Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (43 page)

This time Wetzon rolled her eyes at Smith.

“The receipt, Gross.” Bernstein headed for the door.

Gross sighed and took off the glittering bracelet. She signed her name at the bottom of the list of jewelry and handed Wetzon the receipt on a creased piece of paper. There was writing on the back. Wetzon turned it over. “Wait. Where did this come from?”

“What is it?” Bernstein came back into the room.

“It’s a letter from Susan Orkin.”

“Where’d it come from? Gross?”

Gross shook her head.

“Maybe it was in the bag with the jewelry,” Smith suggested, too sweetly, from Wetzon’s point of view. “Any ... one can see it’s been folded like a letter. What does it say?”

“‘Dear Leslie,’” Wetzon read aloud. “‘If something should happen to me, you’ll know what to do with this.’” It was signed “S.” Her eyes misted. “I’ll know? How would I know?”

“I still would like to know where it came from. I suppose it could have been folded up inside and come out when we emptied the bag. I’ll take this, if you don’t mind.” Bernstein relieved her of the letter and ran his eyes over it.

“Why should I mind? You’re taking the jewelry. We’ll need another receipt.”

“Easy come, easy go.” Smith shrugged. “Who gets it after you’re finished with it?”

“Oh, for godsakes, Smith—” Wetzon gave Gross a sheet of blank paper, and Gross began recopying the inventory list from the back of Susan’s letter.

“Well, sugar, someone had to ask. You never would.”

“It’s part of the estate, I should think. Whoever inherits. Did Susan leave a will, Detective?”

“The detectives from the One Nine went over the apartment. No will turned up.”

“How about a safe deposit key? I guess not, huh? The apartment was such a god-awful mess.” Taking the newly signed receipt from Gross, Wetzon folded it and put it in her Filofax.

“Gimme the bag, Gross. I wanna have another look at it.” Wetzon cleared some space on her desk and Bernstein emptied the dazzling contents of the pouch once again. The phones were quiet. The room was so still, Wetzon could hear everyone breathing. Bernstein turned the pouch inside out. “What’s this?” he said. He was pointing to the embroidery on the inside lining.
Lenny/Celia.

“Jeeze,” Gross said. “I didn’t see that.”

“Gross, you wouldn’t see your foot if it was nailed to your nose.”

Smith made a coughing sound behind her hand, which Wetzon tried to ignore, with only moderate success.

“Who are they?” Bernstein demanded. “What do they have to do with Orkin and Crosby?”

“I’m not sure,” Wetzon said. “I think they’re Lenny and Celia Kaufer. Lenny Kaufer was the most important general manager on Broadway for over thirty years. Celia was his wife. Dilla Crosby was his mistress. He was also Edna Terrace’s father and Phil Terrace’s grandfather.” She could see the little register in Bernstein’s mind tallying up the information. Bernstein and Gross were like two refugees from a 1940s B movie.

As if to reinforce her thought, Bernstein said, “Come on, Gross. We have work to do.” He handed Gross the pouch and watched as she turned it right side out and replaced the jewelry, fingering each glittering piece lovingly.

Bernstein was halfway into the reception area oozing impatience. “Shake a leg, Gross. We don’t have all day.”

Max’s eyes were spheres. He was pretending to make notes on a suspect sheet in front of him. When the phone rang and he had to answer, he was distracted. “Smith and Wetzon, good morning. I mean, good afternoon. Who’s calling please? Hold on.” He pointed the receiver at her. “For you, Wetzon.”

“One second, Max.” She accompanied Bernstein to the door. “Edna Terrace is in New York, but her son Phil is in Boston with
Hotshot.
Although, I guess, he might have been in New York when Susan was murdered because he and Mort Hornberg had a big fight and Mort threw him off the show. And Poppy Hornberg was in New York, too. She came down to get her hair done.”

“You wanna work for me, Ms. Wetzon? Maybe Gross would like to trade places. Gross, you listening? You could maybe learn something here.” Bernstein was giving Wetzon a very friendly smile.

Well, well, well, she thought. “I’m flattered, Detective.” Gross was just getting it and she wasn’t liking it. “But I’m sure Detective Gross knows a lot more than I do.” Wetzon walked them out, trying to smother a laugh. “Who is holding, Max?” She was laughing out loud as she passed his desk.

“Barney Beck.”

“Hi, Barney.” Smith was hunched over her desk working on something.

“Wetzon, I made Steve Zuckerman an offer this morning. No upfront. A guarantee of four a month versus a fifty percent payout for six months. Then a flat fifty-five percent for the next six months with a lookback of ten percent if he comes in with the same numbers after a year.”

“A generous offer, Barney.” She was taking careful notes on the offer. What was heard and what was said didn’t always jibe.

“See that he takes it, Wetzon.”

She hung up the phone. Steve would take it, of that she was fairly certain. “Barney has an offer out to Steve Zuckerman,” she said to Smith’s back. “What are you doing?”

“Shshsh,” Smith said. She was staring at her Tarot cards, which were laid out on her desk in a Celtic Cross. “Come here!” She gathered them up abruptly and thrust them at Wetzon. “Shuffle.”

“Your wish is my command, O great Oracle of Delphi.” She stood next to Smith and shuffled the cards.

“You never take the Tarot seriously—and you of all people should. It never lies. Keep shuffling.” She shook a finger at Wetzon. “You could maybe learn something here.” The last was said in an uncanny imitation of Bernstein.

“Give me a break, Smith.” But Wetzon had to smile.

“Now hand them to me.” Smith held the cards against her breast and closed her eyes, then opened her eyes and laid the cards out in another Celtic Cross, slowly, sighing, groaning. Finally, she exclaimed, “Look!”

“I’m looking. What am I suppose to be seeing?”

“This is your reading I’m doing. See, two kings.”

“All right. Two kings ...”

“The King of Cups. This is Alton Pinkus. He’s covering you, but the King of Swords is in your future. I don’t know why I bother trying to help you get your life together. You never listen to me.”

“Wait a minute.” Wetzon was staring at the King of Swords. She knew who that was. Silvestri. “You mean—”

“Dick Tracy. It dismays me that you’re letting Alton Pinkus slip through your little fingers.”

“I’m not. Honest. Silvestri is gone for good.”

“That’s not what I see here,” Smith insisted. “And here’s something else. The Knight of Pentacles. A message about money.”

“That’s Barney Beck hiring Steve Zuckerman.”

“No!” Smith shook her head. “Something else. See this? Your home and how you relate to others. Death. And the Tower is governing your deepest emotions.”

“That sounds too ominous for me.” Wetzon turned away. Smith was depressing her.

“And the Wheel of Fortune is the resolution!” Smith was excited. “You must watch what you do and who you’re with. You shouldn’t be alone. Move in with Alton, why don’t you?” Smith’s hands shook as she gathered up the cards.

“Oh, really, Smith.” Sitting at her desk, Wetzon saw that two of the phone lines were lit.

“One more thing.” Smith shuffled the deck and fanned the cards face down across her desk. When the phone rang on the third line and Wetzon reached for it, Smith said, “Let Max get it, sweetie pie.” She rubbed her hands together vigorously, and held them over the cards as if warming them, then began selecting cards with little hesitation from the long line.

Wetzon waited. Now Smith was laying out the cards she’d selected, murmuring ominously. No one got the phone. “I’m taking it, Smith. The guys are busy.” Smith didn’t respond. Wetzon said, “Smith and Wetzon.”

“Hang up the phone,” Smith said, without looking up from the cards.

“Ms. Leslie Wetzon, please.”

“Smith and Wetzon.” When Max’s voice overlaid the caller’s voice, Wetzon quietly hung up. The caller had a vaguely English accent.

“What’s the problem, Smith?”

Smith collected the cards and faced her. “What secret are you keeping from me?”

“Secret?
Moi?
I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sweetie, don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Is it something to do with Ma—Smitty? Please tell me. The cards connect it to a young person.”

“It’s got nothing to do with Smitty.” What was Smith talking about? The watch perhaps? No. When the realization struck Wetzon, she thought, Smith is amazing. It had to be B.B.’s resignation she saw in the cards. Wetzon had to find a time to tell her when B.B. wasn’t around. Smith would kill him.

At that fortunate moment, Max’s knock interrupted Smith’s interrogation. He opened the door tentatively.

“Oh, do come, Max, for pitysakes.”

Thank you, Max,
Wetzon thought fervently.

“A man by the name of Bryan Kendall is on the phone for you, Wetzon.”

“Bryan Kendall?” She’d never heard of him. “What firm is he with?”

“I don’t know.” The phone rang and Max went to get it, closing the door.

“They never learn,” Smith said. “Did we get this week’s
Wall Street Letter?”

Wetzon handed her the outrageously priced ten-page newsletter that carried the inside dope on what was happening on the Street. She pressed the blinking button. “Leslie Wetzon.”

“Ms. Wetzon, my name is Bryan Kendall. I’m with the law firm of Kendall and Slotkin. I would like to arrange a meeting with you in my office.”

“Why? What is this about?”
Now what?

“Susan Orkin was a friend and a client.”

Her tone softened. “I’m sorry about Susan. She was my friend as well.” What would Susan’s lawyer have to discuss with her?

“It concerns Susan’s will. Ms. Wetzon, Susan made you her principal beneficiary.”

“I don’t understand,” Wetzon said for the third time in less than an hour. A full week had passed and she was sitting opposite Bryan Kendall, Esquire, in his law office on Park Avenue. A cup of black coffee sat in front of her, untouched. Also untouched was the legal envelope Kendall had handed her.

Kendall, a dignified man with gray hair in marcel waves, was in his late fifties. His hand sculpted miles of tiny metal chips into a tower over a magnet base. “What don’t you understand?” In person, the English accent was more pronounced.

“Until a few weeks ago, Susan and I hadn’t seen each other since college.”

“No matter. She asked me to prepare a new will after Dilla died. She signed it the day before her own death.” He took a document from a neat folder on his desk.

“You’re telling me that Susan has no relatives?”

“That’s correct.”

“Mr. Kendall, Susan was terrified that something would happen to her. Do you know what she was afraid of?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Oh, God, what does this all mean to me?”

“The will has gone to probate. Susan designated me as her executor. There are two other beneficiaries. Susan left ten thousand dollars to Rhoda Rockefeller.”

“Rhoda Rockefeller? You mean her housekeeper? Her last name is Rockefeller?”

He nodded. He had a nice twinkle in his eye. In that instant Wetzon decided she liked Bryan Kendall.

“And she left twenty-five thousand dollars to the Actors’ Fund.”

“That’s very generous. What am I supposed to do now?”

“The estate owns the apartment and it will be sold. The money, after closing costs and taxes, will then go to the beneficiary. You. There are some minor debts—”

“But wasn’t the apartment mortgaged?”

Kendall shook his head. “They paid cash for the apartment.”

“Cash? For an apartment in that building? Where would they get all that cash?”

“They used their savings. Susan and Dilla each owned other apartments, and they sold them when they moved in together. Actually, the apartment was always in Susan’s name.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Kendall, what kind of numbers are we talking about here?”

“Please call me Bryan. We’re going to be speaking and meeting with some frequency. I believe we can probably see eight or nine hundred thousand in the market today, maybe more.”

“Oh, God ...”

“And Susan had an account with Merrill Lynch, as well as life insurance.”

“I feel awful about this. I don’t want her money. I don’t need it. How would it be if, when the apartment is sold, I donate it to a couple of AIDS groups and the Meals on Wheels program?”

“It’s yours to do as you wish.”

“I think Susan would approve. Is that it?”

He leafed through the will. “The dog, Isabella. She would like you to take her.”

Wetzon smiled. “I already have.”

“Good. There’s also a car, a Jaguar. It’s in a garage on Lexington.”

“God, a car.” It was mind-boggling.

“Then one final thing. The copyrights on her poetry and lyrics will be transferred to you as her heir. I would suggest that you keep them. It won’t amount to a lot of money. I knew Susan very well. Her writing was the driving force in her life.”

“Okay. Thank you.” They rose at the same time and shook hands. “Arthur Margolies is my lawyer.”

“I know him.”

“He’s out of town until Monday....” She was in shock.

More than two weeks after Dilla Crosby’s murder, the police seemed to be no closer to the murderer or even the murder weapon. The
Times
gave the investigation sporadic to no coverage, but the
News
and the
Post
and even
New York Newsday
managed to come up continously with screaming headlines.

Smitty had not been arrested. He was living at home with Smith and seeing a therapist. His mother had bounced back with incredible resilience.

Edna Terrace had not been arrested either, but her photograph had appeared in all of the newspapers, her face obscured by a raincoat.

Hotshot: The Musical
was finishing up its last week in Boston, sold out to the rafters, irony of irony. Smith was right. They would make a lot of money. That is, their pension would. All that remained before opening night in New York was the week of previews.