Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (16 page)

Smith stared at Wetzon, aghast.

“So you should never judge.” She ran her fingers lightly over Smith’s cheek. Smith flinched. “And now you’ll never be certain.” She said it with glee.

“You are the absolute limit. I
know
you’re okay.”

“What’s okay? Is it like normal? Don’t you know the view depends on the point of view?” Wetzon gave up. There was really no point in trying to raise Smith’s consciousness. She had none.

“What about Alton?” Smith was really distressed.

“What about Alton?”

“Well, you’ve been with him.” Suspicion made her eyes glaze. “It’s that Laura Lee Day, isn’t it? I knew it. She’s led you astray.” Smith’s face was getting a funny pinched look. She reached into her handbag and removed her Tarot cards, holding them to her breast as if to ward off a vampire.

“Oh God, Smith, Laura Lee is not gay, and neither am I. Alton asked me to marry him last night.”

Smith let out a shriek and after a moment of hesitation when Wetzon could see her wondering whether she should, pounced on Wetzon and hugged her. “I’m so happy for you, sweetie. He’s so perfect.”

“Since when do you think he’s perfect?”

“Well, look.” Smith began counting on her fingers. “He’s got money, he’s a wealth of good business contacts, he’s old enough and secure enough not to have ego problems with your career.” She finished triumphantly with, “And he loves you more than you love him.”

“Very good, Smith. I like the way you boil it down to the nitty-gritty.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“That’s a giant step in the right direction. It’ll be so good for business.”

“Listen, Smith, can I change the subject here for a minute?”

“Of course, sweetie pie. Leslie Wetzon-Pinkus.”

Wetzon shook her head. Smith was more excited than she was. “I took on a little investigating job yesterday. For Susan Orkin.”

“Without me?”

“For an old friend. No money will be exchanged. She’ll contribute the fee to a charity. The Gay Men’s Health Crisis.” Wetzon gave Smith slow-motion eyelash flutter. “I’ll have her do it in
both
of our names, shall I?”

“You love to torture me, don’t you?” Smith said, but she was smiling. “You think you’re the only one here with a sense of humor. What kind of investigation?”

“She wants me to sniff around a little in Boston. She’s certain that Mort killed Dilla and that, in the stress of the tryout he’s going to give himself away.”

“Mort Hornberg? That nice man? She’s wrong of course, but we can certainly give her an overview while we’re in Boston.”

Wetzon smiled at Smith. Smith was funny when she thought she might be playing detective. “We certainly can, partner.”

“This is so wonderful,” Smith said. “We’re back in action again.”

“I’d better get Susan on the phone and see what she wants.” Wetzon punched out the phone number on the pink message slip.

After two rings, Susan answered.

“Susan, this is Leslie. I’m sorry I kept missing you.”

“I have someone here with me.” There was caution—or was it fear?—in Susan’s whispered voice. “Excuse me,” she said louder, to someone else. “I’ll be right with you.” She lowered her voice again. “Leslie, please listen. Someone tried to break in here this morning. He didn’t get in because Rhoda, my housekeeper, scared him off. Whoever murdered Dilla is coming after me.”

“Susan, my God, you still can’t believe it’s Mort. That’s hardly his style. What did the police say?”

“I didn’t call them—I can’t—you don’t understand. It’s just too complicated....”

“Call the police, Susan, right away.”

“Leslie, I didn’t tell you everything ...”

“For godsakes, Susan!”

“The day before she was murdered, Dilla got a threatening letter.”

“I’m not walking tonight,” Wetzon told Laura Lee Day. “It’s too cold.” They were in Rockefeller Center, under the NBC Building, standing at one of the little espresso bars—this one was called Main Caffe—that now dotted the city, sipping espresso and sharing a carrot muffin.

Laura Lee had been a young stockbroker with a small business when Wetzon placed her at Oppenheimer five years before. They’d become instant friends; they shared a passion for the arts: Wetzon had been a dancer, Laura Lee had been a violinist and still played with an amateur string quartet.

Whenever Laura Lee had a client to visit or a presentation to make in midtown, she would schedule it for midafternoon, then would arrange to meet Wetzon for a drink or an espresso and they’d walk home together. In cool or inclement weather, Wetzon would part with Laura Lee in front of Laura Lee’s high-rise opposite Lincoln Center, but in the summer they sometimes bought frozen yogurts and sat at the fountain in Lincoln Center Plaza in the afternoon sun, catching up on each other’s lives.

“Not only are you a wuss but you’re a cranky wuss.” The words may have been sharp, but the tones were mellifluous and southern. Laura Lee’s roots were Mississippi, and the soft Delta drawl was an integral part of her persona.

Wetzon felt a surge of love for her friend. Laura Lee’s brown eyes were brimming over with warmth. Her short chestnut hair was swept back from her face and she didn’t look a day older than when they’d met. If anything, she was prettier, thinner, and had much more self-confidence. For the past year, she’d been having a steamy affair with a sculptor who showed at a top SoHo gallery. “Not husband material,” she’d told Wetzon happily. She and Laura Lee shared the same ambivalence about marriage. “After all,” Laura Lee was fond of saying, “once you’ve been married, you can’t ever again say you’ve never been married.” Which made perfect sense to Wetzon.

“I called Francesca for you,” Laura Lee went on. “Actually, I wanted to talk to her anyway. She knows everythin’ about Provence. She’s not interested in leavin’ Smith Barney. She has such a good deal. They let her go off on her food trips; someone always covers her book. Why should she leave?”

“It was a lead, and I wasn’t sure it was a good one. Francesca’s so hard to get on the phone. Thanks.”

“She proceeded to tell me all about where she’d eaten lately and what she’d eaten and what she’d cooked. Good Lord, I thought, when I hung up the phone, one day we’re goin’ to see Francesca walkin’ down Park Avenue and she’ll be an eggplant.”

Wetzon laughed. “How was Provence?”

“Fabulous. Unbelievable. I ordered us a case of olive oil directly from a mill, and wouldn’t you know, when I told Francesca about it, she said, ‘But my dear Laura Lee, I much prefer the olive oil from the mill outside Mougins.’”

Wetzon giggled.

“Wait, you haven’t even heard the best part. She tells me, ‘We had a blind tastin’ and we think ours is better.’ Can you imagine, they sat around dippin’ bread into various olive oils? A blind tastin’ of olive oils? Give me a break.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind dipping some really good semolina bread in different olive oils.”

“But you certainly wouldn’t
talk
about it.”

“Probably not.” She laughed again, and Laura Lee smiled at her. “This is amazing coffee.”

“It’s Starbucks’, all the way from Seattle. The best coffee in the world. And, I’m delighted to see your disposition is improvin’.”

Wetzon drained her espresso. “I’ve had a couple of traumatic things happen to me this week, and it’s only Tuesday. I can’t wait to see what the rest of the week will bring.”

Laura Lee signaled for a refill and managed to accomplish a tiny flirt with the counterman, a sleekly attractive man with a dense Mastroianni accent. “Such a nice bod.” She grinned at Wetzon. “I’m dyin’ to hear all about it, darlin’.”

“I’m dying to tell you, if you can pull yourself away from the espresso man, although I don’t know why I should judge you, I’ve got one in my life.”

“An espresso man?”

“An Italian.”

“Uh oh.” Laura Lee shook her head. “Wetzon, darlin’, life is way too short to take everythin’ as seriously as you do. What’s the story?”

“First, Dilla Crosby gets clobbered to death just before Carlos’s run-through and we find the body. Then the detective on the case recognizes me from when we met three years ago—”

“And doesn’t know you and Silvestri have split—”

“You got it. So he picks up the phone and tells Silvestri I’m involved in a homicide. And then guess what?”

“Silvestri rides in on his white stallion. Yum.”

“More or less.”

“And where is the grand Alton Pinkus while all this is happenin’?”

“In Caracus at some labor convention. That’s the other thing, Laura Lee. Picture this: While Silvestri and I are making out on my sofa, Alton calls and leaves a message on my machine for all the world to hear, asking me to marry him.”

“Ooooo,” Laura Lee intoned.

“Laura Lee, behave.”

“What a delicious situation. Don’t you love it?”

“Well ...”

“Come on now, Wetzon, think about it.”

“But Laura Lee, if I married Alton I would have to give up my apartment.”

“Listen to yourself, darlin’. Did you hear what you just said?”

Wetzon laughed. “I guess I don’t want to get married. At least, not if I have to move. Seriously, how would I ever find another apartment like mine for what I paid for it?”

“Wetzon, you and I know that square footage is the secret to a perfect relationship in New York.”

“Ah, the pure, sweet sound of truth.” Wetzon reached for her wallet.

“Put that away, darlin’. I’ve already taken care of it.”

“I didn’t see any money change hands.”

“Marcello thinks I’m cute.” She looked over at the counterman and he flashed her a sexy smile.

“You are cute. Come on, I’ll walk you uptown. We’ll be two furry animals chugging up Broadway.”

“I thought you might change your mind about walkin’ once I jollied you up. And besides, we both can use the exercise.”

They walked up Sixth Avenue to Central Park South at a good pace, a damp, chilly wind at their backs, urging them along. Cabs were lined up in front of hotels. New York night life was about to begin.

“How’s it going with you and Eduardo?” Eduardo was Laura Lee Day’s SoHo artist.

“Oh, fine, I guess, but I’m gettin’ a little tired of livin’ in a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel.”

Office workers and professional women were homeward-bound to the Upper West Side in their dark pantyhose and white socks; the obligatory white Reeboks crowded the sidewalks. Whenever the MTA raised bus and subway fares, more and more decided to walk. And there were many more women than men. Wetzon wondered what that meant.

“I had another New York Moment this mornin’,” Laura Lee said. “Do you want to hear it?” Laura Lee had started calling absurd things that could only happen in New York “New York Moments” and now she and Wetzon were always trading can-you-top-this stories.

“I know you’re going to tell me anyway.”

Laura Lee chortled. “This is better than anythin’ you’ve had lately. This mornin’ I got a seat on the subway and opened my
Journal.
I went right through the third section first, just to make sure about where all my stocks closed, then I started on the front page. Suddenly it came to me that someone was breathin’ major halitosis down on me, standin’ awfully close. I looked up and this homeless person is practically in my face. He was grubby beyond words. He looked as if he’d rolled in the mud last November and it had dried on him. He was talkin’ to me, and I swear, I almost stopped breathin’. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘but would you mind’—and what do you think he says?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“He says, ‘Can I read your newspaper?’ Like a fool, I say, ‘But it’s the
Journal.’
He just stares at me and won’t go away, so I gave him the section I finished, you know, with the stock quotes and all, and what do you think, Wetzon? He starts readin’ it. And just as we’re rollin’ into the World Trade Center, he folds it up and gives it back to me and says, ‘Market’s overbought —due for a correction.’”

“You made that up.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Then I’d probably recognize him.”

“How come?”

“Easy. He’s an ex-stockbroker.”

Their laughter got them to Laura Lee’s building.

“By the way,” Laura Lee said. “His daughter is havin’ a big dinner party.”

“Whose daughter? The derelict stockbroker?”

“Get a grip, Wetzon. Alton Pinkus’s daughter.”

“How do you know?”

“I told you, Sandra Semple is my client.”

“I forgot. Alton’s going to be fifty-seven in March. Maybe it’s a birthday party.”

“She invited me, so I’ll see you there.”

“Don’t be so sure. I don’t think Alton’s kids like me.”

“Well, they’re hardly kids. Sandra is thirty-one and the other two are in their late twenties and don’t even live around here. And Alton likes you, so what does it matter? You’re not marryin’
them.”

“I’m not marrying
him
either.”

With a wave, Wetzon continued up Columbus. Laura Lee always made her see the humor in their lives. And this was good. She was a buoyant spirit and wrung more enjoyment out of life than any ten people Wetzon knew.

Wetzon was feeling so good that she didn’t at first recognize Detective Bernstein and his partner getting out of an unmarked and going into her lobby.

“Shit!” she said out loud, and a kid on a bike echoed her, “Shit, lady, shit, shit, shit.” She stopped in her tracks. She had half a mind to turn on her heels and have dinner out. But she was tired. She didn’t want to eat out. She wanted to be home.

Bernstein emerged from her building and looked up and down the street. And up again. He’d caught sight of her, and now stood waiting under the navy blue canopy.

“Ms. Wetzon.” Well, at least he had dropped his sarcastic Miss Wesson routine.

“Detective Bernstein. Good evening. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” He held the door for her, and they entered her lobby, where his partner Gross was distracting Wetzon’s doorman.

“It would be easier if we talked upstairs.” Bernstein followed her to her mailbox and watched as she collected her mail.