Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (21 page)

Wetzon skimmed the dark house. She saw Fran move laboriously through the side curtain to the wings.

Poppy Hornberg stood in the aisle near the back, hands on her broad hips, talking to Peg Button, who held a large swatch of shiny material.

Where was Mark? Even as she wondered, Wetzon saw him come out the pass door backstage right carrying a cardboard box with just enough care to let Wetzon know it was a liquid delivery. Coffee, Diet Cokes. The responsibility of the gofer.

Wetzon edged across the row of seats to the other aisle. Maybe she could catch Mark. She saw him stop near Mort and Carlos. Mort passed a container to Carlos and took the next one from Mark, setting it on the arm of the seat. He reached up and caressed Mark’s neck, and Mark nestled into the caress as if Mort were his own true love. Oh, shit, Wetzon thought. Smith will die.

“Hold it!”

This time it was Carlos who stopped the show. He strode to the apron, clapping his hands. “Five, six, seven,
eight.
Stay on the beat. JoJo, help us out here. The beat, guys. You’ll kill the number. You’ll kill the applause.” He grabbed his chest. “You’ll kill
me.
Okay, JoJo—”

Mark stopped at the computer table and delivered three more containers, then headed up the aisle toward Poppy. The producer’s wife had parked herself in the last row of the orchestra. She patted the seat next to her. “Sit with me, Smitty,” Wetzon heard her say.

“I’ll be right back,” Mark told Poppy. “I have to give Kay hers.”

Wetzon, blending into the shadows, followed Mark. “Kay’s in the ladies’ room,” she called.

Mark started and dropped the cardboard box. The last coffee container sloshed black coffee from the pinhole in its plastic cover, and seeped through the cardboard into the carpet. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “Oh, God. Wetzon. Don’t tell Mom, please.” He bent and picked up the box, his hands shaking.

“Mark, what is this Smitty business and telling people you’re twenty-two years old?”

“I want to be in the Theatre, Wetzon. I’ll do anything. I don’t want to go to college.” His voice was a plaintive whisper.

“You can be in the Theatre—no one will stop you if that’s what you want —but finish school first. Your mother is going to be very upset when she finds out.”

“Please don’t tell her.” The boy was so miserable she wanted to hold him, but he was too old for that and too many people were entirely too anxious to hold him at the moment. “I never expected to see you here,” Mark said.

“But you knew Carlos was my friend.”

“He’s been really nice to me. So have Mort and Poppy. Mort’s going to help me get work in the Theatre.”

“Mark, you can trust Carlos, but Mort and Poppy will cut you in two rather than let the other ...” She paused. “... have you. Do you understand? Poppy is using you.”

He bowed his head. “Wetzon, it’s not what you think.... I’m ... not ... Poppy is ...” His lips pressed together.

“What, Mark? You know you can tell me anything.”

He looked at her then, almost defiantly. “Wetzon—I’m—” His voice cracked. He swallowed. “I’m gay.”

Wetzon’s first anguishing thought was of Smith. But Mark’s need was greater. She touched the boy’s cheek, then stood on tiptoe, took his face in her hands, and looked into his eyes. “Honey, you know me well enough to know I don’t care what your sexual preference is. I want you to be happy. But your mother—”

Kay came out of the ladies’ room; awkwardly, Mark and Wetzon separated. The lighting designer looked from one to the other, amused.

“Here’s your coffee, Kay,” Mark said.

“Christ, Smitty, you’re really something.” There was admiration in Kay’s voice. She took the coffee.

“It’s not what you think, Kay,” Wetzon said.

“What
am
I thinking, Leslie?”

They watched Kay march down the side aisle. Wetzon looked around. “Come in here, Mark.”

“But it’s the ladies’ room.”

She smiled. “This is show biz.” Opening the door, she called, “Anyone here?” When no one replied, she pulled Mark in and shut the door. She took the empty cardboard box from him and dropped it on the floor near the waste bin. “How long have you known?”

“I felt different, but I didn’t know why. When I went away to school, I knew....”

“Oh, baby, it’s not going to be easy for you. You know that?”

“I know.”

He didn’t know, but she let it pass. “How did you get into this Theatre stuff?”

“Dilla. She caught me sneaking in and hanging around rehearsals.”

Wetzon sighed. “And what about school?”

“I told them Mom wasn’t feeling well and I took the train in the afternoon about three or four times a week—whenever I could get away.”

“Where did you stay?”

“At Dilla’s and Susan’s. They sort of adopted me. I told them I was an orphan.”

“Oh, Mark.” Smith would absolutely die. “Your mother is here, you know, and she’ll see you, so you’re going to have to tell her—”

“God, Wetzon, I can’t tell her I’m gay.”

“No, I guess you can’t, but you can tell her you’re working on the show. Promise me you’ll do it.”

“Okay.”

“How did you get on the show anyway?”

“Dilla introduced me to Mort. And Carlos, too, of course.”

My God, Wetzon thought. Dilla was pimping for Mort. “Were you hanging around the theatre at the meeting the night before Dilla was murdered?”

He nodded. “I’d just gotten there. It was raining so hard, I got soaked. I don’t think anyone really noticed me. They were arguing about something and then Carlos left. He was really mad. I hung around for a while, until Sam and Aline left. But then Mort and Dilla had a big fight.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Something about how she always covered for him, and when she needed him, he turned her down. I didn’t know what to do so I went outside. It was sleeting and raining, and I was freezing, but I’d closed the stage door and couldn’t get back in because it was locked. And I didn’t have an umbrella. Mort was supposed to take me to dinner—we’d had this plan—but I guess he forgot.”

“Where did you stay that night?”

“I called Carlos. He let me stay with him.”

“For just that night?”

“For the weekend.”

Wetzon sighed, disheartened. “Was the front of the theatre dark? Was anyone around?”

“You mean when I got locked out?”

She nodded.

“I ran around the block to Forty-fifth Street to the front, but that was locked, too,” Mark said. “I could see someone inside, in the box office, but she wouldn’t let me in.”

“I broke the news about Smitty to Mort,” Carlos announced.

“And?” She was really angry with Mort, but she was probably wrong to be. How would he have known Mark was only seventeen?

Wetzon and Carlos were stretched out, shoes cast off, side by side on Carlos’s king-size bed. A bottle of a French cabernet sauvignon and a double order of scrambled eggs and bacon were history.

The company had broken at midnight, and everyone was ravenous. Carlos and Wetzon had rushed back to Carlos’s room and ordered room service.

“If he wasn’t such a nice kid, I’d be only too happy to see the Barracuda suffer.”

“He is a nice kid. Carlos, he told me he’s gay.”

“Didn’t I tell you, darling Birdie? Carlos is never wrong about that.”

She kicked him. “Oh, go on. You always say everybody is gay.”

“But darling,” Carlos drawled, “everybody
is.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“You say.” Carlos chortled diabolically, and she kicked him again.

“Let’s get serious here,” she said sternly.

“Okay.” He laughed and threw his arms around her. “We’re getting old together.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Birdie, I worry about you.”

“Carlos—” She pushed him away. “What’s this?”

“What if something happened to me?”

She felt a stab of fear. “Is anything wrong?” She sat up. “Are you okay?”

“No. I mean, yes. I’m fine.” He raised himself on his elbow and leaned his head on his hand. “It’s not that.”

“Swear”—she traced a cross over his heart with her finger—”and hope to die.” He shivered an exaggerated sensual shiver. “I’m not kidding,” she said.

“I
swear
; dear heart.”

“Well, fine then.” She flopped down on the bed beside him again, facing him, elbow on bed, head in hand. Now they were bookends.

He laughed at her. Then he got serious again. “I’d like to see you settled.”

“You’re just jealous ‘cause I’m still playing the field.”

“Ha!”

“You are not my father, you know.”

“Forgive me.” He fluttered his long dark lashes. “I just care. I want you to have someone steady—like Arthur. He’s my rock.”

“I could marry Alton. He’s a rock. What do you think? Is he too old for me?”

“I think if you love him—fine.” Carlos looked at her, his eyes bright.

“I love him. But—”

“But what?”

“He’s so easy to be with.”

“That’s a but?”

“Don’t start.” Wetzon closed her eyes and rolled over on her back. She’d had too much wine. “It’s too smooth.”

“What is?”

“The relationship.”

“Oho. The earth doesn’t move.”

“You got it.”

“And with Silvestri?”

“A veritable earthquake.”

He took her hand. “Well, la di dah, darling. I guess there’s your answer.”

They lay side by side for awhile, silent.

“I ought to go. Otherwise I’ll fall asleep here.”

He grinned. “And ruin your reputation.”

She reached over and tickled his side along his ribs, and he coiled up like a satisfied snake. “You’re in great shape,” she said enviously.

He poked her and she rolled off the bed gracefully, landing on her feet. “You’re not so bad yourself, Birdie.”

“Mark said someone was in the box office Friday night after you left in a huff.”

“Yeah? I guess the treasurer could have been there that late.”

“The treasurer is Phil’s mother. She must have gotten Phil the job as Dilla’s assistant.”

“No, I don’t think so. I think it was Fran, but I’m not sure.”

“Fran?”

“Well, you know Fran and Dilla had this cautiously adversarial relationship.” He patted the bed next to him. “Come on back.”

“Cautiously adversarial. Interesting way of saying they hated each other. They had to work together, though. Maybe Dilla wanted a piece of the ice. Carlos, do you think Fran could have killed her? He could have bludgeoned her with his cane. Do you know how heavy it is? It must be weighted.”

“I don’t think Fran has the strength in his arms to lift that cane over his head.” He patted the bed again.

Wetzon lay down. “My skirt is getting wrinkled.”

“Take it off.”

“Going straight, darling?”

“Au contraire.”

“Gideon Winkler was on the plane with Joel.”

“Oh?” Carlos shot upright.

“He told Smith he was coming up to fix the show.”

“How does he know the show needs fixing? We haven’t even had an audience. The long knives are out.”

“It’s not enough that I succeed, my friends must also fail.”

Carlos fell back against his pillow. “I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

Neither spoke. Wetzon listened to their breathing.

“If Smith finds out Mark is gay, she’s apt to kill him. Or herself. Mark is scared to death she’ll find out.”

Carlos yawned. “She’ll get over it. Besides, that one would never kill herself.”

“Maybe she won’t find out.” She yawned, too. She was having trouble keeping her eyes open.

“Ha! It’s hard to keep those things a secret.”

“He promised me he’d tell her he had a job on the show and will leave it at that. He’s not about to tell her ...”

She woke with a start. Carlos was snoring next to her. Sitting up, she looked at her watch. Two-thirty. Her skirt was a mess. She tried to smooth it. She took her jacket and coat from the chair where she’d tossed them, picked up her purse, stuck her feet in her shoes. At least the nightmare hadn’t come.

She gave Carlos a gentle kiss. “Good night, doll.”

He murmured, “Love ya,” and rolled over.

Turning out the lights, Wetzon stepped into the hallway and closed the door, arranging the do-not-disturb sign on the doorknob. The hallway was empty. No one around at all. How different it was now. The Theatre she’d been part of had been so sexual. Not sexy, but sexual. Everybody was doing it. And when they weren’t doing it, or planning to do it, they were thinking about doing it. The fire escapes in the tacky hotels had been gridlocked after rehearsals or performances. Partners changed frequently. Married in New York meant single on the road. It was as if creativity made everyone horny.

By comparison, Wall Street, where money and power were the sex, where people were horny for the next deal, next conquest, not the next body, had seemed dull to her when she’d changed careers.

Now, however, the road was tame. Circumspect. AIDS had made everyone fearful. Spontaneity was abandoned. Even safe sex wasn’t safe anymore. She walked down the hall to her room.

Where had she put her key? She searched her pockets, then her bag. There it was at the bottom of her purse, under her makeup pouch. She put it in the lock and turned it, opening the door.

The light from the hallway streaked into the dark room. Hadn’t she left all the lights on? God, had the Ritz taken to turning off lights on a timer or something?

She closed the door and groped on the wall for the light switch. Then stopped still. There was something soft on the floor.... She searched for the doorknob. Near the second bed there was a faint movement, a shift of the shadows.

She froze. Someone was in the room with her.

Although overwined and sleep-befuddled, Wetzon threw open the door to the hall and stepped out, flipping on the overhead light as she did so. “Gotcha,” she said softly.
Like papa bear
; she thought,
let’s see who’s been sleeping in my bed.

“Ow! For pitysakes!”

Wetzon jumped back into the room and slammed the door. Smith, in a white silk nightgown, was sitting up on the second bed, rubbing her eyes.