“Right. At about seven?”

The check came then. Involuntarily, I whooped. And then I sneezed.

***

I spent seven heady hours at the library, armed with a large yellow legal pad and three ballpoints with different colors of ink.

There were hundreds of Dobrynin references in the various indexes. And why not? After all, he had been a star once, in the truest sense. But information on his life—other than the roles he had danced and the parties he had attended and the women he had bedded or been seen with—was very scarce.

When I arrived at the All-State Café, Tony was already there. He was seated at a table, not at the bar, and he seemed to be flushed, oddly excited.

“Research turns you on, Mr. Basillio?” I inquired, joining him and asking the waitress for a Bloody Mary without ice.

“Swede,” he said, his eyes bright, “ballet critics are mad as hatters. Real perfume-on-the-handkerchief stuff. Know what I mean? They make drama critics sound like minimalists. Just listen to this effete, mumbly-mouthed crap. It’s a description of Dobrynin by a critic who caught one of his early appearances in
Swan Lake
. Just listen!”

He flipped open his pad and read in mock-stentorian tone:

“‘Dobrynin was a revelation. The other male dancers displayed a pervasively forced tone that misconstrued energetic presentation for one-note pushiness. The gifted Dobrynin, however, danced like no one else onstage, gliding through long, lean, and fine
tours jetés
, and spiraling through pirouettes that stopped and finished and posed in buoyant fourth-position lunge. His moves are effortlessly silken; those of his fellow dancers, contrastingly hidebound. Fine-boned nearly to the point of slightness, powerful in his exquisite musicality, he is also blessed with a face so handsome it seems to be painted on porcelain.’ ”

Tony paused, his face gleeful from the recitation. “Wait! There’s more. There’s one other sentence that you must hear, Swede.” He searched frantically through his notes, then came up with what he’d been seeking:

“‘Dobrynin’s only visible weakness during this performance was that it was obvious his double
tours en l’air
were less than secure.’ ”

Exhausted, Tony collapsed back in his seat.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself so much, Tony.”

“It’s priceless stuff, Swede. Priceless.”

I remained silent, letting his macho energy exhaust itself. Maybe on another day I’d point out to Tony that what he’d just read sounded far from “mad” to me. In fact, it had been a great deal more to the point than a lot of the twaddle we’d both read about the theater.

“Hmmm, yes,” I murmured in agreement. “Now, tell me, did you get any
facts
, Tony? Which is why you were there. Have any of
those
to quote?”

“A few.”

Over drinks and hamburgers and shared French fries, we traded what we’d each learned that day. We went back and forth, trying to reconstruct a simple resumé of the main facts of Peter Dobrynin’s life.

What we came up with was more or less this:

Dobrynin’s father had emigrated from Russia to England in the 1920s. He married an American woman and then returned to live in Russia for many years as a translator for the British consulate in Leningrad. Peter, as a child, was sent to the Kirov ballet school, and became the first foreign national to be invited to join that most distinguished company.

When the family was transferred back to England, Peter danced for a while with the Royal Ballet before coming to America.

He lived in Manhattan for several years before he began his meteoric rise. And that sudden infusion of money and fame obviously unhinged—deranged—him.

Finishing his coffee, Tony ordered a brandy and said: “Well, we did a very creditable job, I think. You’ve got your bio.”

“Not really. An aborted bio, maybe.”

“In what way?”

“The three years prior to the murder are a cipher. Did Dobrynin really become a derelict? What happened to him? He knew dozens of wealthy people. If he was in trouble, why not go to them for help? Were there any warning signs that he was not just a carouser and a womanizer but an emotionally disturbed man? Who knew him best? All his fears, his intimate thoughts, his secrets, assuming he had any. You see what I mean? Dobrynin wasn’t a riveter who lost his job and had to go on welfare because he could no longer support his family. There’s got to be a very special story behind his winding up on that balcony with matted hair and no shoes.”

“Well, yeah,” Tony said. “All that’s missing. But you don’t expect to find that kind of stuff in the library, right? You find that out from people who knew him.”

“Agreed, Tony. Very much agreed. That’s why you and I are going to visit Lucia tomorrow. We’ve got to dig a little deeper. People usually know things they don’t even know they know.”

“Murderers make me nervous, Swede.”

“That isn’t funny!” I retorted angrily. “Lucia is
not
a murderer!”

“Okay, okay! Calm down, Miss Sherlock! You know I’ll do anything . . . say anything . . . to get you to hold my hand.”

I stared deeply at him then, thinking so many thoughts about crazy Basillio, worrying about him, too. Once again, I was astonished at the notion that he and I had actually been lovers. Oh, there was a lot I planned to tell him—and soon. But not now.