Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (29 page)

“Have you eaten?” Okay, Wetzon couldn’t help herself.

Mark shook his head.

“Then sit down and eat the other half of Carlos’s burger. Carlos isn’t going to finish it, are you, Carlos?” Without waiting for an answer, she took the remaining burger and put it on her bread plate.

“Thanks a heap, darling,” Carlos drawled. “Okay, Smitty, sit yourself. What’s with Mort?”

“The new lyrics for
Who’s That Killer?
just got here, Fed Ex’d from New York.”

“A very fitting song title for this show, wouldn’t you agree, dear heart?”

Smitty sat down and scarfed up the rest of the burger, what was left of the fries and Wetzon’s roll, while Wetzon and Carlos exchanged amused glances.

“He’s a growing boy,” Wetzon murmured. She finished her martini, already feeling a warm glow.

Carlos raised a wicked eyebrow at Wetzon and paid the bill. “Let’s go stage a new number.” He looked over at JoJo and Joclyn, leaning into each other. “Come on, you two. You’re being paged.”

Outside, it was still snowing. The snow was beginning to pile up in little dry dunes. They ducked into the front of the theatre. Five people stood on line at the box office. Wait till the news got out about Sam. People would claw for tickets.

If anything, the preperformance chaos was worse, enhanced by the murder. Someone was calling cues sporadically on the speaker from backstage. Sounded like Phil. But nothing was happening. Two men with long hair were on the sound board—one working with dials, the other pacing back and forth. Kay was in the orchestra signaling—probably to Nomi in the mez, when suddenly there was light, full out.

“Christ,
now the
fucking
lighting board’s
frozen
with everything on at
full!”
As this signified a problem with the software, Kay didn’t even try to stay calm.

“Where’s Mort?” JoJo demanded, on their heels.

“If he were here, we’d hear him,” Wetzon murmured. The light painted haunted faces all around.

“He’s in the big dressing room.” Smitty was all puffed up with the importance of his assignment.

“I think I’ll go back to the hotel and make some calls,” Wetzon said, feeling
de trop
in this tumult.

“Wait.” Carlos took her hand. “Stay and listen to the number. You’re my rabbit’s foot.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

Carlos squeezed her hand, and they followed Smitty through the pass door, fording the fierce rake like mountain goats. Piano music came from one of the stage dressing rooms, up and syncopated.

“Hey, that sounds nice.” Wetzon’s feet twitched to dance.

Carlos greeted the actors who had assembled, waiting to be taught the new number. They had about four hours of work ahead if they were to put it in for tonight’s performance.

When they came into the dressing room, Mort was giving himself a shot in the rump, while Nelson Koch, the dance music arranger, was playing the number, standing up, reading from sheet music on top of the piano. Mort pulled up his pants and tossed the hypodermic into the waste basket. “B twelve. Energy juice,” he said defensively, catching Wetzon’s eye.

Nelson played the number through while Smitty produced photocopied lyrics and passed them around. Everyone looked pleased. “Then we can use it to underscore later in the show and reprise it for the finale.” A short, stubby man with a high forehead, Nelson seemed to acquire stature as he spoke.

“Perfection!” Carlos hooted.

“Let’s go to work!” Mort said.

Now came the joy of hard work, sweat, and a sense that everything fit. Wetzon was envious. Everyone had forgotten her. She wandered toward the stage door, thinking that Nelson had just had the break of a lifetime.

Juliette was back in her chair. Now she was absorbed in the paperback of
Scruples Two.

“The lyrics are gorgeous! Perfect! Susan, you’ve outdone yourself.” Poppy, in a white mink coat down to her combat boots, crooned into the phone. “You should have seen them all.” Pause, listening. “When are you coming up?” Long pause. “I wish you would.” Poppy’s eyes glanced over Wetzon.

“I’d like to talk to her,” Wetzon said.

“Well, all right, Susan, if that’s the way you feel, but you’re wrong. The police told us that they found a derelict covered with Dilla’s blood in the theatre sleeping off a big drunk. They think he bashed her head in and stole her purse.”

“They do?” Wetzon said in a loud voice.

Poppy frowned. “Well, wait a minute. Someone wants to talk to you. No, don’t hang up, it’s not Mort. Lola, Carlos’s friend.” Poppy handed Wetzon the receiver, waiting for Wetzon to correct her, but Wetzon smiled sweetly at Poppy and took the phone.

“Susan?”

“Oh, Leslie. What was that crazy Poppy talking about Lola for?” Susan sounded different. Stronger? Well, certainly less fearful. “I’m not going to let them do this to me. That’s why I wrote those letters. They won’t come after me if they think we know who they are.”

“They?
Who’s
they,
Susan? And what letters?”

“Listen, Leslie, I’m telling you, I know how to flush out the killer, and—”

“Good. Susan, I’m coming back to New York tomorrow for the day. Can we have lunch? You can tell me all about it.”

“You’ve found something?”

“Maybe. Susan, did Poppy tell you Sam has been murdered? And it looks like the same way as Dilla.”

“Sam? Sam Meidner? No! What’s going on? Wait a minute, I’m going to see if I can get CNN.”

“Susan? I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“I bet Poppy’s still standing there.”

“You got it. Susan, is everything else okay?”

“No one’s tried to break in again, if that’s what you mean.”

“Good.”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m not taking this seriously, Leslie. Someone tried to get in here. They’ll try again when the show gets back to town.”

“I think it was probably just bad luck and coincidence. The break-in has nothing to do with Dilla’s murder.”

“Oh, Leslie, you’re entirely too trusting.”

“Unless, of course, you haven’t told me everything....”

Susan’s voice changed. “Tomorrow. Twelve-thirty. St. Ambroeus.”

Wetzon hung up the phone. It hadn’t been her imagination. There was a piece of the puzzle missing and Susan was holding out. Well, she would find out tomorrow. Turning, she was surprised to see Poppy was waiting for her—expectantly—as if they were going to do something together. Her white mink reeked of violets.

“You’re going back to the hotel?” Poppy had small, weasily eyes and an unabashed stare, a lantern jaw, and no lips, just two flat lines. Her red hair was a storm of unkempt curls.

“Yes.”

“I’ll go with you.”

I don’t need an escort, Wetzon thought, but she said, “Fine.”

Allen’s Alley—someone had told it her was named for the 1940s radio comedian Fred Allen—was deserted and a little eerie. The snow fell and the wind puffed it hither and yon.

“Let’s get a cab,” Poppy said.

“It’s only a short way. But if you want a cab, don’t let me stop you. I need the air.” The outside elements were peaceful compared to the tempest inside the theatre. Wetzon started walking and Poppy followed her, complaining.

“Susan thinks she’s got us in a bind over the score.”

“Doesn’t she?” Snowflakes clung to Wetzon’s cheeks.

“Maybe. Maybe not. With Sam out of the way ... and no more Dilla ...”

Wetzon turned to stare at Poppy.

“Oh, you’re surprised? Maybe you think I didn’t know Dilla pimped for Mort, and maybe you think I didn’t know he protected her—for some reason?” Poppy wasn’t modulating her tones and she caught the attention of two snow-sliding college kids carrying Boston U bookbags. The Public Garden on their right looked like a fairyland in the snow.

“Please, Poppy. I really don’t care.” Wetzon’s eyelashes were feathered with snow.

“I didn’t kill her, but I’m glad she’s dead.”

Christalmighty, what had brought true confessions on? “Listen, Poppy, I don’t want to hear any more. You can all kill each other, for all I care.”

“How would you like to marry someone and then find out he’s slept with the world—the
male
world?”

“Go away, Poppy.” Wetzon was running now, slipping on the white carpet of snow. She could make out the Ritz ahead.

“I bet
you
don’t think she deserved to die.”

Wetzon skidded to a stop, turned to face Poppy, screaming, “No one does!
No one!”

Poppy laughed at her. “A lot of people had good reasons to kill Dilla. I bet you don’t know that while Lenny Kaufer was dying of cancer at University Hospital, surrounded by his loving family, Dilla was cleaning out his safe deposit box.”

After all that, it was Poppy who broke off her one-way conversation. And Joel Kidde was to blame. He was standing at the entrance to the bar expectantly, as if he’d seen them coming and was waiting for them. Before Wetzon’s eyes Poppy became all coy and girlish. The woman who had thought herself a widow only a few short hours ago now began fussing with Joel’s lapels.

Wetzon rode the elevator up to her room rolling over in her head Poppy’s vindictive words about Dilla. She would have liked to hear more, but it was just as well. There was enough time for a shower and a snooze, and maybe even a snack before the show.

Not until she put her key in the lock did she realize, dismayed, that Joel’s being back probably meant that Smith was also. She opened the door tentatively.

Smith was in a frenzy, frantically laying out her Tarot cards on the bed. She didn’t even hear Wetzon come in and only looked up when Wetzon came to the foot of the bed. Smith’s normally glowing olive skin had taken on a jaundiced cast.

“What’s the matter?”

“You! You ask me what’s the matter?” Smith shrieked. She gathered up her cards and threw them at Wetzon, who found herself in a tarot shower. Then Smith began to moan, hugging herself. “It’s your fault,” she cried, tearing at her hair, rocking back and forth. “My boy ... my boy is ... ruined.”

It had gone too far now. Wetzon rushed to the bed and held her. “Please, Smith. It’ll work itself out. You’ll see.”

“My boy is a ...” She choked. “I can’t believe he would do this to me.” She began to sob, face pressed against Wetzon’s fur coat.

Wetzon held her and stroked her hair. What could she say to make it better? “What did the cards say?”

“Nothing good.” Smith fell dramatically back against the pillows, two of which Wetzon saw had come from Wetzon’s bed.

“What?” Rising, Wetzon hung her coat over the back of a chair, flicking at the bloodstained sections. She might be able to blot the stains out because the coat was wet with melted snow. She got a towel and did what she could. It would have to go to the cleaners when she got home.

“That my baby has begun a long journey.”

“So he has.”

“It’s this whole business with the Theatre. You always made it sound so glamorous.” Smith was pointing an accusing finger at Wetzon.

“Not true.” Wetzon shook the moisture from her coat and hung it back over the chair. She began to pick up the scattered cards.’
You
took him to all the hit shows. Being interested in the Theatre doesn’t make someone gay, you know.” She handed the cards back to Smith. The top card had two royals falling from a tower that had been struck by lightning. Smith took one look at this card, shrieked, fell back and put the pillows over her head. She lay there moaning.

“Smith—” Wetzon sat down on the side of the bed. “Your face will be a mess for tonight.”

“Oh,” came muffled from the pillows.

“Mark is very young. He may just be going through a phase—a crush—you know—”

Smith’s head came out from under the pillows. “But with
men?
Oh, dear God, how can he do this to me?”

Wetzon took her hand. “Come on, get in the shower. You’ll feel better. We’ll ask room service to bring up a snack.”

Finally, after much coaxing, Smith crawled out of bed and took over the bathroom.

Kicking off her wet boots, Wetzon curled up on her bed. “Nothing is forever,” she said out loud, watching the blinking message light on the phone. She didn’t want to know what her messages were; she didn’t want any more problems, at least not tonight.

She picked up the phone and called housekeeping. She asked for more towels, more soap, and more hangers immediately. Her feet were cold, and when she inspected her ankle, it was slightly swollen and blue. Still holding the phone, she pulled the covers back and got under them. Then she dialed for her messages.

B.B.
She wrote it down, and crossed it out.

Morgan Bernstein.
Surprise. He left a number. She jotted it down.

Silvestri.
Did the whole world know where she was, dammit? He, too, left a number.

New York
Newsday
had called. And Liz Smith. What was that about?

Channel 7 News.

The
Post.
What the hell was going on? Had they heard about Sam’s murder and wanted information? But why call her? There were plenty of others who had more information.

The shower went on in the bathroom. Smith was going to have a bad time of it, but then, so was Mark. Well, Smith would just have to make the adjustment as other parents had before her. After all, she and Mark were not the queen of England and the prince of Wales.

Easy for you to say, Wetzon, she told herself. How would you like it if you found out your seventeen-year-old was gay? You, who have never had a decent relationship with anyone.

Rankled, she got out of bed, found the scrap of paper from her Filofax on which she’d written Artie Agron’s New Jersey phone number, placed the call, got back into bed, and let the phone ring.

“Hello.” A child’s voice.

“Hello. Is your daddy there?”

“Daddy, it’s for you.”

“This is Artie.”

“Daddy, who is it?”

“Robert, hang up the phone.”

“Daddy—”

“Hang up! Mary!” There was a clatter sounding as if the receiver had been dropped. “Hello. Who is this?”