Rehearsal for Murder

by P. M. Carlson

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Nick.

  Derek walked them to the door, his despondence almost palpable.

  On the subway, Maggie pulled something from her bag. “Don’t know if I should have stolen this,” she said. “But I had the feeling he’d be embarrassed if he saw he’d missed it when he cleaned the bathroom.”

  It was a little purse-size bottle of cologne. Maggie opened it, sniffed, and held it to Nick’s nose.

  “Damn,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Jasmine,” said Nick. “Ramona’s.”

  Sarah did not interrupt that night. She was slumbering soundly before she’d finished nursing. And when Maggie joined Nick in bed, she didn’t collapse into instant sleep as usual. She gave his ear an affectionate nibble. Nick’s lot in life, despite the exhaustion and uncertainty, had a full share of delights. Grateful and drowsy, he nuzzled her in return, but soon had to give up. He slid into sleep with his hand on her breast.

  Nick the dud.

  Part Two

  GOD IS WEIRD

  Thursday

  March 8, 1973

  V

  Thursday Afternoon

  March 8, 1973

  “My God, Buzz! What happened to you?”

  “Maggie! Thank God! You won’t believe the day I’ve had!” His leg bandaged from calf to instep, Steve turned awkwardly on his crutch to face her as she crossed the street to him.

  “I’ll believe it’s been a bad one,” she said, the lively eyes sympathetic. She stood patting the baby in the carrier while she looked him over with interest. The afternoon was clearing and she wore her trench coat open over her bright-but-businesslike blue plaid. This year’s short skirts showed off her athletic legginess. A springlike breeze ruffled her dark curls. He felt his spirits rising.

  “It’s not just my leg,” he explained. “You see, my wife is out of town today, so I’m in charge of Muffin. And then at lunchtime I took a spill down the stairs at the office.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Nothing serious, but the ankle’s out of commission. And it took hours at the doctor’s. And now I’m behind in everything. But the big problem is, Muffin’s playschool gets out in fifteen minutes and I have to pick her up. I’ve got to finish some urgent business that I couldn’t do while I was at the doctor’s. A lot of big people to apologize to. So I called a sitter to my pied-à-terre around the corner so I could leave Muffin there and then go back to my office for a couple more hours.”

  “Sounds like you’re solving the problem, more or less. How did you fall down?”

  “Just a stupid misstep. I use the stairs for exercise. For my health, ha-ha.”

  She grinned. “Exercise has that effect on me too. I’ve taken my share of tumbles from the beam and bars.”

  “A gymnast?”

  “Amateur.”

  “So you weren’t really risking young Sarah’s life up on that scaffolding.” He felt better about that.

  “No, I won’t let her do the really tricky stuff with me. The scaffold was a piece of cake. But hadn’t you better hurry to pick up Muffin?”

  He held up his free hand in hesitant supplication. “Look, Maggie, could I ask a huge favor?”

  “Anything I can do in twenty minutes,” she said cautiously. “I have to drop off Sarah and get back to work too.”

  He realized that she feared being asked to babysit and hastened to reassure her. “That’s all it should take, really, unless you sprain your ankle like me. The sitter’s at the apartment already. But you see, they don’t have the elevators installed, and I just don’t have the hang of this crutch yet. It’s three flights up.”

  “With a two-year-old.” She understood the problem instantly. “Hard to carry and harder to lead. How do you want me to help?”

  “Well, if you could pick her up at the playschool and take her up to the sitter, it would be a lifesaver.”

  “How far is the playschool?”

  “Four or five blocks. I’ll call Mitzi and tell her you’re coming. Just ask for Muffin. Please?”

  “The sitter couldn’t pick her up?”

  “I’m sorry. The Carstairs people said the only one available on such short notice was an elderly woman.”

  She looked at his crutch again and back to his imploring face. “Okay, it shouldn’t take long. What are the addresses?”

  He found a company memo pad and tore off the bottom half of a sheet to scribble the numbers. “Here’s the key to the apartment,” he added. “It’s right up this street. Just leave the key with the sitter.”

  “Okay. And this second address is the playschool?”

  “Right. Ground floor. And this is for the sitter.” He pressed an envelope into her hand. “Tell her I’ll call. And thanks a million, Maggie.”

  “Sure. Take care of yourself.”

  He said apologetically, “I wouldn’t impose on you but this is really a big project I’m working on at the office. Life or death.”

  “Well, run along and get it done, then. And don’t worry about Muffin.” She hurried off.

  Steve hobbled to the edge of the sidewalk to watch her winging around the corner, trench coat flaring in the breeze. Then he made his way to a bar and its phone booth. Muffin was safely taken care of. Now he’d ring Mitzi. And he’d give Rachel a call too. Take her up on her offer to help in case of need.

  This was need.

  God, what a day!

  Victoria was screaming.

  “Hush, Liebling! Don’t be frightened!” Her flaxen wig arranged in frizzy side curls that reminded Nick of extravagant blond earmuffs, Victoria’s German governess patted the royal head. “It’s naptime. Come!”

  Derek commenced a slow waltz-time melody. Jaymie, child-height on her knees, big eyes fearful under the shadow of her dark bangs, stopped screaming and gazed up at Edith, who adjusted the princess’s bonnet, coaxed Jaymie’s head onto her lap, and sang the lullaby. “Vickelchen, nap in your wee elfin cap, sleeping happy with never a tear.” She was projecting the character well, reflected Nick, just a trace of a German accent in the warm voice. “I know a charm that will keep you from harm, and disarm all the demons you fear.”

  If only something really could disarm demons. Nick’s own fears increased with every hour Ramona spent in the hospital. It was Thursday now; she’d been shot Tuesday night. If her coma had been caused by loss of blood alone, the hospital should have had her improving by now, shouldn’t it? Derek and Daphne were doggedly referring to Ramona’s return as a sure thing, but Nick knew that Derek at least was far from confident. Her condition was still so serious that none of them had been allowed to see her.

  Her husband, though, had apparently been visiting her regularly, despite Edith’s fears. Derek had met him twice in the hall, he said, but Simon Jenkins looked haunted and had apparently not recognized Derek.

  But there was nothing they could do. Except to throw themselves into the rehearsals with professional dedication and with hope.

  Jaymie was snuggling up to Edith’s ample lap, soothed by the lilting words and the friendly arms.

  “Life, like our stories, has goblins and glories. It’s gentle and hard as a stone. But I’ll be beside you to keep you and guide you. You won’t have to face it alone!”

  “Won’t have to face it alone,” echoed the princess drowsily.

  “Won’t have to—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Morris.” A heavy masculine voice broke in.

  Derek froze, hands poised above the keys, and twisted his head to look at the intruders. Two policemen stood by the door. Nick recognized the thickset detective who had interviewed him when Ramona was shot.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Morris. But Sergeant Dwyer and I need to ask some questions.”

  “Certainly, Detective Perez,” said Derek, hiding his annoyance in his mild tones. “How many of us do you need?”

  “Everyone, I’m afraid, one at a time,” said Perez. “The rest of you can continue.”

  Edith stepped
forward, her hands gripping each other nervously. “Does this mean there’s news about Ramona?”

  “Miss Ricci’s condition is unchanged. Our questions are in connection with the mugging and robbery.”

  “Might I be first?” asked Derek. “Then I could continue with the rehearsal.”

  “Fine. Pete, talk to him now while I get all the other names.”

  Derek followed Dwyer out into the stair hall but was back within minutes, and the rehearsal got underway again. It was difficult with people coming and going irregularly, and Daphne finally gave up on the dance and told them to stand still and concentrate on the vocal interpretation. Finally it was Nick’s turn, and he joined the detectives in the stair hall while behind him in the rehearsal loft people continued to sing exuberantly about Victoria’s sixty-four years on the throne.

  In the gray daylight that seeped into the stairwell from the unwashed skylight, the bull-thick Perez still seemed tired, his olive skin lined, curly hair thinning and flecked with gray. He could use a vacation, Nick decided, on a beach somewhere for a week. But the brown eyes were no less intelligent for being weary. “Mr. O’Connor, right?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “I know we already have your statement about Tuesday night. Could you just go over it again? Starting with leaving here.”

  Nick told the story again; he’d gone over it often in his own mind, puzzling over what he might have done.

  When he’d finished, Perez asked, “You heard two shots?”

  “Yes. But Maggie said she thought there was only one wound.”

  “Right. Now, did you see a gun in the building when you looked?”

  “No. And I wondered about that later, because Edith mentioned that Ramona carried one. But I looked over what had spilled from her bag pretty carefully, and I don’t remember a gun.”

  “Did you personally see Miss Ricci’s guns at any time?”

  “No, she never showed them to me. I didn’t even know she carried one until Edith said so. There were more than one?”

  Perez didn’t answer, but brought out a plastic bag containing a little ivory-handled derringer and showed it to Nick. “Did you ever see this before?”

  Nick shook his head. “Never. Is that what shot her?”

  “So you can’t identify it.”

  “No. If it’s Ramona’s, Edith must recognize it. And Jaymie saw it too, I think, and maybe some others.”

  “Yes, we’ve checked with Edith Bigelow.” Perez held the bag containing the little pistol in his palm a moment and shook his head. “Pete, did Garcia tell you about that nut in Queens yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “Druggist. Arrives at his store in the morning, sees it’s been burglarized, calls the cops. Good citizen, right? Then he takes his gun and goes into the basement himself. Cops get there, hear someone, yell, ‘Police, drop your gun!’ So the citizen jumps behind a pillar and shoots.”

  “Christ! What happened?” asked Dwyer.

  “They took him out. Serious-but-stable condition. Probably lying in his bed planning his police brutality suit.”

  “Beats the drugstore business,” said Nick.

  “Jesus, this town is crawling with make-believe John Waynes who don’t realize that thing in their hand shoots real bullets.” He replaced the little pistol. “And when they get in trouble, they blame the cops.” Perez sighed wearily and turned back to Nick, resigned, not a bull but a curly-polled ox hauling the massive machinery of police investigation to its useful conclusion despite a maverick citizenry. “Now, when you arrived at the building, did you see anyone?”

  With an inward sigh he said it again. “No. The only person I know who saw anyone was the young woman. Carlotta something.”

  “You didn’t hear footsteps or anything?”

  “We were all the way around the corner. And even Carlotta didn’t see much, she said. The shadows were already pretty dark. We couldn’t see Ramona until we stepped right in next to her.”

  Perez brought out a set of police photographs: young black men with Afros, so alike in the baleful boredom with which they regarded the camera that Nick had to focus consciously on the difference in features. “Recognize any of these people?”

  Nick looked closely, but shook his head. “Sorry, Detective Perez. Guess I’m not much help today.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. O’Connor. Let me know if you remember anything more. Would you please ask Miss … let’s see, Miss Jaymie Price to come in next?”

  Nick returned to the rehearsal, whispered to Jaymie that it was her turn, and took his place in the line. “Sixty-four years!” he sang exuberantly, years of technique and training hauling up an enthusiasm, an emotional memory, that he certainly did not feel today. He prayed that Ramona would have her sixty-four years.

  After rehearsal Daphne leaped off the platform and strode angrily toward the door. “All right, Callie, I told you two to wait at Anna Maria’s!”

  Nick saw the two girls then, pert Callie and a smaller child, skulking next to the door. Callie said impudently, “Hey, Aunt Daph, we saw all those cops coming out! Wanted to see if you’d been collared!”

  “I’ll tell you who’s gonna get collared!” Laughing, Daphne cuffed Callie affectionately on the shoulder, then hugged the younger girl. “How’re you doing, Mellie?”

  “Fine,” said the small one.

  Larry, pausing at the door with his jacket slung over his shoulder, asked, “Callie and Mellie? How do you keep them straight, Daphne?”

  “It’s tough, yeah. My cousin thought she was so musical. Calypso and Melody, she named them. But I don’t complain, chum. Gonna make them into dancers yet.” She sprang suddenly into a jumping jack, fingers splayed, and capered through a quick little tap step. The girls, grinning, mimicked her.

  “Way to go!” Larry clapped enthusiastically. Nick found himself smiling too. Someday maybe he could teach Sarah to dance. Nick Balanchine.

  “I’ll be dressed in a minute,” said Daphne to the girls, and loped away to gather her street clothes.

  Callie was looking Larry up and down with frank interest. “Hey,” she said, “I know something about you.”

  “Oh, dear. Hope it’s not one of my dirty secrets.” He grinned down at her.

  She giggled and covered little Mellie’s ears. “And about that bitchy Ramona. And also about—”

  “Calypso Weaver!” Daphne shouted from across the room. “Hush up!”

  “How come?” Callie demanded indignantly. “Just cause she’s hurt doesn’t make it a lie.”

  “Nope.” Daphne, sliding into her dashiki and clogs, tossed her other things into a tote bag and strode noisily back to the girls. “What makes it a lie is, she’s not bitchy. One bad day doesn’t make a monster. Else you two would both be bogeymen, right? Now, out!” She shepherded them through the door.

  Edith, dressed now, bounced over to Nick. “Who were those fellows in the police photos?” she demanded.

  “No idea,” said Nick. “I imagine they’ve connected the gun to one of the men.”

  “But that was Ramona’s gun!”

  “I thought it must be. Did she have more than one?”

  “She only showed me one.”

  Derek and Jaymie and some of the others had crowded around. Larry, instead of following Daphne out, joined the group too. “Did anyone recognize any of those photos?” Nick asked generally.

  “No,” said Derek, “but I noticed that none of them looked particularly young. Do you suppose the witness was mistaken? That it was a teenager, I mean?”

  Jaymie said slowly, “I might have seen one of them.”

  “Really?” They all turned to her eagerly.

  She shook her dark head, uncertain. “It might have been someone else. I’m really not sure. But I was walking toward Canal Street right after rehearsal, as usual. I saw someone across the street who might have been one of them.”

  “Across the street? Are you sure?” Larry sounded dubious.

 
“No, that’s just it. I’m not sure. But there was a guy, and I remember because he looked so tense. But of course I never connected him with what happened to Ramona.”

  “Still, if you’re right, it puts one of them in the area.” Nick found himself fired with eagerness to identify the criminal who had hurt Ramona and through her all of them, their families, even little Sarah. “Did the police tell you anything about him?” he added hopefully.

  “No. They were pretty secretive.”

  “Did anyone else see him?” asked Derek.

  They all shook their heads. Cab said, “A lot of us went that direction, toward Canal. But I wasn’t paying a lot of attention.”

  “Well, I wasn’t looking very carefully either,” Jaymie admitted. “But they’re going to ask me to look at a lineup tomorrow. Maybe I’ll know him.”

  “Which way did Daphne go that night?” Nick wondered.

  “I think she took Callie to Anna Maria’s.” Jaymie adjusted her paisley scarf.

  “Is there a real chance she’ll lose the kids?” Nick asked.

  “Well, the social workers favor the other relative. That schoolteacher. But she’s ahead, she thinks, because the girls prefer her, and because she’s got good character references from the head of her dance school and even from Ramona.”

  “That’s good. She’s really good with them.”

  “Yes. I don’t know what they’ve got against her!” declared Jaymie vehemently. “She’s a little unconventional, but she’s a wonderful mother! Sort of adopted me when I first came to New York.” Her voice was warm with gratitude. “She reminds me so much of Loreen. My nursemaid when I was little. And Daphne’s a terrific dance teacher of course. That’s why my mother signed me up at that school. But she’s also willing to hold your hand when you need it.”

  “She backed you for this job, too,” Derek said.

  “Yes, she’s loyal to her students. It seemed so lucky, because Ramona liked her, and I thought maybe this time …”

  She trailed off, glancing at the floor, her eyes shadowed by her thick bangs. But most of her listeners could complete the thought. They too had had hopes for this time and had had to suspend hope and ambition for the moment, waiting for Ramona to wake up.