“Yes.”
“What about a memorial service? Or a memorial performance?”
“That’s what should be done. A performance dedicated to Clifton’s memory. It’s the most he would have wanted,” Cynthia answered.
“And shouldn’t it be right away?”
“Probably.”
“You mean a regular performance, don’t you? Not some special event?”
“No, just a regular performance. Perhaps with some special work performed.”
“I suggested next Tuesday to Teresa.”
“Why not?” Cynthia said.
“Tuesday is also the weakest subscription night, so there will be plenty of available seats for the dance worthies who want to attend.”
“Isn’t that the night Luis Bautista and Francisca are going to the ballet with us?”
“Yes, I believe it is. But that doesn’t matter, does it?”
“No, certainly not. But it won’t be the happiest occasion in the world, that’s all,” Cynthia said.
Pink-shirt interrupted with their order, all served correctly except that the creamed mint sauce enveloped Reuben’s lamb chops. He did not, however, object. Still another pink-shirt arrived simultaneously with the Coufran, which he opened lovingly, treating the youthful bottle with a respect more properly reserved for the aged.
“This should be very good, sir,” he said. In the best Californian, pro-feminist tradition, he poured out a sampling for both Reuben and Cynthia to taste.
“Mmn,” Frost grumped, as he tried the wine. “Fine.”
“And you, ma’am?” the waiter asked.
“Me? Oh, yes. Fine,” Cynthia said.
“I knew you’d like it. Nothing like the good old French wines, is there, sir?”
“Mmn,” Frost grumped again, but still restraining himself. “Thank you very much.” He wondered what the pink-shirt with the wine, now pouring full glasses, would have done if one—but not both—of them had pronounced the Coufran unsatisfactory. He supposed there was some California protocol governing this.
“How shall we arrange it?” Frost said, as the waiter left and he and his wife began eating. “Should I talk to Arne or should you?”
“Why don’t I do it? I’ll be taking class in the morning, and I can talk to him then. What about the Board? I assume this will be all right with them?” Cynthia asked.
“I think so. Except for those like Andrea Turnbull, who, if asked, would probably preside over a voodoo rite for Clifton.”
“That awful woman.”
“Awful rich woman, unfortunately.”
“She really loathed Clifton, didn’t she?”
“Clearly. But Clifton was correct on that one. By what right did this ugly, self-centered, spoiled rich monster from Syracuse think she could dictate how NatBallet should be run? You know what she’s like, Cynthia. Artistic views on everything, and most of them appalling. NatBallet would have been inferior to the local ballet company in Podunk if she—and not you and Clifton—had been around from the beginning.”
“Yes,” Cynthia sighed, “it’s true. Andrea’s taste is in her left toe—and though I’ve never seen her barefoot, probably an unattractive left toe at that.”
“Exactly. Being the widow of an upstate car dealer does not automatically make you Diaghilev. Andrea’s never learned that, and I fear for what’s going to happen now.”
“Don’t you think your Board will promote Arne? See what he can do?” Cynthia asked.
“I hope so. But as he said the other night, the likes of Andrea or Ken Franklin—Ambassador Franklin, for heaven’s sake—will probably discover some rustic genius who wouldn’t know a pas de deux from a do-si-do.”
“I don’t think so, Reuben,” she said. “There are still people like Bartlett Empson around, who are not going to allow anything crazy to happen. And there’s you.”
“Me? Perhaps. Sure, I’m Chairman of the Board. But there are a lot of directors that think I’m an old fuddy-duddy and that Andrea, with her bottomless wallet, and others like her, are the wave of the future.”
“Nonsense. I think the Board is grateful that you spend the time you do on Company affairs. And they’re not going to go against you.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“And if they do, they’ll have someone else to contend with as well.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning me. If you think I’m going to let a gang of used-car heiresses and real estate speculators destroy National Ballet, you’re wrong. I’ve worked too hard, Clifton worked too hard, everybody has worked too hard—the dancers, Jeb Crosby, everyone—to let that happen.” Uncharacteristically, Cynthia took a long gulp of wine as she finished speaking.
“I hope you’re right.”
“Look, this isn’t like naming the theatre for Everett Zacklin. That was just silly, and as you’ve often said, temporary. What we’re talking about is the heart and soul of a great and important ballet company. The Huns and the Visigoths are simply not going to destroy that.” Cynthia’s voice rose as she spoke, and a slight red splotch—visible proof of great agitation—appeared on her forehead.
“No, dear, I agree,” Frost said, quietly. “It’s not going to happen. And your poor, sweet, senile husband will do everything he can to prevent it.” He reached across the table as he spoke and clasped Cynthia’s arm. Just as he did so, their waiter reappeared.
“How’s everything?” he jauntily asked.
“Fine, thank you,” Reuben replied.
“Finished?”
“Yes.”
“Let me clear some of this away,” pink-shirt replied. He painstakingly removed the couple’s plates and wine glasses and then, even more painstakingly, scraped crumbs from the table.
“You know, that creamed mint sauce wasn’t bad,” Frost said, after the cleanup chores were over and the waiter had disappeared again. “These new restaurants are so peculiar; half the things they tout on the menu sound perfectly awful. But once they come, they’re usually okay.”
“I know. There should be a Culinary Institute course in menu writing,” Cynthia replied. “It’s a wonder people order anything in these places, based on the way they’re described.”
Pink-shirt returned and asked if they wanted anything else. Frost said no and asked for the check. To his surprise, the waiter produced it from the pocket of his butcher’s apron and put it down. He was about to ask how pink-shirt had known in advance that they didn’t want dessert or coffee—let alone brandy or the drink Reuben had noticed on the menu, an old-fashioned stinger. Then he realized that the same pink-shirt had waited on them on occasion before and knew that they did not take either dessert or coffee; he also realized, glancing toward the door, that there was an even more formidable line than usual for tables.
Frost examined the check and began pulling bills from his pocket to pay it.
“Ninety-six dollars,” he said, as he did so. “Do you remember, dear, that other Patricia’s we used to go to? Back when we were first married?”
“Patricia’s? Oh, yes, Patricia Murphy’s,” she replied.
“That’s it. Patricia Murphy’s Candlelight Restaurants.”
“Yes, yes, yes. Patricia Murphy’s Candlelight Restaurants. We used to go to the one on East Sixtieth Street. Hot popovers and broiled chicken.”
“And checks of twelve dollars for two. Three ninety-nine apiece for dinner and two drinks.”
“No wine.”
“Wine? Who knew about wine in those days?”
“Well, anyway, this dinner was very nice. And Patricia Murphy’s didn’t have pink walls and attire for adorable waiters to match.”
“I’m not complaining, my dear,” Reuben said. “Just living in the past as we old people do.”
The couple left with a flurry of thanks from the waiter, the wine waiter and Patricia herself. And an admonition from the hatcheck attendant to “have a nice evening.”
9
PREPARATIONS
Cynthia Frost, l
ike every ballerina past or present, had mixed feelings about taking class, about stretching, pushing and exhausting her body in the daily routine universally thought necessary to maintain the rigorous and arcane skills necessary to be a dancer. Class had been a part of her life as a youngster in Kansas City, Missouri, and ever since. She was, of course, no longer a performer; she had last appeared on stage with the American Ballet Theatre in the 1950s. Then why did she continue the punishment, the exposure to sore and twisted muscles and hairline fractures in the bones of her feet? Was she compulsively in thrall to a masochistic habit she could not break? She didn’t think so, and was sure she could quit at will anytime.
The justification she gave, when asked, was that it was the best way to keep up with the Company, to judge the quality of instruction and the progress of the dancers. But that was not the only reason; secretly she knew that she intrepidly continued class to maintain a link—outside of performing, the most important link—with the profession she had known, loved and practiced all her life. And to prove to herself that she was not getting old. (Class also had the added virtue of preserving her lithe, spare figure, but that was a dividend, since she knew preservation could be attained through a short regimen of calisthenics in the morning or periodic visits to a health club.)
She had often thought recently about quitting, but had never been able to bring herself to do it. She thought of how she teased her husband about going to the office, even when it was clear that as a retired partner of Chase & Ward, he often had little or nothing to do once he got there. But she was sure going to the office prevented an emptiness in his retirement that he might otherwise have felt, even given his enormous self-sufficiency. Despite her teasing, she understood why Reuben continued his lifelong routine; at bottom the reasons were little different from her own.
She had recently cut down, going to the Zacklin only for an hour from Tuesday through Friday, leaving the weekends and Mondays (the one day when the Company’s classes were suspended during the season) free of the physical stresses and strains. And when she and her husband were traveling or in the country, or when the Company was on vacation, she did not try to find substitute classes. Compulsion might be compulsion, but there was a limit to it.
This particular morning, Arne Petersen led the women’s class. There were the usual moans and groans as the dancers started on the first round of their daily punishment. (More classes, rehearsals and the evening’s performance would, in some varying combination for each of the regular dancers, make up the next rounds.)
An ornithologist viewing the scene would have concluded that the male species was a drab one, compared, at least, with the plumage in which the females were arrayed. The only male in the room, other than Kirk Drinan, the rehearsal pianist for the day, Petersen wore gray warm-up pants, a gray sweat shirt and gray leggings. His charges, by contrast, wore every hue and color of pants, leotards, sweat shirts, T-shirts, stockings, and other garments and swatches of cloth that defied classification. There was no elegance here—no cygnets in immaculate tutus, no beautiful silks or elaborate brocades. Just forty highly individualistic and often eccentrically chosen outfits. And none more unique than Veronica Maywood’s: a shocking purple leotard with an orange overskirt, red leg warmers and what appeared to be a herringbone-tweed vest from a man’s suit.
Petersen took the class through a relatively easy routine of pilés, tendus and battements at the barre, all accompanied by Drinan’s barrelhouse renditions of Blue Skies and Oh, What a Beautiful Morning, the pianist’s wry tribute to the gray and dark skies outside that Wednesday morning.
Cynthia held her own through these preliminaries, but did retreat as the class moved from the barre to the center of the room and its members were commanded by the Acting Arristic Director through twirling fouettés and ronds de jambe en l’air. As far as Cynthia was concerned, ronds de jambe à terre were fine, but she really was too old to go airborne in any serious way. She nevertheless did her best to keep up, and was as exhausted as the youngsters when the fifty-minute hour came to an end.
After the traditional révérences that ended the class, Cynthia went up to Arne and asked if she could see him for a few minutes.
“Certainly, my dear. Here? Or in the office?” he asked.
“In your office,” Cynthia said. “Do I have time to change my clothes or not?”
“No rush. I was planning to be there at least until noon.”
Petersen was seated at his desk in Clifton Holt’s old office when Cynthia joined him twenty minutes later. He seemed to be working his way through a stack of papers, like any busy executive, although he was still dressed in his gray rehearsal clothes.
“How is it going, Arne?” Cynthia asked. “All settled in?”
Petersen sighed. “Settled in, I guess, but doing two jobs as near as I can tell. I always had to do the dirty work that Clifton loathed. So I’ve still got that, plus all his other duties. Mr. Petersen, could you please speak to John Miller about getting makeup on his partner’s costume every time he lifts her? He has no conception of the damage he does to our costumes! That from Madame Roubinsky, harridan of the costume department. I’m used to that. That’s always been part of my job. But now it’s Arne, when can I learn the lead in ‘Mostly Mozart’? from ambitious little ones like Dorothy Maxwell. Or calls from Mrs. Turnbull saying that she has heard that I am considering using Dorothy in Mozart and letting me know in no uncertain terms that she thinks that’s a mistake. In one week I really have learned why Clifton hated that woman so much.”
“I’m afraid it goes with the territory, Arne. Besides, I’m sure you’ll be able to handle her better than Clifton ever did.”
“It’s like commando training, I can tell you.”
“Well, I’ve let you alone, at least,” Cynthia said.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard nothing from Cynthia Frost, the manipulative dowager who runs NatBallet from behind the scenes.”
“It’s too soon for that, Arne. The manipulative dowager is very democratic. She only strikes after dreadful mistakes have been made.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, Cynthia,” Petersen said, laughing. “I’m not sure I could really face all this if I didn’t know you were on my side. Or are you here to tell me that you’ve defected already?”
“No, no. I wanted to talk about a memorial for Clifton. Reuben and I have been discussing it—and Reuben has also talked to Teresa Holt—and we thought what would be most appropriate would be a Company performance dedicated to his memory. All things considered, we thought a regular performance, with perhaps a very short speech or two, and maybe a work with special meaning for Clifton, would be the best.”
“That’s a good thought,” Petersen said. “Clifton was a great believer in the show-must-go-on tradition, and he would have liked the idea of nothing special being done for him. When do you think we should do it?”
“We thought it should be soon—and Reuben suggested Tuesday.”
Petersen picked up the master schedule for the Company on his desk and studied it.
“That might work out all right,” he said. “There are three short ballets—two Holts, one Sara Schroff—scheduled for that night. Maybe we could change one of them to fit the occasion.”
“Like the Sara Schroff?” Cynthia asked.
“Cynthia, please. Sara’s Hoagy’s Dust is one of our most popular works.”
“Arne, dear, as I have said before, if I want to see people dance to Stardust I can go to Roseland,” Cynthia replied with asperity.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. Can I talk seriously to you about Sara sometime?”
“Of course. She’s very clever, Arne, and she’s brought a bit of fresh air to us, the same way she has to other companies. But Hoagy’s Dust is dreadful, concede me that.”
“No comment. But I agree it can go from the memorial program. But what would you do instead?”
“How about that little Requiem Clifton did a few years back? What was it? Piano
music by Lennie Tristano.”
“Oh, yes. A requiem for Charlie Parker, as I recall. With Veronica Maywood dancing her heart out in grief for the dead saxophonist.”
“That’s it,” Cynthia said. “It really was quite beautiful and haunting. Do you think Veronica would do it?”
“Oh, God, Cynthia, I don’t know. She’s been so difficult. First the rehearsal where she blew up at Clifton. Then the most histrionic grief I have ever seen. Tears upon tears. It’s a wonder the place hasn’t washed away, it’s been so wet backstage. All as if she were compensating for her guilt.”
“Guilt?” Cynthia asked, startled.
“For carrying on so at the Chávez Concerto rehearsal. It turned out to be Clifton’s last meeting with the Company, after all.”
“I suppose. Though I’ve never seen Veronica show any remorse for any other tantrum she’s ever had.”
“Well, she’s been acting quite mad, even for her,” Petersen said. “But would she do Requiem? I’m sure she would.”
“Should I ask her or will you?”
“Let me do it. If she refuses, then I can bring you in as reserve ammunition.”
“What about speeches?”
“Short.”
“I know, but how many?” Cynthia asked.
“I would vote for just one.”
“You?”
“No. I didn’t know Clifton that long. You.”
“Me? Shouldn’t it be Reuben? He’s Chairman of the Board, after all.”
“I know, dear, but this is an artistic occasion—no offense to Reuben. He’s as sensitive as you could ask. But you were Clifton’s colleague from the beginning of this Company.”
“Well, I’ll accept your judgment,” Cynthia said. Would Reuben object? Of course not, she thought. Would he be disappointed? Perhaps, though he would never admit it. But Arne was right; she really should give the speech. So on with the arrangements. “You’ll ask Veronica, then? And if it’s okay, you’ll have Moira Burgess send out a press release right away. And—oh, my God, what about the Board? Don’t worry about it. Reuben and I will call them between us. Except it takes so many phone calls to do it diplomatically.”
Murder Takes a Partner Page 9