Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (31 page)

“Is it getting to you?”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Not to worry. I’m a grown up person. I can handle it.” He stood and did a quick soft shoe as best he could on the nappy carpet, spread out his arms and said, “Ta da.”

“Walt found your watch in the men’s smoker. Sam was clutching it.”

He stared at her, frozen in his finale. “Ooops.”

“Did you drop it, mayhap?”

“No.” A worried frown settled over his face. “It needed a new battery. I asked ...”

“Who?”

He didn’t answer.

“Come on, Carlos. You have to tell me. Are you covering for someone?” He sat down on the bed and rubbed his index finger on his teeth. “Carlos! Who did you give it to?”

“I gave it to Smitty.”

It had stopped snowing. The Public Garden, the Ritz, and Newbury Street were a Charles Aubry albumen print. The city of Boston under snow had a magical nineteenth-century feel to it.

Carlos and Wetzon chitchatted in the cab, studiously avoiding the subject of Smitty, although Carlos worried the Panthere without looking at it, and Wetzon’s sentences drifted off without endings.

At the Colonial, a line snaked out the door and down the sidewalk. A news van was parked in the no-parking zone in front of the theatre. Two reporters were working the ticket line. A photographer was shooting flashes. As their cab slowed, a woman with a camera ran over and called out to them, motioning for Carlos to roll down his window.

“Go around to the alley,” Carlos told the driver.

“It’ll be a full house tonight, even with the snow and the Porta Pottis,” Wetzon said.

The woman with the camera followed them halfway down the block, then gave up and returned to the theatre.

Allen’s Alley was blocked by a police car. A young officer got out of the car and waited for them.

“So much for keeping our tootsies dry.” Carlos paid the driver and they edged past the police car. “Carlos Prince and Leslie Wetzon, choreographer and assistant.”

The cop let them through.

“I see I’ve had a career change.”

“Would that it were really so.”

The stage door was propped open with a brick. A blunt object, Wetzon thought. Where had it come from?

A cadavorous man with rheumy eyes was Cerberus tonight. He had a spent butt clamped between thin yellowed lips; his smoke-edged voice seeping out around it. He was telling Walt Greenow how tough it had been to get in from Needham, what with the storm and all.

Wetzon stamped the snow from her suede pumps. They’d need an overhaul if they lasted till she made it back to New York. If
she
lasted to make it back to New York.

It was almost half hour and the exquisite fear of that first performance in front of an audience was a firm presence backstage. The sweet tension was intoxicating.

“Birdie, Fran has a ticket for you. You’re sitting with me.”

“I’m honored.”

Carlos gave her a pulled punch in the jaw. “He’s probably out front. I’m off to
merde
my gypsies.”

“Merde
to you, my love.” She kissed him lightly on the lips.

Excitement, barely contained, was a palpable essence and technicians were scurrying back and forth testing lighting, sound, winches. Any minute now they would open the doors and let the civilians in.

“But if you change the palette, you’ll
ruin
my clothes.” Peg Button’s angry voice rose over the buzz of an electric drill.

“Talk to Mort. I’m argued out,” Kay replied.

On stage an electrician stood on a tall ladder changing a burnout on the third torm left.

A soft percussion loop followed by string instruments tuning up filtered through the house and show curtains and from under the stage floor, adding to the theme of buoyant apprehension.

Wetzon came down the steps and into the empty house. The wood plank and the computers were gone, as were the wires and cables that had made the aisles a lethal obstacle course. The first group of ticket holders were massed at each aisle entrance, eager for ushers to show them to their seats. The excited expectation that normally filled a theatre at the first public performance of a musical had been enhanced, no doubt, by the murder of the composer. This audience, at the very least, would not be demanding and judgmental. By just being there, they’d gotten their money’s worth.

Bucking the flow of traffic, Wetzon worked her way up the side aisle. Boston theatregoers still dressed for theatre, which was more than you could say for the careless and inappropriate dress of many New Yorkers.

Three monitors clung to the edge of the mez, incongruously high-tech among the lavish carvings and gold leaf of the ninety-three-year-old theatre.

Adding to the incongruity were the three white Porta Pottis lined up like giant sentinals in the lobby near the ladies’ lounge.

Fran Burke stood against the back wall near the sound booth talking to Sunny Browning. He was flexing his swollen hand on the head of a hospital-issue aluminum cane. When he caught sight of Wetzon, he signaled her over by tilting his head.

“Do you want me to talk to the kid?” Fran was saying as Wetzon reached them.

Sunny shook her head. “No, I guess it’s better if I do it. I’ll get Twoey. He’s known him for years.” She looked at Wetzon appraisingly. “I hear you are investigating Dilla’s murder.”

“Gossip travels fast. But honestly, I don’t know any more than you do ...”

“I wouldn’t get involved if I were you, girl.” Fran reached into one of his capacious pockets and brought out a collection of rubberbanded tickets with holes punched in them. Dead wood, they were called, because theatre passes had originally been made of wood. “I have a ticket for you.” He shuffled through the pack and pulled one out and handed it to her. L102. “Carlos has 101.”

“What happened to your beautiful cane?” Wetzon put the ticket in the pocket of her coat.

“This one’s better for snow,” Fran said offhandedly.

“Fran!” A young man appeared from the lobby. “Bill wants to know if you put three tickets away for Joel Kidde.”

“Yeh. Excuse me, ladies.” Fran took to movement slowly as if his joints had locked when he stood still for any length of time, which they probably did. Watching him, Wetzon thought: He’s the grand old man of company managers. It made sense he would control the network of ice—if there really were one.

“Something up with Smitty?” Wetzon and Sunny were pressed against the wall by the entering crowd.

“Mort wants me to get rid of him.”

“When?”

“Now. Tonight. I’ll wait till after the performance, but what a shitty thing —not to let the kid stay for the opening.”

“Real class, that Mort Hornberg.” Wetzon felt a frisson of guilt as she moved toward the center aisle. This had been her doing, but why did Mort have to be so heavy-handed about it? He could have sent Smitty away after the opening.

The house lights dimmed slightly. Wetzon saw Smith with Joel Kidde take their seats down front. Audrey Cassidy and Gideon Winkler sat next to them. Gideon’s golden hair hung loose to his shoulders. He was wearing his cape and could have been mistaken for a WASP vampire.

Wetzon was seated, one in from the aisle, and as the house lights dimmed, JoJo appeared on the podium, a fat penguin in his black tux. A tremor went through the audience, followed by a spattering of applause. JoJo raised his arms, pointed to the cymbalist. Wetzon’s heart thudded. This was the birthing moment. The cymbals clashed and the overture—a rare event now in the modern musical, but one Wetzon loved—began, rich and complex, with marching brasses one moment blending to a haunting ballad on strings. The audience was elated.

Carlos slipped into the aisle seat beside her and squeezed her hand. His was dry and cold.

The house lights went out. The red velvet stage curtain rose like swag draperies, revealing a brightly painted scrim of a carnival scene, a shooting gallery, which as they watched, seemed to explode in a thousand lights like fireworks on the Fourth of July, and in its wake revealed the entire cast for the opening number.

Over the roar of the rapt audience, Wetzon said, “Amazing.”

Carlos grinned at her, looking pleased.

The first act swept by as each number received an ovation, forcing JoJo to pause for the applause. Carlos began to squirm. Twice he jumped up and disappeared to the back lobby where Wetzon knew the creative staff congregated, pacing.

When the first-act curtain came down with an explosion of lights and a crescendo of cymbals, Wetzon was already out of her seat and up the aisle, listening. For as long as she had been in show business, everyone connected to a show, friends and family, was expected to mingle with the audience at intermission and pick up the flavor of the comments.

“Where did it happen?”

“I heard the orchestra pit.”

“No, I think it was in a urinal.”

“Can you imagine—”

“I heard he was a compulsive gambler, that it was a mob killing.”

“Really? Didn’t he get sued for support by an ex-lover or something?”

“They’re all talking about the murder.” Wetzon was irritated beyond words. “What are you hearing, Aline?”

“Same as you.” Aline gave her a sideways look. “I hear you’re a detective.”

“Oh, please. I was doing someone a favor, is all. The show is wonderful.” As she’d hoped, everything had fallen into its creative place, and the first act played, even if it was a trifle too long.

“It’s working. But the first act’s too long.” Aline was wearing a red dress that was more fringe than dress. “Most of them only came because they like blood. Ghouls. You know, we had only half a house sold until word of Sam’s murder got out.”

“But it’s going so well.” Wetzon refused to let Aline’s negativity get to her. Across the lobby she saw Twoey, his face glowing, talking to Smith and Joel.

“There’s always the second act,” Aline said glumly.

The house lights dimmed once more and JoJo was back on the podium.

Wetzon settled into her seat and Carlos was beside her as the curtain went up for the second act. “Did you see Mort? Is he pleased?”

“He’s in the alley retching, darling.”

“Oh, good.”

In the middle of the opening number a lightning streak of blue light cut across the stage, followed immediately by yellow, red, then a circling kaleidescope of colored lights underscored by frantic whooshing. Primaries and secondaries gave way to each other in fractions of seconds, slicing the stage with color. A tremor, like an aftershock, rolled through the audience. Carlos groaned and rose from his seat. The orchestra squeaked to a halt, were admonished by JoJo to continue, and jerked forward.

Disconcerted cries came from various parts of the theatre. The actors could hardly be seen through the intensely swirling colored lights. Running footsteps thudded down the side aisle. Kay. Mort’s voice. Muffled screams.

Carlos raced down to the orchestra pit and scooted across the theatre to the pass door, following Kay.

Without warning, all the lights went out. It was as if someone had pulled a giant plug, thrusting the entire theatre into darkness. The audience gasped. The orchestra stuttered, stopped, started. Had someone screamed?

A light. A bare white bulb worklight suddenly lit the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please?”

Mort stood under the worklight. The beam elongated him grotesquely, playing ghoulish games with his face.

“Who’s that?”

“Morton Hornberg. Can’t you recognize him? His picture was in the paper this morning....”

“He’s older than I thought....”

Mort said, “We’re having a problem with one of our computers that regulates our lighting, but with your indulgence, we’re going to continue the show with the worklight and hope that you’ll let your imaginations do the rest. If anyone would prefer to come back for a later performance, stop at the box office on the way out. But I would ask you to stick around. There’ll be some bumps, but you’ll get a swell performance.”

Mort got a round of applause. No one left. It was, Wetzon thought, as if they were hanging in to see blood.

In spite of Mort’s promise, the second act was hairy. The company was rattled, and it was almost a relief when the curtain came down to a standing ovation. The audience had already begun to file out quickly in the semidarkness.

On stage, everyone looked stunned. The actors, still in costume, were milling around distractedly, clustering near the lighting board.

Mort was screaming, “You goddamn idiot! You can’t get anything right! It should have been you that got it, not Dilla.”

Phil’s face looked creased and ill. “Go fuck yourself, Mort.”

“What did you say? What was that?”

“I said, fuck you. It should have been you that got it, not Sam.”

“Get out of my theatre!” Mort was jumping up and down. “Get out of my theatre! I’ll see you’ll never work again.”

Wetzon’s eyes were drawn away from Phil, away from Mort to the empty rows of the theatre yawning back from the stage. Someone was standing in the dark, watching.

“Did you see her?” A woman’s voice, close by.

“Poor Kay.”

“Kay?” Wetzon said. “What happened to Kay?” She posed the question to JoJo, who had come up from the orchestra pit.

“Don’t know. Joclyn, did something happen to Kay?”

Joclyn’s face was a scourge of smeared makeup. “She came running up here to deal with the mess and smashed into Phil’s stool near the stairs and took a header. Broke her ankle.”

Straining her eyes to the rear of the stage, Wetzon caught a glimpse of Nomi kneeling over a stretcher.

“Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to Mass General we go,” Gideon sang, grinning.

“So?” Mort demanded. “What do you think?” His hands were on his hips and he looked belligerant.

“Of course, it’s salvagable. You’ll need a new score. This one won’t do at all.”

Smith was nodding enthusiastically. Wetzon moved away. What the fuck did Smith know about it? In the wings Smitty stood, ashen faced, watching Mort. Like his shadow.

Someone was up on a ladder, trying the lights, while Walt was playing with the computer. Wetzon wandered over to watch, and as she watched, the computer flickered and came back on line.