The young man shook hands without enthusiasm. “Mark,” he said simply, presumably by way of identification.
“Is Mrs. Turnbull in?”
“Yeah. Come in.”
The music in the hallway was deafening. “I’ll go get her,” Mark said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. He disappeared down a side hallway, a figure clad in jeans, a baggy oversized sweat shirt and torn black sneakers.
Unbidden, Frost went into what he took to be the living room, moving toward the windows along one wall to behold a magnificent view of the East River. The apartment was on a low enough floor that there was an immediacy to the waterway outside, giving the illusion that the busy barge traffic was passing by only feet away from the apartment.
The only distraction from the view was the grime on the windows, both inside and out. As he turned around to survey the living room, Frost realized that the entire apartment was filthy—dust everywhere, piles of old newspapers and magazines in odd corners, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in disarray. The place was nothing short of squalid, and at least two pieces of furniture, a straight-backed chair and a small end table, were broken. An offending human—or perhaps a pet—had also made two large and visible spots on the rug.
The apartment looked like the home of an eccentric and slovenly recluse, the kind of quarters where the body of its deceased occupant molders for days before being discovered. There was a peculiar odor in the air also, which Frost identified—or thought he identified—as stale marijuana smoke.
While he continued to look around, Andrea Turnbull appeared and greeted him grandly, as if they were in immaculate surroundings. She seemed quite oblivious to the dirt and disorder, and certainly made no apologies for it. Her cheap print dress—large orange flowers on a beige background—was the brightest thing in the room, but as usual, did not fit her bulky figure particularly well. (And, as usual, her slight mustache bothered Frost—though he always tried very hard not to let it do so.)
“Is the music too loud?” she asked.
“It is a little hard to hear over it,” Frost said.
“I’ll ask him to turn it down,” she said as she went toward the door to the side hallway and shouted to her son. After a long wait, the volume diminished.
“You met Mark?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“He can be something of a trial, but I’m glad to see him. He’s here on vacation from the University of Maine.”
Frost wondered at this statement, knowing that spring vacations were already over at schools with which he was familiar. Had Mark perhaps been suspended from the University instead?
“He’s my only child, you know,” Mrs. Turnbull went on.
“I see.”
“Sit down over here, Reuben,” she said, motioning to the threadbare couch at the side of the room. Frost did so, if a trifle gingerly.
“Would you like some tea? Or a drink?”
“No, thanks. I just finished a big lunch.”
As he spoke the music suddenly stopped and the son was standing in the doorway.
“I’m going out,” he announced.
“Where to, dear?” his mother asked.
“Just out. See some friends maybe.”
“Will you be back for supper?”
“I dunno. Like, I’ve got no big plans, so I dunno.”
“Well, will you let me know? We could go out for dinner if you want.”
“I probably won’t be back.”
“As you wish, dear. It’s your vacation.”
“Say, Ma, can I have some money?”
“What for, dear? I gave you quite a bit yesterday.”
“I spent it. You got fifty?”
“That seems a lot.”
“Yeah, I know. But it goes pretty fast.”
“In my purse, dear. But only fifty.”
“Sure. Thanks. Goodbye.” He put a pair of Walkman earphones in his ears as he left, turning up the volume so high that the bass rhythms could be heard in the living room.
Mark appeared to make quick work of extracting money from his mother’s purse, since the outside door slammed resoundingly almost at once.
“What year is your son in college?” Frost asked.
“A junior. He’s just twenty-one.”
“What’s he majoring in?”
“Oh, he’s told me, but I’ve forgotten. Journalism perhaps. He’s changed his mind several times.”
“They often do at his age,” Frost said, tempted to add “but their mothers usually know from what to what.” He did not.
“Reuben, I’m sorry to have dogged you this past week, but I simply had to talk to you about the future of NatBallet, and I wanted to get to you before any decisions were made.”
“I don’t think anything drastic is going to happen very soon,” Frost replied. “Everybody’s too shocked right at the moment to make any permanent decisions. Besides, I think the Company is in good hands with Arne.”
“You think he should be given a chance?”
“Yes, I do. Not that we really have any alternative in the short run. But I would be quite surprised if the Board did not pick him as the Artistic Director on a permanent basis.”
“I agree. And he probably would be a good choice. He was always under Holt’s thumb, but he sometimes showed some independence. Welcome independence, I might add. Arne has a mind of his own. And one can also talk to him. Which is more than one could ever say about the great Clifton Holt.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement on Arne,” Frost said, trying to deflect a tirade about Holt. “But is that the real reason you wanted to talk to me?”
“No, it isn’t,” Andrea Turnbull said. “Since Clifton’s death—a nasty death for a nasty man, in my view—I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about NatBallet. And about my part in it. As you well know, Reuben, I’ve given almost two million dollars to the Company in the last two years. That’s more than any of those fancy ladies who think they own the place, or any of those men who think the same thing.”
“There’s no doubt that you’ve been very generous, Andrea,” Frost interjected.
“But what do I have to show for it? A seat on the Board? Wonderful! Absolutely no one there listens to me or cares what I think. A new production bearing my name? What a waste that. Paying the production costs of Chávez Concerto, an ill-conceived piece that will never be put on stage? And finally, Reuben, the continued humiliation of Clifton Holt’s rudeness, ignoring or ridiculing every suggestion I ever made.”
“I’m sorry you feel this way, Andrea,” Frost said.
“That may be. But now that Clifton Holt is gone, things are going to change. You probably didn’t know, Reuben, that I spent a fortune trying to start a decent ballet company in Syracuse. We tried—or at least, I tried—very hard for ten years to create my dream—my dream of a ballet company that I started and kept going. But everything was against me. The cheap public wouldn’t pay the ticket prices. The local newspapers gave us less coverage than the stock-car races. The stingy banks wouldn’t lend money. The rich wouldn’t give to it—they were too jealous of me. The University thought I was treading on its turf. The State Council on the Arts thought we were pretentious and wouldn’t help. And no dancer worth anything wanted to suffer through the upstate winters in a pretty dull town. No dancer in his right mind wants to spend five months of every year with his precious limbs exposed to freezing weather.”
“I didn’t know all this, Andrea.”
“There’s no reason why you should. But I’ve loved the dance ever since I was at Sarah Lawrence. It was the only thing that interested me there. I used to come to the City all the time, to see every performance I could see. I did so much of it that I never graduated, to tell the truth. Then I went to Syracuse, where Emery, my husband, made a lot of money and gave me the freedom to spend it. I spent it all right, but it ended in failure. Total, disastrous failure.”
“Is that why you came to New York?”
“Yes. Emery died very s
uddenly just when the ballet was going broke. It was a terrible time for me. I left Syracuse two weeks after the funeral and have never been back. And never will go back. Which brings me to the present, Reuben, and what I want. I’m determined to make an impact on the ballet, and NatBallet in particular.”
“What do you have in mind?” Frost asked, almost visibly holding his breath.
“Let me be very direct. I realize that Arne, or another dancer or choreographer, will always be the Director of Nat-Ballet. That won’t change. But I want to be his co-Director. His equal. His partner.”
Frost was stunned. Could this absurd woman be serious? The Company would be the laughingstock of the dance world if it sold out in such a bizarre way. Did Andrea Turnbull not realize there were certain prerogatives that money couldn’t buy?
“Reuben, you’re silent,” the woman said. “I’m sure what I’ve said comes as a surprise, maybe even as a shock. But I’m as qualified as anyone for the job. I grant you I’m not a choreographer and I’ve never been a dancer, but I’ve got taste; I know the history of the dance.” Then she added, after a pause, “And I’ve got money.”
“I would have thought, Andrea, that if there were such a position as co-Director—and certainly no one has ever suggested it before now—the job would go to someone with actual experience as a dancer, or as a choreographer.”
“Maybe. But there is no earthly reason why there has to be a hard-and-fast rule on the subject. Diaghilev was not a dancer or choreographer. Neither was Lincoln Kirstein. Neither was Oliver Smith.”
“Well, you’ve certainly given me something to think about.”
“You bet I have. And I want to make it absolutely clear that there’s no give on my part. I want to be Arne Petersen’s co-Director. Period. Clifton Holt’s death has given me a chance to prove what I can do—to prove to the good people of Syracuse that they were wrong. And I’m going to have that chance, or else.…”
“Or else?”
“Or else my support for NatBallet will stop just as fast as it began.”
Frost got up from the decrepit sofa. “You’ve certainly made your position clear, Andrea. I’ll think about it. Yes, I’ll do that much.”
“Good. Do think about it—and about the consequences. And I’d like an answer soon. I want to get started on the job as soon as possible—or, if the answer is no, to consider where I can spend my money to greater effect.”
“Give me a week.”
“Fine.”
“Good day, Andrea.”
Frost felt downright unsteady as he walked out into Beekman Place. His disoriented thoughts were in contrast to the clipped, trimmed and polished neatness around him as he walked the length of the exclusive Beekman enclave, then out to First Avenue and toward home. He would definitely walk; the sunny weather and the fresh air would do him good—and give him time to think about Mrs. Turnbull’s outrageous proposition. What a mess! NatBallet had an annual budget of twenty million dollars and a deficit, before gifts, of six. Andrea Turnbull made up a significant part of that deficit and had been immensely helpful in getting the Company onto a sound footing. But her terms for continuing her support were impossible. Outlandish.
As he sometimes did when agitated, Frost talked to himself as he walked up Second Avenue, oblivious to the occasional stares of those observing his eccentricity. How could that ugly woman think she could run NatBallet, alone or with others? he wondered. Despite his anger, he laughed to himself as he made up an imaginary conversation with Cynthia:
“Cynthia, dear, I’ve found a way to get your beloved ballet company out of the woods. A sure way to make it secure and prosperous for years to come.”
“Oh, Reuben, I knew you would. But what is it, darling?”
“We’ve decided to make Andrea Turnbull Arne Petersen’s co-Director. And she’s agreed to pick up the deficits for ever and ever.”
“Reuben, you’re crazy and a bastard.”
The conversation faded out there. The whole thing was totally absurd. Cynthia wouldn’t hear of it, and no one on the Board would either. Nor would Arne himself. Saddled with Andrea Turnbull? He would be on the next plane to Tucson.
Andrea Turnbull was certifiably crazy. There was no doubt about it. Sitting there in her untidy apartment she had ranted like a mad slattern. And then the ominous thought struck him: was she so crazy, so mad for power and recognition, that she had had Clifton Holt murdered? After the performance he had just witnessed he certainly could not rule out the possibility.
Frost walked faster as he approached his town house. He had to talk to Luis Bautista. He unlocked his front door and went immediately to the telephone in the library. On his way he called out to Cynthia, and was relieved when he got no answer. He could tell his wonderful news to his wife later, but now he had to talk to the detective.
Once Frost reached him, Bautista himself had no news to report, although the blood money had not been lost and was in the Property Clerk’s custody. As it had been described, it was in new one-hundred-dollar bills, though the police laboratory had reported that there were no identifiable fingerprints on any of it. But efforts were still being made to trace the money through its serial numbers.
“And what have you found out?” Bautista asked.
“Plenty,” Frost answered. He told the detective about his lunch with Mattison, and the unexpected revelation of the royalty advance on the critic’s book. And then about Andrea Turnbull, the crazed, threatening Andrea Turnbull. And about sweet little Mark, who might well have done some playing in the streets with Jimmy Wilson.
13
IN MEMORIAM
The night of the memorial performance, Reuben tried to hurry his wife along as they were dressing at home. His nervous remonstrances were quite unnecessary; Cynthia had never been late for a performance in her entire career and seldom for a social engagement. But Reuben, perhaps aware that he no longer moved as fast as he once did, projected his own anxieties onto his wife.
“You know what the traffic is like through Central Park before eight o’clock. You have Lincoln Center and Broadway …”
“Yes, dear, of course I know. Will you snap my necklace for me, please? I want to wear these pearls, but I never can work the clasp.” She came and stood with her back to her husband, who, awkwardly and with a mild curse word or two, performed the requested task.
“You look very nice,” Reuben said, surveying her rose-colored silk Givenchy (a Christmas present from him the year before).
“Thanks. I hope this is all right. You don’t think I should wear black, do you?”
“No, no, no. It’s a memorial, but not a wake. You look just fine. The Mayor will love it.”
“Oh, God, the Mayor. He can’t resist showing up when there’s publicity to be had, can he?”
“That’s part of his job, Cynthia. He is, in his way—his very peculiar way—our Lord Mayor. Half the things he does are symbolic. He loves them for their publicity value. But he could be like his predecessor, who never went anywhere. Except, I guess, to Brighton Beach.”
“I was stunned when his office called,” Cynthia said. “He hates the ballet. Thinks it’s snobbish and all that. You know as well as I do it bores him to tears.”
“But look, as usual, he isn’t going to watch the performance. A ‘drop-in’ I believe they call it at City Hall. He’ll come backstage, make a few remarks to the audience, and then leave for his Chinese dinner.”
“I hope you’re right,” Cynthia said doubtfully.
“Too bad he isn’t coming for the performance. We could put him next to Andrea Turnbull.”
“Oh, Reuben, I never want to hear that deranged woman’s name again. Co-Director of the Company. Imagine! I hope we can avoid her tonight. I’ll have quite enough on my mind without trying to be nice to her.”
“She’s certain to be there, I’m afraid,” Frost said.
“The Bautistas are meeting us at the theatre?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think Luis w
ill learn anything tonight?”
“About the murder, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll see. Now come on.”
“Just let me get my purse, Mr. Jitters, and we’re off.”
Luis Baua’sta and Francisca Ribiero, the Frosts’ guests for the evening, were waiting in the lobby of the Zacklin. Reuben spotted them in the crowd, thinking again what an attractive couple they were. On the basis of knowing Bautista for several months now, it was clear that Ms. Ribiero was his steady girlfriend, though neither Reuben nor Cynthia could tell whether they were simply friends or if Francisca was a “live-in.” Whatever their living status, each seemed very fond of the other.
Frost guessed—and Cynthia agreed—that Francisca, who worked as a secretary for the vice chairman of a large investment-banking firm, must spend a large part of her salary on clothes. They were always in the latest trendy fashion, yet always in good taste and not bargains off the racks of the Canal Street Jeans Company. For this evening’s outing she was wearing a jet-black silk dress with a jagged, revealing neckline, set off with a multicolored sash at the waist that matched a large scarf thrown around her shoulders. Her makeup, in less deft hands, would have looked grotesque, if not cheap—her already dark eyes heavily mascaraed, her high cheekbones touched up with bright rouge and her downright sensuous lips swathed in luminescent ruby-red lipstick. On her the effect was not cheap at all, but instead absolutely stunning. As he often did when meeting her, Reuben envied her boss: why didn’t beauties like this, and seemingly competent ones at that, work at Chase & Ward?
Francisca enthusiastically embraced Cynthia and then, with perhaps even more enthusiasm, Reuben. Bautista, wearing his best Miami Vice pinstripe, shook hands with both of them. Smiling his slightly imperfect smile, all six feet of Bautista leaned over to kiss Cynthia, completely overshadowing her petite dancer’s body in the process.
“Anything new?” Frost asked Bautista.
“Not really. They’re still trying to trace the money,” Bautista answered. “We haven’t given up on that.”
“Well, let’s try to forget our little problem and enjoy the performance,” Reuben said.
Murder Takes a Partner Page 12