A Motive For Murder (26 page)

“How did you know about that?” Ruth asked. Her plate
of food arrived and she dug in with gusto. Two and a half beers had
stripped her of all assumed defenses and she was acting like a
young girl.

“I have my sources,” Auntie Lil said.

“I didn’t think it was fair and I told her so,” Ruth
said angrily. “She wants to ruin other people’s lives just because
she hates her own. But it didn’t matter in the end. The board voted
to keep you on. No one knew if you had anything to do with that
Reverend Hampton mess. Most of the people said that without any
proof, it was silly to even call a vote. Boy, was Lane mad. She
wanted to replace you on the board with someone else.”

“Who?” Auntie Lil asked curiously.

“Emili Vladimir,” Ruth explained. “She’s Rudy
Vladimir’s mother.”

“Emili Vladimir?” Auntie Lil repeated. “It seemed to
me that Lane didn’t like her when she interrupted the board meeting
the other day.”

“That was before Lane found out that Emili had been a
famous ballerina in Russia,” Ruth explained. “They’d never met
before. Now that Lane knows who Emili was, she wants to suck up to
her. Which shows you how little Lane really knows about ballet. If
she knew anything at all, she would have known who Emili was from
the start.”

 “When did she come up with the idea to replace
me with Emili Vladimir?” Auntie Lil asked.

“She said something like it would be better to have
Emili as a friend than as an enemy. I was sort of surprised that
Emili even wanted a seat on the board. I thought she was too busy
with the Freedom Ballet Company to care about us.”

“Freedom?” Auntie Lil asked. “I’ve seen them at the
Joyce Dance Theater. But they border on modern dance. Emili
Vladimir is associated with them?”

Ruth nodded. “She helped found it about six years
ago, but she mostly choreographs and teaches. She doesn’t like the
limelight. It was sort of a big deal, that the great Emili Vladimir
would turn her back on classical ballet. One of those nuances dance
people get all excited about. Hey, these are pretty good.” Ruth
gobbled down two more fried plantains.

Auntie Lil watched in alarm, wondering if she would
have to order another plate to satisfy her own preferred quota. “I
think I donate money to Freedom,” she said thoughtfully.

“Sounds like you donate money to everything,” Ruth
observed. “That’s another reason they wouldn’t throw you off the
board.”

“Money can be useful,” Auntie Lil admitted. “Very
useful, indeed.”

If Ruth had needed help returning to her office,
Auntie Lil might have gone straight home to ponder the inner
workings of Lane Rogers’s weaselly mind. But since Ruth slammed the
cab door shut and zoomed away in that singularly intent manner of
drunks trying very hard to appear sober, Auntie Lil was left with
most of the afternoon still at her disposal. What better way to
spend it than taking a nice stroll up Hudson Avenue, which just
happened to turn into Eighth Avenue, which, in turn, just happened
to take Auntie Lil right by the Joyce Dance Theater? The woman at
the box office knew her well, since it could be argued that Auntie
Lil paid her salary in a roundabout fashion. She directed Auntie
Lil to a rehearsal space in a warehouse building on Twentieth
Street. She would probably find Emili Vladimir there.

Many people have tried to articulate the difference
between classical ballet and modern dance over the years,
particularly the exact categorization of modern ballet—which often
seemed neither here nor there. But Auntie Lil had no problem
defining what set one apart from the other: it was the attitude.
And it was a relaxed attitude that greeted her when she stepped out
of the groaning freight elevator onto the main floor of the Freedom
Ballet Company’s headquarters. The Metropolitan Ballet would never
have tolerated the heaps of gym bags stacked in one corner, or the
group of huddled dancers sitting cross-legged near the window,
chatting while others worked out. Nor would the Metro ever have
allowed the thumping bass beat that filled the room to contaminate
its speakers.

Emili Vladimir stood in the center of the immense
floor. She was dressed in plain black leotards, legs bent out to
the side and pelvis thrust forward as she instructed a muscular
black male dancer on the proper technique to use when flinging his
redheaded partner high into the air. Unlike ballet, which allowed
for only the most carefully prescribed movements, Emili’s brand of
choreography apparently called for wild twirling and an abandoned
tossing of the female into the air by her partner. Each time the
dancers rehearsed their series of steps, it looked—and felt—quite
different from the time before. This immediacy was one reason why
Auntie Lil preferred the more spontaneous modern style to classical
ballet.

After about fifteen minutes of practice, the pair had
the athletics down to perfection and retired to a far corner of the
room to practice timing and ancillary gestures. Emili Vladimir
watched them go, then ran a hand through her wavy hair and retied
it loosely with a scarf. She was drenched in sweat but still
breathing easily.

“Natasha!” she called out, snapping her fingers
sharply. “Bruce, Marianne, Ralph, Trevor, and Sylvia: start from
the top of the second movement. All the way through. Watch the
pacing. You’re dragging. Remember the half beat.” She clapped her
hands to illustrate as dancers obediently scurried into position
and the music segued into a New Age conglomeration of
waterfall-and-bell sounds. Satisfied with their initial efforts,
Emili turned her back on her dancers and strode toward Auntie Lil
with confident grace.

“How do you do, Miss Hubbert,” she said, extending a
hand. It was dry and cool, despite her recent exertion. “How can I
help you today?”

“You remember my name,” Auntie Lil said.

“I remember everyone’s name,” Emili answered,
managing to make it sound somewhat ominous. “Habit.” She had a
mournful voice that dragged at the ends of words, imparting all
she said with an air of regret.

“Are you aware of my role in looking into Bobby
Morgan’s death?” Auntie Lil asked.

“Yes, of course I am,” Emili answered, guiding Auntie
Lil to an empty corner of the floor where they could not be
overheard. “You’re dragging, Bruce!” she shouted across the room,
and a tall dancer with thinning hair instantly picked up the pace
of his rapidly pattering feet in response.

“So you are aware of what I am attempting to do?”
Auntie Lil asked.

Emili picked up a towel that was draped over a
heating pipe and wiped the sweat from her neck and shoulders.
“Let’s not beat around the bush, as you Americans say,” she said
slowly. “You and I both know that the board must find his killer or
the Metro will be finished.”

“You’d make a skilled board member,” Auntie Lil
murmured, hoping to learn more about Lane’s attempt to put Emili
on the board.

“Perhaps. I have my doubts, however, as to whether
I’d want a seat on the board. I have had enough politics to last a
lifetime.”

“But would you truly be effective on the board?”
Auntie Lil wondered aloud, hoping to provoke a reaction. “I have
heard that you and Paulette Puccinni are enemies. And she is the
ballet mistress after all.”

Emili sighed. “I am not her enemy. I am her excuse.
She gave up a good, perhaps great, career to indulge a broken heart
and a wounded ego. She blames me for her break with the American
Ballet Theater. I had nothing to do with it. I have no emotion
toward her except for pity. If she needs to blame me, so be it.
Perhaps she could not live with herself knowing that she did not
have the courage it takes to continue performing when your body
begins to grow old. I could tell you much sadder stories than
hers.”

Auntie Lil suspected that this last statement was an
offer to digress and refused to take the bait. She had visited
Russia in the early fifties on a fur-buying mission and had learned
to spot the Russian tendency of laying a trail of red herrings as a
way to deflect unwanted attention from personal topics. “Did you
know Bobby Morgan?” she asked instead.

Emili froze, the towel extended like wings on either
side of her shoulders. She stared at Auntie Lil. “Of course I knew
who he was,” she finally answered. “He was the man responsible for
blocking my Rudy from dancing the parts he deserved. Fortunately,
talent triumphed.”

“Did you ever talk to him?” Auntie Lil asked.

“I am in the habit of knowing my enemies,” Emili
replied. “Not consorting with them.”

“Did he ever speak to you?” Auntie Lil persisted.

“I do not recall,” Emili said. “If so, I have
forgotten.” She raised her eyebrows at Auntie Lil. “Your method of
questioning is rather reminiscent of the KGB. You make me feel
quite guilty and here I have done nothing to arouse suspicion.”

In truth, she had not. But Auntie Lil could not shake
the feeling that Emili was the key to some part of the mystery.
Perhaps it was only her bearing, her obvious mistrust of others, or
more simply, her foreign accent. It was nothing she could
articulate, but she wanted to know more about the woman.

“You think I had something to do with his death,”
Emili stated. “Which proves you do not understand me at all. Come
home with me tonight. I will show you something. And then you will
understand.”    

“Home with you?” Auntie Lil asked.

“Yes. Have you ever been to Brighton Beach? I will
feed you stuffed cabbage. You can spend time with Rudy. And I will
show you something that will prove that I could not have
participated in the death of another human being.” She turned her
back on Auntie Lil to gauge her dancers’ progress.

Auntie Lil thought the invitation over. It was
singularly foolish to go rushing off in the middle of a murder
investigation to an unknown abode. Herbert and T.S. would be
frantic with worry, she hoped. It would serve them right for
abandoning her just when she needed them the most. Besides, she
adored stuffed cabbage and she hadn’t lived life to its fullest for
more than eighty years by being timid.

“I’d love to come,” she said.

Waiting for a phone call was juvenile, but sometimes
it worked. Besides, it gave T.S. the opportunity to reach his
friend Victor in the personnel department of Salomon Brothers. But
despite their long friendship, Victor was evasive. Andrew Perkins
had not exactly quit voluntarily, but then he hadn’t been fired
either. In these days of lawsuits on every corner, it was the best
T.S. would be able to get out of his former colleague.

“You’re not thinking of hiring him, are you?” Victor
asked. “I thought you were retired?”

“I am,” T.S. admitted. “I’m just checking his
references for some volunteer work with the Metropolitan Ballet.”
That much was true, at least.

There was a silence on the other end of the phone and
T.S. could feel his friend’s professional facade cracking. “Well,
he’s honest,” Victor finally said. “But he probably wouldn’t
perform well under a lot of pressure. He had trouble coping with
everyday stress during his final months here on the job.”

T.S. thanked his friend and hung up grateful that he
had left the fast-paced world of investment markets and changing
fortunes far behind. A translation of Victor’s words from personnel
lingo pointed to a probability that Andrew Perkins had suffered a
nervous breakdown. He would not have been the first superstar bond
salesman to have bailed from a gut-wrenching career in such a
fashion.

When the phone rang around three, T.S. knew instantly
that it was Lilah. Despite his inexperience with matters romantic,
he had learned in the past few months to trust those unfamiliar
tingles that his heart produced long before his brain kicked
in.

“Theodore? I can’t believe I got you in person.” Her
voice caused a pleasant flame to ignite in his belly. He grinned
idiotically at his cats.

“I’ve had the machine on for days,” T.S. admitted.
“That business with Reverend Hampton has the board up in arms.
Everyone has been calling here looking for Auntie Lil.”

“Did she have anything to do with it?” Lilah
asked.

“Of course she did. But she says it’s all a
misunderstanding. Where have you been?” He had not intended to be
so direct, but her voice, full of delight at talking to him, gave
him courage.

“Very busy,” Lilah said. “I can’t tell you the
details right now. I’m sorry I’m being so mysterious. It’s business
and it wouldn’t be ethical to talk about things before they’re
completed. Please forgive me. One day I will explain.”

T.S. was the king of keeping private matters close to
his chest. But that didn’t make him any less annoyed when others
tried the same trick. “Agreed,” he said with false cheerfulness.
“Will this keep us apart forever?”

“It better not!” Her laugh was rich. “In fact, I was
calling to see if you wanted to meet me for dinner tonight. Just
you and me. It will have to be midtown, I’m afraid. I have a
meeting with my lawyers before then.”

T.S. suggested
Michael’s Pub
since it was a
Monday and Woody Allen would be leading a jazz and Dixieland band
on his clarinet. Lilah agreed to meet him there at nine o’clock and
T.S. hung up feeling like the winner of a particularly grueling
Olympic event. He was exhausted and elated at the same time. He
realized with surprise that a great band of tension had relaxed in
some unexplored part of his psyche. Lilah wanted to see him after
all. Her absence had nothing to do with her feelings about him. At
least, that’s what he thought for now.

There was no point in taking a shower. He was still
so clean from his morning ablutions that he squeaked when he
walked. Yet he was so nervous that he could not stand to sit in his
apartment, watching the hands of the clock
move.