Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (38 page)

“Mort’s a bully and a coward. When he kills people he does it verbally. He’s no murderer. He’s more likely to be the one who gets murdered.” She picked at a loose thread on the silken cuff. “He’s been truly vicious to everyone, me included.”

“Oh?” She’d managed to stir his interest again.

“Yes. He told me I was incapable of having a real relationship with anyone.”

“Did he now?” He didn’t look at her. “You came back for what reason?”

“You ordered me to come back—or have you forgotten?”

“Get off my case, Les.”

Nausea hit her. She fought it. “Silvestri, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, sure, Les. Let’s get on with this. It’s getting late.”

She felt her heart harden. “Mort asked me to bring Susan back to Boston tonight. She was doctoring the lyrics and with Sam gone, Mort wanted her there for touchups. And I had to come in anyway to help a broker move.”

“Anything else you want to add?”

“Silvestri, did anyone find a small chamois bag with—” She paused, “—jewelry, diamonds, and stuff, a lot of it, in it at Susan’s?”

“Not as far as I know, but they’re still combing through everything. It could turn up. What about it?”

“I saw it last week. Izz kept bringing me things from another room while Susan was helping Dilla’s family pack Dilla’s things. Susan was upset that Izz had brought me the bag. She put it under the sink in the kitchen.”

“I’ll check it out.” He set Izz on the floor and rose. “From here on, you’ll be dealing with Bernstein.”

Her cheeks burned as if he’d hit her. It took her a minute to recover. “The burglar may have been looking for the jewelry. I told you Susan was afraid of someone. She must have come out of the shower and surprised the thief, and then fallen down the stairs trying to get away.” Wetzon picked up her coat and followed Silvestri to the door. His shoulders sagged and her palms itched to touch him.

“You think it was an accident?” He was looking down at her bare feet, and she knew he knew she was naked under the robe.

“Wasn’t it?” She hung her coat up in the hall closet. “Did you have a coat?”

“No.” He adjusted his jacket over the gun. “The M.E. says she didn’t try to stop her fall. Which means she was either dead or unconscious before she hit the ground.”

Wetzon towel-dried her hair and ran a comb through it. Steam from the shower had fogged up the mirror. And worry about Mark had fogged up her brain. She wiped the steam from the glass with the corner of her towel.

The woman in the mirror was gaunt, her gray eyes huge. When the steam obscured her image, she didn’t invite it back with the towel.

Instead, she went into the bedroom and pulled on the black wool leggings she kept with other clothes in one of Alton’s dresser drawers, and one of his white T’s. She topped it with his pale blue V-necked cashmere that, on her, came to mid-thigh. In the bathroom she opened the window to let the steam diffuse, hung up the towels, and finally got on the scale. Ninety-three pounds, and clothed, too. No wonder she felt so fragile. She’d dropped three pounds. Worry, stress, always did that to her.

Determined to eat her way back—a delicious thought—she began foraging for food. Alton’s housekeeper had restocked the refrigerator so there was fresh orange juice. She poured herself a tall glassful. Sipping, she looked down at Eighty-first Street from the kitchen window.

The streetlights had little misty haloes and the Hayden Planetarium across the street was an enchanted fortress rising out of the mist. No one below carried an open umbrella, but the sidewalks looked wet. Alton had taken Izz out to get her a leash and dog food at the pet shop over on Amsterdam. Dinner would be Chinese takeout.

Back in the bedroom she made herself a nest on the carpet with the phone she’d plucked from the night table and her Filofax. Pen at the ready, she called her answering machine. The cluster of gems on her ring finger cued her that her life had taken an unexpected turn. She closed her eyes to it.

The first recorded message was a breather who panted into the phone, then hung up. Damn. Was she going to have to worry about whether it was a wrong number or directed at her? She waited for the second beep. More breathing. “Get a life, dammit,” she muttered.

As she spoke the panting stopped, and a third message came on. “Wetzon, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Mark disconnected in the middle of an hysterical sob.

Stunned, she listened to the rest of her messages through a jungle of conflicting emotions. Three hangups. Probably Silvestri looking for her until he figured out where she was.

Beep
. “Hi, Wetzon. B.B. here. It’s four o’clock and we’ve finished. He’s a weird guy. See you Monday ... um, and don’t forget I want to talk to you privately.”

Beep.
“It is two o’clock Saturday afternoon. I can see you on Sunday at four, Leslie. No need to call back if this is okay.” Sonya’s warm empathy flooded the tape.

Beep.
“Birdie!” Carlos sounded upset. “Mort just told me about Susan. Where the hell are you? Are you all right? I had a really strange message from Smitty. Listen, I don’t want to talk to a tape. Leave a number where I can call you tonight after the reviews come in.... Whoever said this was fun?”

There were no other messages. Wetzon called the Ritz and left her name and Alton’s phone number for Carlos.

Taking a fortifying swig of orange juice—it needed alcohol—she dialed Smith’s home number. The phone rang again and again. No answer. Had Mark gone back to school? Or would he have gone to Boston? She hung up, rose, set the glass down on the dresser next to the photograph of Alton
en famille
in ski clothes on the slopes of Aspen. Holding on to the bedroom door, she did some stretches and relevés.

She poured a dollop of vodka into the half-empty orange juice glass and topped it liberally with juice. Returning to her spot on the bedroom floor, she pointed the remote at the TV. The six o’clock news came on. The television reporter, a blond woman by the name of Mimi Tucker, was announcing Susan’s death. Ms. Tucker, wearing a shiny red raincoat and matching red kissy-lips, stood in front of Susan’s building. The camera swept the crowd, picking up the strikers, who waggled their signs as if on cue. Police moved about behind the reporter, including one man who had the words
Crime Scene Unit
on the back of his dark blue jacket.

“The nude body of poet Susan Orkin was found on the back stairwell of her Upper East Side cooperative apartment early this afternoon by superintendent Tony Novakovich and a friend of Ms. Orkin who became concerned when the poet did not keep a luncheon appointment. We’ll have an exclusive interview with Mr. Novakovich later in the program.”

The camera quickly panned the street and the police barricades, then came back to Mimi.

“Ms. Orkin’s apartment had been ransacked and police have labeled her death as suspicious. Ms. Orkin was at one time married to prominent New York Congressman Gary Orkin. The marriage of five years ended in divorce. Police have asked anyone who may have information about Ms. Orkin’s death to please contact them at this number ...”

When Alton returned with a jubilant Izz, who came flying at her as if they’d been parted for weeks, Wetzon turned off the set. “I’m potted,” she informed them. Izz now wore a red collar with little rhinestones. Wetzon looked up at Alton. “Alton, rhinestones? I can’t believe you bought her a collar with rhinestones. Not you.”

“Her name is Isabella, isn’t it? They didn’t have diamonds.” He helped her up. “Come on. Dinner’s getting cold.” He led her into the kitchen, where he set out a feast of food. She was suddenly starving.

A lumpy, red plaid dog pillow lay under the window. On the floor near the sink was a white-and-blue bowl that said
dog,
and it was full of dried dog food. Izz was sniffing at it disdainfully.

“How did you know how much to give her?”

“You think I’m a novice at this?”

“You’re not?” She refilled her orange juice and gave herself another splash of vodka.

“We always had dogs. Tessa even bred dachschunds for awhile.”

Wetzon still got a funny quiver when Alton mentioned Tessa. He and Tessa had been high-school sweethearts and her death five years ago had devastated him. He’d retired prematurely, looking for something new to capture his imagination. The memoir he’d written of his years as a union organizer and national labor leader had been incredibly successful and was still in print. Wetzon had met him two years ago when he was serving on the board of Luwisher Brothers. Alton and Twoey’s father had been friends.

“I always liked dachschunds, especially the wiry-haired ones.” Wetzon looked down at Izz, who was circling the food. “Whatever am I going to do with a dog?”

“We’ll manage.” He was pouring hot-and-sour soup, thick with strips of bean curd and bamboo shoots, into bowls.

She held up her left hand and looked at the ring. “It’s beautiful. Do you really think we’ll be okay?”

“I know we will. Eat up. You seem awfully thin to me.”

“So do you.” He didn’t respond, but he looked pleased. He’d been trying to get his weight down.

When they finished the soup, he set the bowls in the sink and began dividing up shrimp fried rice, moo shu pork, steamed dumplings and eggplant with garlic sauce. “What about your kids?” she asked.

He laughed, looking boyish. “They’re hardly kids. They have their own lives now. This is my life.” He laid out a pancake on his plate, spread it with hoisin sauce and the moo shu mixture, rolled it up and handed it to her.

“And my life.”

“Ours.”

“You take such good care of me.” She made fast work of the roll, watched him make one for himself.

“It’ll be good. You’ll see. We’ll travel—”

“What about my business?”

“I wouldn’t want you to change anything, Leslie.”

She touched his knee under the table with her bare foot and he caught it and held it. “You are a lovely man, Alton.”

“Sandra’s having a dinner party next month. Everyone will be there. We’ll let them know then, shall we?”

“Okay.” She felt as if she were on a train hurtling downhill toward—

“You don’t look okay.”

“It’s not us. I’m worried about Mark, Smith’s boy. Well, I guess he’s not really a boy anymore. He’s come out—said he’s gay—and rechristened himself Smitty. And that’s just the good part. He may be involved in these murders....”

“How do you know he’s gay?”

“He told me. He’s not hiding it.”

“Does Xenia know?”

She nodded.

“The poor kid.”

“Smith thinks it’s a virus. She’s going to put him in therapy.”

Alton smiled and shook his head. “A strange lady, your partner. What makes you think he’s involved ... in these murders?”

She sighed. “Take my word for it. By the way, Twoey is having a wonderful time.”

“Twoey?”

“Oh, my God, Alton. You don’t know. You were away when everything happened. Twoey’s one of the producers of
Hotshot
now. Mort needed money and Twoey wanted to get his feet wet, so I brought them together. It’s trial by fire, but he’s enjoying it.”

“He always wanted to be in the Theatre, to produce plays. He went to Wall Street because of his father. I could have gotten him into ATPAM years ago, but his father would not have been happy about it.”

“ATPAM? The press agents and managers union?”

“Yes. I knew one of the top men there. We’d worked on some mediation panels with Ted Kheel.”

Wetzon set her fork down. She was feeling whoozy. Had Alton just said he knew somebody at ATPAM? “Who was it you knew?”

“He’s dead now. He died a couple of years before Tessa.” Alton’s eyes grew distant.

Wetzon waited. Patience was not one of her strong suites. Anyway, she knew the answer to her question. Alton’s contact at ATPAM had been Lenny Kaufer.

“Tell me about Lenny Kaufer. He’s all mixed up in this.” They’d finished the moo shu and the dumplings and only a few green peppers which neither of them ate, remained on the plates. Izz was curled up under the table, her head on Wetzon’s bare foot.

“Leslie, the man’s been dead for at least eight years.”

“Humor me.” She wrinkled her nose at him, playing cute. That would never do.

But Alton said, “How can I resist you? Lenny and I were on a couple of mediation panels. I didn’t know him socially.”

“He was up to his ass in ice, I’ve been told.”

“Ah, Leslie, you do have a way with words. What’s ice?”

“Skimming, graft, bribes, theatre stuff. I vaguely remember reading in
Variety
that when the Shuberts automated their box offices, they announced an end to graft.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. Lenny was a nice enough guy. Played a mean game of poker.”

“I’m certain Dilla’s murder and everything that came after has something to do with him.”

“He’s been dead for years. How can it?”

“Alton, I saw a bag of jewelry—diamonds, gold, the real thing—the first time I went to see Susan. Izz kept bringing me presents while Susan was helping Dilla’s family pack up her stuff. One of the things she brought me was a bag of jewelry. Lenny/Celia was embroidered on the inside lining. Susan was upset I’d seen it.”

Alton frowned. “I seem to remember that Kaufer’s wife was named Celia.”

“Exactly. And several people described a gorgeous and somewhat unusual ring Dilla had been flashing around the week before she was murdered. Which, it seems, was not on her finger when they took her body away.”

Alton cleared the plates from the table, scraped the peppers into the garbage and stacked the dishwasher. “Are you saying that someone killed Dilla Crosby for the ring?” He sounded doubtful.

“Seems crazy, doesn’t it?” She rubbed her eyes. “It’s just that when Phil Terrace introduced me to his mother in Boston, she was wearing a ring that looked just like the one they said Dilla had been wearing.” Bemused, she held up her hand and admired Alton’s gift.

“Slow down. Who is Phil Terrace?” Alton poured himself two fingers of Glenfiddich and leaned back against the sink.

She loved,the smoky fumes of the single-malt scotch. There was something sensuous about it. “Phil Terrace is Lenny Kaufer’s grandson. He was assistant stage manager on
Hotshot.
He took over as stage manager after Dilla was killed. Phil’s mother is the treasurer at the Imperial Theatre, where the show is opening.”