Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (24 page)

“You’re not paying any attention!” Smith said heatedly. “In fact, you’re a real downer today.”

“What do you expect? Mort tries to shove Carlos out a window at the Ritz-Carlton and you take me shopping.” Wetzon tore off the skirt she’d managed to pull on over her leggings.

Smith patted her flat tummy. “I’m taking this. It’ll be perfect for the spring.” She peeled off the jacket and hung it on the hanger.

Wetzon took the spot in front of the mirrors Smith had temporarily vacated. “I think these mirrors are a cheat. They’re designed to make us look thin.”

“If I’d known you’d be such a crab, I wouldn’t have invited you along. Mort was just a bit nervous. Don’t take it all so seriously.”

“Excuse me?” Seething, Wetzon was certain steam came from every visible orafice. “I don’t think we’re on the same wavelength here.” Bonding with Smith was really grating on her nerves. Get out of here before you blow it, she ordered herself.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll be at the cosmetic counter downstairs buying a new eyeliner.”
Because my other one dropped in the toilet when I moved your stuff.

Wetzon closed the fitting room door. She would have liked to raise her chin to the ceiling and howl, but she didn’t have the nerve to do it in Bonwit’s. Muttering to herself, she headed down the stairs (she never rode when she could walk) to the main floor.

Admit it, show business was depressing her. It wasn’t just Mort, it was everything. The cold, damp theatre, the endless tech and dress, everyone back stabbing and bickering, vying for center stage. It was vicious. And the idea that talent can be so easily replaced.

At least Wall Street didn’t even pretend to lay claim to your heart and soul and wring it every which way. She didn’t like the unmistakable feeling of dread, evil, and imminent disaster that had settled over her since Dilla’s murder. And it wasn’t just the shock of Mark’s confession, or even of Mort’s attempt to push Carlos out a window.

What she would really like to do was keep walking—out the door of Bonwit’s, get in a cab, get on the shuttle, and go home. A subtle longing for the security she felt when she was with Alton ambushed her on the stairs. “Good God!” she said aloud, stopping short. A saleswoman wearing a blue nametag looked a question at her. Wetzon smiled and shook her head. “Just thinking out loud.” She continued down the stairs to the ground floor. Security? Alton meant security. That’s what it was, but was that enough?

Two women dressed like dancers in leggings and saggy socks were standing, backs to Wetzon, in front of the Lancome counter. Or rather, Wetzon saw as she drew closer, a woman and a teenage girl. Wetzon parked herself next to the teenager and waited for the clerk to finish demonstrating the powdery slate eyeliner, just the one Wetzon wanted. The young girl looked vaguely familiar.

Suddenly the mother looked up. “Leslie!” she shrieked. The woman scooted around her daughter, making for Wetzon.

“Mel! I can’t believe it!” Then they were hugging each other, stepping back and inspecting and then hugging again. “Melanie Banks, you look wonderful!”

“It’s Melanie Alexander now. How long has it been?”

“Fifteen at least.” Wetzon’s eyes welled up.

Mel, recovering, pulled the teenager over. “This is my daughter, Sarah Ann. Leslie—” She looked at Wetzon’s unadorned left hand—”Wetzon. Leslie and I were in a couple of shows together.”

“And some classes and even one Millikin show. Pleased to meet another dancer,” Wetzon said, grinning at the pretty teenager. “When I saw the two of you standing at the counter, I thought, dancers.” Mel’s red hair was faded a bit from the fiery color it had been, but her daughter’s was vivid, surrounding a face so young, so fresh. “Are you still dancing?” She remembered Mel had married a law student, Kevin something or other. He was going to Fordham then.

“Yes, sort of. Wait till Kevin hears.” Mel hugged Wetzon again. “Are you in Carlos’s show? We’re coming to the preview tonight.”

The clerk cleared her throat.

“Oh, excuse me,” Mel said. “We’ll take the gray.” She searched in her pockets and produced a charge card.

“You can get one for me, too, please,” Wetzon told the saleswoman. Turning back to Mel, she continued, “I’m not in the Theatre anymore. I’ve been a headhunter on Wall Street for ... almost ten years.”

“Mom, I’m going to look at the earrings,” Sarah Ann announced.

“Okay. Kevin’s with O’Donnell, Bullard and Kalin, and I’ve got a dance studio.”

“You’re kidding!”

Melanie beamed. “Ballet, jazz, tap—you know, the works. Everything for the budding young thing to carry to Broadway.” She signed the slip and took the small bag from the saleswoman. “Only there’s no Broadway anymore.”

“Tell me about it. Ho-hum revivals or one English circus after the other, all flash, lots of fog, and nothing underneath. Like a helicopter on the stage.” Wetzon handed over her American Express card. “I came up to see
Hotshot,
which, by the way, is an original. Carlos’s work is just terrific.”

“What are you doing this afternoon?”

“I don’t know. Watch rehearsals, maybe. They’re tedious if you’re not involved, and everyone’s nerves are frazzled.”

“Why not come and take a class with me? I’ve got dance aerobics starting at three.” Mel dug in her shoulder bag and came up with a card. “It’s not far —just a way down Newbury Street, across from Spenser’s.”

“I—”

“Chicken?”

“No. And I could use the workout.”

Mel glanced at Wetzon’s leggings and pink Reeboks. “You wouldn’t even have to change. How about a coffee now?”

“Can’t. I’m waiting for my business partner, who’s upstairs buying out all the Calvin Kleins.”

“Okay, then ... Sarah Ann? Let’s go.” Mel waved to her daughter and pointed to the entrance. “Wasn’t it awful about Dilla?”

“Awful.”

“And to think, I used to envy her. Everything that woman did, even the nasty stuff, came out to her benefit.”

Wetzon signed the credit slip and refused the bag, dropping the narrow box into her purse. “Until last week.”

“I remember in
See Saw
—were you in
See Saw
with me?”

Wetzon shook her head. “No. Carlos and I were still in
Pippin.”

“Well, then you might not remember this. Dilla came in one day—she was dance captain—wearing a fabulous mink, down to her ankles.”

“Who could forget it? The rest of us were all barely surviving on our chorus minimums. Was she going with Joel Kidde then?”

“Ma—”

“One minute, Sarah Ann. No, that was later. Listen, you knew—we all knew—she was gay. Remember when she got promoted out of the chorus on
CoCo?
No, you weren’t on
CoCo>
were you?” She didn’t wait for Wetzon to respond, grinning suddenly. “You know, I haven’t dished with anybody about those days in years.”

“So who gave her the coat?” Smith was getting off the elevator carrying a bulging clothing bag.

“You know—what’s his face—that big-shot general manager. The one they all deferred to.”

A little light flickered on in Wetzon’s brain. “Lenny something?”

“Yeah. What a memory. Lenny Kaufer.”

Wetzon counted fourteen on the line at the Colonial box office, and four were reading Mort’s interview in the
Globe.
Not bad, considering the show hadn’t opened yet. But how often did Boston get Broadway tryouts anymore? Probably not too often. These days many producers didn’t want to risk the costs of an out-of-town tryout. Instead, they held weeks of previews in New York, for which they now sold tickets at full price, and everyone from the theatre community savaged them. But then, perhaps the producers had brought it on themselves by charging full price in New York while the show was still in the worked-on stage.

A sharp Boston wind sweeping across the Common rattled the lobby doors. Wetzon shivered and kept her coat buttoned.

Smith’s nose was red; her eyes teared. “You have checked with the office, haven’t you, sweetie pie? After all, it is Friday and we’re playing hookey.”

“When would I have done that? We’ve been practically joined at the hip since you moved yourself in with me.”

Smith’s lower lip reassembled itself into a pout.

Temper; temper
; Wetzon warned herself.
Remember she’s your roommate for another two nights.
She forced herself to smile at her partner. The problem was, while she and Smith managed to work exceptionally well together in spite of their differences, the extracurricular Smith drove Wetzon crazy. Wetzon craved her privacy. If it weren’t for Carlos, she would have been on the first shuttle flight out of Boston this morning. “There’s a phone near the stage door. I’ll call B.B. and see that no catastrophe has befallen us.” But she had lost Smith, who was now intent on some event on the street. Christ, she had the attention span of a four-year-old.

Through the etched glass panel Wetzon saw that a silver limousine had pulled up in front of the theatre. Joel Kidde and Gideon Winkler were getting out.

“There’s Joel.” Smith fluttered her fingers, beaming. “And Gideon.” She was definitely on the make.

“Smith, how is dear Dickie Hartmann?” Wetzon said. “It’s a shame he can’t be here for the opening.”

“Who?”

That was perfect. Joel Kidde was another one of those powerful attractive men, but Richard Hartmann had fewer scruples even than agents. It wouldn’t be wise to underestimate him. If Hartmann wanted Smith, he would have her.

A year ago, after the shooting, Wetzon had put the evidence that would get Hartmann disbarred in a sealed envelope addressed to Assistant D.A. Marissa Peiser. Marking it “to be opened in the event of my death,” she’d left it in her safe deposit box. It was time she dealt with it and put it behind her, as she was trying to deal with the recurring dream.

She opened the door to the inner lobby and entered another world entirely. Here chaos reigned supreme. The energy was electric. Assistants and technicians were everywhere, working at top speed. Behind the last row of seats was the sound console with mixing boards. A technician in earphones with a mouthpiece was talking and gesturing to someone on the lighting monitor backstage. He was probably the master electrician who was always on the producer’s payroll and traveled with the show.

In the old days before computers, union electricians, carpenters, and propmen were older, having worked their way up from grips, but the man in the earphones was in his twenties and had hair down to his shoulders. It had probably been difficult for the last generation of stagehands to adjust to the new generation of computers.

Carlos was on stage demonstrating a change in one of the dance numbers. He looked steady and sure. Bless him, she thought. She could not think of her life without Carlos.

“I love this part of it, don’t you?” Sunny was standing beside her, holding a clipboard jammed with papers. Today she was wearing brown jodhpurs, boots, a Ralph Lauren blue-and-green flannel shirt, and a perfume Wetzon recognized, one she’d once worn. Replique. A slouchy tan leather hat covered her blond hair.

Where had she tied her horse, Wetzon was tempted to ask her, but she said instead, “I do, too.” Wetzon could taste the excitement. Tonight, she knew from experience, almost everything would work. Most of the kinks on the technical side would dissolve. And shining through would come the production, for better or for worse. It was like the birthing process.

“I heard what happened this morning,” Sunny said in a low voice, adjusting her hat backward with the tip of her finger. “Mort can get a little excitable—”

“That’s the mother of all understatements.”

“What I’m saying is, don’t blow it out of proportion. You and Carlos are close. You can help us bring the show through this. And we all know it’s the production that really counts. When a show is a smash, everyone forgets these petty little differences.”

“Petty little differences, huh? I know. But Mort is certifiable. He ought to be locked up.”

“You don’t understand, Leslie. Mort’s got his hands full with Sam. He’s locked himself in his room and he’s refusing to rewrite
Who’s That Killer
? Sam
knows Joclyn can’t hit an A flat. Besides, the melody is a real steal from Marvin Hamlisch. If we open with it, Hamlisch’s lawyer will sue us up the wazoo. And he’d be right. And now Aline’s carrying on because she says Mort is destroying her precious book.”

“Book? This is not a book show—or am I missing something?” Christ, Mort was strolling up the aisle with Mark and they were holding hands, and not like father and son. Wetzon went into gear, moving forward, careful not to trip over the cables that snaked across the floor from the computer board in the center of the house. “Mark!” She waved at them, trying to catch their attention, but Mort had stopped to communicate something to JoJo, who was sitting center orchestra with his arm around Poppy’s shoulders. In that instant Wetzon knew JoJo and Poppy were lovers. She filed that away, returning to the problem at hand. “Mark—” Mort did not relinquish Mark’s hand.

“What’s up?” Sunny had followed her. Behind them, Wetzon heard Smith’s brittle laugh.

“We’ve got to warn Mark his mother’s in the theatre,” she said.

“Who’s Mark?”

“Sorry. Smitty.”

“Oh? What’s Smitty’s mother doing here?” Sunny looked confused.

“His mother is my partner, Xenia Smith, and Mark—Smitty—is barely seventeen.” She tried to get around Mort. “Mark!” Dammit, short of shouting ...

“Does Mort know?” Sunny plucked at Wetzon’s coat, holding her back.

The hell with it. “Mark,
heads up!”
Everything around them stopped, conversation and activity. All eyes were on Wetzon.

Mark finally looked up, having had a sixth sense that his mother was there, or maybe, he’d actually heard Wetzon’s warning. Pulling his hand away from Mort’s, Mark shoved it in his pocket. It all happened so fast that even Mort looked puzzled, so perhaps Smith hadn’t seen. And even if she had, it was not such a big deal. It could have been entirely innocent. Sure.

“Isn’t this amazing?” Smith gushed, coming up behind them. There followed one of those so-called pregnant moments. Then Smith said in a strangled voice, “Baby?”