Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (47 page)

“Well,” Arthur said, with a broad smile, “shall we go backstage?”

“Of course.”

They waited until the audience filed out, and went up on stage through the pass door. Well-wishers surged around the creators.

“Congratulations, Mort,” Wetzon said. He was beaming in his ruffled shirt and Armani tux.

“Bless you, darling,” he said, kissing her, shaking hands with Arthur. “It was wonderful, wasn’t it? Quite my best work.”

“I meant the baby,” Wetzon said, intentionally wicked.

He actually turned red. “Yes, it’s swell, isn’t it?”

She moved on, and her place was filled by Carol Burnett, wearing the exact same dress as Smith, but with a coral shawl. Arthur had slipped away. Where was he? Twoey and Sunny were talking with Smith and Janet Barnes, Twoey’s mother. Alton had left that morning for California, or he would most certainly have been there. The crowd swelled and Wetzon suddenly found herself in the wings, pushed up against the stage manager’s desk. She caught sight of Phil briefly—wearing his baseball cap on backward, his face glowing—and she waved to him. Now, she stepped back and bumped something propped up under the desk. Whatever it was was wrapped in a blue canvas fencing bag. It toppled over. She bent to pick it up, grasping it through the canvas. It wasn’t a foil; it was a baseball bat.

She straightened, smoothing her dress. Phil was into the Broadway Show League, wasn’t he? She recalled the conversation in the Polish Tea Room the day
Hotshot
left town. There was nothing wrong with his being on the baseball team. On the other hand, the bat was a cylindrical-shaped object. And Phil was, as Smith had pointed out, a young man with, perhaps, some gender confusion and no strong father influence.

Bernstein was here somewhere. She could mention it to him.

A voice said, “Is there a problem, girl?”

Wetzon jumped. “Oh, God, Fran, you startled me. I was thinking about ... Carlos. I haven’t been able to get to him.”

“Well, come with me,” Fran said, taking a firm grip on her elbow. His cane, a metal one, hung loosely on his arm.

“What happened to your beautiful antique cane?”

“It was wormy and starting coming apart, so I put it away.” His blue eyes were calculating, as if trying to read her. “I told you to leave it be, girl. You should have listened to me.”

Across the crowded stage she saw Arthur and waved frantically. But he didn’t see her. The din of voices, all talking at once, was deafening. She tried to pull her elbow from Fran’s grasp. Couldn’t. He had a powerful grip for an old man who was supposedly dying of cancer. “Let me go, please, Fran.” But he was propelling her inexorably away from Carlos.

Wetzon pulled back and kicked Fran in the instep, hard. He gasped in pain, releasing her. Without a look back, she plunged through the crowd to Carlos.

“Birdie, dear heart!” Carlos had spotted her pawing her way through the noisy crowd. Everyone and his cousin from every area of show business was here tonight, it seemed, because a hit was in the offing. You wouldn’t find most of these people at the opening of a bomb. They couldn’t even give those tickets away. Of course, there were always some who would come to take pleasure in a competitor’s failure. But not tonight.

“Carlos! It was wonderful!” She threw her arms around his neck, smiling all the time, and whispered in his ear, “I think I’ve found the murder weapon. Phil’s bat.” If she could swipe that bat, the forensic people would be able to check whether there was any blood on it....

“What? I can’t hear you, darling. Tell me at Sardi’s. Paul, Joanne, bless you for coming—”

Well, Wetzon thought, superceded by the ravishing Paul Newman. Joanne Woodward, wearing little makeup, still looked at least a decade younger than she had to be.

After Paul and Joanne moved on to congratulate Mort, Wetzon tried once more to tell Carlos.

“Carlos, Phil’s bat. Can you get it out of the theatre tonight or hide it somewhere until I can find Bernstein?” Where was he anyway? She would do it herself except she couldn’t now in front of everyone, and it would look suspicious if she stayed in the theatre after everyone left. Unless she could hide herself somewhere.

Carlos was looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. He said, “It’s baseball season, Birdie.”

“I’m serious, Carlos. It could be the murder weapon.”

He winked at her. “Maybe I’ll humor you just this once.” Damn. He wasn’t even taking her seriously.

“Wetzon!” Twoey grabbed her from behind and lifted her off the ground. He was glowing.

“I guess you’re having a good time.” She threw him a grin.

“The best. And I have you to thank. I
owe
you. Come on to Sardi’s.”

She looked pointedly at Carlos. “Don’t
nag,
” he said, making his mouth a kiss.

Sardi’s, which sat smack in the middle of the Theatre District on Forty- fourth Street between Broadway and Eighth, was the most convenient place for an opening night party and there was a certain history involved. For more years than most could remember Sardi’s had been the most popular Broadway restaurant among show people, not so much for the food, but because Vincent Sardi made theatre people on every level feel welcome. He actually gave discounts to actors and their families, particularly during holidays when actors had to play both a matinee and an evening performance. Everywhere over the banquettes around the room were caricatures of present and laterday Broadway names. It was a hallowed tradition for opening night parties to be set there.

Tonight, Mort had taken over the entire restaurant to celebrate his latest soon-to-be (the critical approval hadn’t come in yet so it was not official) smash hit musical. Move over
Phantom
, Wetzon thought.

Wetzon looked around for Bernstein. Maybe no one had bothered telling him there was a party after the show. She smiled. Mort would hate to pay for someone who wore a cheap tux and a yarmulke.

Applause started near the entrance as Mort entered, and she joined in half-heartedly.

“How do you think we’ll do with the New York critics?” Twoey asked.

Wetzon saw Mary Cullin, Mort’s long-time press agent, draw him aside for a whispered conference. Had the reviews begun to come in so early? She knew a private phone line had been set up so that Mary could get her call from someone at the
Times
the minute Frank Rich turned in his copy. “Great,” she told Twoey. “With a few possible minor reservations about the subject matter.”

“We can handle that. Can’t we, Sunny?” Sunny Browning was wearing black, too. But, then, New York women always opted for black. It was their color.

“This will be a word-of-mouth hit,” Sunny said, smiling. “I don’t think the
Times
will matter. There was a line at the box office when it opened this morning. Edna told me we wrapped over a hundred thousand in advance sales before lunch.”

“Was Edna wearing Dilla’s ring, Sunny?”

Sunny’s smile faded. “Leave it be, Leslie. This is a celebration.”

Twoey was looking at them, confused by their intensity.

“You and Fran. What’s the matter with all of you? That damn ring may have been the catalyst for three murders, Sunny.”

They stepped back as Cher squeezed by, followed by Phil Donahue and Marlo Thomas. Joel Grey gave Wetzon a high five and a “long time no see, Leslie.”

Sunny moved away and started talking to Mort. Twoey looked down at Wetzon. “Hey, congratulations! Where’s the happy bridegroom?”

“If you mean Alton, we’re giving it a rest.”

“What? Come outside for a minute. I can’t hear you over the noise.” He guided her past a portly gentleman who was blocking the doorway talking to someone outside.

“Move one way or the other,” a harassed man at the door said. It was his job to check invitations and names against the party list.

Out on the street behind police barricades the autograph seekers, the oglers and the media people swarmed. Flashbulbs popped. Stretch and normal limos were double-parked, clogging Forty-fourth Street. The sky above the neon marquees was a strange sulfery gray. Cold gusts of wind swept through Shubert Alley, tussling hair, swirling dirt into miniature cyclones. Wetzon’s shawl offered little warmth.

“Twoey,” she said, “it’s not going to happen with me and Alton.”

His face became serious. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Well, then I’m going to have to live with it.” She felt herself getting angry. But Twoey was not to blame. She knew he cared for her. Her anger dissipated.

They went back inside and Wetzon found Arthur at the bar getting himself a scotch. “Beer for me,” she said.

Aline’s arrival on Edward’s arm brought another wave of applause. They were followed by JoJo and his wife, a fat mama type with cascading jet black hair and the shadow of a mustache. JoJo always fooled around with someone in the company and he always came back to his wife.

Smith and Joel Kidde. She was fluttering her eyelashes at him. Did men still fall for that shit, Wetzon wondered. Joel had that proprietary male hand on Smith’s bare neck. Bye-Bye Hartmann, Wetzon hummed to the tune of “Bye-Bye Blackbird.” Joel was just another sleaze and not much better than Hartmann, but at least he would probably not end up in jail.

“Arthur, did you talk to Marissa Peiser?” she asked over the babble.

“Yes. They’re going to present the Hartmann case to a Grand Jury. It’s not going to be easy, I’m afraid, to keep you out of it, but she’s going to try.”

“And Smitty?”

“I’m confident that will never go to trial. Where do you suppose Carlos is?”

“I was wondering that myself.” A germ of worry had begun to unsettle her mind.

“A martini, extra dry,” Aline said. She edged herself toward Wetzon.

“Congratulations, Aline. You’ve got a sure smash.”

“Yes.” Aline’s dress was a black curtain of bugle beads, and she wore a heavy gold cuff on the wrist where the cast had been.

“Have you seen Carlos?”

“No.” She took a greedy swallow of her martini and looked at Wetzon with a touch of animosity. “You thin girls ...”

“Aline, did you see the ring Edna Terrace is wearing?”

Eyes flat as Tiddley Winks stared back at Wetzon. “Leave it be, Leslie.”

If she’d been Smith, she would have said,
Oh, for pitysakes.
“I’ll see you later,” she told Aline.

“I’ll see if I can find Carlos,” Arthur said, leaving her at the bar.

No one, Wetzon was thinking, including Carlos, wanted to make waves. Who were they protecting? Phil? The show? The thing to do was go back to the theatre. Strange that the only person here tonight she could trust on this was Smith, and that only because of Smitty.

She saw Sunny huddling with Mort, Kay Lewis in black silk pants and jacket, one of those Velcro casts on her bum ankle, and Nomi in a tuxedo pantsuit. Mary Cullin appeared behind Mort and ushered him into another room. The others followed. The
New York Times
had come in.

No Carlos, no Fran Burke, no Edna, no Phil. She began to sweat. Fran had seen her with the canvas bag. Find Bernstein, that was the ticket. Let him handle it. She made her way slowly upstairs, searching for Bernstein or Carlos. The only thing that remained was for her to go back to the theatre. Down the stairs, she scooted past the bar and out on the icy street. She’d left her shawl somewhere, or maybe Twoey had checked it.

Down Forty-fourth Street toward Eighth Avenue, she could see the lights of the glowing marquees of the Broadhurst, where Chita Rivera was starring in
Kiss of the Spider Woman,
and the Majestic, still the home of
Phantom.
At the St. James the marquee for the Who’s
Tommy
was in bright yellows.

The wind was vicious. She stepped back in the doorway of the restaurant, hugging herself, and was bumped from behind by someone coming out. “Smith!”

“Where are you going?” It was an accusation. Smith was holding a drink. In her black velvet Carolina Herrara, she was half-naked, wearing flimsy satin sandals.

“Oh, for godsakes, Smith, go back inside. You’ll freeze like that.” Wetzon moved out of the way and the wind caught her hair and stood it on end.

Smith stepped out anyway, shivering. “Tell me where you’re going.”

“Okay. I think I saw the murder weapon at the theatre—out in the open, come to think of it, like
The Purloined Letter.”

Smith threw the drink into the gutter, but the wind caught the glass, lifting it in a wicked gust, and dashed it to smithereens against the scene shots of
Crazy for You
in the Plexiglass display windows of the Shubert Theatre, across the street. Hands on Wetzon’s shoulders, Smith insisted, “What are you saying?”

“The murder weapon has to be Phil Terrace’s baseball bat. Carlos was supposed to smuggle it out or hide it somewhere in the theatre, but he’s not here. I’m afraid something’s happened to him.”

“Let’s go,” Smith said, starting across the street.

“No. Go back to the party. See if you can find Bernstein.”

Smith hesitated. Her gold and crystal earrings bobbed in the swirling gusts. “All right, but if you’re not back in twenty minutes, I’m coming after you.”

Nodding, Wetzon raced across the street into Shubert Alley. “Find Bernstein,” she called back to Smith.

The wind whipped through Shubert Alley, riffling Playbills, scattering litter, pommeling her. She stopped at the Booth Theatre to catch her breath and then went on. Scaffolding on the construction across the way creaked and tilted ominously.

The marquee of the Imperial was brilliantly lit.
Hotshot: The Musical
spelled out in thousands of lightbulbs. Wetzon banged on the lobby doors, but the lobby was dark and the doors were locked. Pausing only a second, she ran through the alley to the parking lot, the shortcut to the stage door.

Eerie shadows leaned into her. A street sign—no parking—ripped somehow from its concrete bed, caught in the swirling wind, flew by a few feet from her and smashed into the brick side of the theatre. The wind scooped her up off her feet, screaming, and threw her at the stage door. She slumped to the ground and took stock of the physical damage. Torn hose, sleeve ripped at the shoulder, shoes a yard or so away, at least one of them anyway. She picked herself up and tugged at the stage door. “Damnation!” she screamed. The wind whipped the word from her lips.