The elevator was wood-paneled, its brass trim polished to the nth degree. The elevator man was young and rolled curious eyes over Wetzon when she told him the eighteenth floor. Whose apartment had it been, she wondered. Dilla’s or Susan’s? The reactionary board of this building would not look kindly on a lesbian couple, that was for sure. They consistently refused to accept entertainers, even classical musicians.
There were only two apartments on the eighteenth floor, C and D. The little foyer was embellished by rust ceramic floor tiles and taupe-striped wallpaper with tiny rust flowers. Four old floral prints in plain black frames were lined up on the wall opposite the elevator. A photocopied letter to all tenants was taped to each door informing that negotiations with the Building Employees Union had broken off and that there would be a strike. She had seen a similar notice taped to the inside wall of the elevator in her own building that morning.
Wetzon rang C’s bell and, fully expecting soft chimes, heard instead a rasping ring followed hard on by barking, the kind made by a small dog.
The woman who opened the door was not someone Wetzon would have recognized as the Susan Cohen she’d known in college. This woman’s hair was spun-sugar white, absolutely devoid of color, parted on the side and puffed around her small face, making it look even smaller. All that hair made Susan’s head seem too big for her body, which was as tiny as it had been almost twenty years ago. Susan was actually a woman in miniature, shorter than Wetzon and nicely rounded without being fat.
They stared at one another for a brief moment, then clasped hands, and Susan drew her into the apartment and closed the door. The sound of barking increased in volume. Susan ignored it.
“I would never ever have known you,” Wetzon said. “Your hair ... it’s so beautiful.” There were so many things that were different about Susan, but the hair was probably the safest to mention.
Susan’s smile was perfect. In college she’d had a snaggled front tooth. “New nose, silicone chin, collagen cheeks and lips. I was so ugly in college.”
“No, you weren’t,” Wetzon protested, and meant it.
Susan led Wetzon through a foyer filled with antiques and into the kitchen. The dog’s barking became frenzied. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s easier to talk here. Dilla’s mother and sister and brother-in-law are in the back.”
The kitchen was huge: a work island in the center, and off to the right an old cherry wood table, French country chairs with pretty paisley cushions. Hexigons of brown quarry tile covered the floors, and on the walls were framed posters of Dilla’s shows. Wetzon pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, laying her coat, briefcase, and purse on another chair. She watched Susan fill a copper kettle with water and turn the burner up so high on the massive Garland stove that the flame licked the edge of the kettle and crept up the side. The room was cold; she could hear the wind whipping against the windows, which were not curtained, and rattling the service door.
“What a great apartment.”
“It is, isn’t it? We were lucky to get into the building.”
“I thought you couldn’t without connections.”
“That never stopped Dilla.” Susan smiled. “Actually, it was Fran Burke who had the connection. He has friends in the building. You know Fran, don’t you?”
“Yes. He company managed a few of the shows I did.”
“Tea? Or something stronger?” Susan’s eyes were dark ringed and spidery lines ran from the outside corners. She wore little to no makeup, not even lipstick. “Do you want to hang your coat?” She nodded toward the rack of Shaker-style pegs where several coats and mufflers and two black felt borsalino hats were already hanging.
“Tea is fine. With lemon, please.” Wetzon took her coat from the chair and hung it from the only free peg. The kettle began to shrill.
A muffled howl came from the dog, and somewhere in the apartment, quarreling voices were raised. A door opened and a woman shrieked in frustration. A hard slam followed. Then the sound of scurrying, nails on bare wood floors, and a round bit of white fluff exactly the color of Susan’s hair streaked into the kitchen and hurled itself into Susan’s outstretched arms. Susan laughed and buried her face in the little dog’s fur, letting the animal give her a face wash. Presenting the Maltese to Wetzon, she said, “This is Izz. Izz, behave.”
“Izz?” The dog flapped her ears and peered at Wetzon with jet, glass-button eyes. She wore a wide red collar and dangling from a brass loop, her license. “Such a pretty collar.”
“Short for Isabella. The collar has this little pocket for my key. Isn’t that ingenious? You can’t even see it. And it’s useful, too, because I am always losing my key.” Susan set the dog on the floor and poured a splash of hot water into a porcelain teapot, swirled it around, then poured it out. She filled a mesh ball with tea leaves and dropped it into the pot, covered it with boiling water, and put the lid on the pot, letting it steep. Izz danced on the tiles, slipping and tumbling, begging to get picked up again. “She misses Dilla. She keeps wandering around the apartment looking for her or running to the door. Oh, God.... They’re taking her to Pennsylvania today, to the family plot.” Susan removed some scones from a tin box and arranged them on a plate. She set the plate on the table in front of Wetzon.
“Is that where Dilla’s from?” Izz jumped on Wetzon’s lap and nuzzled the plate of scones with her coal black nose. Wetzon cuddled the squirming animal and got a nose and chin wash in quick succession.
“Yes. King of Prussia, Pennsylvania.” Susan took a lemon from the fridge and sliced half of it, put the slices on another plate and returned the remainder to the fridge. “We met at camp ... when we were kids.”
Loud voices again. The dog growled, jumped off Wetzon’s lap, and ran to the doorway, barked furiously, came back and jumped at Susan’s legs. Susan scooped her up. “I wish they were out of here.”
“What is that about?”
“They’re fighting about what to take. The sister wants all her clothes and so does the mother. I said go ahead and take them. Dilla had so much stuff—designers were always sending her samples. And I—” she looked down at herself, “wear nothing but jeans.” Still holding the dog, she set out lemon slices and cups.
“You are planning to have a memorial service here?”
“Oh, yes. Mort’s arranging it. It’ll be after Hotshot opens.” She poured tea into the cups, then sat down with Izz in her lap.
“I guess Dilla and Mort were very close.”
“Too close sometimes.” There was just a feather of resentment in Susan’s voice and then it was gone. Izz jumped off her lap and left the kitchen, her nails clicking on the tile.
“Oh? It’s been so many years for me—”
“Oh, Leslie, I’m sure you know Mort—how he uses people, soaks everything good out of them and then takes all the credit.”
“I guess he hasn’t changed much.”
“He’s gotten worse, if anything. And he’s such a bully. The tantrums are worse—everything—oh, damn it all.” Tears began running down Susan’s cheeks and she brushed them away impatiently with her fingertips. “He was making Dilla crazy. Calls all hours of the day and night. He wouldn’t leave us alone. I kept telling her to stand up to him and she was just starting to—”
“Funny, I always thought Dilla was the tough one and that she had Mort wrapped around her little finger.”
“Oh, Leslie, how little you know. People misjudged her. She wasn’t that strong. And she made emotional decisions that often got her into trouble.” She swirled sugar into her tea. “Dilla and Mort had a screaming fight in the theatre Friday night.” There was satisfaction in her voice.
“How do you know?”
Susan stared at her. “Dilla called me. She was frightened. I could hear it in her voice. She hadn’t been herself the past week, sort of edgy and nervous. I thought it was because the show was undercapitalized. I wanted to get in a cab and come right down there, but she said no. She’d get it settled once and for all and w
ould be home later. But she didn’t come home.”
“God, Susan, weren’t you worried?”
“Worried? I was furious. It’s so funny.” She wasn’t laughing.
“Furious?”
“I thought she made it up with Mort by spending the night with him. He demands total loyalty. He hates—hated—me because Dilla always put me first. She was my lover. There’ll never be anyone else for me.” Her eyes were magnetic, fixed on Wetzon’s. “Does my being a lesbian make you uncomfortable?”
“Not at all.”
“I didn’t think it would, but I wasn’t sure.”
“I always thought Mort was ambivalent about women.”
“Mort’s ambivalent about a lot of things, especially about coming out of the closet. That’s what makes him so mean. He and Poppy ... well, you know ...”
Wetzon squeezed a slice of lemon into her tea, wincing when the acid juice touched a paper cut on her finger. She dropped the slice into the tea and licked her wound. “Why am I here, Susan?”
“I’ve read about you, Leslie. You and your partner. I know you’ve been involved in things like this before.”
“Not exactly.” Oh, shit, Wetzon thought. She’s going to ask me to find out who killed Dilla. Nevertheless, a ripple of excitement ran through her.
“Well, I hope you’ll do it for me, then. I can pay you. Oh, Izz.” The dog scampered into the room, a straw hat in her mouth. She dropped the hat at Wetzon’s feet and wagged her tail, looking up at Wetzon for approval. “She likes you.”
Wetzon laughed. “Oh, sure.”
“Don’t laugh. Izz has a sixth sense about people.”
Voices rose again in the other room along with sounds of thumping.
“It’s not a question of money ...”
“What then?”
“I’m not a detective.”
“But you know how to do it. Even though we haven’t seen each other in a lot of years, I trust you. I think you’ll tell me the truth.” Susan’s face was bleak. Wetzon found herself responding to the desperate appeal in Susan’s teary eyes.
She asked slowly, “What do you think the truth is, Susan?”
“That Mort killed Dilla.”
16.
“Mort? Good God, Susan, not Mort. Never! He’s a bully and a coward, but he’s not a killer.”
“Leslie, have you ever wanted to kill someone?”
Wetzon picked up her cup; her hand trembled and she set it down. Smith’s latest lover, Richard Hartmann, would be at the top of Wetzon’s death list. “Yes, but I wouldn’t. What about you?”
The commotion on the other side of the apartment commenced again, only louder this time, along with more thumping. Glass shattered. Izz sailed off Susan’s lap and raced out of the room yelping, tail down.
“Oh, damn them to hell! Excuse me.” She left Wetzon in the kitchen. The volume of shouting increased.
Wetzon poured herself another cup of tea and took a scone. A single bite told her it was slightly stale. She rose, looking around. No garbage can or bag in evidence. Look under the sink, dummy, she chided herself. You may leave your garbage bags for all to see, but this is the Fifth Avenue crowd. They hide their garbage. She opened the door to the sink cabinet and saw cleansers, bottles and crockery, and a brown plastic garbage bag into which she dropped the partially eaten scone. The kitchen windows looked out on a street of beautiful old townhouses and mansions. Night had come on quickly. Below, in the townhouses, light was diffused behind blinds and draperies. She wished she were home, or at the very least, with Sonya.
When Susan didn’t return, Wetzon wandered into the foyer. A huge Welsh cupboard sat against the wall opposite the door. The sun-bleached skull of a steer hung nearby. On the floor was a vivid Native American rug. It was all very Santa Fe. Dilla and Susan lived well, no doubt about it.
The solidly closed doors of the cupboard invited her to open them. She never passed up an invitation like that. The shouting confrontation in other parts of the apartment continued unabated, as did the sound of heavy furniture being displaced. Wetzon opened the cupboard doors. The shelves held an amazing collection of blue-and-white old Canton china, platters, teapots, serving dishes, plates, cups and saucers, pitchers, bowls, and an elegant, long-necked vase. Very nice. Very valuable. Whose was it, she wondered. She wouldn’t mind owning a piece or two of Canton.
She became aware all at once of the quiet. A door slammed. She was sitting at the cherry wood table again when Izz scampered into the kitchen making right for Wetzon with something in her mouth. “What do you have there, Izz?”
Wagging her tail, Izz dropped her bounty on Wetzon’s feet. Wetzon picked it up. It was a needlepoint pouch full of—she opened it—jewelry. Diamonds, rings and more, and gold bracelets, rings. God! Her fingers sifted through the glittering treasure trove. Embroidered on the inside lining of the flap closure were the words: Lenny/Celia. Lenny again. And who, pray tell, was Celia? Wetzon closed the bag, keeping it on her lap while Izz danced around begging to be picked up.
“Where did you get that?”
Suddenly, Susan swooped down on her. She snatched up the bag, turning it in her hands, checking the zipper clasp, frightened.
“Izz brought it to me. I’m sorry it upset you.”
“Oh, Izz, go away, bad girl.” Susan smiled. “Forgive me, Leslie. I am at my wit’s end with Dilla gone. I just can’t seem to tell the difference between friend and foe.”
“I’m not your foe, Susan.”
“I know that.” Susan sighed, opened the compartment under the sink and tucked away the bag. What a peculiar place to put all that valuable jewelry, Wetzon thought.
“Susan, I have an appointment—”
“Don’t think you’ll get away with this, bitch!” a woman’s voice screeched.
Susan turned, her face mottled with fury.
Wetzon stood up to get a better view of the enormously fat woman in a several-sizes-too-small mink coat who was standing in the foyer. Her hair was so black it had blue highlights. She was banging on the floor with a cane, enunciating each furious syllable.
“I think I’ve been very reasonable, Ruth.” Susan’s voice was iced steel. “I don’t have to put up with this. This is my home. You are not my mother. You made Dilla’s life miserable, but you have no hold on me. Get your things and your family and be gone.”
The fat woman’s face contorted. “Dilla owned this palace.”
Who would have guessed chic old Dilla even had a mother, Wetzon thought, let alone someone like that.
Susan’s lips moved but she wasn’t smiling. “Ah, but you’re wrong. This apartment is in my name.”
“It can’t be. You’re lying,” Ruth shrieked. “Dilla told me all about you. Dilla paid for everything. We’re going to take you to court.”
“Mother!” An apparition closely resembling the mother tottered into view. She looked like someone had filled Dilla with helium.
“Shirley, please take what you’re taking and get the hell out of here.” Susan began to cry. Izz howled.
Shirley shouted, “Rudy, bring the bags!”
This order produced more thumping and bumping as if things were being dragged across the floor, and then there was Rudy. He was definitely in the right family. Big as Shirley, but a head shorter, he was dragging two humongous suitcases and a black plastic bag stuffed to the gills. Izz ran at him and began nipping at his heels and whining, scratching at the bags, tail wagging, as if she knew what they contained.
“Oh, God,” Susan moaned. “She knows they’re Dilla’s.”
It was another five minutes before Dilla’s Munster Family finally left.
Susan returned to the kitchen, her face streaked with tears. “Aren’t they awful? They don’t give a hoot. Not one iota. All they care about is getting theirs. Poor Dilla.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue, then ran cold water in the sink and rinsed her face, drying it with a paper towel. “The only time Dilla had any happiness was with me. That’s why I want to find
out who did it. For her.” She sat down opposite Wetzon. “So will you help me? I have money.”
“Susan, as I said, I’m not a licensed detective, and I couldn’t take a fee from you.”
“Please, Leslie. I’m begging you. I can’t ask a stranger to do this. No one would talk to him. You know everybody. Mort is bound to slip up and say something. All I want is for you to tell me, and I’ll deal with it.”
“What if it’s not Mort?”
“I can live with whatever you find. If it wasn’t Mort, it was one of them. They all hated her.”
“And what will you do with the information?”
Susan and Wetzon locked eyes. “I don’t know,” Susan said softly.
“I would have to tell the police, Susan.”
“Okay.” She said it too fast, and Wetzon tucked that away for later thought.
“I’m going up to Boston Thursday night. How about if I just keep my eyes and ears open while I’m there and if I come up with anything, we can donate the fee to the Gay Men’s Health Crisis in Dilla’s name?”
Susan’s face brightened. “Okay. That’s a deal.”
Wetzon got her coat from the hook and put it on. “Before I go, Susan ...”
The intercom buzzer blared. “Oh, please don’t tell me they’ve come back.” When Susan didn’t respond, it blared again. “Excuse me, Leslie.” She left the room.
The intercom snarled, then Wetzon heard Susan say, “Who?” The snarl came again. “No! I’m not here. Tell her I’m not here.”
When Wetzon came into the foyer, Susan was staring bleakly at the intercom, her shoulders slumped with misery. “Um, Susan?”
Susan whirled around. “Oh, Leslie, I’m sorry. You were asking me something....”
Murder: The Musical Page 9