Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (26 page)

Who had bulldozed her? Where was he going in such a rush? Angry, she shouldered open the stage door and stepped outside. The snow was a blessing. She took a deep, cleansing breath, and saw Mark shivering against the brick wall of the theatre. His face was drawn, terrified. He seemed to be rubbing his hands in the snow.

Concerned, Wetzon reached out to him, but he backed away. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Mark stumbled and she caught him. “You’d better come inside.” He wasn’t wearing a coat and his lips were blue.

Slinging Mark’s unresisting arm over her shoulder, she half-supported him into the theatre and dropped him into Cerberus’s empty chair, on top of the crumpled newspaper.

He clutched her hand desperately. “Don’t leave me,” he pleaded.

He seemed about to say more, and she said, “Not yet. Just breathe.” Closing her eyes, bloody dots danced on her lids. Bloody dots and flashing lights. Her ankle throbbed.

She opened her eyes, still patting Mark’s shuddering back. On the floor, snow and grit melted into a rusty soup. Mark jiggled restlessly, humming under his breath. Wetzon crossed one leg over the other. Her right boot had a ring of crusty reddish mud around the bottom, near the sole. And the sole of her left, when she checked, was laced with blood and melted snow.

It came to her slowly: Someone had tracked blood to the stage door where it had bled into the snow.

“Mark?” Wetzon’s voice was hushed. “What’s going on here?”

The braying of a wounded animal issued from somewhere in the depths of theatre. Wetzon jumped. Ahead of her, the shadowy corridor was a maze of unexpected turns. The cry came again. Now voices seemed to be responding.

“It’s Mort—” Mark looked possessed; he was half-standing, about to take flight.

The stage door to Allen’s Alley behind the theatre was half-open; voices were coming from the alley. Footsteps thumped down the hall, accompanied by the braying, and the orange-haired woman appeared, her face a ghastly green. “Call the cops,” she gasped, swaying. “There’s a stiff in the smoker.”

Outside, the rumble of voices stopped. Phil Terrace burst through the door, brushing snow from his jacket. He took off his oversize cap and shook it out. His face was shiny, a kind of oily sheen mixed with melting snow, and his expression was expectant. “Leslie?”

He
knows,
Wetzon thought.

The doorkeeper was beginning to panic; her arms became uncoordinated wings. “It’s Mr. Hornberg. I saw his cap. Call the cops. Someone bashed Mr. Hornberg’s head in.”

Speechless, Wetzon looked at Mark.
He knows, too;
she thought. She stumbled to the phone, her hands shaking, and dropped the receiver. “You do it, Phil. Call 911. Someone’s murdered Mort.”

Phil gaped at her. “Huh?”

What was he waiting for? “Call the police. You must—” Wetzon took a ragged breath and lunged for the dangling receiver.

Moving swiftly, Phil placed himself between her and the phone. Cerberus of the orange hair screamed, “Call the cops!”

“What are you doing, Phil?” Wetzon demanded. “Are you crazy? Get out of my way.” Behind her, someone grabbed her shoulders. Her ankle protested.

Fran Burke was holding her. His wool coat glistened with unmelted snow. “Easy, girl.” Where had he come from? She pushed back at him. “Get out of my way, Fran. Someone—Mort—has been murdered in the men’s smoker. Ask her.” Wetzon pointed to the orange-haired woman. The orange-haired woman burst into tears.

“What’s all the screaming about?” Walt Greenow was standing in the corridor.

“Leslie claims someone offed Mort.” The hysteria factor drove Phil’s voice up an octave. He started laughing. “He’s too mean to die.”

“Call the police,” the orange-haired woman sobbed. “Call an ambulance.”

“Christ,” Fran said. “How are we going to get the show open?”

Walt frowned. “I’m going to have a look. Maybe you made a mistake.”

“I didn’t make a mistake.” Cerberus sat down in her chair, blubbering.

What had happened to Mark? Wetzon tried to free herself from Fran.

“Take it easy, girl. If Mort’s dead, our moving faster isn’t going to help. Maybe he’s not dead.”

“Oh.” Maybe he wasn’t. Fran was right.

Phil’s laughter burbled. “Smoked in the men’s smoker,” he said.

The laughter unglued her. She thought
: Mort would die if he knew he’d come to his final rest in a toilet.

“Everyone wait here,” Walt ordered. He went off down the corridor.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Phil said. “No one can shoot off a gun in the theatre and keep it quiet.”

“Weren’t you outside?” Wetzon shook her head impatiently. “And anyway, how do you know it was a gun?”

He flushed. “I don’t. I just assumed ... That’s what I would have used on him.” He said it with a grisly pleasure.

“That’s just wonderful, Phil. Why are we standing here as if we’re waiting for the overture to start? Move away from the phone, Fran.”

Phil was laughing again. “The men’s smoker. What a way to go.” Neither he nor Fran moved.

Wetzon leaned against the wall. Her eyes met those of the orange-haired woman. Something was going on here that didn’t include them. Images flew past her: Mort ranting, stamping his feet, cruelly humiliating people. Where was Carlos? Oh, right. Waiting for her at Remington’s.

Fran rubbed his nose. His leather gloves were dark with moisture. “Someone better find Sunny. We’ll need a statement to the press.”

“What kind of statement?” Sunny was looking from one to the other.

Twoey loomed up behind her. “Wetzon, you’ve got blood on your face.” He would have come to her, but the small space was suddenly crowded with people.

Wetzon touched her cheek. How had she gotten blood on her face? Whom had she touched? Fran? ... Mark. She stamped her foot, Mort- inspired, pleading with them. “What’s the matter with all of you? Get out of my way.” She tried to worm herself between Phil and Fran Burke.

Poppy came in from the alley, wearing a fur coat and combat boots, followed by Aline and Edward, and ... Kay....

“Wait until we know for sure,” Fran said.

“Know what?” Poppy asked, brushing snow from her fur.

“Let’s all go check it out,” Phil suggested. He sounded as if he were inviting them to a picnic.

“You can’t,” Wetzon said. “You’ll contaminate the crime scene.”

Aline let her eyes roam their faces, as if making an assessment. “What crime?” she said cautiously.

“What is
she
talking about?” Poppy fixed Wetzon with a hostile stare.

Phil laughed maniacally.

“Let’s be careful what we say,” Fran said. “Poppy, you stay here.”

“Not on your life,” Poppy said.

It was like some goddam Charlie Chan movie from the 1940s, Wetzon thought, watching them all troop off.

Poppy’s voice floated back, “What is it? You can tell me.”

Wetzon jumped for the phone, punched in 911, and waited. No sound. She looked at the receiver in her hand, her eyes following the wire to its multicolored roots.

Someone had pulled it.

“He’s gone. Dead!” Aline was the first to appear, then Kay Lewis, who looked, for once, disconcerted. Brushing her cape, agitated, Aline kept repeating, “So much blood.”

“As in the Scottish Play,” Wetzon murmured.

Kay said, more to herself than anyone, “I’ve been around so long I thought I’d seen everything.”

Aline stared at her. “I’m going back to the hotel. Edward, please.” She motioned to a rather chalk-faced Edward, and clutched her cape around her. Her wrist cast was blotched with blood.

“It would be better to stay until the police come. No one’s even called them yet.”

“Yes, they have.”

“How could they—? Oh, no, not from the phone in the smoker?”

Aline nodded, shuddering.

“So stupid,” Wetzon fumed, pacing the tiny space. “Who made the call?”

“Fran did.”

“And I suppose everyone crowded into the smoker?”

Aline nodded again. “Come on, Edward.” She held the door open.

The cold air felt good. As if nature brought reason to a murder scene. How absurd. The dank alley was suddenly bright with the rolling lights of a police car; snowflakes danced in the headlighted spots. Two uniformed police officers got out of the patrol car, slamming their doors. They stopped Aline and Edward and exchanged a few words. Aline shrugged, and the cops politely ushered them back to the theatre. The crackle of the police radio sullied the otherwise silent alley.

“Leslie—” Walt was standing behind her, very close. “Take this.” He put something in her hand.

“What—?”

“Put it away. Don’t ask any questions.” He reeked of sweat.

“But Walt—” She put it in her purse.

“It was in his hand.” Walt faded back and was gone.

Snow fell like talcum, and she thought again of Carlos sitting in Remington’s waiting for her. She looked at her watch. Not even one yet. The object Walt had slipped her floated from her subconscious. She hadn’t even had to look at it to know what it was. Carlos’s beloved Panthere watch from Cartier’s.

Another squad car skidded to a stop in the alley and this one slammed with a dull crunch into the right fender of the first. “Shit!” someone spat as the driver side door opened.

Could Carlos ...? No way! Wetzon moved farther from the door. No. Mort was eminently killable. He’d alienated everyone—or almost everyone.

Twoey was at the stage door waiting, and he took immediate charge, introducing himself as the producer. The producer? With Mort out of the way, Twoey had given himself a promotion.
Stop it, Wetzon.

The all-too-familiar business of herding those present together to take statements began. Twoey was everywhere, introducing them to the police, soothing the weeping widow, getting them all seated in the front orchestra, near the stage. But no one was able to stay seated, jumping up and down like Mexican beans. Mark had reappeared but he was avoiding Wetzon, wouldn’t even meet her eyes.

Sunny was in a trance, paler than usual. Edward patted Aline’s good hand continuously, patting and patting. She jerked it away. “Don’t do that. You’re giving me
agita.”

The house lights came on; a bare bulb worklight was lowered from the flies. Walt Greenow advanced stage front and whispered something to Twoey.

An oversize man in a black raincoat circumnavigated the rake and stepped to the edge of the stage. He looked up at the grids containing almost a thousand dimmers and nearly as many lights, then out at the small, nervous group in the orchestra. “I’m Detective Willis Madigan, BPD.”

Poppy’s voice rose in a howl.

Wetzon came down to the apron. “Detective Madigan, please can you send for a doctor for Mrs. Hornberg?”

“Try to stay calm, everyone. We’re going to get your statements as quickly as possible, then we’ll let you go. I’ll be back to talk with you individually as soon as I can.” Madigan didn’t say anything about a doctor.

Aline rose from her seat abruptly, stepped into the aisle and fainted dead away. Edward groaned and covered his face. He made no move to help Aline.

“Mark, get some water,” Wetzon said. Mark looked like death walking, but he obeyed. Kneeling in the aisle, Wetzon tried to coax Aline into a sitting position. “Would someone help me?” No one moved. What a lot they were, she thought angrily. Narcissists. All wrapped up in themselves.

Walt stood over her; Twoey knelt beside her.

Someone laughed, high and hysterical. Sunny?

They propped the unconscious woman up. “Aline, can you hear me? Get your head between your knees.”
Between your fat, dimpled knees
, Wetzon thought.
Lord, Wetzon, why does your fertile brain make nasty jokes at a time like this?

Mark returned with water in a paper cup, and Aline’s eyes fluttered open. From her vantage point on the floor, Wetzon saw the knees of Mark’s jeans were smudged with that funny deep rust color of dried blood.

A uniformed officer with scruffy brown hair and a notepad introduced himself as Officer Bryant. He invited Nomi, the lighting assistant, to come with him to the back of the orchestra; another officer took Walt Greenow into one of the stage dressing rooms. JoJo and Mark were designated next.

Conspicuously missing and probably at Remington’s were Peg Button, Carlos, half of the cast members, and possibly Sam Meidner, if indeed he’d been lured from his hotel room.

Phil moved over two seats to sit next to Wetzon. Had he pulled the phone cord from the wall? “What do you think is going to happen?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Phil.”

Fran sat behind them, breathing hard. “We’ll get a new director. Carlos, or maybe Gideon Winkler.” He didn’t sound unhappy.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

There was a dead silence. Everyone’s eyes were on the stage. Phil jumped out of his seat; Fran laid a hand on his arm, pulling him back.

The worklight caught in the eyes of the man, blinding him to his audience, but unmistakably framing him against the backdrop.

Poppy Hornberg emitted a bone-chilling, paralyzing wail.

“Who are you?” Detective Willis Madigan emerged, a huge shade, from the wings.

“Who the fuck are you and what are you doing on my set?” Mort Hornberg was standing on the stage, alive and well and breathing fire. And just behind him, Carlos, his hand shading his eyes, peered into the orchestra, where everyone was on his feet, even Aline.

A violent shiver shook Wetzon. Then who—Who?

After the long moment of shocked silence, everyone began talking at once in a kind of hysteria of relief.

“Mort! Thank God.” Sunny’s voice broke. She clung to Twoey, who stared up at Mort, showing no emotion at all.

Shrieking, “My darling, you’re alive!” Poppy made the stage through the pass door and embraced Mort as a lover might. Mort looked flabbergasted.

Stepping around the happy couple, Carlos came to the apron, knelt and peered into the house. “Birdie? Is that you? What’s this all about?”

She waved at him, but couldn’t be sure he saw her.

Madigan’s roar rose above the babble. “If you’re Mort Hornberg, who is the dead man in the smoker?”