A Motive For Murder (10 page)

“That was Andrew Perkins?” Auntie Lil asked.

Silverstein nodded. “Yeah. Came out of the Metro
School, too. I tried to sign him along with Bobby, but that bastard
Cy Cohen beat me to it. He’d represented the kid in some minor
roles. I lost out again about four years later when Morgan wouldn’t
renew his contract with me. His parents decided to manage him
themselves. Spent all his money, is what I heard. By the time the
kid left the show, he didn’t have much left. Enough to get through
college is all. Violated the law, but what are you going to do?
Throw your own parents in jail? They died a couple years later
anyway. Car wreck.”

“Yet Bobby Morgan turned around and did the same
thing to his own son,” Auntie Lil pointed out. “When he took over
managing his career.”

Myron Silverstein stared at her. “I definitely would
not say that Bobby Morgan did the same thing. His parents may have
robbed him blind, but Bobby Morgan was a great agent for his kid.
Listen, I know what they say in the press. That Morgan was greedy,
that he was reliving his career through Mikey, that he was a real
...uh, backbreaker. Producers hated him. Directors hated him.
Everyone hated him. That’s mostly true. But he was a damn fine
agent and a smart manager of his kid’s career. Mikey Morgan gets
more per picture than any other child star in the history of
Tinseltown. And why shouldn’t he? He’s a living, breathing gold
mine for the studios. If his father hadn’t been related to him or
been labeled a failed child star himself, people would be singing
his praises and lining up to be his other clients. I can’t fault
Bobby professionally.” As he leaned forward and examined the cigar,
Auntie Lil fervently hoped that he would not actually put the soggy
lump in his mouth. “He was pretty good as a kid actor, too,”
Silverstein added. “He made that sitcom stand out from the other
crap on television. It’s a shame he grew up to be so awkward, but
that happens, you know. All part of the business.”

“How did he take it when the sitcom got dropped?”
Auntie Lil asked. “It was a long time ago, but it could be relevant
to his murder.”

Silverstein shrugged. “Not good. He knew his acting
days were over. Hollywood and television can be pretty cruel to
kids, even the stars, when they outgrow their cuteness. But Bobby
knew it was coming. Same thing had happened to Perkins, the kid who
played his older brother. He’d been written out of the show a
couple years before. And the same thing happened to the girl who
played his little sister once the show was canned. She made one
unsuccessful movie before she developed these huge kazankas for her
age. And her career as a kid actor was over.”

“Do you know what he did between the time his show
was dropped and he became known as his son’s manager?” Auntie Lil
asked. The missing pieces of Bobby Morgan’s life intrigued her. She
wondered if the clue to his murder lay somewhere in those forgotten
years.

Silverstein shook his head. “Not really. Lived in
California for a while, I heard. Married a girl when he was too
young. Didn’t work out. Tried to get some acting jobs. No dice.
Tried producing. Tubed out. Married again. That broke up a couple
of years ago. Every now and then he’d call the kid who played his
little sister and touch base. I tried for years to get her another
acting job and she’d always let me know about it whenever she heard
from Bobby.”

“What about Perkins? Did they keep in touch?”

The agent shrugged. “Doubt it. They didn’t get along.
Perkins never got over not getting the lead.”

“Does he live in California now, too?”

Silverstein shook his head. “Naw. I think he lives
here in New York somewhere. Heard he became a broker or a banker or
some sort of Wall Street exec. He got married and divorced same as
Morgan. No surprise there. Professional casualties, that’s what I
call old child stars. Life never gets easier once you’re done as a
celebrity. Marriages fail, people forget you, they get angry that
you’ve changed, dreams die out…” His voice trailed off sadly and
Auntie Lil was struck by what seemed to be genuine compassion in
his voice for his former clients. “Some of ‘em can’t take it. They
end it early, know what I mean?”

Auntie Lil nodded, though she felt strongly that
Bobby Morgan had not hanged himself in the middle of a peformance
of
The Nutcracker
although, god knows, she’d had the impulse
a few times herself. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted
to kill Bobby Morgan?” she asked Silverstein.

His mouth dropped open again. “You’re kidding, right?
Because that particular A list would be a long one. Start with the
heads of all three major studios, throw in a couple of producers, a
financial jerk or two.” He stopped and raised his eyebrows
thoughtfully. “But you might look into a guy named Gene Levitt.
Morgan pulled his kid from a movie Levitt was making after the
contracts had been signed. This was about two months ago. Without
Mikey Morgan, Levitt lost his backing. And his shirt. Word is that
his company is going under. He lost millions in preproduction
expenses because of Morgan. I’d say that’s a pretty damn good
motive for murder.”

“How could Morgan pull his son out of a movie after
the contracts had been signed? Isn’t that illegal?”

“Sure.” Silverstein’s snort was sympathetic. “But
what is Levitt going to do? Sue? He hasn’t got a dime left. No
lawyer will touch him because there’s a good chance they’ll never
get paid. Morgan had millions to fight him on it in court. And they
always come up with some reason they can point to as legitimate for
breaking the contract.”

“But that’s not fair!” Auntie Lil said
indignantly.

“Hey, it’s a shark pit out there. Kill or be
killed.”

“Well, someone took that advice a little too
literally for my tastes,” Auntie Lil informed him. She rose and
extended a white-gloved hand. “Thank you so much for your time, Mr.
Silverstein. You’ve been most helpful.”

“My pleasure.” He smiled, revealing yellowed teeth as
he reached toward the bloated cigar remnant.

Auntie Lil fled the office quickly. The smell of
kitty litter and bourbon chased her all the way to the dingy
elevator.

 As she stood gazing at the menu in the window
of the
Stage Deli—
trying to decide which of the eatery’s
famous enormous sandwiches she should eat—she remembered something
Silverstein had said: Andrew Perkins had been Bobby Morgan’s costar
twenty years before. And the name of the ballerina who originally
replaced Fatima Jones was Julie Perkins. Could they be related? She
thought this possibility over. Why would Bobby Morgan do his old
rival a favor by making it possible for Perkins’s daughter to dance
the lead? And if Morgan had cleared the way for Julie Perkins to
take center stage, why would the girl’s father kill him in
retaliation? No, it didn’t make sense. Yet Silverstein said that
the Metro School was still considered an excellent training ground
for a performing career. And if Andrew Perkins was anything like
Bobby Morgan, perhaps he harbored dreams for his progeny as
well—and sent his daughter to Metro for the training.

There was only one way to find out. She’d have the
chopped chicken liver, bacon, and egg-salad combination on whole
wheat and then, refreshed and resolved, march right up to Perkins’s
front door and ask.

After lunch, she had to pull rank in the Metropolitan
Ballet’s business office in order to obtain Julie Perkins’s
address. But pulling rank had never bothered Auntie Lil. In fact,
it was one of the few times when she was capable of subtlety. While
the young secretary scurried to find the proper records for the
obviously important board member, Auntie Lil appropriated her phone
and called T.S. He answered on the first ring.

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

“Been?” he answered innocently. “Did you call?”

“This morning. Three times.”

“I was sleeping late,” he explained, although the
truth was that Herbert had been teaching him ballroom dancing.

“Nonsense, Theodore. You haven’t slept past eight
o’clock since you had the measles in 1952.”

T.S. resisted the urge to point out that she was the
main cause for that, but he held his tongue. “I am retired and
entitled to sleep in,” he said mildly.

She let this pass but filed it away for future
reference. Now she was certain that he was up to something that
excluded her, which positively rankled. Auntie Lil was of the
opinion that everything was her business, especially when it
involved her beloved Theodore.

“I may have a lead,” she explained. “But I am a
little uneasy about going it alone.”

 “Is this really Lillian Hubbert?” T.S. asked
with mock seriousness.

“Well, I am uneasy,” she said defensively. It
wouldn’t hurt to have Theodore along in case she ran into trouble,
a thought that occurred to her more and more often in her... well,
more advanced years. But he didn’t have to rub it in.

“What particular brand of trouble are you
contemplating?” he asked.

The secretary returned with Julie Perkins’s
enrollment card and handed it to Auntie Lil with an uneasy glance
at the telephone. Surely the old woman wasn’t making long distance
calls? The young girl left nervously and hovered on the other side
of the office, wondering when Auntie Lil would leave.

Auntie Lil examined the card carefully. “Remember
Bobby Morgan’s costar in
Mike and Me?
The one named Andrew
Perkins?”

“You and Herbert remembered him. I didn’t.”

“Julie Perkins has an ‘Andrew Perkins’ listed as the
person to contact in case of emergency on her Metropolitan Ballet
School enrollment card.” Auntie Lil turned the card over and read
further. “That’s odd,” she added. “No mother is listed.”

“You think it’s the same Andrew Perkins?” T.S.
asked.

“Of course it is,” Auntie Lil said. “And I’m going to
go talk to him.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” she replied. “Come with me?”

T.S. sighed. He could not, in good conscience,
refuse. And if he admitted the truth—that his feet hurt too much—
she’d ferret out his ballroom-dancing efforts. “I’ll meet you
there,” he promised. “Don’t try anything on your own.”

“Of course not,” she murmured sweetly. Getting her
own way always put Auntie Lil in a good mood.

Andrew and Julie Perkins lived in an expensive high
rise co-op a few blocks from Lincoln Center. It was one of a dozen
or so brick buildings that had risen around the cultural area in
the seventies and eighties. Purchase prices and rents were
exorbitant. As Auntie Lil waited in the lobby for T.S. to arrive,
she surveyed the marble floors and the squad of doormen, then
decided that Andrew Perkins must be doing pretty well to afford
such a home.

“Nice digs,” T.S. said, meeting her by the miniature
lobby waterfall. “He must have successfully revived his acting
career.”

“He doesn’t act anymore,” Auntie Lil explained.
“According to Morgan’s former agent, he works on Wall Street
now.”

“I should have known,” T.S. said piously,
conveniently ignoring the fact that he had spent thirty years on
Wall Street before retiring early at age fifty-five and leaving all
of the backbiting and obsession with profits behind.

Auntie Lil asked the doorman to ring the Perkins
apartment. She was willing to settle for either Perkins, but was
expecting the daughter or, perhaps, the unlisted mother. After all,
it was the middle of a Tuesday afternoon and she was sure Andrew
Perkins would be on the job. But, surprisingly, he was the one
home.

At first, he wouldn’t let them up. But when Auntie
Lil grabbed the house phone from the startled concierge and
explained her position on the Metro’s board, Perkins gave the okay
to show his visitors upstairs.

“Upstairs” was an understatement. The Perkins lived
on the forty-fourth floor and enjoyed a breathtaking view of the
Hudson River. A long plate-glass window ran along the side of a
large sunken living-room area. If Andrew Perkins had not been
standing in front of the window with an unhappy scowl on his face,
it would have been a lovely vista.

“What do you want?” he asked, waving reluctantly
toward a low seating arrangement that bordered the living room on
two sides. He remained standing, his gaunt figure made ghostlike by
the glare from the afternoon sun behind him. He was a tall man, yet
lacking in the grace that acceptance of his height would have
provided. He stooped, as if permanently tired. His blond hair was
thinning and brushed carelessly back from his forehead; the ends
were in need of a trim. His features did not match: his nose was
too broad for his thin lips and his small eyes looked lost in his
pale face. Yet his daughter, Julie, was beautiful.

T.S. noted that the apartment was as sparse and
orderly as his own. Hardwood floors gleamed beneath white rugs, the
furniture was modern with clean lines, and not a single magazine
marred the coffee table’s glossy surface. No ashtrays either. This
was a no-smoking home. All together, T.S. approved.

“I have been asked by the board to look into the
matter of Bobby Morgan’s death,” Auntie Lil explained.

“Why?” Perkins demanded, pacing in front of the
window and reaching for his shirt pocket, before stopping abruptly.
T.S. knew at once that the absence of ashtrays was probably part of
the man’s desperate attempts to stop smoking. “Can’t the police do
a good enough job on their own?”

Auntie Lil let a moment of silence pass. Just because
she had barged in unannounced was no reason to be curt. “I am sure
the police are making plenty of progress,” she said.

“Are they?” Perkins interrupted abruptly. “What have
they found out?”

“I don’t know,” Auntie Lil admitted, exasperated.
“It’s just that the board felt we should make an extra effort to
demonstrate our determination to get to the bottom of this
unfortunate occurrence. So they elected me.”