Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (22 page)

“Smith! Goddammit. What are you doing here? And in my bed!” She noticed at once that all of her things were now lumped on the bed she had intended to use to lay out her clothes.

“I can’t believe you woke me out of a sound sleep just to ask me that,” Smith said querulously, hand protecting her eyes. “Turn off that light.”

Wetzon switched on the lamp on the chest of drawers, taking in the fact that Smith had spread her accessories out on the top of the bureau. She flicked off the overhead light. “How, may I be so bold as to ask, did you think I was going to get into bed?” She began sorting out her clothes from the pile on the bed, feeling Smith’s eyes boring into her, sizing up her humor, which was getting worse by the second. There were no hangers left for Wetzon’s clothing. “Shit, fire, and corruption!” She kicked the closet door shut.

“Sweetie pie, really. I thought you were out for the night.”

“And whom would I be out with, pray tell?”

Smith shrugged her fabulous shoulders delicately. “Well, there are a few people connected with the show who are not queer. One or two. For example, a technical person who is rather attractive and who appears to be crazy about you....” She had that smug look on her face that made Wetzon crazy.

“What are you talking about, Smith?”

“Walt.” There was that smug look again.

“Walt? Walt Greenow? How the hell did you meet him?” It was astonishing how quickly Smith had made herself at home in Wetzon’s theatrical world as well as Wetzon’s room at the Ritz. “Crazy about me? Read my lips. Walt Greenow is
not
crazy about me. I ran into him last Saturday for the first time in over ten years.”

“You never know how to accept a compliment.” Smith’s tone had changed slightly from sugar-coated wheedling to a plaintive whine.

“Give me a goddam break, will you?” Wetzon rummaged in her suitcase for the extra-large T-shirt. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“I thought we should be together at this time.”

Wetzon stared at her partner. Had she found out about Mark? No, she couldn’t have. She’d be a basket case if that had happened. “Oh, yeah?”

“Besides, my room at the Four Seasons was a disaster.”

“Disaster, darling? You don’t know from disaster,” Wetzon said, and regretted it immediately. But Smith took no notice.

“It was the size of a broom closet.”

“How tragic.”

“There’s an AMA convention in town and not another decent room anywhere.”

“So lucky me, I have a roommate.” Wetzon picked up her coat, which she’d dropped on a chair. “Dammit, why didn’t you leave me any hangers?” She dropped her coat back on the chair. It was no use. She undressed and put on the T-shirt, then switched on the night table light.

“We can get more from housekeeping tomorrow. Don’t be so disagreeable. It’ll be such fun. You and me together.”

Wetzon twirled a circle with her index finger. “Whoopie.” She went into the bathroom. Her creams and lotions were stacked on top of the toilet tank, while Smith had spread out everywhere else. She removed her makeup with an oily pad and scrubbed her face, applying moisturizer generously. A deep frown seemed carved into her forehead and the ends of her lips were turned downward. She gave her reflection an insincere smile, and thought:
To hell with you, goody two-shoes.
To the tune in her head of “Officer Krupke,” from
West Side Story,
she methodically transferred Smith’s myriad cosmetics and lotions to the top of the toilet tank and put her own back where they’d been.

All except for her eyeliner, which plopped into the open toilet.
“Shit!”
Bad deeds were always punished—at least hers were.

“What are you doing in there, sweetie pie?” The lovely thread of uncertainty in Smith’s voice made Wetzon smile even as she fished her eyeliner out of the toilet and dropped it in the wastebasket. Humming, she washed her hands, dosed them with cream, and returned to the bedroom.

“I suppose you talked your way into my room.” She switched off the light on the bureau.

“It’s what I do best, sugar.”

“Have you spoken to Mark?” She pulled back the covers and slipped into bed. God, she was tired.

“Yes, and do you know what my clever baby has gone and done? I’m just so proud of him.”

“No. What?” She pushed aside the second pillow and laid the first one flat, then nestled down into it.

“He talked his way into a job on
Hotshot
while he’s in Boston.”

“Good heavens. He is certainly his mother’s son.” Wetzon closed her eyes and found she couldn’t open them. “Turn off the light, will you, Smith? I’m dead.” She could feel herself drifting off.

“Sweetie pie, no!”

Wetzon’s body gave a violent jerk, waking her. “Dammit, Smith!”

“You woke me up, so now you have to stay awake and talk to me.”

“About what?” She reached out and turned off the light.

Smith turned it on again.

Opening one eye, Wetzon saw Smith was still sitting up. “Christalmighty, do you want me to read you a bedtime story?”

“You are an absolute poop. Very well. You may turn off the light, and I’ll just sit here in the dark.”

“I give up!” Wetzon sat up and thumped her pillows. “All right. You have your wish. I am now awake. Talk to me.”

“Weeeelll. Let me see ... I had a lovely dinner with Joel at Joseph’s.”

“Just you two? Not the twin?”

“Oh, no. Audrey, too. It’s so lovely to see sister and brother so close.”

“Oh, yes, lovely.” Wetzon’s eyes were closing again.

“She sticks to him like Velcro.”

“So I’ve heard. Could we turn out that light? It’s hurting my eyes.”

“You’ll fall asleep.”

“No, I promise.” She grinned at Smith. “Not until you give me permission.”

“Very funny,” Smith said, but she reached over and snapped off the light.

A radiant kaleidoscope of rainbow colors dazzled Wetzon’s eyes. She snuggled down under the covers fervently wishing she’d stayed the night with Carlos. “Carlos and I had dinner with Twoey and Sunny Browning.”

“Twoey and Sunny Browning,” Smith repeated in an annoyed voice.

“Yes, they seem quite taken with each other.”

“Humpf! It just goes to show you that I was right about him. He’s a wuss.”

“You’re wrong, Smith. You wouldn’t know a nice guy if you fell over him, but I’m too tired to argue ...”

“Wetzon, don’t you dare fall asleep.” Smith was standing over her, shaking her.

“Go away.”

“I have more to tell—”

“Talk fast,” Wetzon mumbled.

Smith got back into her bed. “Audrey Cassidy’s charming, all things considered. I never thought I’d say that about one of them.”

“Them?” A muffled horn sounded from the street.

“You know. Dykes.”

“The correct word, Smith, is lesbians.”

“Whatever. Mort joined us for a drink, and he and Joel got into a discussion about how much they could give Gideon if he comes in and doctors the show. Mort would have to give up some of his percentage as a director, and your friend Carlos, even more as choreographer.”

“I don’t want to hear this—”

“It’s just like the Street, sweetie pie. To get the deal done successfully, everyone must compromise.”

“Is that it? Can I sleep now?”

“No. There’s more. The best is yet to come. Mort started talking about missing Dilla—it was very moving, I must say—and how her assistant was a loser, not up to the job as production stage manager.”

“Yeah, Phil. He’s in trouble, I think.” Her eyes were seamed closed. “Is that it?” she murmured, beginning to drift.

“Wait. Now it gets better.”

“Hurry up, Smith.”

“So they’re talking about Dilla and what do you know, Audrey looks really strange. Her face gets very red, and she says she’ll be right back. Mort and Joel don’t even notice. They’re so involved in who would give up what. And by the way, sugar, I think it’s really very odd that Joel represents Mort, Gideon, and Carlos. Isn’t that a conflict?”

“Ethics from you, Smith? What is the world coming to?” She laughed and found she was wide awake. “It happens all the time in show biz.”

“Frankly, sweetie pie, it would seem to me that from the creative person’s point of view, he’d be better off represented by someone with no other interest in anyone else in
Hotshot
Well, you know what I mean. Maybe even someone like me.” She fell silent.

“Smith, are you sleeping?”

“Huh? Uh? Oh. No. Well, maybe.”

“Then, would you please finish your Audrey story?”

“Oh. Didn’t I tell you?”

“No, you didn’t. Don’t you
dare
go to sleep until you’ve told me.”

“Oh, all right. Audrey went off to the ladies’ and I followed. When I got there, she was sniveling into a handful of tissues, poor dear.”

“About what?”

“I
told
you—”

“No—you—didn’t
” Wetzon had the powerful urge to get out of bed and strangle Smith.

Smith’s contented smile was palpable even in the darkness. “Well, it seems that Audrey Cassidy was the secret investor and what’s more, Dilla was dumping that Orkin woman for Audrey.”

Dilla and Audrey? What had Susan known? If Susan had wanted to stop Dilla from leaving, wasn’t it logical to start with Audrey?

Logical? Murder? What was she thinking? Wetzon closed her eyes and listened to Smith’s even breathing intersected from time to time with a gentle snore. Trust Smith to drop a bombshell on her when Wetzon was so weary she could scarcely keep her eyes open. Now Smith was sleeping like a baby, and Wetzon’s brain was on overdrive.

Well, that piece of the puzzle certainly explained Audrey’s odd behavior on the plane. Did Susan have an alibi? What if she’d met Dilla at the theatre that night after everyone had gone, and Dilla had told her she was going off with Audrey?

Would Susan have taken the ring before killing Dilla? After? No. She pushed that thought away. It was like people being interviewed after a neighbor commits a gory murder and everyone saying, “He was such a soft-spoken, gentle person. He could never have done that.” Weren’t most murders done in the heat of passion? Violence against a victim well known to the murderer, usually a relative?

At five o’clock, with Smith still sleeping the sleep of the innocent—well, that was a misnomer of the first order—Wetzon got out of bed and took a hot shower. Her body was a mass of knots; she needed a good sweaty workout. Maybe Carlos would work the company before rehearsals and she could join in. Dipping her head, she blow-dried her hair, shaping it with her fingers, then tossing it back into place. Wetzon’s wild abandoned hairdo, that’s what it was.

Without resorting to light, she pulled on stretch jeans, a black silk turtle- neck, an oversize red cotton knit sweater, and saggy socks. Smith slept on undisturbed. The courtesy terry robe lay at the foot of Smith’s bed.

Bitch, Wetzon thought. On an evil impulse she went back and grabbed the robe, hanging it in the back of the closet.

There was no place to go at five-thirty and nothing to do. The Ritz coffee shop, where she loved to breakfast, wouldn’t open until seven, probably. She had the new Frances Fyfield paperback to read, but if she put on the light, Smith would have a hissy fit. I’m a prisoner in my own room, she thought, feeling sorry for herself. She crawled back into bed and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, her first thought was that it was raining. A loud thump came from somewhere above. Every light was on. Smith’s bed was empty, and the bathroom door was wide open. Billows of scented steam filled the room. The sound of the shower accounted for what she had thought was rain. Abruptly, the shower stopped. Wetzon dozed off again.

“How long are you going to lie there?” Smith demanded.

Wetzon opened one eye. Smith was wearing a slim, almost ankle-length charcoal skirt and low black boots. A vivid fuchsia cashmere showed under a slightly lighter gray blazer. Chic was an understatement.

Wetzon yanked the covers over her head. “What time is it?” she grumbled.

“Time to eat. I’m starving. Come on, let’s go.” Smith pulled the covers off Wetzon. “You’re dressed already!”

Wetzon sat up. “After you dropped your
bon mot
about Dilla and Audrey, I couldn’t sleep. You certainly didn’t have that trouble.” Another loud
thump
came from the ceiling, making them both look up.

“Theatricals misbehaving.” Smith yawned, patting her mouth. “Put on some makeup and let’s go downstairs for blueberry muffins.”

After the minor accident when she stuck the mascara brush into her eye, and had to wash up sooty tears from her cheeks, Wetzon forsook anything more complicated beyond combing her hair and putting on lipstick.

In the hallway the thumping sounded overhead again. As they passed Carlos’s room on the way to the elevator, Wetzon saw that the maid was making it up, which meant that he was either having breakfast in the coffee shop or more likely was in the midst of one of Mort’s endless creative staff meetings.

The elevator doors opened. A room service cart, loaded with stainless- steel-covered serving plates, took up most of the space. “Going up,” said the waiter, an elderly man with pale blue eyes in a cream of wheat face. “One more floor.”

“Come on.” Smith pushed Wetzon on ahead of her. “We’ll go for a ride.”

This is totally out of character, Wetzon thought suspiciously, crammed up against the cart.

When the doors opened, Smith and Wetzon stepped out, and the waiter pushed the cart slowly down the hall away from them. The rumble of angry male voices came from somewhere on the floor. Pungent cigar tainted the air.

“Someone’s having a feast,” Smith said. “And a fight.”

“And a cigar,” Wetzon said. “Coffee. Quickly.” She tried to catch the closing elevator doors, but was too late. And when she turned around, Smith wasn’t even there. Where had she gotten to?

She trailed back down the hall and caught sight of Smith following the room service cart, chatting up the bewildered waiter. The same male rumble was coming from behind the double doors where the cart stopped. Several voices, all raised. Was that Carlos? Uh oh.