Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (15 page)

“I got fired yesterday.”

“You got fired?” Rich was a gorilla, producing close to a mil last she’d heard. “Excuse me if I’m repeating what you say. I’m in shock. Why were you fired?”

“Actually,” he said glumly, “they asked me to resign, but they wouldn’t give me a reason why.”

“That’s crazy. They have to. Do you have a compliance problem? Is anything going to be written on your U4?”

“Nothing. I’m clean. You’ve got to find me something. I have some megaclients and I don’t want to lose them. Skip has probably already given out my book.”

“Look, I have to call Skip and see what I can find out before we send you anywhere. We have to know what we’re up against and we don’t want any surprises.” Sending Rich out to sit at Max’s desk again, she closed the door and called Skip Beck at Loeb Dawkins on his private line. She’d intended to call him today about a broker anyway, so she’d be doing double-duty now.

“Skip Beck.”

It never failed to amaze her: men, particularly men in power positions, who continued to use their little boy names. “Good morning, Skip, it’s Wetzon. How are you?”

“Terrific. What do you have for me?”

“I do have someone to introduce, but first, I came in this morning and found a very unhappy broker waiting for me. Rich McMartin.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. What’s going on, Skip? Why would you let a producer of his size go?”

“I don’t know how to answer that, Wetzon.”

“What do you mean, Skip? It’s a fairly simple question.”

“No, it’s not, Wetzon.”

“Then what is it? Did he do something illegal? Is there anything I should know about that will keep him from getting hired elsewhere?”

“No. Everybody liked him. He’s a popular guy. I would hire him again in a minute ... if I didn’t know him.”

“Then why ask him to resign?” Skip wasn’t going to commit himself, Wetzon realized, even as she asked the question. He was afraid of being sued. But stockbrokers rarely sued their companies because they were afraid they’d be blackballed on the Street. And they were right to be afraid.

“Wetzon, let me just say this, and I’ll probably regret it—I can just hear my words coming back at me from another direction—”

“Not from me, Skip.”

He hesitated. “Let’s just say Rich is a great guy, but he’s hard to manage.”

“Umm?”

“And he’s a compliance nightmare.”

“Ah. But you say there’s nothing on his U4 and you’re not going to write any surprises on his U5?”

“I’m not. Is that good enough for you, Wetzon?”

“I can run with it. Thank you, Skip.” She looked down at the suspect sheet in front of her. “I have an individual who’s been with Faulkner and Sons on Madison for ten years. The bulk of his business is muni bonds, some governments, some mortgaged backs. He grossed three hundred and fifty thou last year, and has over three hundred in to date.”

“Sounds like my kind of guy.”

“They moved his manager up to region and brought in a woman manager to run the office, which ordinarily would be okay, but this one’s a stiff. I know her. No sense of humor. She’s a contest runner. The latest prize is dinner for two at her house. That was the last straw for Steve Zuckerman. Are you in at eight in the morning?”

“If I weren’t, I’d be out of a job. Set it up. Eight is fine with me, but have him meet me at the Edwardian Room of the Plaza. I’m okay for tomorrow or Thursday this week.”

“Well, great, Skip. I’ll call you back to confirm and send you a thumbnail bio on Steve.”

“Listen, any time I can eat out on the company I’m happy.”

She hung up and made some notes on Steve Zuckerman’s suspect sheet, then rose and opened the door, just as B.B. was about to knock. B.B. handed her McMartin’s suspect sheet and a mug of coffee.

McMartin looked up at her from Max’s desk, a total package of misery. There were actually tears in his eyes. “Did you get him? What did he say?”

“Thanks, B.B. Come on back, Rich.” She held the door for him. He was a great-looking guy, clean-shaven, clear blue eyes, beautifully dressed, with the broad shoulders and the slim hips of an athlete. He looked directly at you when he spoke, seemed sincere and kind, had perfect manners and a magnetic smile. So what was there about him that made her uneasy? Then she knew. It was all surface. Rich was an eight-by-ten glossy, as they used to say in show biz.

“Did you talk to Skip?” he asked. “Did he tell you why?”

“I did and he didn’t. All he said was there would be nothing on your U5 when it was transferred.”

“I can’t understand it. I was doing great. I was going to have the best year I ever had....”

“I think maybe you stepped down hard on someone with power.”

“Well, I did tell that govie trader where he could get off.”

“Maybe he complained. Maybe it was a him-or-me proposition.”

“I wonder if it had anything to do with the newspaper story.”

Daylight was beginning to dawn. “What newspaper story?”

“Uh, I did this interview with
Newsday.
It came out on Saturday. I’m sure no one saw it.”

Famous last words, Wetzon thought. “What did you say, Rich?”

“I said anyone who bought any firm’s proprietary products was a chump. I really said schmuck, but they printed chump.”

“Thank you very much. At least that explains it. Chump or schmuck, no firm wants its brokers to hint that the public is being defrauded.”

“Okay, I get it.” Rich didn’t look the least bit fazed. “But now, Wetzon, you’ve got to help me. I’ve got to set up somewhere and fast.”

They went over a list of firms and settled on Rosenkind Luwisher as first choice and Simson, Milgram and Quinn—known on the Street as SMQ—as second, and while Rich repaired once more to Max’s desk, Wetzon set up the appointments. She told both managers exactly what Skip Beck had said about Rich and gave them Skip’s phone number so they could check for themselves. Both managers were eager to meet Rich, so she set up the Rosenkind Luwisher meeting for eleven and SMQ for two-thirty that day. She knew that if they liked Rich, Rosenkind Luwisher would pull out all stops and have Rich up to the executive dining room in the tower for lunch. They were aggressive recruiters and a pleasure to work with. She admired their style.

Wetzon was showing Rich out when Smith emerged from a cab, long slim legs first, then the glamorous rest of her. She looked at Rich, then at Wetzon.

Like pressing a light switch, Rich’s charm got the go signal. His glow enveloped Smith. “Well, hello there.”

And Smith bloomed at him.

Wetzon broke in. “This is my partner, Xenia Smith. Smith, this is Rich McMartin. We placed him at Loeb Dawkins almost four years ago. Remember?”

The bloom came off Smith like a movie wipe. Smith hated brokers, called them dirtballs and lying scuz. She preferred dealing with their clients, the heads of brokerage firms. Wetzon, on the other hand, felt that their clients were no different from their candidates—the brokers. In fact, she liked stockbrokers. She, too, was a salesperson, almost one of them. She recognized their insecurities and vulnerabilities; she usually understood their arrogance. They reminded her of her people, the actors, singers, and dancers of her previous life in the Theatre.

“What was that about?” Smith demanded, when they were inside. She frowned at seeing her chair near Wetzon’s desk and rolled it back to hers.

“Skip asked him to resign.”

“How much production?”

“Maybe six hundred for his trailing twelve.”

“Ah.” Smith’s frown receded. “And where are we presenting him?”

“Rosenkind and SMQ.”

“Any problems?”

“Nope.” She could see Smith mentally totaling up the fees. Wetzon had already done the same. They grinned at each other and slapped palms.

“All right!” Smith sang.

“Do we have anything important on for Friday?” Wetzon sat down at her desk and looked over her schedule. She had to try Susan Orkin again.

“No, sweetpea.”

Wetzon looked over at her partner. Smith was smiling her Cheshire Cat smile. What was she up to?

“At least not in New York, sweetpea.”

Wetzon was annoyed. She hated Smith’s games. “And what is that supposed to mean, sweetpea?”

“You know exactly what it means, and you’re mad because you hate to share with me,” Smith said, almost wallowing in smugness. “You just like to keep your theatrical connections and your murders to yourself.”

“Smith! Dammit.” Wetzon stamped her feet. Why was she letting Smith get to her? Count to ten. Breathe slowly.

“Well, you don’t have to get so hysterical, sugar. I was hoping you would be more grown-up about it, not to mention generous ...” When Wetzon looked daggers at her, Smith continued serenely, “Joel Kidde called me. I’ll be flying up to Boston with you Thursday night for our opening.”

“And I’m going to surprise Mark.” Smith just kept right on talking, ignoring Wetzon’s stupefaction. “My sweet baby is attending classes at Harvard on his spring break. Isn’t that lovely?”

“Isn’t that lovely?” Wetzon repeated. “Isn’t that lovely, Wetzon? Oh yes, indeed, it’s absolutely lovely. Now we can all have a pajama party at the Ritz.”

“The Ritz? Oh, no, sweetie pie. You theatricals can have the Ritz. I always stay at the Four Seasons.”

Wetzon flipped her palms up and rolled her eyes. “But of course you do.”

Smith looked at her sharply and strolled over, placing her hands on Wetzon’s shoulders. “Just as I thought. You’re tense. I can always tell when something is wrong.” She squeezed Wetzon’s shoulders.

“Go away, Smith.”

“And you look peak-ed. What’s the matter? Is it Alton? I think it’s time for a new man in your life.” Smith began kneading Wetzon’s shoulders.

“Sure. The more the merrier.” In fact, that was almost funny. Wetzon would have laughed if she weren’t feeling so low. She shook her head. “No, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it? You know you can tell me.” Smith kept kneading.

“Ouch!” God, Smith was right. She was wound up tight, so tight she didn’t even hear the beginning of what Smith said next.

“... a massage. And I know just the person.”

“What about a massage?”

“It would help.” Smith stopped kneading and patted Wetzon’s head.

“I’m seeing a shrink,” Wetzon said. She’d meant to drop it in casually, but now it sounded like something momentous.

“A shrink? About what, for pitysakes? Your life is so uncomplicated—” As if to emphasize her words, their phones began ringing, all lines at once.

“Excuse me?”

“Do go on, sweetie.” Smith smiled at her indulgently.

“Oh, why bother?” It didn’t take much these days for Smith to wear her down. Wetzon picked up one line. “Smith and Wetzon, good morning.”

“Hi, is B.B. there?”

“Hold on, please. Who’s calling?”

“Wendy.”

Wetzon put Wendy on hold. “Wendy, huh. B.B. has a girlfriend.”

Smith scowled. “Personal calls during business hours?”

“Oh, come on, Smith. Lighten up. He doesn’t abuse—” She went to their door, opened it and called, “B.B., Wendy on two for you.” She closed the door and grinned at Smith.

“Humpf,” Smith said. “Why are you seeing a shrink, then?” Like a dog with a bone, Wetzon thought. She should never have given Smith an opening. Smith had stopped her own therapy shortly after she got involved with Richard Hartmann, which was too bad. It might have helped her see what a genuine reptile Hartmann was. “You know you can tell me.”

Do I? Wetzon sighed. “I have something called post-traumatic stress syndrome.”

“What’s that? It sounds awful.”

“I’m not sleeping and I have a recurrent dream about being shot.”

“Well, sugar, people do get shot. You are not the first, you know. You just have to get over it.” Smith was examining her fingernails.

“Sure people get shot, Smith. Soldiers, cops, drug dealers, innocent bystanders in slums. Not people like us.”

“Oh, for pitysakes. Here I am trying to empathize.”

“Smith, you wouldn’t know empathy if you fell over it in broad daylight.”

“Sweetie pie, you just don’t know how to accept help.”

“You’ve been talking to Silvestri.”

“Oh, I don’t believe it. If you’re seeing that loser again, you really do need help. Are you?”

“I’m not telling.” Why did Smith have a way of saying things that were true and then twisting them? “I’m going for help now.”

“You don’t need a shrink. You should talk to me. I won’t even charge you.”

Wetzon stared at her partner. Smith was dead serious. In spite of everything, Wetzon began to laugh.

Smith was indignant. “You are the limit. I try to be your friend and you reject me and laugh at me.”

“No, no, honest.” Wetzon was laughing so she could hardly talk. “No, really. Love you for caring.”

“Humpf.” Smith returned to her desk and pawed through her messages. “This one’s for you.” She started to hand it to Wetzon, then pulled it back and read it.

“Who’s it from?” Eyes wet with laughter, Wetzon caught the moisture with a tissue, gently, else—waterproof or not—her mascara would run.

“Susan Orkin. Isn’t she married to the senator?”

“Not anymore.”

“How do you know her?” Smith sounded peeved.

“She was Dilla Crosby’s lover—”

“Must you? I hate that expression.”

“Try to get over it, dearie.”

“Lord, I knew I’d regret letting you drag us into the Theatre.”

“May I remind you that you bought us into it?”

Smith said, “I guess I deserve that.” She looked hurt.

And Wetzon, taking pity on her, said, “Susan and I were at Douglass together.”

“Oh.”

“Are you hatching that message?” She stood up to take the pink slip from Smith.

“There is no message. Just that she called ... at nine o’clock this morning. Are you taking up with her again now that she’s unattached?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It was a joke. Don’t get so crazy. It was just a joke. I know you’re
normal”

“Normal! God, Smith, you have no idea what normal is.”

“Well ...” She was defensive. “I know you’re not one of them.”

“How do you know, Smith?” Wetzon asked wickedly. “I might just be in the closet. How would you ever know?” She leaned toward Smith and in her most intimate voice purred, “I’m really a very good actress.”