Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5)
Read Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) Online
Authors: Annette Meyers
“Ms. Meyers, who once worked for director Harold Prince, provides plenty of dish to keep readers who are either in the know or out of the loop laughing up their sleeve. … the juiciest of her five witty mysteries featuring Leslie Wetzon, the ethical half of Smith & Wetzon, a Wall Street headhunting firm.”
—
The New York Times Book Review
“Theatre Buffs will have fun trying to identify the real-life characters behind her fictional ones.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“With a savvy, sassy style and an excellent ear for dialogue, Annette Meyers can boast of having one of the brightest, most entertaining series with her Smith and Wetzon mysteries… Meyers is among that handful of authors who have taken the mystery genre beyond its traditional boundaries.
Murder: The Musical
is her best to date.”
—
Sun Sentinel
“Annette Meyers has created one of the most fascinating and entertaining series featuring a female amateur sleuth on bookstore shelves these days.”
—
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
FOR MY FRIEND FRANK PRINCE, WITHOUT WHOM THERE WOULD BE NO CARLOS.
IN LOVING MEMORY.
It’s not enough that I succeed, my friends must also fail.
—Theatre saying (apocryphal, but sometimes attributed to Gore Vidal)
There are two end products when one produces a musical for Broadway: the production and money. If you believe the play is the thing, you should get the hell out of the commercial theatre. On the other hand, if you think money is the only product, get into another business. It’s easier to make money on Wall Street.
—Leslie Wetzon, partner, Smith and Wetzon
THE LIMITED PARTNERSHIP INTERESTS BEING OFFERED ARE SPECULATIVE SECURITIES WHICH INVOLVE A HIGH DEGREE OF RISK. ACCORDINGLY, THE OFFERING IS SUITABLE ONLY FOR PERSONS WHO CAN AFFORD TOTAL LOSS OF THEIR INVESTMENT.
—From the offering circular of
Hotshot: The Musical
, a new Broadway musical
The alley behind the theatre was dank and eerily quiet. Generations of urine, cat and human, had infused the brick and concrete with a permanent acrid stench. Hardly noticeable during the run of a hit show, the odor became all the more pronounced when the theatre was dark and infinitely worse when it rained.
Above them, the fire escape climbed the outside wall like a skeletal iron vine.
The stage door was locked. A nor’easter complete with driving rain and fierce winds had been whipping the city all night. It had now calmed to an icy February drizzle verging on sleet.
Carlos kicked the steel door. “Damn!” He was tense, wired tighter than a spring.
The rain thumped on her umbrella. Wetzon shifted it to her right hand and put her arm around Carlos’s shoulder. Conspicuously absent was the production stage manager, Dilla Crosby, not quite affectionately known as Killa Dilla, who should have been there to open the stage door. “It’s early—”
“I told Dilla I wanted her here early—and look—no doorman—and Walt’s not here to turn on lights!” Carlos stamped his booted foot in a filthy puddle. “It’s all so thankless. Why do I bother—?”
“Because you love it and you know it. And you know that Killa Dilla never fails. Whatever her shortcomings, she always comes through—”
“For Mort. She comes through for Mort. And me only when it suits her. Or when it suits Mort.”
Wetzon tilted her head. “My, my. Who is this paranoid person? Certainly not my best friend Carlos.”
Carlos was taken aback for a moment, then gave her a great bear hug, umbrella and all. “I love you, Birdie, darling. Do you know that?”
“Hey!” The figure coming toward them was nearly hidden behind a huge black umbrella.
“Well, see, there she is.” As soon as she spoke, Wetzon realized her error; she knew Dilla from the old days, and the figure under the umbrella wasn’t Dilla.
“That’s not the Killa, you dope. That’s Phil Terrace. The ASM and utility gofer. And him you don’t know.” Carlos stepped out from under Wetzon’s umbrella to join the assistant stage manager under his more generous one. Another figure was splashing toward them through the slush. “Oh, good. Here comes Walt. Bless us, we won’t be in union violation.”
“Hey, look who’s here.”
Walt Greenow was huge, built like a linebacker. Over the years, his shoulders had softened; protruding from his waistline was an old-fashioned spare tire. “Leslie, right?” His brown hair had crept all the way to the back of his head and was now liberally salted with gray. In spite of his size, Wetzon remembered Walt as a sweet pushover. He’d done it all over the years: props, electrics, carpentry. His face was lit by a big smile. “Have you seen the Killa? I was here earlier, but she wasn’t around.” He held up a huge ring of keys. “I had to get the spare from the Shuberts. They said she never returned the keys last night.”
Phil looked worried. “I don’t know.” Phil Terrace was a serious young man with moist eyes and a dark wispy beard. The damp black fisherman’s cap hid his hair. “We were supposed to meet here at eleven so we could tape the stage. She must have overslept....”
Wetzon shook her head. “Killa Dilla? I don’t think so. Unless, of course, she’s changed radically.”
“She hasn’t,” Carlos assured her. “More likely Mort gave her something urgent to do, like get him a milk shake, for Chrissakes.”
“Hi, darling!”
“Morning all.”
“Lovely day, guys!”
Three lithe young women straggled down the alley balancing stuffed-past-bulging shoulder bags and umbrellas. That they were dancers was hard to miss, for they wore their tights and leg warmers and soft low boots with a certain casual air, their legs splayed, their walk, ducky. Watching them, Wetzon felt a sharp twinge of envy.
One demanded, “Why are we standing out here in the rain?”
“That sounds like a lead-in to me,” Carlos said, twirling Phil’s umbrella from him and splashing a soft shoe à la Gene Kelly.
“Shit! Some asshole jammed something in here.” Walt pulled a mini tool kit from the inside pocket of his shabby tan raincoat and bent over the lock. “Christalmighty, these old locks—”
“I’m going to try the front of the house,” Phil announced, dashing off.
“I
needed
this?” Carlos raised a dramatic plea to the dreary sky and let the rain come down on him. “What’s going on, Walt?”
“Come on! It’s open!” They all looked toward the mouth of the alley, where Phil was beckoning to them.
Behind Phil, the three boy dancers who completed Carlos’s chorus stood waiting, and together they all slogged through the pelting rain to Forty-fifth Street to the front of house. An unlit marquee, still heralding the last show, which had closed eight weeks before, a flop, hung like a bleak warning over the entrance.
Wetzon shivered. It was always creepy seeing the remnants of the departed ... almost as if the funeral were over, but the closets of the dead would have to be gone through. The box office was dark, although there was probably a treasurer assigned. Previews would begin in just over a month. Box office personnel on Broadway usually consisted of a treasurer, an assistant treasurer, and one or two others, depending on the success of the show. The treasurer’s particular responsibility was for the count but everyone sold tickets and answered phone inquiries.
Across the street, readying themselves for the matinee, the lights on the marquees of the Golden for
Falsettos
and the Plymouth for
The Song of Jacob Zulu
bled streamy neon raves in the rain, and if she squinted, she could just barely see the Martin Beck where the hit revival of
Guys and Dolls
was playing. Sam’s, next door to the Imperial and the Broadway gypsies’ favorite burger spot, thrived in the center of all this activity.
Phil was holding the center door open. Trailing wet umbrellas, they all trooped into the dark house.
“Walt, get the lights. I’m going to kill Mort, I am,” Carlos muttered to Wetzon. “We’re supposed to be sharing everything, and he
monopolizes
Dilla. I have to claw for every second I get.”
They walked into the orchestra and the stage lights came on. The theatre secreted a musty odor, laced with ancient mold.
Inside, Carlos became considerably more cheerful. “Come on, boys and girls. I just want to go over one tiny change.” He vaulted to the stage, a slim, elegant man in a black silk turtleneck under a black leather trenchcoat.
Wetzon, watching him, decided he hadn’t changed much since they’d been gypsies together, and dancing partners. Maybe a little line here and there on his handsome face. A little gray at the temples. He was a dear man, and they had been close for over fifteen years. She had seen him become a choreographer and he had seen her leave dancing entirely, and to his dismay, go into the Wall Street headhunting business with Xenia Smith. “I’ll just wait here ...” Wetzon stopped in front of the orchestra pit.
“You could come on stage, Birdie. I won’t be long.”
“Naa.” If she put her feet on the stage, Wetzon thought, she might want to be twinkle toes over Broadway again. She laughed out loud, and Carlos shot her his sardonic look over one leathered shoulder.
Phil took off his wet cap and slapped the moisture out against his jeans. The assistant stage manager had a high forehead, showing the beginning of premature baldness, and a crown of kinky hair. Self-consciously, he smoothed his hair and replaced his cap. “I’d better do the tape,” he said, looking around for permission.
