Murder: The Musical

by Meyers, Annette

  “Do you know how many animals bled to death so that you can wear that coat?” the young woman was screaming at her. The golden started barking and raced back to its owner.

  Furious, Wetzon got back on the sidewalk. “Do you know what your precious synthetics have done to our ozone layer?” she responded. “Look at yourself and weep. You’re a walking advertisement for ozone depletion.”

  The woman looked stunned, which was good enough for Wetzon. She was sick and tired of the trendy wealthy who set themselves up as judges, condemning meat eaters and fur wearers, when there were children who went hungry and guns were readily available.

  Mentally brushing her hands together with satisfaction, Wetzon waved cheerfully to Steve Sondheim who was coming out of his house.

  All in all, she thought, crossing Second Avenue to their office, a very good start to the day.

  “Rich McMartin is sitting at SMQ,” Max announced when Wetzon sailed through the door. The rich smell of coffee filled the office.

  “Well, that’s the kind of news I like.”

  “Do you mind, Max?” Smith appeared in the doorway. Her eyes flared a warning at Max. “It’s not your job to report on hires,” she said severely.

  Wetzon shook her finger at Smith. Surreptitiously she mouthed, none of that.

  Smith paid no attention. “We’re going to have to wait a few weeks until he gets clearance before we bill.”

  “Really? Why? Rich said he was clean.”

  “A little computer check turned up three glitches on his U4.”

  “Damn. What kind of glitches?” Wetzon hung up her coat and poured herself a mug of coffee.

  “Minor things—like unauthorized trading. Reprimands, but no lawsuits.”

  “Unauthorized trading is a minor thing?” Max was aghast. He had been a strictly-by-the-book accountant in his previous life, and still thought like one, which made him, as Smith was fond of saying, anal-obsessive.

  “Trust me, Max sweetie.” Smith gave him a patronizing pat on his slumping shoulder. “In a world where money laundering, insider trading, and stock parking go on as always, a tiny bit of unauthorized trading is a minor offense. Especially when nobody sued.”

  Max frowned. He was wearing a blue-striped shirt with white collar and cuffs and a crimson bow tie. When he frowned, his tie bobbled. “Then why wouldn’t McMartin get clearance?”

  “If a broker with a clean record moves,” Wetzon explained, “the NewYork Stock Exchange transfers his license electronically within twenty-four hours, and the new manager gets verbal clearance on the broker even sooner. But if there’s anything at all on his U4, everything has to be hand carried, looked into with a magnifying glass. It can take weeks, sometimes months.”

  “Then what does the broker do without his license?”

  Smith threw up her hands and went into their office, slamming the door.

  Wetzon raised an eyebrow at the closed door. “Most firms let the broker work on the manager’s or the branch’s number. Not particularly legal, but everyone looks the other way. Max, is something going on I should know about?”

  “She’s in a bad mood,” Max said.

  “I would never have guessed.”

  Max eyed the closed door sympathetically. Since he’d joined them two years before, he had always treated Smith with indulgence. “Something to do with Mr. Hartmann, I think.”

  “Oh, dear. Thanks, Max. You’re a sweetheart.” Wetzon caught herself about to blow him a kiss and stopped. What the hell was wrong with her? Was she becoming Smith? She opened the door to their office, stepped in, and closed the door. In truth, she would be downright delighted if Smith broke up with Hartmann. She dumped her briefcase on the chair, set the mug on top of her desk calendar.

  “You are altogether too chummy with the help.” Smith was half-sitting on her desk, swinging one long leg back and forth angrily. Her face was dark as thunder.

  “Come off it, Smith. What’s really bugging you?”

  The phone rang, was answered, and another line began ringing. The little hold lights were blinking.

  “Well?” Wetzon asked.

  Smith’s face crumpled and she burst into tears.

  “Oh, my God, what is it?”

  Wetzon rushed to her. Smith sobbed on her shoulder. “It’s awful. Awful.”

  “What’s awful?”

  “Dickie’s been arrested.”

  “Aw, Richard Hartmann, Esquire, arrested? For what, pray tell? Did they finally find out he was laundering money?”

  Smith pulled away, dried her eyes with a tissue, and blew her nose. “You don’t have to look so pleased. And I’ll have you know it wasn’t for laundering money, it was for contempt.” She blew her nose again and dropped the crumpled tissue in her waste basket. “I wanted to fly down to Miami to be with him, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “Contempt, huh? That’s perfect. Contempt for the law, the jury system, judges, human beings. You know something, that man’s not worth shedding a single tear over. He doesn’t give two hoots for anybody. I warned you about getting involved with him. You deserve better.”

  “You are heartless, you know that? Absolutely heartless.” Smith took out her compact and began to powder her nose. “I know you mean well, but—”

  “Now Twoey, that’s quite another story.”

  “Twoey!” The gold compact closed with a snap. “I’m so sick of hearing you sing Twoey’s praises. If you like him so much, you can have him.”

  “Don’t start that, Smith. Besides, I have more than enough on my plate right now. But Twoey Barnes is platinum, all the way. Don’t be so quick to toss him aside.”

  Smith ran her fingers through her short, dark curls and smiled. The storm was over. “We’ll see. I have my eye on Joel Kidde. He appears to be unattached at the moment.”

  Max knocked on the door, interrupting Wetzon’s groan.

  “Come, Max sweetie,” Smith commanded.

  “Carlos on three for you, Wetzon.”

  “Ah, dear Carlos,” Smith said. She smoothed her stockings around her ankles and gave Wetzon an utterly guileless smile. “Please send him my best wishes.”

  Wetzon picked up the phone. What was this with Smith’s sudden change in weather? “Hi. How’s it going?”

  “Birdie, it’s the worst of the worst.” Carlos’s voice was so hoarse he croaked. “Everyone’s fighting with everyone. Mort’s carrying on like a lunatic. You know, no one ever realized how Dilla used to keep him in line. Your friend Twoey Barnes is walking around looking shell-shocked, and Mort just keeps ordering more scenery, and who needs it? We all agreed early on that less was more—”

  “I thought there was barely enough money left to open in Boston?”

  “His new partner seems to have deep pockets.”

  “Oh, God, Twoey ...”

  “I can’t wait till you get here. Mort used to listen to you.”

  “That was a long time ago, Carlos.”

  “Darling, I can tell you right now this is the last show I’ll do with Mort. You have no idea how awful it is. He called Sam an untalented hack. Then he had a screaming fit about the orchestrations because Poppy didn’t like them.”

  “What does Poppy know about orchestrations?”

  “‘What does Poppy know about orchestrations?’ she asks. What does Poppy Hornberg have to know about anything? She just makes these pronouncements and everyone listens to her, especially Mort. Poppy thinks the lighting is too dark, so Mort told Kay she couldn’t light her way out of a paper bag.”

  “Original.”

  “Then he called Phil a retard in front of the whole company and crew because he miscalled a cue.”

  “That certainly leads to trust all around.”

  “And when Aline came to Phil’s defense, Mort called her a fat dyke masquerading as a woman.”

  “Well, la di dah. The usual Mort Hornberg tantrum. How did you escape?”

  “But I didn’t, darling. He told me he’d sent for someone who knows ho
w to choreograph a Broadway show.”

  “Jesus.” This was serious. “What did you say?”

  “I said if he did that I’d cheerfully kill him.”

  “I’ll be glad to help you if you’ll wait till I get there.”

  “Too late, darling. Someone else may have gotten there ahead of us.”

  24.

  At thirty-six thousand feet, somewhere above Bridgeport, a steward served champagne, Tattinger’s no less, and pate on little wedges of dark bread.

  Wetzon was sitting on the wing, her legs stretched out in front of her. It was a magical February night. The sky seemed endlessly concave and the twinkling lights from the Grumman G-2 jet mingled happily with the stars. Raising her glass, she toasted them. The club soda had lost its fizz. Ah well. Even so, this was the good life.

  Smith had arranged for a limo to pick them up at the office and drive them out to Westchester County Airport in White Plains. The limo had been one of Joel Kidde’s, complete with a bar and a television. Oh, Smith was in top form.

  In this brief, peaceful interlude on the plane, Wetzon felt quite alone, and it was a wonderful feeling. She had left a note for Alton. Dearest Alton, she had written, choosing her words carefully. I’m sure you forgot I was going to be in Boston—at the Ritz—this weekend for Carlos’s opening. I’ll be back Sunday night. She’d signed it, Love, L. and then read it over and added a P.S.: Your message was received and is being digested. She hadn’t known what else to say, so she folded the note in an envelope and left it with Alton’s doorman.

  She hadn’t heard from Silvestri again and, thinking about it, was suddenly pissed. Who did he think she was? Just someone to screw around with when he felt like it? A slow burn started in the pit of her chest. Damn it all, why did he make her care so much? Alton was better for her....

  A bubble of phony laughter pierced her reverie. Around her, which she had almost succeeded in tuning out, was the irritating hum of people who were trying to impress one another. Smith was really on a roll. It made Wetzon more impatient than it usually did. On the other hand, everything made her more impatient lately.

  In spite of the depth of her feelings for Carlos, she almost dreaded what she would get caught up in when she reached Boston. Out-of-town tryouts were trying in more ways than one. Everyone was on edge, people would say unforgivable things to each other and then expect to be forgiven. Costumes wouldn’t fit right, cues would go wrong, follow spots wouldn’t follow. The performers would be physically and mentally exhausted. When she’d talked with Carlos late last night, he’d been agitated and brusque. Mort was back in action, his arm in a sling, his neck in a collar. Whoever had attacked him, for whatever reason, had not succeeded in killing him, Carlos had reported. This time. The police were classifying the attack as a mugging, because Mort’s Cartier watch and his wallet were missing. At that point Carlos had laughed diabolically and told her, “So, darling, we still have our shot at him.”

  Wetzon felt rather like the Tennyson poem, as if she were riding, half a mile, half a mile, half a mile onward, into the valley of Death—

  “Mystery spread.”

  “Huh?”

  “I wouldn’t eat it, if I were you.” Sunshine Browning was pointing to the wedge of black bread Wetzon hadn’t even realized she still held.

  “I hadn’t intended to. Frankly, I don’t even remember taking it.”

  “Dump it in here.” Sunny held out one of the barf bags and Wetzon obediently dropped the wedge into it. “I never eat the food on these things. Amazing, isn’t it, that private flights are even worse than the majors.” Sunny had a wide, toothy grin and a mane of streaked blond hair. Park Avenue natural. Her skin was pale, its pallor exaggerated by the all-black ensemble of skirt, sweater, jacket, hose, and boots. She stared intently at Wetzon. “I remember you. I was just out of Radcliffe and Mort hired me as his assistant.”

  “I doubt it. I was only a gypsy.” Wetzon certainly did not remember her. Mort Hornberg always hired women from the top schools, and Sunny Browning was just one of a long line. They usually didn’t last. But Sunny had. For one very important reason. Sunny was connected. She could raise money.

  “You’re the one he used to fight with.”

  Wetzon felt herself flush. “Fight? No. I’m sure you have me confused with—”

  “Mort used to say he could look at Leslie Wetzon’s face and read what she was thinking. Am I right?” Sunny had a way of engaging that was making Wetzon uncomfortable.

  “He used to say something like that....”

  “Ha! There, you see. I have total recall.” Sunny tilted her champagne glass and drained it. “I never forget anything.”

  “Never forget what, chum?”

  Joel Kidde leaned over them, tall, sleek-haired, slightly bulging eyes looking out of a Vegas-tanned face. His scent was good cigar, and he looked like what he was, a mogul, cut from the same cloth as Time Warner’s late chairman, Steve Ross. Joel Kidde was almost rancid with power. No wonder Smith was attracted to him.

  “Leslie Wetzon,” Sunny said.

  Kidde looked blank. He gestured to the steward for more champagne and sat down in front of Wetzon. He was wearing a red cashmere turtleneck under a gray suit.

  “This is Leslie Wetzon, Joel,” Sunny repeated, winking at Wetzon.

  How wonderful, Wetzon thought, to have made such an impression. They’d been introduced when Wetzon and Smith had lunch with Mort and Twoey at the Four Seasons, and again when they’d boarded the plane. But Joel had been straightaway mesmerized by Smith. So what else was new?

  “Oh, Joel.” Audrey Cassidy smoothed her honey beige chignon. She was as tall as Joel and so thin her hipbones protruded from her slim purple knit. Her large head seemed balanced precariously on her gaunt frame. She worked for one of those new fashion magazines, doing bitchy stories on celebrities. She and Joel were half-sister and brother. Very close. Incredibly close. They were known in the business as Bitch Cassidy and the Sunburnt Kidde. “What did you say you do, Leslie?”

  “I’m a headhunter. You might say I hunt top guns for Wall Street’s most prestigious firms.” She nodded toward Smith, who was holding forth several seats back. “Xenia Smith and I are partners.”

  Audrey’s eyes settled on Wetzon, inventorying her Donna Karan suit, her black suede boots, her mabe pearl earrings, even her raccoon coat, which Wetzon had tossed on one of the seats near the bulkhead. Gee, it was just like being with Smith.

  “Oh, I see.” Audrey nodded, bored. “I understand that the show is a trifle rough.”

  Sunny’s response was swift. “You know, opening on the road ... things don’t always come together right away. But that’s what the road is for.” She smiled brightly.

  “And of course,” Audrey persisted, “they haven’t found Dilla’s murderer yet.” For a second, there was a catch in her voice and something like pain behind her eyes.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Audrey?” A white line of fury appeared around Sunny’s lips.

  “My dear, you don’t have to be a brain surgeon to know it was one of them.” Audrey patted her chignon, seemingly recovered from whatever had upset her.

  Smith’s brittle laugh floated from the back of the plane and Wetzon, sensing it was a good time to excuse herself, got up to join Smith, but the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom announcing they should take their seats and fasten their seat belts. Wetzon looked back to where Smith sat with Gideon Winkler. Smith had appropriated Gideon the minute they were introduced. Gideon, with his golden boy looks and yellow hair to his shoulders, had been a gypsy once-upon-a-time, the same time as Carlos and Wetzon. He’d been in a slew of hits, including On the Twentieth Century, Side by Side by Sondheim, and Evita. Then he’d become a movie star, a director, had written an Oscar-winning screenplay, and now was an almost legendary play doctor. His presence on the plane had been casually explained by Joel Kidde. It was, Kidde said, a lift to Boston for a speaking engagement at Harvard.

  A bit too
pat. Too convenient, Wetzon thought, as they all piled their luggage into a waiting cart and headed out to the stretch limo for the short trip from Logan to the Ritz-Carlton.

  “Hssst.” Wetzon finally caught up to Smith as the latter checked herself out in the glass of the windows that looked out on the snow-flecked street. “What were you and the golden boy talking about? Did Gideon tell you why he’s here?”

  Smith looked down at her partner and pulled her cashmere coat around her. She, too, had adopted the no-fur zeal, and now she stood shivering in the Boston cold. Wetzon smiled. Her fur felt good, and she’d worked very hard to pay for it. And furthermore, the golden boy was wearing Blackglama to his ankles.

  “If you want to freeze like Jane Fonda,” Wetzon whispered.

  “Well, if she’s okay for Ted Turner, then—”

  “Oh, Smith, give me a break.”

  Smith tugged up her collar and stepped out of the building. “I thought you wanted to know why Gideon is here.”

  Wetzon followed. “I do. Tell.”

  “He said Hotshot is moritose.”

  “That’s comatose. Or moribund.”

  “Whatever. Joke all you want. There’s a good chance that we’re going to lose every penny of our money on your precious show and that doesn’t make me very happy.”

  “How dare he say that? He hasn’t even seen it yet.” Wetzon was outraged. It negated Carlos, Mort, all the creative people, and the play didn’t even open until Saturday night.

  Smith patted her cheek. “Gideon will fix it, sweetie pie. Gideon said we’re lucky he’s available. Without him, Hotshot’s dead in the water.”