“Susan, this is Leslie. I’m sorry I kept missing you.”
“I have someone here with me.” There was caution—or was it fear?—in Susan’s whispered voice. “Excuse me,” she said louder, to someone else. “I’ll be right with you.” She lowered her voice again. “Leslie, please listen. Someone tried to break in here this morning. He didn’t get in because Rhoda, my housekeeper, scared him off. Whoever murdered Dilla is coming after me.”
“Susan, my God, you still can’t believe it’s Mort. That’s hardly his style. What did the police say?”
“I didn’t call them—I can’t—you don’t understand. It’s just too complicated....”
“Call the police, Susan, right away.”
“Leslie, I didn’t tell you everything ...”
“For godsakes, Susan!”
“The day before she was murdered, Dilla got a threatening letter.”
22.
“I’m not walking tonight,” Wetzon told Laura Lee Day. “It’s too cold.” They were in Rockefeller Center, under the NBC Building, standing at one of the little espresso bars—this one was called Main Caffe—that now dotted the city, sipping espresso and sharing a carrot muffin.
Laura Lee had been a young stockbroker with a small business when Wetzon placed her at Oppenheimer five years before. They’d become instant friends; they shared a passion for the arts: Wetzon had been a dancer, Laura Lee had been a violinist and still played with an amateur string quartet.
Whenever Laura Lee had a client to visit or a presentation to make in midtown, she would schedule it for midafternoon, then would arrange to meet Wetzon for a drink or an espresso and they’d walk home together. In cool or inclement weather, Wetzon would part with Laura Lee in front of Laura Lee’s high-rise opposite Lincoln Center, but in the summer they sometimes bought frozen yogurts and sat at the fountain in Lincoln Center Plaza in the afternoon sun, catching up on each other’s lives.
“Not only are you a wuss but you’re a cranky wuss.” The words may have been sharp, but the tones were mellifluous and southern. Laura Lee’s roots were Mississippi, and the soft Delta drawl was an integral part of her persona.
Wetzon felt a surge of love for her friend. Laura Lee’s brown eyes were brimming over with warmth. Her short chestnut hair was swept back from her face and she didn’t look a day older than when they’d met. If anything, she was prettier, thinner, and had much more self-confidence. For the past year, she’d been having a steamy affair with a sculptor who showed at a top SoHo gallery. “Not husband material,” she’d told Wetzon happily. She and Laura Lee shared the same ambivalence about marriage. “After all,” Laura Lee was fond of saying, “once you’ve been married, you can’t ever again say you’ve never been married.” Which made perfect sense to Wetzon.
“I called Francesca for you,” Laura Lee went on. “Actually, I wanted to talk to her anyway. She knows everythin’ about Provence. She’s not interested in leavin’ Smith Barney. She has such a good deal. They let her go off on her food trips; someone always covers her book. Why should she leave?”
“It was a lead, and I wasn’t sure it was a good one. Francesca’s so hard to get on the phone. Thanks.”
“She proceeded to tell me all about where she’d eaten lately and what she’d eaten and what she’d cooked. Good Lord, I thought, when I hung up the phone, one day we’re goin’ to see Francesca walkin’ down Park Avenue and she’ll be an eggplant.”
Wetzon laughed. “How was Provence?”
“Fabulous. Unbelievable. I ordered us a case of olive oil directly from a mill, and wouldn’t you know, when I told Francesca about it, she said, ‘But my dear Laura Lee, I much prefer the olive oil from the mill outside Mougins.’”
Wetzon giggled.
“Wait, you haven’t even heard the best part. She tells me, ‘We had a blind tastin’ and we think ours is better.’ Can you imagine, they sat around dippin’ bread into various olive oils? A blind tastin’ of olive oils? Give me a break.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind dipping some really good semolina bread in different olive oils.”
“But you certainly wouldn’t talk about it.”
“Probably not.” She laughed again, and Laura Lee smiled at her. “This is amazing coffee.”
“It’s Starbucks’, all the way from Seattle. The best coffee in the world. And, I’m delighted to see your disposition is improvin’.”
Wetzon drained her espresso. “I’ve had a couple of traumatic things happen to me this week, and it’s only Tuesday. I can’t wait to see what the rest of the week will bring.”
Laura Lee signaled for a refill and managed to accomplish a tiny flirt with the counterman, a sleekly attractive man with a dense Mastroianni accent. “Such a nice bod.” She grinned at Wetzon. “I’m dyin’ to hear all about it, darlin’.”
“I’m dying to tell you, if you can pull yourself away from the espresso man, although I don’t know why I should judge you, I’ve got one in my life.”
“An espresso man?”
“An Italian.”
“Uh oh.” Laura Lee shook her head. “Wetzon, darlin’, life is way too short to take everythin’ as seriously as you do. What’s the story?”
“First, Dilla Crosby gets clobbered to death just before Carlos’s run-through and we find the body. Then the detective on the case recognizes me from when we met three years ago—”
“And doesn’t know you and Silvestri have split—”
“You got it. So he picks up the phone and tells Silvestri I’m involved in a homicide. And then guess what?”
“Silvestri rides in on his white stallion. Yum.”
“More or less.”
“And where is the grand Alton Pinkus while all this is happenin’?”
“In Caracus at some labor convention. That’s the other thing, Laura Lee. Picture this: While Silvestri and I are making out on my sofa, Alton calls and leaves a message on my machine for all the world to hear, asking me to marry him.”
“Ooooo,” Laura Lee intoned.
“Laura Lee, behave.”
“What a delicious situation. Don’t you love it?”
“Well ...”
“Come on now, Wetzon, think about it.”
“But Laura Lee, if I married Alton I would have to give up my apartment.”
“Listen to yourself, darlin’. Did you hear what you just said?”
Wetzon laughed. “I guess I don’t want to get married. At least, not if I have to move. Seriously, how would I ever find another apartment like mine for what I paid for it?”
“Wetzon, you and I know that square footage is the secret to a perfect relationship in New York.”
“Ah, the pure, sweet sound of truth.” Wetzon reached for her wallet.
“Put that away, darlin’. I’ve already taken care of it.”
“I didn’t see any money change hands.”
“Marcello thinks I’m cute.” She looked over at the counterman and he flashed her a sexy smile.
“You are cute. Come on, I’ll walk you uptown. We’ll be two furry animals chugging up Broadway.”
“I thought you might change your mind about walkin’ once I jollied you up. And besides, we both can use the exercise.”
They walked up Sixth Avenue to Central Park South at a good pace, a damp, chilly wind at their backs, urging them along. Cabs were lined up in front of hotels. New York night life was about to begin.
“How’s it going with you and Eduardo?” Eduardo was Laura Lee Day’s SoHo artist.
“Oh, fine, I guess, but I’m gettin’ a little tired of livin’ in a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel.”
Office workers and professional women were homeward-bound to the Upper West Side in their dark pantyhose and white socks; the obligatory white Reeboks crowded the sidewalks. Whenever the MTA raised bus and subway fares, more and more decided to walk. And there were many more women than men. Wetzon wondered what that meant.
“I had another New York Moment this mornin�
��,” Laura Lee said. “Do you want to hear it?” Laura Lee had started calling absurd things that could only happen in New York “New York Moments” and now she and Wetzon were always trading can-you-top-this stories.
“I know you’re going to tell me anyway.”
Laura Lee chortled. “This is better than anythin’ you’ve had lately. This mornin’ I got a seat on the subway and opened my Journal. I went right through the third section first, just to make sure about where all my stocks closed, then I started on the front page. Suddenly it came to me that someone was breathin’ major halitosis down on me, standin’ awfully close. I looked up and this homeless person is practically in my face. He was grubby beyond words. He looked as if he’d rolled in the mud last November and it had dried on him. He was talkin’ to me, and I swear, I almost stopped breathin’. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘but would you mind’—and what do you think he says?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“He says, ‘Can I read your newspaper?’ Like a fool, I say, ‘But it’s the Journal.’ He just stares at me and won’t go away, so I gave him the section I finished, you know, with the stock quotes and all, and what do you think, Wetzon? He starts readin’ it. And just as we’re rollin’ into the World Trade Center, he folds it up and gives it back to me and says, ‘Market’s overbought —due for a correction.’”
“You made that up.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Then I’d probably recognize him.”
“How come?”
“Easy. He’s an ex-stockbroker.”
Their laughter got them to Laura Lee’s building.
“By the way,” Laura Lee said. “His daughter is havin’ a big dinner party.”
“Whose daughter? The derelict stockbroker?”
“Get a grip, Wetzon. Alton Pinkus’s daughter.”
“How do you know?”
“I told you, Sandra Semple is my client.”
“I forgot. Alton’s going to be fifty-seven in March. Maybe it’s a birthday party.”
“She invited me, so I’ll see you there.”
“Don’t be so sure. I don’t think Alton’s kids like me.”
“Well, they’re hardly kids. Sandra is thirty-one and the other two are in their late twenties and don’t even live around here. And Alton likes you, so what does it matter? You’re not marryin’ them.”
“I’m not marrying him either.”
With a wave, Wetzon continued up Columbus. Laura Lee always made her see the humor in their lives. And this was good. She was a buoyant spirit and wrung more enjoyment out of life than any ten people Wetzon knew.
Wetzon was feeling so good that she didn’t at first recognize Detective Bernstein and his partner getting out of an unmarked and going into her lobby.
“Shit!” she said out loud, and a kid on a bike echoed her, “Shit, lady, shit, shit, shit.” She stopped in her tracks. She had half a mind to turn on her heels and have dinner out. But she was tired. She didn’t want to eat out. She wanted to be home.
Bernstein emerged from her building and looked up and down the street. And up again. He’d caught sight of her, and now stood waiting under the navy blue canopy.
“Ms. Wetzon.” Well, at least he had dropped his sarcastic Miss Wesson routine.
“Detective Bernstein. Good evening. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” He held the door for her, and they entered her lobby, where his partner Gross was distracting Wetzon’s doorman.
“It would be easier if we talked upstairs.” Bernstein followed her to her mailbox and watched as she collected her mail.
“You mean you want to come up?” Wetzon pressed the elevator button. The car was on the ninth floor and not moving. An alarm bell began to ring. The elevator was obviously stuck again. So much for the six thousand dollar assessment she’d had to pay for her share of the new elevator.
“Come, I take you up, then I get the super,” Julio said. He motioned them to the service car, then went to the front door and locked it.
The service elevator, an antique even for the West Side, was on its last legs. A ripe smell seeped from the stacks of filled plastic garbage bags in the rear of the car. It was not a pleasurable ride, but it was better than walking up twelve flights.
When she unlocked her door and preceded them, she lit the chandelier in the foyer and then went on to the living room turning on the lights.
“Boy, this is great,” Gross said.
“Yeah.” Bernstein scratched his head under his yarmulke and sat down on the sofa.
“Is it a co-op?” Gross was checking out the quilt hanging on the nearest wall.
“Yes.” Wetzon hung her coat in the closet. Gross walked around the living room looking at everything.
Bernstein took out his grubby notepad. “Just wanted to go over a coupla things with you.”
“Okay.” Wetzon sat down in the Shaker armchair and waited. He was actually pleasant, well, as pleasant as he was capable of being. Gross was now studying the titles on Wetzon’s floor-to-ceiling wall of bookshelves.
“You said the box office attendant used to keep a club under the ticket window.”
“You mean the treasurer. The treasurer bears the responsibility for what comes in—money—and what goes out—tickets—on a day-to-day basis.”
“Okay, yeah. What about the club?”
“Some treasurers did keep one, but it’s been a long time since I was in a show. Maybe they don’t anymore. Maybe now it’s an Uzi. You should talk to whoever is treasurer of the Imperial. I don’t even know if he was there that afternoon.”
“She.” Bernstein sounded smug.
“Oh, a woman. There weren’t many women in that union, as I remember. Things have changed.”
“Did you see her?”
“How would I know her if she wasn’t introduced to me? There were so many people milling around—detectives mostly—What does she look like?”
Bernstein nodded to Gross, who reluctantly stopped her peregrinations and stood beside Wetzon’s chair. She took out her notepad, flipped over some pages, and read, “‘Heavy woman. Midforties. Maybe five eight, five nine. Wearing a black suit. Light brown hair to her shoulders, held back with a headband. Big glasses.’” Closing the notepad, she added, “Her name is Edna.”
Wetzon wrinkled her brow. “She sounds vaguely familiar. I must have seen her. Otherwise ...”
“Do you know her?”
“No. How would I know her? I don’t know anyone named Edna.”
“But you know her son.”
Wetzon sat up. “Is this a trick question? Yes, union jobs were often handed down from father to son. But who’s Edna’s son?”
“Phil Terrace.”
23.
Wetzon put Anita Shreve’s new novel aside and turned out the light. Thick, cottony darkness immediately enveloped her. She lay motionless a long time, listening to her heart thumping.
But this is foolish, she chided herself. You’ve talked with Sonya, not to mention Silvestri, so it’s been dealt with and you’re not going to have the dream again.
Think about other things. Okay. What was Susan Orkin so frightened about? And did the attempted break-in have anything to do with Dilla’s murder? Why hadn’t Susan gone to the police? What had happened to the threatening letter? Did Susan know who the killer was? Was she, for some reason, protecting him ... or her? Lord. She turned over on her side.
And then there was the surprise information about Edna Terrace being the treasurer at the Imperial. Had Edna been in the box office when the creative contingent had the stormy meeting the night before Dilla’s death? Had she been there on Saturday when Dilla’s body was discovered? It must be Edna Terrace, then, whom Phil was talking to that afternoon in the box office.
And Bernstein had actually been less obnoxious, thanking her for her help, asking her to keep an eye out in Boston. He’d even given her his card and written his home number on the back so she could call him.
On her back again—it was going to be a long night—she put her body in the sponge position. Begin deep, slow breathing, relax the toes first Silvestri hadn’t called. Relax the arch of the foot. Breathe into it. Just as well. Alton would be back in four days and she was going to have to deal with that. Relax ankles. Feel all the tension flowing out. She hoped Smith wouldn’t be a true pain in Boston. Relax shins and calves ...
She knew even in her sleep that it was starting, and implored, no, no no. Fighting it, she was losing. She felt herself being sucked inexorably into a giant vacuum.
The light exploded in her face hot as a flame, and her nostrils were burning with acrid fumes. Her head, her eyes—”No, no, stop!” Her cries thrust her thrashing out of the dream. She woke locked in a fetal position, trembling and sweating, her heart pounding.
Her digital clock said 3:35.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” she told herself aloud. “It’s a dream. Deal with it. You don’t need Silvestri. You don’t need anybody.” She talked herself down and lay again in the sponge, cold sweat chilling her even under the quilt.
When she finally stopped shaking, she got up, slipped on her robe and padded down the hall to the kitchen. There she made herself a cup of hot chocolate with Dutch-process cocoa and skim milk. Sipping a reasonable facsimile of soothing maternal nostalgia, she returned to her bedroom. She took a few small sips, then set the mug on the antique washstand next to her bed, got back into bed. One more swallow of cocoa. The yawn was unexpected; she lay back against her pillow.
Her clock radio woke her at six-thirty. About a third of the chocolate remained in the mug; the bedside lamp was still on. But she’d gotten through the night in fairly reasonable shape. By herself.
As a reward, Wetzon stopped at Mangia on Forty-eighth Street on the way to the office and bought a whole wheat scone for breakfast and a mozzarella and sun-dried tomato sandwich for lunch.
She squared her shoulders and strode purposefully east on Forty-ninth Street toward her office. A scrap of melody from a song Gwen Verdon had sung in New Girl in Town kept going through her head. “It’s good to be alive,” Wetzon hummed. Coming toward her was a young woman in a shiny black raincoat with yellow flannel trim and yellow rubber boots. A golden retriever charged yards ahead of her on one of those extension leashes. Wetzon had just stopped to pet the friendly dog when she heard a terrifying shriek. The dog owner’s face was scrunched into a grimace. Always on the alert for the seriously disturbed who could pass for acceptable—a bit of necessary armor in New York—Wetzon immediately stepped into the gutter between a black BMW and a red hatchback and started across the street.
Murder: The Musical Page 13