Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (14 page)

The fun of it carried her smiling all the way up Broadway. Did Silvestri know?

At Ollie’s on Eighty-fourth Street, she stopped and bought an order of hot-and-sour soup. She still had leftovers to nibble on and with a little luck she might be able to sleep through the night.

A scraggly haired man in a filthy down jacket, torn pants, and shoes without laces or socks approached her on the corner of Eighty-sixth and Amsterdam with a cardboard cup, shaking it at her so she could hear coins against coins. “I need a hundred and fifty thou for the down payment on a co-op,” he said. He sounded like a stockbroker pitching a client.

Taken aback, she made the mistake of looking directly at him. He shoved the cup in her face.

“If you’re hungry, this is hot soup,” she said, offering him her package.

He pushed it away with such force she almost lost hold of it. “Soup! Don’t want no soup.” He was outraged.

Wetzon didn’t wait around to see what he’d do. She made tracks. What was this now? Food wasn’t good enough. Now they only wanted money—and a lot of it. Well, why was she so surprised? He was a New York derelict, and everyone knew New Yorkers reached for the stars.

She was going over her meeting with Susan Orkin in her mind when she reached her building. The outside door was locked and Rafe, the night doorman, was nowhere in sight. She began searching her purse for her key case, found it, pulled it out. A hand closed over hers and took the keys.

“It’s not smart to stand on the street fumbling for a key. Which one is it?”

She pointed to the longest one on the chain. “Is there anything I do that you like, Silvestri?”

He smirked at her and unlocked the door, letting her precede him inside. Silvestri held the elevator while she picked up her mail, then rode up with her. When they got to her door she pulled off her beret and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Do you want company tonight?” he asked.

Her heart did a shuffle step. “God, I hate this,” she whispered.

“Yes or no.” His breath tickled her forehead. He unlocked her door and followed her in.

“Do I get a choice?” She set the bag containing the soup on the table with her briefcase and purse.

“Sure.” Nudging the door shut with his heel, Silvestri kissed her. He tasted of garlic and olive oil, her favorites. His words had been joking, but the kiss was no joke.

“Some choice,” she said when he let her go. “Have you had dinner? I’ve got some soup and leftovers.”

“Had a couple of slices at Vinnie’s. I’ll have a beer.”

Wetzon hung up her coat in the hall closet and he hooked his leather jacket over the back of a chair, slipped off his shoulder harness and gun and rolled it up next to her purse.

“Did you know Eddie O’Melvany is seeing my friend, the therapist—Sonya Mosholu—romantically, I mean?”

“Oh, yeah? Maybe he said something about it. I forget.”

“The great detective Silvestri forgets? I can’t believe it.”

She took two bottles of Beck’s Light from the fridge and the leftover veggies in their plastic container, piled napkins and the hot-and-sour soup on a tray and brought everything into the living room. Silvestri had taken off his shoes and was lying on the sofa inspecting the room. “Shove over,” she said.

“I like what you did with the place.” He gave her some space and took a swig of the beer.

“Thanks.” The soup was wonderful. She did in the soup while Silvestri picked at the vegetables with his fingers. “I saw Sonya tonight about the dream.”

“Okay.” He looked pleased and took another swig from the bottle.

“And Susan Orkin earlier tonight.”

“Oh, yeah?” He looked less pleased.

“I went to college with Susan. She wants to hire me to find out who murdered Dilla.” She closed her eyes and waited for the explosion.

He didn’t say anything for a while and she opened her eyes.

“Surprise, surprise,” he said sarcastically. “Trust you to find a way to get into it.”

She gave him a nasty look. “You’re going to need me on this, smart ass.”

He laughed, then he lay back and pulled her down on him.

The phone rang.

“Is your machine on?” She nodded, her chin on his chest. “Don’t answer it.” He kissed her forehead, her nose. The answering machine picked up and began clicking. She put her arms around his neck. The machine took its message.

“Leslie, this is Alton. It’s after eleven here, and one of those incredibly beautiful nights. I miss you very
much. ...
In a way I’m glad you ‘re not there. There are things I want you to think about.... We can talk when I get home.”

Wetzon put her hands over her ears. She could hear the undercurrent of excitement in Alton’s voice.

Silvestri held onto her tightly, aiming warm, sweet kisses around her face. She didn’t want to hear what Alton had to say but she heard it. They both heard it.

“I love you very much,” Alton went on. “I want you to marry me, Leslie. I want to know you’ll be there, that we’ll be together for the rest of our lives. I’ll see you Saturday, and we can talk about it. Good night, baby.”

The connection was broken. The machine clicked off.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Wetzon howled. “I can’t stand it. I’m going to become a hermit.”

Silvestri’s laugh started like a rumble in his stomach. She pulled away from him and sat up, her head in her hands. “What the hell am I going to do?”

“You could marry him.” He was laughing out loud.

“I don’t want to marry him or you or anybody.” She jumped up and began prowling around the living room.

“Well, you’re lucky there, Les.”

She stopped dead. “Huh?”

“Tm
not asking you to marry me.”

She stood frozen for a minute, then fell on her knees. “Thank you, God,” she said fervently.

He picked her up and took her to bed. Neither heard the second call come in.

The roof of the brownstone below Wetzon’s kitchen window was a fuzzy blanket of snow embroidered with thousands of sparkly ice diamonds that glinted in the brilliance of the morning sunlight. She turned away and poured coffee into the mugs, waiting for Silvestri to get his head out of her refrigerator.

“Jeeze, Les, there’s not one goddam thing to eat in here.”

She looked at her watch. “I’ll buy you bacon and eggs at E.J’s. I didn’t know I was going to have a guest for breakfast.”

He looked at his watch. “I don’t have time.”

“Are you still working on Dilla’s murder?”

“Yeah, among other things.” He took the mug from her, gulped coffee, set the half-empty mug down on the marble counter and pulled his notepad from his inside pocket. “What did Susan Orkin have to tell you?”

“Why do I feel suddenly as if I’m being interrogated? There’s no need to turn into a cop. Oh, excuse me. I forgot. You’re always a cop. I’ll be happy to share information.” She stepped around him, opened the fridge and rummaged around in the vegetable bin. Plastic bags filled with rotting lettuce, a lemon gone to mold. She tossed them in the garbage and came up with an Ida Red apple, washed it, dried it, and cut it into quarters. “Julia Child’s favorite apple. I share food, too.” Grinning, she handed Silvestri one of the quarters and put the rest on a plate.

He looked at the chunk of apple in his hand and laughed. “Okay, share.”

“She told me very little. And I said I’d keep my eyes and ears open while I’m in Boston.”

“You’re going to Boston?”

“I always go to Carlos’s out-of-town openings. You know that. I’m going Thursday night. I’m staying through the opening Saturday and I’ll be back Sunday night.”

“And just what are you supposed to hear and see in Boston?”

“Susan thinks Mort killed Dilla—” She held up her hand before he could say anything. “Let me finish, Silvestri. Because Dilla was standing up to him.”

“Great motive.”

“I do think Dilla had something on Mort, and maybe he had something on her. It was a weird relationship. Symbiotic almost. But he certainly picked himself up and dusted himself off quickly after she was murdered.”

“All of which leads us nowhere.”

“But I did find out two things.” She was very pleased with herself. She held out the plate of apple quarters to him.

“Bird food,” he complained, but he took another quarter. “What are these great things you found out?”

“First, Susan is really frightened about something. And second, Dilla and Susan had a big fight sometime on Friday. Check with their downstairs neighbor, a Mr. Nadelman. He came up in a state about the noise Dilla’s mother and sister were making and happened to mention it.”

Silvestri grunted.

“That’s all you’re going to say?” She felt deflated. “You just hate when I find out things you don’t.”

“Bernstein or his partner would probably have come up with it sooner or later.”

“Oh, please.” She finished the apple and put the plate in the dishwasher. “Have you done a profile of her killer?”

He gave her a hard look and wrote something in his notepad.

“If you have, I’d love to see it.”

She could see him get all bristly. “What for?”

“Be a good sport, Silvestri.”

“Good sport? Amateurs always fuck up investigations. And get themselves hurt in the process.”

She took her coffee and walked out of the kitchen. Opening her door, she picked up the
Times
and the
Journal
from the mat, closed the door, and sat down in the living room. She set her mug on the coffee table. The business section became particularly interesting to her. She began to read.

Silvestri followed her. “I don’t want you hurt. I can’t stand to see you hurt.” His voice cracked.

That almost did her in, but she couldn’t let it. “You think what you do is man’s work and women should stay out of it. Right?”

“Not all women. Most. You in particular.”

She got to her feet. “Oh, God, Silvestri, you are so Italian.” Folding the newspaper, she thrust it into her briefcase, put the mug into the dishwasher, then padded into the bedroom, ignoring him.

“I hate the idea that you’re with him.” Silvestri looked around. He was leaning against the door frame. “Here.”

“He never comes here.” Wetzon inserted the earring posts in her earlobes and stuck her feet into her pumps.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I guess I haven’t encouraged it. Him. I don’t know.” When she looked up at Silvestri, he was grinning at her. “Stop that. You’re making me crazy.” She tried to push by but he caught her and held her close.

She thought she heard him say into her hair, “Les, what am I going to do with you?”

Pulling away, she said, “Why do you have to do anything with me?”

He threw his hands up and walked away down the hall and this time it was she who followed him, watching while he took his leather jacket from the chair. “I don’t get it,” he said abruptly, turning to face her. “What do you see in him?”

Wetzon sighed. “He’s a very nice man. Must we do this to each other, Silvestri?”

“And?”

“And what?” She didn’t bother to hide her testiness.

“What else? There must be something else.”

“Okay.” He’d asked for it. “He’s a sensitive, caring lover.”

“And I’m not?”

“Now who’s getting spiky?” This made her tired, and sad.

He stared down at her for a long moment, then planted a kiss on her nose. “Keep it clean in Boston.”

He was gone before she had a chance to respond.

“Damn him,” she said to the door. If he wasn’t around, she wondered, would she accept Alton’s proposal? God, if Silvestri wasn’t around, her emotions wouldn’t be in such a turmoil; life would be so much easier. The proposal was still sitting on her answering machine. And the little light was still blinking. She was not yet ready to erase it. She walked over to the machine and was surprised to see the number of messages said “2.” When had the second come in? She fast-forwarded Alton and stopped to listen to the second message.

The voice was such a low, tremulous whisper, Wetzon could hardly discern it. “This is Susan. Something dreadful has happened. Please call me as soon as possible. Please.”

Wetzon stood in front of her building waiting for Tony, her doorman, to rustle up a cab. The sun was dazzling but deceptive. Every building seemed etched against the chill blue sky in sharp detail. People moved briskly—not because of the cold but because people always moved briskly in New York—the joggers in their sweats, mothers with young children, dark-skinned nannies with pale-skinned babies, and those like Wetzon, going to offices.

The light snowfall of the previous evening still decorated car roofs and trees, but the sidewalks were clear. Ordinarily, she would revel in a day like this, but today she was preoccupied. Each time she’d tried to reach Susan, she’d gotten a busy signal.

A cab made a U-turn in response to Tony’s whistle, and Wetzon climbed in. “Forty-ninth Street, between Second and First,” she said, and sat back. The driver had an embroidered pillbox on his head, and his I.D. noted that his name was Mohammad Mohammad and he was a probationary driver, which didn’t stop him from taking her to her destination at breakneck speed.

Opening the outside door to her office, she called, “Good morning, Max,” to the figure at Max’s desk. Only it wasn’t Max. Max wasn’t due in until one today.

“Good morning, Wetzon.” The man sitting at Max’s desk was holding a mug of coffee. He gave her a charming, if sheepish, grin.

“Rich McMartin. What are you doing here?” Wetzon hadn’t seen Rich in more than three years, not since she’d placed him at Loeb Dawkins. It had been a lovely fee. She hung her coat in the closet between B.B.’s all-weather and what was evidently Rich’s Burberry. Another Burberry? Good God.

That did it. She was going to have to break with tradition next time she bought a raincoat.

B.B., who was out of Rich’s line of sight, was pointing to McMartin and miming exaggerated shrugs. “What’s up, Rich?” Wetzon asked.

“I have a little problem ...” He let the words trail off.

“Uh-huh,” she said, stretching it out. “Come on in here and tell me about it. Smith will probably interrupt us, but you sit down here, Rich.” She put him in her chair and pulled Smith’s over next to him, then went to the door and called, “B.B., please get me Rich McMartin’s suspect sheet. You’ll find him under placements. And if you could get me a cup of coffee, we’ll be in business.” She closed the door and sat down in Smith’s chair. “Okay, what’s up?”