Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (18 page)

“Original.”

“Then he called Phil a retard in front of the whole company and crew because he miscalled a cue.”

“That certainly leads to trust all around.”

“And when Aline came to Phil’s defense, Mort called her a fat dyke masquerading as a woman.”

“Well, la di dah. The usual Mort Hornberg tantrum. How did
you
escape?”

“But I didn’t, darling. He told me he’d sent for someone who knows how to choreograph a Broadway show.”

“Jesus.” This was serious. “What did you say?”

“I said if he did that I’d cheerfully kill him.”

“I’ll be glad to help you if you’ll wait till I get there.”

“Too late, darling. Someone else may have gotten there ahead of us.”

At thirty-six thousand feet, somewhere above Bridgeport, a steward served champagne, Tattinger’s no less, and pate on little wedges of dark bread.

Wetzon was sitting on the wing, her legs stretched out in front of her. It was a magical February night. The sky seemed endlessly concave and the twinkling lights from the Grumman G-2 jet mingled happily with the stars. Raising her glass, she toasted them. The club soda had lost its fizz. Ah well. Even so, this was the good life.

Smith had arranged for a limo to pick them up at the office and drive them out to Westchester County Airport in White Plains. The limo had been one of Joel Kidde’s, complete with a bar and a television. Oh, Smith was in top form.

In this brief, peaceful interlude on the plane, Wetzon felt quite alone, and it was a wonderful feeling. She had left a note for Alton.
Dearest Alton,
she had written, choosing her words carefully.
I’m sure you forgot I was going to be in Boston—at the Ritz—this weekend for Carlos’s opening. I’ll be back Sunday night.
She’d signed it,
Love, L
. and then read it over and added a P.S.:
Your message was received and is being digested.
She hadn’t known what else to say, so she folded the note in an envelope and left it with Alton’s doorman.

She hadn’t heard from Silvestri again and, thinking about it, was suddenly pissed. Who did he think she was? Just someone to screw around with when he felt like it? A slow burn started in the pit of her chest. Damn it all, why did he make her care so much? Alton was better for her....

A bubble of phony laughter pierced her reverie. Around her, which she had almost succeeded in tuning out, was the irritating hum of people who were trying to impress one another. Smith was really on a roll. It made Wetzon more impatient than it usually did. On the other hand, everything made her more impatient lately.

In spite of the depth of her feelings for Carlos, she almost dreaded what she would get caught up in when she reached Boston. Out-of-town tryouts were trying in more ways than one. Everyone was on edge, people would say unforgivable things to each other and then expect to be forgiven. Costumes wouldn’t fit right, cues would go wrong, follow spots wouldn’t follow. The performers would be physically and mentally exhausted. When she’d talked with Carlos late last night, he’d been agitated and brusque. Mort was back in action, his arm in a sling, his neck in a collar. Whoever had attacked him, for whatever reason, had not succeeded in killing him, Carlos had reported. This time. The police were classifying the attack as a mugging, because Mort’s Cartier watch and his wallet were missing. At that point Carlos had laughed diabolically and told her, “So, darling, we still have our shot at him.”

Wetzon felt rather like the Tennyson poem, as if she were riding, half a mile, half a mile, half a mile onward, into the valley of Death—

“Mystery spread.”

“Huh?”

“I wouldn’t eat it, if I were you.” Sunshine Browning was pointing to the wedge of black bread Wetzon hadn’t even realized she still held.

“I hadn’t intended to. Frankly, I don’t even remember taking it.”

“Dump it in here.” Sunny held out one of the barf bags and Wetzon obediently dropped the wedge into it. “I never eat the food on these things. Amazing, isn’t it, that private flights are even worse than the majors.” Sunny had a wide, toothy grin and a mane of streaked blond hair. Park Avenue natural. Her skin was pale, its pallor exaggerated by the all-black ensemble of skirt, sweater, jacket, hose, and boots. She stared intently at Wetzon. “I remember you. I was just out of Radcliffe and Mort hired me as his assistant.”

“I doubt it. I was only a gypsy.” Wetzon certainly did not remember her. Mort Hornberg always hired women from the top schools, and Sunny Browning was just one of a long line. They usually didn’t last. But Sunny had. For one very important reason. Sunny was connected. She could raise money.

“You’re the one he used to fight with.”

Wetzon felt herself flush. “Fight? No. I’m sure you have me confused with—”

“Mort used to say he could look at Leslie Wetzon’s face and read what she was thinking. Am I right?” Sunny had a way of engaging that was making Wetzon uncomfortable.

“He used to say something like that....”

“Ha! There, you see. I have total recall.” Sunny tilted her champagne glass and drained it. “I never forget anything.”

“Never forget what, chum?”

Joel Kidde leaned over them, tall, sleek-haired, slightly bulging eyes looking out of a Vegas-tanned face. His scent was good cigar, and he looked like what he was, a mogul, cut from the same cloth as Time Warner’s late chairman, Steve Ross. Joel Kidde was almost rancid with power. No wonder Smith was attracted to him.

“Leslie Wetzon,” Sunny said.

Kidde looked blank. He gestured to the steward for more champagne and sat down in front of Wetzon. He was wearing a red cashmere turtleneck under a gray suit.

“This is Leslie Wetzon, Joel,” Sunny repeated, winking at Wetzon.

How wonderful, Wetzon thought, to have made such an impression. They’d been introduced when Wetzon and Smith had lunch with Mort and Twoey at the Four Seasons, and again when they’d boarded the plane. But Joel had been straightaway mesmerized by Smith. So what else was new?

“Oh, Joel.” Audrey Cassidy smoothed her honey beige chignon. She was as tall as Joel and so thin her hipbones protruded from her slim purple knit. Her large head seemed balanced precariously on her gaunt frame. She worked for one of those new fashion magazines, doing bitchy stories on celebrities. She and Joel were half-sister and brother. Very close. Incredibly close. They were known in the business as Bitch Cassidy and the Sunburnt Kidde. “What did you say you do, Leslie?”

“I’m a headhunter. You might say I hunt top guns for Wall Street’s most prestigious firms.” She nodded toward Smith, who was holding forth several seats back. “Xenia Smith and I are partners.”

Audrey’s eyes settled on Wetzon, inventorying her Donna Karan suit, her black suede boots, her mabe pearl earrings, even her raccoon coat, which Wetzon had tossed on one of the seats near the bulkhead. Gee, it was just like being with Smith.

“Oh, I see.” Audrey nodded, bored. “I understand that the show is a trifle rough.”

Sunny’s response was swift. “You know, opening on the road ... things don’t always come together right away. But that’s what the road is for.” She smiled brightly.

“And of course,” Audrey persisted, “they haven’t found Dilla’s murderer yet.” For a second, there was a catch in her voice and something like pain behind her eyes.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Audrey?” A white line of fury appeared around Sunny’s lips.

“My dear, you don’t have to be a brain surgeon to know it was one of
them.
” Audrey patted her chignon, seemingly recovered from whatever had upset her.

Smith’s brittle laugh floated from the back of the plane and Wetzon, sensing it was a good time to excuse herself, got up to join Smith, but the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom announcing they should take their seats and fasten their seat belts. Wetzon looked back to where Smith sat with Gideon Winkler. Smith had appropriated Gideon the minute they were introduced. Gideon, with his golden boy looks and yellow hair to his shoulders, had been a gypsy once-upon-a-time, the same time as Carlos and Wetzon. He’d been in a slew of hits, including
On the Twentieth Century, Side by Side by Sondheim,
and
Evita.
Then he’d become a movie star, a director, had written an Oscar-winning screenplay, and now was an almost legendary play doctor. His presence on the plane had been casually explained by Joel Kidde. It was, Kidde said, a lift to Boston for a speaking engagement at Harvard.

A bit too pat. Too convenient, Wetzon thought, as they all piled their luggage into a waiting cart and headed out to the stretch limo for the short trip from Logan to the Ritz-Carlton.

“Hssst.” Wetzon finally caught up to Smith as the latter checked herself out in the glass of the windows that looked out on the snow-flecked street. “What were you and the golden boy talking about? Did Gideon tell you why he’s here?”

Smith looked down at her partner and pulled her cashmere coat around her. She, too, had adopted the no-fur zeal, and now she stood shivering in the Boston cold. Wetzon smiled. Her fur felt good, and she’d worked very hard to pay for it. And furthermore, the golden boy was wearing Blackglama to his ankles.

“If you want to freeze like Jane Fonda,” Wetzon whispered.

“Well, if she’s okay for Ted Turner, then—”

“Oh, Smith, give me a break.”

Smith tugged up her collar and stepped out of the building. “I thought you wanted to know why Gideon is here.”

Wetzon followed. “I do. Tell.”

“He said
Hotshot
is moritose.”

“That’s comatose. Or moribund.”

“Whatever. Joke all you want. There’s a good chance that we’re going to lose every penny of our money on your precious show and that doesn’t make me very happy.”

“How dare he say that? He hasn’t even seen it yet.” Wetzon was outraged. It negated Carlos, Mort, all the creative people, and the play didn’t even open until Saturday night.

Smith patted her cheek. “Gideon will fix it, sweetie pie. Gideon said we’re lucky he’s available. Without him,
Hotshot’s
dead in the water.”

The Boston Ritz-Carlton, with its top-hatted doormen in their electric blue jackets and black-and-gray trousers, was Wetzon’s all-time favorite hotel. As a gypsy, she’d never been able to afford a stay there, and she and Carlos had bunked in dumps like the Avery and the Bradford that catered to touring actors and musicians and sometimes hookers. Once, years earlier—before Poppy—Mort, who always stayed at the Ritz—had taken Wetzon upstairs to show her his suite. To Wetzon it had seemed
fin de siecle
splendid, with rococo furniture and soaring ceilings. Mort had asked her to make him a martini while he changed his clothes, and she hadn’t known how. He’d laughed at her, patted her ass, and showed her. In his early days as a director, Mort had tried to make everyone his friend. Too soon after his success, however, he no longer cared.

Wetzon was shown to a room on the seventh floor, overlooking the Public Garden, the bellman said, but the draperies were closed against the cold so there was nothing to see. She gave him a dollar for her small bag, which she could have carried herself, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it. The immaculate room was filled with furniture, yet had an uncluttered feel to it. There were two beds instead of the usual double bed in a single room. It was just this side of elegant. Let Smith have elegance; Wetzon would take the warm, nurturing comfort of the Ritz-Carlton.

She dropped her coat and Lucas bag on the bed nearest to the door. Good. A spare bed was perfect for laying out one’s clothing. On the night table, along with the telephone, was a cache of gold-wrapped chocolates. Slipping out of her shoes, she plunked herself on the other bed and folded her legs yoga-fashion. Her watch said six forty-five. She was starving.

Tomorrow night would be the first—and only—preview of
Hotshot
, so Wetzon was pretty sure that everyone would be at the theatre for the tech/final dress till late tonight. In her experience no one ever got through the technical rehearsal before the first preview, but by some theatrical miracle, things would fall into place anyway.

She could run over to the theatre and see when they were breaking for nourishment. Otherwise, she was on her own for dinner. Wetzon had assumed Smith would be dining with her son, Mark, but Smith had been unusually reticent about her dinner plans, which was fine with Wetzon. This was Wetzon’s world: great chunks of her past, her soul, her youth, her deepest friendships, joys and sorrows, were interwoven in it like an old overshot coverlet.

Enough, she thought, getting off the bed. She unpacked the bag, dumped it on the floor of the closet, and hung up her new little basic black next to a thick, white terry bathrobe—courtesy of the Ritz, of course—then set up her toiletries in the bathroom on the shelf over the sink.

Did she need to redo her makeup? The face that looked back at her was still strange after one year. Somehow she always expected to see the old Leslie Wetzon with her ash blond hair up in the dancer’s smooth topknot. The aftermath of the shooting had left her with a crew cut, and the growth had been excruciatingly slow, so that even now her hair barely came to her jaw, and thanks to her long neck, had quite a way to go to her shoulders. Not to mention the suggestive little sprays of white that had made an appearance at her temple around the tiny scar.

She blotted her nose and forehead with toner on a cotton ball. Actually, this hairstyle made her look younger and less programmed than the other Leslie with the topknot. But she missed the security, albeit imaginary, that she had felt. Maybe once her hair was back in its knot, her nightmare would go away.

On second thought, she rolled her gray eyes at herself. She could never wait that long. A bit of sheer powder to cover the sheen, fingers through hair, controlled disarray, add a touch of lipstick, and voila: Leslie Wetzon, successful businesswoman.

Parting the draperies, she looked down at the snow-covered Public Garden. The street lamps bathed it in a glazy glow. Her mind danced from Alton to Silvestri and then settled on Carlos. He would be very upset about Gideon Winkler.