Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (28 page)

“I was trying to talk to my office, but there was so much traffic back and forth and out the door, not to mention everyone talking to me, I finally gave up. I think that was before she ... um ... Juliette ... went to check on the funny smell.”

“I want to know everyone who came in or went out.” Madigan had a small white scar in the middle of his left eyebrow, and his hair parted around it.

Her hand touched her own scar as if to see if it was still there. “Everyone? God, it was a regular army of people.” She thought for a moment. “Fran Burke, Phil Terrace, Poppy Hornberg, Walt Greenow, and a stagehand. One of the cast—Nancy, I think—was on the phone before I was. Almost everyone passed through. Except Mort and Carlos.” Madigan reached out and fingered the matted fur of her coat. “Do you think one of them might have brushed up against me and got blood on my coat?”

“We’ll know after the lab takes a look at what Bryant picked off.” He looked down at his notes. “Anyone else?”

Mark. She sighed. There was no avoiding it. “Mark Smith. The one they call Smitty.”

“Are you an athlete? Do you lift weights, work out, play ball?”

“I take dance classes. Do you want to feel my muscles?” She gave him a stern look. “I didn’t kill Sam, Detective. I had neither motive nor means. And I’m five feet two inches tall and weigh ninety-six pounds. If I wanted to kill someone, I would use something that evened out my height and weight, like a car.”

He gave her a quick quarter-smile. Not much, just enough to acknowledge the logic of what she’d said.

Something began to tickle her memory. The men’s smoker ... She had played the Colonial.... Then it hit her. “There are two ways to get to the smoker,” she said. “One is from the stage; the other is through the lobby. Did you know that? The murderer could have come and gone through the lobby.”

Madigan nodded. “It’s possible. Let’s talk about what happened after Juliette Keogh spread the alarm—”

“Almost everyone turned up. Again, except for Mort and Carlos. And Sam, of course. Juliette thought it was Mort. Hell, we
all
thought it was Mort. The hat, you know, and Sam and Mort looked somewhat alike, and yet not. Juliette and I wanted to call the police, but they all wanted to see for themselves. It was a little sick. I guess they must have felt it was too good to be true.”

Madigan gave her a quizzical look. “I hear Mr. Hornberg’s not a very likable fellow. I understand he’s been pretty rotten to everyone on this show.”

“He’s an
artiste,”
she said. “Because he’s so talented, everyone still lets him get away with being an
enfant terrible.”

“And you are not connected to the production?”

“No. I’m a headhunter. I move live bodies around Wall Street. But I used to be a dancer. I’m here as a friend of the choreographer, Carlos Prince.”

“Oh, yes. The one Mr. Hornberg tried to throw out the window this morning. He certainly had a good motive for wanting to see Hornberg dead.”

“No, he didn’t. Carlos wants
Hotshot
to be a hit. He wouldn’t have killed Mort, at least not before the New York opening.” She smiled grimly at her joke.

“So that’s the way it works?”

“Yup. Maybe you should look and see who wanted to get rid of Sam.”

“Maybe.” Madigan kept his shrewd eyes on her face. What did he expect of her? “Who disconnected the phone?”

“I don’t know. Everyone was crowded into that space. You might try fingerprints....”

“Thank you for the suggestion.” Madigan’s voice was solemn. “Do you own a gun, Ms. Wetzon?”

“No! Was Sam shot?”

“What makes you ask? Did you hear a gunshot?”

“No. You asked me if I owned a gun. Come to think of it, someone may have mentioned it.”

“We have to wait for the coroner’s report, but it looks like the back of his head was crushed by the usual blunt instrument.” He sounded discouraged. “Any ideas?”

“I suggest you call Detective Morgan Bernstein in New York, Midtown North, and get the report on Dilla Crosby’s murder.”

“And who,” Madigan said with extreme patience, “is Dilla Crosby?”

“Don’t tell me no one mentioned that Dilla Crosby, the production stage manager, was murdered a week ago just before the show left New York?”

“I’m not telling you.” He sat down behind her, barely fitting his backside into the seat. His thighs were like two overstuffed blue serge bolsters. “And do you think the two killings are connected?”

“That’s not for me to say.” Was he playing games with her? “I didn’t know either of them that well.” She turned her back to him and watched the uniformed cops. Having finished their interviews, they stood on stage looking around, like actors without their next lines.

“All right.” Madigan rose, and searched his pockets. He came up with a bent and none too clean business card and handed it to her. “You think of anything else, call me. If I’m not there, leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

“I have to go back to New York tomorrow for the day ...” He was frowning at her. “But I’ll be here for the opening tomorrow night. If there’s going to be an opening.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Ritz.”

She felt his eyes on her as she walked to the pass door. Did he think she was involved? He gave even less away than Silvestri did. Silvestri. He would have a fit about this. As if it were her fault.

“Awful business, isn’t it?” Kay came out of the wings, Nomi following. “Poor Sam never hurt a fly. Someone was obviously after Mort.” They stopped in front of the lighting monitor.

“Obviously.”

When Wetzon got back to the stage door, a repairman was fixing the phone wires while Juliette Keogh told him about the murder in amazing detail.

“Oh, yeah?” the repairman kept saying. And, “No kidding?”

Wetzon waited impatiently for him to finish, gather up his tools and leave, but he was in no hurry. This was probably his last job of the day.

“The wife, huh?” the repairman said to Juliette-Cerberus, as Wetzon finally got to use the phone. When the operator intercepted, she said, “Collect. For anyone.” She looked down at the concrete floor. Someone had washed up the blood.

“Good afternoon, Smith and Wetzon.” B.B. sounded frazzled.

She waited for him to accept the charges. “Hi, B.B. What’s happening?”

“Oh, great, Wetzon. I guess you got my message.” Relief flooded across the telephone lines.

“No, I didn’t. I’m at the theatre. What’s up?”

“Lois Danzigger accepted the offer from Paine Webber.”

“That’s super. Congratulations. When does she start?”

“Two weeks from Monday.”

“Nice going, B.B. Be sure to walk her through the routine of Xeroxing, etc. Anything else?”

The only message that sounded pressing was from Artie Agron, and the number he’d left was his home number, which she knew from the 201 area code. Tearing a pink memo page from her Filofax, she jotted it down. “I’ll call him. Leave the rest for me on Monday. What about Smith’s messages?”

“Richard Hartmann.”

“Did you tell him Smith was at the Four Seasons?”

“Yes. Shouldn’t I have?”

“Call him back and tell him she’s at the Ritz.”

“He’s coming up to Boston.”

“Is he indeed?” She thought,
deeee-lish.
Hartmann v. Kidde. Sparks for sure.

“The other line is ringing. Can you hold?”

“Yup. But make it quick.” She waited, tapping her foot. Cerberus had lost her audience. Now she was up to her nose in the Boston
Herald
, which Wetzon noticed had a big photo of Mort, facing out.

B.B. said, “Are you still there, Wetzon?”

“Yeah. Anything else?” JoJo passed through with Joclyn Taylor, his hand resting on her ass. He was talking about her top note, but his tone and approach were seductive. The stage door opened, sending in a draft of raw cold, and the pair vanished into the alley behind the theatre.

“Yes. Max took a call from a Detective Bernstein this morning. Bernstein wanted to know where you were. I called him back and told him you’re at the Ritz and he said he’d tried you there and left word, but if I hear from you, you should call him right away, and—”

Her feet did an impatient time step. “Spill it, B.B. I’m running late.”

“You shouldn’t talk to any reporters.”

“Thanks for siccing Mort on me, old chum,” Wetzon said, seating herself at Carlos’s table. A double martini sat untouched in front of him.

He grinned at her, a shadow grin. “I thought you wanted to help, dear heart.”

“I do. And I’m doing it for you, not for him. If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t even be here. I
hate
this.” Her vehemence surprised her.

“I’m sorry, Birdie.”

“It’s okay. I think Susan is having a breakdown. She thinks she’s next on the killer’s hit parade. I don’t know if she’d chance coming up here where she’s certain the murderer is. I’ll call her and see if we can have lunch, but honestly, Carlos.”

“I’ll have a mushroom cheeseburger with the works, fries, everything,” he told the waiter. “What about you, Birdie?”

She looked at the menu. “This is Friday, isn’t it?”

The waiter nodded.

“New England clam chowder. And a vodka martini straight up, very dry.” She needed something a whole lot stronger than beer.

“I know, Birdie. Mort is a major shit, and I know we both have the sneaking suspicion that poor old Sam didn’t get his head smashed because he’s poor old Sam.”

“Probably.” She smiled one of Smith’s smug smiles and knew it. “Mort and I did a little old-fashioned trading. Sort of
quid pro quo.
” She sat back and folded her hands on the table like a schoolgirl. At the bar JoJo was running his fingers up Joclyn’s spine and Joclyn was looking as if she liked it.

But Joclyn was an actress and knew which side of her bread had the butter. One did not turn down the overtures of the musical director. So much for show business.

Carlos said, “Old-fashioned trading? Now I wonder what that would be.”

“I asked him to keep his paws off Smitty.”

“And he agreed?” Carlos sounded surprised.

“Yup. But not before he called me a self-righteous bitch who’s never had a decent relationship with anyone.”

Carlos gave her a searching look, then he took her hand. “And you believe him?”

She shook her head and pulled her hand from his. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Please don’t take it to heart, Birdie. It’s just Mort’s lousy way of keeping you off-balance.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Yeah. I’m really proud of myself.”

Carlos went off to the men’s room and Wetzon found her eyes drifting back to JoJo and Joclyn again. JoJo had his hand up under Joclyn’s sweater.

Well, was Wall Street so different? Only last year a major firm had what insiders dubbed the Case of the Loose Weenies. Sexual harassment of a female broker by a regional manager, no less. No one was surprised because said manager had been accused often enough for his firm to have bought off reasonably several previous accusers, but this time the woman wouldn’t accept the generous sum offered. It seemed she had the guy on tape making very graphic suggestions about what she could do for him and he for her. Faced with the facts, the perp was fired—but with one full year’s severance. Tra-la.

“Listen, Wetzon,” one of the managers had said. “If you want to get your weenie wet, there are better places to do it than in your own office.”

Bless Anita Hill for raising everyone’s consciousness, she thought. The head of the retail division of another major firm, who was fond of entering the branches under his jurisdiction and asking, “Is there anything worth fucking here?” was also history.

Carlos returned as their order arrived. Thick cheddar cheese melted over a fat burger.

“That’s enough cholesterol for twenty people, and then some.”

“Drink your martini, darling. Today, I’m not depriving myself of anything. Mort is insisting on playing the preview tonight. He says Sam would have wanted the show to go on.”

“It’s a moral dilemma.”

“Just so, Birdie. And Mort has never been troubled by morals.” He finished his martini and signaled for a refill. “What do you suppose we’re going to do for a men’s room?”

“Maybe they’ll rent those portable potties.”

“Classy, darling.” He cut into the burger with a knife and fork and began eating. The waiter set another martini in front of him.

“You’ll never guess who I ran into this morning. Melanie Banks.” The chowder was abundant with clams and nicely spiced.

“No kidding?”

“She’s married with a teenage daughter and has a dance studio. They’ll be at the show tonight. Isn’t that nice?”

Carlos crossed his eyes. “Lovely, darling.”

“All right. I give up. Why don’t you give me your theory about who killed Sam.”

“I wanted Nelson to do the score from the beginning, but Mort said he’d never done a full Broadway score so we signed him on to do the dance music. I told Mort from the beginning Sam would be a problem.”

“Are you blaming Sam for being murdered?”

“No, dear heart. Sam always comes apart under pressure.
Came
apart. You should have seen him on
Grayson’s Daughters.
If it weren’t for those sterling fellows, Kander and Ebb—they did me a big favor—we would have just folded.”

“John Kander and Fred Ebb.” Wetzon smiled. “The nicest guys in the business. They and very few others are the ones I miss.” She spooned some soup into her mouth. “But wait. Are you saying
Mort
killed Sam?”

“No, I’m not. Are you kidding? Mort wouldn’t get his hands dirty. He’d have someone else do it—if he wanted to get rid of Sam.”

“I think we’re going in the wrong direction. I think someone thought Sam was Mort and whacked him by mistake.”

“Carlos!” Smitty had come into Remington’s, wild-eyed and without a coat. He was wearing a clean pair of jeans.

Quiet, Wetzon told herself. You’re not his mother. Besides, he’s full grown.

Carlos waved to him and he rushed over to their table, flushed and agitated. “Mort wants to see you right away.” His eyes devoured the food on the table.