Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (23 page)

“Just take Arlington,” the waiter said patiently to Smith. He knocked on the door. “Room service.”

With her hand behind her, Smith was making sweeping motions. What the hell did she want Wetzon to do? Oh, maybe see if there was a name on the check. It was propped up on edge between an empty goblet and a sweating stainless-steel pitcher of cold orange juice.

As Wetzon tried to take a casual peek at it, someone inside began fumbling with the door. The voices grew louder. Now she recognized Mort’s as well. In the confusion, Wetzon snatched the check. It was made out to Mort Hornberg. She placed it back on the table, mumbling, “I think you dropped this—”

A furious howl interrupted her, followed hard by a heart-stopping crash, shouting, then an ominous thump, thump, thump ...

The waiter pushed the doors open, releasing cigar fumes. “Oh, excuse me.” He looked frightened.

“Get out of here!” someone yelled.

“Mort, are you crazy? Let go of me!”

“Mort, let him
go!”
That sounded like Joel Kidde.

The waiter came stumbling out of the room. He stood in the corridor, confused about whether to run and get help or stay and get the check signed.

“Ow!” That was Carlos, and it was enough to make Wetzon push the waiter aside and rush into the room. No one was going to hurt her Carlos.

Before she saw anything, she felt the wind. It rushed like a hurricane through an open window, driving the draperies mad. The room was frigid. She looked around quickly, trying to process what was happening. Behind her, Smith screamed.

Then she saw Joel tugging Mort off someone—oh God, Carlos. Legs. That’s all she saw of Carlos. The rest of him was dangling out the window, five floors above Newbury Street.

Wetzon would never fully remember how they rescued Carlos. What she would remember clearly were Smith’s shrill shriek, Joel’s desperate struggle with Mort, someone exhorting, “No, no!” and Carlos’s kicking legs. And the intense cold. Some time later she would have a sneaking suspicion that it was Smith who gave Mort a hard whack on his previous wound, which made him release Carlos long enough for Wetzon to grab Carlos’s waistband and pull him in. She had a vague memory of holding him wobbling in her arms and babbling, “Good shape, good shape.”

She saw the blood rush from Carlos’s face and he crumpled, sinking both of them to the carpet. Mort was stamping around the room howling, clutching the side of his head, shaking off Joel’s feeble ministrations of “There, there, old chum.”

“Close the fucking window, someone!” Wetzon heard herself yell. She was hugging Carlos to her, his head on her breast.

“Birdie, you’ll break my eardrum,” he croaked. Color seeped back in his face.

Dimly, Wetzon heard someone hammering on the outside doors. No one in the room acknowledged it.

The window closed with a loud slam, and the curtains and draperies were drawn by someone with long, slim legs in Donna Karan hose. Smith.

“Well,” Smith said, dusting off her hands, “show business is certainly entertaining.” She strolled over to the doors. “Coming,” she called in a lilting voice, as if everything were perfectly fine and she were receiving guests.

Carlos struggled to his knees, shaking his head like a punchy boxer.

More hammering on the doors. “Is anything wrong in there?”

Somewhere close Wetzon heard another door shut. Joel had somehow succeeded in coaxing Mort, old chum, into the bedroom, old chum. Looking around, she saw they were in a large sitting room with an assortment of sofas and club chairs.

Smith righted a toppled side chair, straightened an end table. The frenzied knocking on the doors continued. Smith surveyed the room. When she opened the double doors, Wetzon and Carlos were standing, and the room looked undisturbed. “Yes?” Smith inquired, all innocence.

Hotel security—no doubt about it. A burly chested man with dyspeptic eyes peered at them suspiciously. He wore a brown suit and to the unenlighted might have looked like a businessman. To Wetzon he looked like a cop. Sort of an Irish Detective Morgan Bernstein. “We had a report of a disturbance ...”

A strange low sob filtered in from the bedroom.

Smith’s laugh tinkled. Bells, bells, bells, Wetzon thought. “Oh no, Mr. ...?” Smith paused and fluttered her lashes. What made her think anything that obvious would distract?

“Dolan,” Hotel Security said, utterly captivated.

“Well, Mr. Dolan, we were just acting out a little scene.” She swept her arm toward Carlos and Wetzon. “Weren’t we, sweet things?”

“Right,” Wetzon agreed. She gave Carlos a gentle hip nudge.

“Oh, right.” His voice papery-thin, he was eyeing Smith warily.

“Thank you so much for checking,
dear
Mr. Dolan. You don’t know how
incredibly
secure you make me feel here at the Ritz.” Smith flashed one of her sultry smiles at Dolan. The poor man had a stunned look on his face when she closed the door on it.

The sobbing grew louder. Smith flicked her eyes toward the bedroom. “I hate to hear a grown man cry,” she said.

“What’s the Barracuda up to?” Carlos hissed at Wetzon. “No good, that’s for sure.”

“She did help save you, you know,” Wetzon whispered in his ear.

“Well then, she must have had an ulterior motive.”

“I did actually,” Smith said with tremendous good humor. “But a little gratitude might be nice.” She inspected her manicure. “I was only protecting my investment.”

“You mean
our
investment.”

“Whatever.” Smith frowned. “What is going on in there?” She pointed to the closed bedroom door.

“That’s Mort having a breakdown,” Carlos said. “And a soupçon of gratitude from me to you, old dear.” He bowed deeply.

Smith slit her eyes at him, as if trying to see if he was mocking her, then clearly decided he wasn’t because she treated him to one of her medium-warm smiles. Wetzon wasn’t so sure. She caught Carlos’s hand. “Let’s get out of here. I need coffee desperately.”

Arm in trembling arm, they walked down the hallway to the elevator, following Smith, who was pressing the down button impatiently. Dolan was nowhere in sight.

Carlos cleared his throat gently, as if speech was painful. “I’ve got to get over to the theatre.” His hands fidgeted at his bare wrist—where was the Panthere? He still appeared shaken, the skin on his face taut across his cheekbones. A pulse trembled in his eyelid.

“Shouldn’t you eat something?” She was worried about him.

“Had coffee before Mort got crazy.”

“That’s not breakfast. Your adrenaline’s been pumping. You have to feed it.”

“Oh, Birdie.” He hugged her and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Don’t frown so. We don’t want lines, do we?”

The elevator stopped. A luggage cart loaded with three fat suitcases, a bellhop on one side and a young couple holding hands on the other, left them a small space in the center of the car. The elevator sank to the lobby, its occupants mute, each undoubtedly wrapped in his or her own thoughts.

The moderately crowded coffee shop was really a slightly less formal dining room, set up for breakfast with linen tablecloths. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows facing Newbury Street. At a table for four, Twoey sat
tete-a-tete
with Sunny Browning.

“Humpf,” Smith said. She fluttered her fingers at Twoey, who didn’t see her.

“Lucky us,” Wetzon said to Carlos out of the corner of her mouth. They were being seated at the table next to Sunny and Twoey, who were heads together, studying some kind of diagram Sunny was drawing on a piece of hotel stationery.

“The pie gets sliced up like so until payoff,” Sunny was saying. “And after payoff,” she drew another circle, “like so.”

“Ahem,
” Smith said.

“Xenie!” Twoey jumped to his feet, his face a splendid coral.

Smith bestowed her sweetest smile on him. “Twoey, sugarplum, it’s so good to see you.” She pulled out a chair and sat down. “Thanks awfully, I’d love to join you.”

Sunny’s face froze in startle position. Wetzon turned her back to hide her laugh. Smith was about to poison the well. Wetzon sat next to Carlos, both as far away from the other table as possible.

“Well, good, darling,” Carlos murmured, patting her thigh. “Now the Barracuda’s back in character. For a minute there I hardly knew her.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened in Mort’s room?”

“All in good time, pet.” With unsteady hands, he opened the
Globe
he’d picked up as they crossed the lobby. “Charming.” Folding the paper open to the entertainment section, he handed it to her.

The first thing Wetzon saw was a two column picture of Mort in his tweedy cap. The headline read:

MORT HORNBERG

ONE-MAN BAND

The article went on for several paragraphs describing how Mort had single-handedly put
Hotshot
together. Only in the final paragraph were the others—Carlos, Aline, and Sam—mentioned.

She handed the newspaper back to Carlos. “How generous of Mort to include you all.
Noblesse oblige.”

“Yes, isn’t he a prince?” He was rereading the article as if he found it hard to believe.

“No, you are, my love.” She took the newspaper from him and dumped it on the floor under the table.

They ordered large orange juices, a pot of coffee, and a basket of muffins.

“The strain of the tryout getting too much for the great impresario?” Wetzon asked, after the waitress left.

“Huh?” He looked at her, then took her hand. “I’m sorry, Birdie. I was just wondering if any of this was worth it anymore.”

“I think not, but I’m not hooked into it, dearie. The Theatre is no longer my life. Besides, you know full well that when
Hotshot
arrives in New York and Frank Rich gives it a marvelous review and you’re a big hit, love will conquer all. Everyone will forget all this.”

“How right you are, but a short while ago my whole life flashed before me, and truth to tell, it shook me up.”

“But Carlos, that’s Mort. You never have to work with him again. In fact, you can join a long line of people who say they’re never going to work with him again. Some in this very city working on this very show. Bet on it. There are some nice people left in the Theatre.”

“Sure.” He grinned at her, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed again. “I can think of one or two immediately.”

When their breakfast arrived, they dug in, ravenous; dancers were always hungry.

“You knew Mort was crazy. He’s always been crazy.” Wetzon poured her army of vitamin pills onto the linen tablecloth and began swallowing them, one at a time.

“God, Birdie, do you think they really help?” He was staring at her column of pills. “Maybe I should start.”

“Keeps me straight.”

“Well, forget it then.” He buttered a blueberry muffin lavishly. “Speaking of
that
, trying to keep up the pretense that he’s a breeder is what makes Mort so crazy. Someone ought to out him!”

Wetzon choked on her last pill. “You wouldn’t ...”

Carlos spread his palm on his breast and said angelically, “Not me, darling. Not
ever.”

Smith laughed, drawing their attention back to the next table. Sunny had a forced smile on her face. Twoey was beaming, and good old reliable Smith was being as lovable as only Smith knew how.

“Poor slob,” Carlos said.

“Enough of that. Now tell me what happened upstairs.”

“Not terribly interesting.” He took a swallow of coffee.

“Tell.” The finger she pointed at him was stern.

“Oooo, scary.”

Wetzon scowled.

“Okay. Mort said he might want to bring Gideon in to do some doctoring. We had a little discussion on how and where to trim our percentages to make room for him.”

“Just as I thought. And Joel, who represents all three of you, was acting as mediator, right?”

Carlos nodded.

“Smith thinks it’s a conflict of interest that Joel should represent all three of you in this situation.”

Carlos raised an elegant eyebrow. “I hate it when the Barracuda is right.”

“She’s very smart about business things.”

“Well, Joel—who’s definitely in the process of selling me out—let Mort do most of the talking. Mort said he felt that the biggest cut should come from my share because I was only the choreographer and everyone knew choreographers contribute the smallest amount to book.”

“Yeah, like Fosse, and Bennett and Robbins.” Wetzon was incensed.

“And don’t forget Gower.”

“How could I? What did you say?”

“I told Mort I didn’t mind if Gideon were really going to contribute something and everyone coughed up a small percentage, but no way was it going to be just me.”

“And then?”

“He said he was surrounded by ingrates who wouldn’t have careers in the Theatre if it weren’t for him.”

“He didn’t!”

“Oh, my, yes, he did.”

“He’s starting to believe his press clippings.”

“I told him the very same thing, and he went crazy, jumping around like old Rumplemortskin, and throwing punches. That’s when I said I’d rather close down the show than be the only one to give up percentages.”

Wetzon took a sharp breath. “God!”

“Not true, darling, but he made me mad as hell. Who the fuck does he think he is, Hal Prince? I was just as involved as he was from the very beginning. In fact, I
brought
him the idea. The show is almost all music and dance. Christ!” Carlos’s palm smacked the table; coffee splashed from cups to saucers.

“Who opened that window? It was like Mount Everest in there.”

“Joel was smoking a cigar,” Carlos said. “I opened it to clear the air.” His lips formed a skeleton smile. “Next time Mort tries something like that—”

“Next time? Carlos, this is crazy.”

“Next time,” Carlos reiterated. His eyes were stony. “I’ll kill him.”

“What do you think?”

Smith, in a pale gray, man-tailored Calvin Klein suit, was doing model turns in front of the three-way mirror.

“Great, Smith.” What was she doing here anyway? For that matter, what was she doing in Boston?