Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (17 page)

“You mean you want to come up?” Wetzon pressed the elevator button. The car was on the ninth floor and not moving. An alarm bell began to ring. The elevator was obviously stuck again. So much for the six thousand dollar assessment she’d had to pay for her share of the new elevator.

“Come, I take you up, then I get the super,” Julio said. He motioned them to the service car, then went to the front door and locked it.

The service elevator, an antique even for the West Side, was on its last legs. A ripe smell seeped from the stacks of filled plastic garbage bags in the rear of the car. It was not a pleasurable ride, but it was better than walking up twelve flights.

When she unlocked her door and preceded them, she lit the chandelier in the foyer and then went on to the living room turning on the lights.

“Boy, this is great,” Gross said.

“Yeah.” Bernstein scratched his head under his yarmulke and sat down on the sofa.

“Is it a co-op?” Gross was checking out the quilt hanging on the nearest wall.

“Yes.” Wetzon hung her coat in the closet. Gross walked around the living room looking at everything.

Bernstein took out his grubby notepad. “Just wanted to go over a coupla things with you.”

“Okay.” Wetzon sat down in the Shaker armchair and waited. He was actually pleasant, well, as pleasant as he was capable of being. Gross was now studying the titles on Wetzon’s floor-to-ceiling wall of bookshelves.

“You said the box office attendant used to keep a club under the ticket window.”

“You mean the treasurer. The treasurer bears the responsibility for what comes in—money—and what goes out—tickets—on a day-to-day basis.”

“Okay, yeah. What about the club?”

“Some treasurers did keep one, but it’s been a long time since I was in a show. Maybe they don’t anymore. Maybe now it’s an Uzi. You should talk to whoever is treasurer of the Imperial. I don’t even know if he was there that afternoon.”

“She.” Bernstein sounded smug.

“Oh, a woman. There weren’t many women in that union, as I remember. Things have changed.”

“Did you see her?”

“How would I know her if she wasn’t introduced to me? There were so many people milling around—detectives mostly—What does she look like?”

Bernstein nodded to Gross, who reluctantly stopped her peregrinations and stood beside Wetzon’s chair. She took out her notepad, flipped over some pages, and read, “‘Heavy woman. Midforties. Maybe five eight, five nine. Wearing a black suit. Light brown hair to her shoulders, held back with a headband. Big glasses.’” Closing the notepad, she added, “Her name is Edna.”

Wetzon wrinkled her brow. “She sounds vaguely familiar. I must have seen her. Otherwise ...”

“Do you know her?”

“No. How would I know her? I don’t know anyone named Edna.”

“But you know her son.”

Wetzon sat up. “Is this a trick question? Yes, union jobs were often handed down from father to son. But who’s Edna’s son?”

“Phil Terrace.”

Wetzon put Anita Shreve’s new novel aside and turned out the light. Thick, cottony darkness immediately enveloped her. She lay motionless a long time, listening to her heart thumping.

But this is foolish, she chided herself. You’ve talked with Sonya, not to mention Silvestri, so it’s been dealt with and you’re not going to have the dream again.

Think about other things. Okay. What was Susan Orkin so frightened about? And did the attempted break-in have anything to do with Dilla’s murder? Why hadn’t Susan gone to the police? What had happened to the threatening letter? Did Susan know who the killer was? Was she, for some reason, protecting him ... or her? Lord. She turned over on her side.

And then there was the surprise information about Edna Terrace being the treasurer at the Imperial. Had Edna been in the box office when the creative contingent had the stormy meeting the night before Dilla’s death? Had she been there on Saturday when Dilla’s body was discovered? It must be Edna Terrace, then, whom Phil was talking to that afternoon in the box office.

And Bernstein had actually been less obnoxious, thanking her for her help, asking her to keep an eye out in Boston. He’d even given her his card and written his home number on the back so she could call him.

On her back again—it was going to be a long night—she put her body in the sponge position.
Begin deep, slow breathing, relax the toes first
Silvestri hadn’t called.
Relax the arch of the foot. Breathe into it.
Just as well. Alton would be back in four days and she was going to have to deal with that.
Relax ankles. Feel all the tension flowing out
. She hoped Smith wouldn’t be a true pain in Boston. Relax shins and calves ...

She knew even in her sleep that it was starting, and implored, no, no no. Fighting it, she was losing. She felt herself being sucked inexorably into a giant vacuum.

The light exploded in her face hot as a flame, and her nostrils were burning with acrid fumes. Her head, her eyes—”No, no, stop!” Her cries thrust her thrashing out of the dream. She woke locked in a fetal position, trembling and sweating, her heart pounding.

Her digital clock said 3:35.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” she told herself aloud. “It’s a dream. Deal with it. You don’t need Silvestri. You don’t need anybody.” She talked herself down and lay again in the sponge, cold sweat chilling her even under the quilt.

When she finally stopped shaking, she got up, slipped on her robe and padded down the hall to the kitchen. There she made herself a cup of hot chocolate with Dutch-process cocoa and skim milk. Sipping a reasonable facsimile of soothing maternal nostalgia, she returned to her bedroom. She took a few small sips, then set the mug on the antique washstand next to her bed, got back into bed. One more swallow of cocoa. The yawn was unexpected; she lay back against her pillow.

Her clock radio woke her at six-thirty. About a third of the chocolate remained in the mug; the bedside lamp was still on. But she’d gotten through the night in fairly reasonable shape. By herself.

As a reward, Wetzon stopped at Mangia on Forty-eighth Street on the way to the office and bought a whole wheat scone for breakfast and a mozzarella and sun-dried tomato sandwich for lunch.

She squared her shoulders and strode purposefully east on Forty-ninth Street toward her office. A scrap of melody from a song Gwen Verdon had sung in
New Girl in Town
kept going through her head. “It’s good to be alive,” Wetzon hummed. Coming toward her was a young woman in a shiny black raincoat with yellow flannel trim and yellow rubber boots. A golden retriever charged yards ahead of her on one of those extension leashes. Wetzon had just stopped to pet the friendly dog when she heard a terrifying shriek. The dog owner’s face was scrunched into a grimace. Always on the alert for the seriously disturbed who could pass for acceptable—a bit of necessary armor in New York—Wetzon immediately stepped into the gutter between a black BMW and a red hatchback and started across the street.

“Do you know how many animals bled to death so that you can wear that coat?” the young woman was screaming at her. The golden started barking and raced back to its owner.

Furious, Wetzon got back on the sidewalk. “Do you know what your precious synthetics have done to our ozone layer?” she responded. “Look at yourself and weep. You’re a walking advertisement for ozone depletion.”

The woman looked stunned, which was good enough for Wetzon. She was sick and tired of the trendy wealthy who set themselves up as judges, condemning meat eaters and fur wearers, when there were children who went hungry and guns were readily available.

Mentally brushing her hands together with satisfaction, Wetzon waved cheerfully to Steve Sondheim who was coming out of his house.

All in all, she thought, crossing Second Avenue to their office, a very good start to the day.

“Rich McMartin is sitting at SMQ,” Max announced when Wetzon sailed through the door. The rich smell of coffee filled the office.

“Well, that’s the kind of news I like.”

“Do you mind, Max?” Smith appeared in the doorway. Her eyes flared a warning at Max. “It’s not your job to report on hires,” she said severely.

Wetzon shook her finger at Smith. Surreptitiously she mouthed,
none of that.

Smith paid no attention. “We’re going to have to wait a few weeks until he gets clearance before we bill.”

“Really? Why? Rich said he was clean.”

“A little computer check turned up three glitches on his U4.”

“Damn. What kind of glitches?” Wetzon hung up her coat and poured herself a mug of coffee.

“Minor things—like unauthorized trading. Reprimands, but no lawsuits.”

“Unauthorized trading is a minor thing?” Max was aghast. He had been a strictly-by-the-book accountant in his previous life, and still thought like one, which made him, as Smith was fond of saying, anal-obsessive.

“Trust me, Max sweetie.” Smith gave him a patronizing pat on his slumping shoulder. “In a world where money laundering, insider trading, and stock parking go on as always, a tiny bit of unauthorized trading is a
minor
offense. Especially when nobody sued.”

Max frowned. He was wearing a blue-striped shirt with white collar and cuffs and a crimson bow tie. When he frowned, his tie bobbled. “Then why wouldn’t McMartin get clearance?”

“If a broker with a clean record moves,” Wetzon explained, “the NewYork Stock Exchange transfers his license electronically within twenty-four hours, and the new manager gets verbal clearance on the broker even sooner. But if there’s anything at all on his U4, everything has to be hand carried, looked into with a magnifying glass. It can take weeks, sometimes months.”

“Then what does the broker do without his license?”

Smith threw up her hands and went into their office, slamming the door.

Wetzon raised an eyebrow at the closed door. “Most firms let the broker work on the manager’s or the branch’s number. Not particularly legal, but everyone looks the other way. Max, is something going on I should know about?”

“She’s in a bad mood,” Max said.

“I would never have guessed.”

Max eyed the closed door sympathetically. Since he’d joined them two years before, he had always treated Smith with indulgence. “Something to do with Mr. Hartmann, I think.”

“Oh, dear. Thanks, Max. You’re a sweetheart.” Wetzon caught herself about to blow him a kiss and stopped. What the hell was wrong with her? Was she becoming Smith? She opened the door to their office, stepped in, and closed the door. In truth, she would be downright delighted if Smith broke up with Hartmann. She dumped her briefcase on the chair, set the mug on top of her desk calendar.

“You are altogether too chummy with the help.” Smith was half-sitting on her desk, swinging one long leg back and forth angrily. Her face was dark as thunder.

“Come off it, Smith. What’s really bugging you?”

The phone rang, was answered, and another line began ringing. The little hold lights were blinking.

“Well?” Wetzon asked.

Smith’s face crumpled and she burst into tears.

“Oh, my God, what is it?”

Wetzon rushed to her. Smith sobbed on her shoulder. “It’s awful. Awful.”

“What’s awful?”

“Dickie’s been arrested.”

“Aw, Richard Hartmann, Esquire, arrested? For what, pray tell? Did they finally find out he was laundering money?”

Smith pulled away, dried her eyes with a tissue, and blew her nose. “You don’t have to look so pleased. And I’ll have you know it wasn’t for laundering money, it was for contempt.” She blew her nose again and dropped the crumpled tissue in her waste basket. “I wanted to fly down to Miami to be with him, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Contempt, huh? That’s perfect. Contempt for the law, the jury system, judges, human beings. You know something, that man’s not worth shedding a single tear over. He doesn’t give two hoots for anybody. I warned you about getting involved with him. You deserve better.”

“You are heartless, you know that? Absolutely heartless.” Smith took out her compact and began to powder her nose. “I know you mean well, but—”

“Now Twoey, that’s quite another story.”

“Twoey!” The gold compact closed with a snap. “I’m so sick of hearing you sing Twoey’s praises. If you like him so much, you can have him.”

“Don’t start that, Smith. Besides, I have more than enough on my plate right now. But Twoey Barnes is platinum, all the way. Don’t be so quick to toss him aside.”

Smith ran her fingers through her short, dark curls and smiled. The storm was over. “We’ll see. I have my eye on Joel Kidde. He appears to be unattached at the moment.”

Max knocked on the door, interrupting Wetzon’s groan.

“Come, Max sweetie,” Smith commanded.

“Carlos on three for you, Wetzon.”

“Ah, dear Carlos,” Smith said. She smoothed her stockings around her ankles and gave Wetzon an utterly guileless smile. “Please send him my best wishes.”

Wetzon picked up the phone. What was this with Smith’s sudden change in weather? “Hi. How’s it going?”

“Birdie, it’s the worst of the worst.” Carlos’s voice was so hoarse he croaked. “Everyone’s fighting with everyone. Mort’s carrying on like a lunatic. You know, no one ever realized how Dilla used to keep him in line. Your friend Twoey Barnes is walking around looking shell-shocked, and Mort just keeps ordering more scenery, and who needs it? We all agreed early on that less was more—”

“I thought there was barely enough money left to open in Boston?”

“His new partner seems to have deep pockets.”

“Oh, God, Twoey ...”

“I can’t wait till you get here. Mort used to listen to you.”

“That was a long time ago, Carlos.”

“Darling, I can tell you right now this is the last show I’ll do with Mort. You have no idea how awful it is. He called Sam an untalented hack. Then he had a screaming fit about the orchestrations because Poppy didn’t like them.”

“What does Poppy know about orchestrations?”

“‘What does Poppy know about orchestrations?’ she asks. What does Poppy Hornberg have to know about anything? She just makes these pronouncements and everyone listens to her, especially Mort. Poppy thinks the lighting is too dark, so Mort told Kay she couldn’t light her way out of a paper bag.”