“I don’t want to hear this—”
“It’s just like the Street, sweetie pie. To get the deal done successfully, everyone must compromise.”
“Is that it? Can I sleep now?”
“No. There’s more. The best is yet to come. Mort started talking about missing Dilla—it was very moving, I must say—and how her assistant was a loser, not up to the job as production stage manager.”
“Yeah, Phil. He’s in trouble, I think.” Her eyes were seamed closed. “Is that it?” she murmured, beginning to drift.
“Wait. Now it gets better.”
“Hurry up, Smith.”
“So they’re talking about Dilla and what do you know, Audrey looks really strange. Her face gets very red, and she says she’ll be right back. Mort and Joel don’t even notice. They’re so involved in who would give up what. And by the way, sugar, I think it’s really very odd that Joel represents Mort, Gideon, and Carlos. Isn’t that a conflict?”
“Ethics from you, Smith? What is the world coming to?” She laughed and found she was wide awake. “It happens all the time in show biz.”
“Frankly, sweetie pie, it would seem to me that from the creative person’s point of view, he’d be better off represented by someone with no other interest in anyone else in Hotshot Well, you know what I mean. Maybe even someone like me.” She fell silent.
“Smith, are you sleeping?”
“Huh? Uh? Oh. No. Well, maybe.”
“Then, would you please finish your Audrey story?”
“Oh. Didn’t I tell you?”
“No, you didn’t. Don’t you dare go to sleep until you’ve told me.”
“Oh, all right. Audrey went off to the ladies’ and I followed. When I got there, she was sniveling into a handful of tissues, poor dear.”
“About what?”
“I told you—”
“No—you—didn’t” Wetzon had the powerful urge to get out of bed and strangle Smith.
Smith’s contented smile was palpable even in the darkness. “Well, it seems that Audrey Cassidy was the secret investor and what’s more, Dilla was dumping that Orkin woman for Audrey.”
31.
Dilla and Audrey? What had Susan known? If Susan had wanted to stop Dilla from leaving, wasn’t it logical to start with Audrey?
Logical? Murder? What was she thinking? Wetzon closed her eyes and listened to Smith’s even breathing intersected from time to time with a gentle snore. Trust Smith to drop a bombshell on her when Wetzon was so weary she could scarcely keep her eyes open. Now Smith was sleeping like a baby, and Wetzon’s brain was on overdrive.
Well, that piece of the puzzle certainly explained Audrey’s odd behavior on the plane. Did Susan have an alibi? What if she’d met Dilla at the theatre that night after everyone had gone, and Dilla had told her she was going off with Audrey?
Would Susan have taken the ring before killing Dilla? After? No. She pushed that thought away. It was like people being interviewed after a neighbor commits a gory murder and everyone saying, “He was such a soft-spoken, gentle person. He could never have done that.” Weren’t most murders done in the heat of passion? Violence against a victim well known to the murderer, usually a relative?
At five o’clock, with Smith still sleeping the sleep of the innocent—well, that was a misnomer of the first order—Wetzon got out of bed and took a hot shower. Her body was a mass of knots; she needed a good sweaty workout. Maybe Carlos would work the company before rehearsals and she could join in. Dipping her head, she blow-dried her hair, shaping it with her fingers, then tossing it back into place. Wetzon’s wild abandoned hairdo, that’s what it was.
Without resorting to light, she pulled on stretch jeans, a black silk turtle- neck, an oversize red cotton knit sweater, and saggy socks. Smith slept on undisturbed. The courtesy terry robe lay at the foot of Smith’s bed.
Bitch, Wetzon thought. On an evil impulse she went back and grabbed the robe, hanging it in the back of the closet.
There was no place to go at five-thirty and nothing to do. The Ritz coffee shop, where she loved to breakfast, wouldn’t open until seven, probably. She had the new Frances Fyfield paperback to read, but if she put on the light, Smith would have a hissy fit. I’m a prisoner in my own room, she thought, feeling sorry for herself. She crawled back into bed and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, her first thought was that it was raining. A loud thump came from somewhere above. Every light was on. Smith’s bed was empty, and the bathroom door was wide open. Billows of scented steam filled the room. The sound of the shower accounted for what she had thought was rain. Abruptly, the shower stopped. Wetzon dozed off again.
“How long are you going to lie there?” Smith demanded.
Wetzon opened one eye. Smith was wearing a slim, almost ankle-length charcoal skirt and low black boots. A vivid fuchsia cashmere showed under a slightly lighter gray blazer. Chic was an understatement.
Wetzon yanked the covers over her head. “What time is it?” she grumbled.
“Time to eat. I’m starving. Come on, let’s go.” Smith pulled the covers off Wetzon. “You’re dressed already!”
Wetzon sat up. “After you dropped your bon mot about Dilla and Audrey, I couldn’t sleep. You certainly didn’t have that trouble.” Another loud thump came from the ceiling, making them both look up.
“Theatricals misbehaving.” Smith yawned, patting her mouth. “Put on some makeup and let’s go downstairs for blueberry muffins.”
After the minor accident when she stuck the mascara brush into her eye, and had to wash up sooty tears from her cheeks, Wetzon forsook anything more complicated beyond combing her hair and putting on lipstick.
In the hallway the thumping sounded overhead again. As they passed Carlos’s room on the way to the elevator, Wetzon saw that the maid was making it up, which meant that he was either having breakfast in the coffee shop or more likely was in the midst of one of Mort’s endless creative staff meetings.
The elevator doors opened. A room service cart, loaded with stainless- steel-covered serving plates, took up most of the space. “Going up,” said the waiter, an elderly man with pale blue eyes in a cream of wheat face. “One more floor.”
“Come on.” Smith pushed Wetzon on ahead of her. “We’ll go for a ride.”
This is totally out of character, Wetzon thought suspiciously, crammed up against the cart.
When the doors opened, Smith and Wetzon stepped out, and the waiter pushed the cart slowly down the hall away from them. The rumble of angry male voices came from somewhere on the floor. Pungent cigar tainted the air.
“Someone’s having a feast,” Smith said. “And a fight.”
“And a cigar,” Wetzon said. “Coffee. Quickly.” She tried to catch the closing elevator doors, but was too late. And when she turned around, Smith wasn’t even there. Where had she gotten to?
She trailed back down the hall and caught sight of Smith following the room service cart, chatting up the bewildered waiter. The same male rumble was coming from behind the double doors where the cart stopped. Several voices, all raised. Was that Carlos? Uh oh.
“Just take Arlington,” the waiter said patiently to Smith. He knocked on the door. “Room service.”
With her hand behind her, Smith was making sweeping motions. What the hell did she want Wetzon to do? Oh, maybe see if there was a name on the check. It was propped up on edge between an empty goblet and a sweating stainless-steel pitcher of cold orange juice.
As Wetzon tried to take a casual peek at it, someone inside began fumbling with the door. The voices grew louder. Now she recognized Mort’s as well. In the confusion, Wetzon snatched the check. It was made out to Mort Hornberg. She placed it back on the table, mumbling, “I think you dropped this—”
A furious howl interrupted her, followed hard by a heart-stopping crash, shouting, then an ominous thump, thump, thump ...
The waiter pushed the doors open, releasing cigar fumes. “Oh, excuse me.�
� He looked frightened.
“Get out of here!” someone yelled.
“Mort, are you crazy? Let go of me!”
“Mort, let him go!” That sounded like Joel Kidde.
The waiter came stumbling out of the room. He stood in the corridor, confused about whether to run and get help or stay and get the check signed.
“Ow!” That was Carlos, and it was enough to make Wetzon push the waiter aside and rush into the room. No one was going to hurt her Carlos.
Before she saw anything, she felt the wind. It rushed like a hurricane through an open window, driving the draperies mad. The room was frigid. She looked around quickly, trying to process what was happening. Behind her, Smith screamed.
Then she saw Joel tugging Mort off someone—oh God, Carlos. Legs. That’s all she saw of Carlos. The rest of him was dangling out the window, five floors above Newbury Street.
32.
Wetzon would never fully remember how they rescued Carlos. What she would remember clearly were Smith’s shrill shriek, Joel’s desperate struggle with Mort, someone exhorting, “No, no!” and Carlos’s kicking legs. And the intense cold. Some time later she would have a sneaking suspicion that it was Smith who gave Mort a hard whack on his previous wound, which made him release Carlos long enough for Wetzon to grab Carlos’s waistband and pull him in. She had a vague memory of holding him wobbling in her arms and babbling, “Good shape, good shape.”
She saw the blood rush from Carlos’s face and he crumpled, sinking both of them to the carpet. Mort was stamping around the room howling, clutching the side of his head, shaking off Joel’s feeble ministrations of “There, there, old chum.”
“Close the fucking window, someone!” Wetzon heard herself yell. She was hugging Carlos to her, his head on her breast.
“Birdie, you’ll break my eardrum,” he croaked. Color seeped back in his face.
Dimly, Wetzon heard someone hammering on the outside doors. No one in the room acknowledged it.
The window closed with a loud slam, and the curtains and draperies were drawn by someone with long, slim legs in Donna Karan hose. Smith.
“Well,” Smith said, dusting off her hands, “show business is certainly entertaining.” She strolled over to the doors. “Coming,” she called in a lilting voice, as if everything were perfectly fine and she were receiving guests.
Carlos struggled to his knees, shaking his head like a punchy boxer.
More hammering on the doors. “Is anything wrong in there?”
Somewhere close Wetzon heard another door shut. Joel had somehow succeeded in coaxing Mort, old chum, into the bedroom, old chum. Looking around, she saw they were in a large sitting room with an assortment of sofas and club chairs.
Smith righted a toppled side chair, straightened an end table. The frenzied knocking on the doors continued. Smith surveyed the room. When she opened the double doors, Wetzon and Carlos were standing, and the room looked undisturbed. “Yes?” Smith inquired, all innocence.
Hotel security—no doubt about it. A burly chested man with dyspeptic eyes peered at them suspiciously. He wore a brown suit and to the unenlighted might have looked like a businessman. To Wetzon he looked like a cop. Sort of an Irish Detective Morgan Bernstein. “We had a report of a disturbance ...”
A strange low sob filtered in from the bedroom.
Smith’s laugh tinkled. Bells, bells, bells, Wetzon thought. “Oh no, Mr. ...?” Smith paused and fluttered her lashes. What made her think anything that obvious would distract?
“Dolan,” Hotel Security said, utterly captivated.
“Well, Mr. Dolan, we were just acting out a little scene.” She swept her arm toward Carlos and Wetzon. “Weren’t we, sweet things?”
“Right,” Wetzon agreed. She gave Carlos a gentle hip nudge.
“Oh, right.” His voice papery-thin, he was eyeing Smith warily.
“Thank you so much for checking, dear Mr. Dolan. You don’t know how incredibly secure you make me feel here at the Ritz.” Smith flashed one of her sultry smiles at Dolan. The poor man had a stunned look on his face when she closed the door on it.
The sobbing grew louder. Smith flicked her eyes toward the bedroom. “I hate to hear a grown man cry,” she said.
“What’s the Barracuda up to?” Carlos hissed at Wetzon. “No good, that’s for sure.”
“She did help save you, you know,” Wetzon whispered in his ear.
“Well then, she must have had an ulterior motive.”
“I did actually,” Smith said with tremendous good humor. “But a little gratitude might be nice.” She inspected her manicure. “I was only protecting my investment.”
“You mean our investment.”
“Whatever.” Smith frowned. “What is going on in there?” She pointed to the closed bedroom door.
“That’s Mort having a breakdown,” Carlos said. “And a soupçon of gratitude from me to you, old dear.” He bowed deeply.
Smith slit her eyes at him, as if trying to see if he was mocking her, then clearly decided he wasn’t because she treated him to one of her medium-warm smiles. Wetzon wasn’t so sure. She caught Carlos’s hand. “Let’s get out of here. I need coffee desperately.”
Arm in trembling arm, they walked down the hallway to the elevator, following Smith, who was pressing the down button impatiently. Dolan was nowhere in sight.
Carlos cleared his throat gently, as if speech was painful. “I’ve got to get over to the theatre.” His hands fidgeted at his bare wrist—where was the Panthere? He still appeared shaken, the skin on his face taut across his cheekbones. A pulse trembled in his eyelid.
“Shouldn’t you eat something?” She was worried about him.
“Had coffee before Mort got crazy.”
“That’s not breakfast. Your adrenaline’s been pumping. You have to feed it.”
“Oh, Birdie.” He hugged her and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Don’t frown so. We don’t want lines, do we?”
The elevator stopped. A luggage cart loaded with three fat suitcases, a bellhop on one side and a young couple holding hands on the other, left them a small space in the center of the car. The elevator sank to the lobby, its occupants mute, each undoubtedly wrapped in his or her own thoughts.
The moderately crowded coffee shop was really a slightly less formal dining room, set up for breakfast with linen tablecloths. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows facing Newbury Street. At a table for four, Twoey sat tete-a-tete with Sunny Browning.
“Humpf,” Smith said. She fluttered her fingers at Twoey, who didn’t see her.
“Lucky us,” Wetzon said to Carlos out of the corner of her mouth. They were being seated at the table next to Sunny and Twoey, who were heads together, studying some kind of diagram Sunny was drawing on a piece of hotel stationery.
“The pie gets sliced up like so until payoff,” Sunny was saying. “And after payoff,” she drew another circle, “like so.”
“Ahem,” Smith said.
“Xenie!” Twoey jumped to his feet, his face a splendid coral.
Smith bestowed her sweetest smile on him. “Twoey, sugarplum, it’s so good to see you.” She pulled out a chair and sat down. “Thanks awfully, I’d love to join you.”
Sunny’s face froze in startle position. Wetzon turned her back to hide her laugh. Smith was about to poison the well. Wetzon sat next to Carlos, both as far away from the other table as possible.
“Well, good, darling,” Carlos murmured, patting her thigh. “Now the Barracuda’s back in character. For a minute there I hardly knew her.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened in Mort’s room?”
“All in good time, pet.” With unsteady hands, he opened the Globe he’d picked up as they crossed the lobby. “Charming.” Folding the paper open to the entertainment section, he handed it to her.
The first thing Wetzon saw was a two column picture of Mort in his tweedy cap. The headline read:
MORT HORNBERG
ONE-MAN BAND
The article went on for several paragraphs describing how Mort had single-handedly put Hotshot together. Only in the final paragraph were the others—Carlos, Aline, and Sam—mentioned.
She handed the newspaper back to Carlos. “How generous of Mort to include you all. Noblesse oblige.”
“Yes, isn’t he a prince?” He was rereading the article as if he found it hard to believe.
“No, you are, my love.” She took the newspaper from him and dumped it on the floor under the table.
They ordered large orange juices, a pot of coffee, and a basket of muffins.
“The strain of the tryout getting too much for the great impresario?” Wetzon asked, after the waitress left.
“Huh?” He looked at her, then took her hand. “I’m sorry, Birdie. I was just wondering if any of this was worth it anymore.”
“I think not, but I’m not hooked into it, dearie. The Theatre is no longer my life. Besides, you know full well that when Hotshot arrives in New York and Frank Rich gives it a marvelous review and you’re a big hit, love will conquer all. Everyone will forget all this.”
“How right you are, but a short while ago my whole life flashed before me, and truth to tell, it shook me up.”
“But Carlos, that’s Mort. You never have to work with him again. In fact, you can join a long line of people who say they’re never going to work with him again. Some in this very city working on this very show. Bet on it. There are some nice people left in the Theatre.”
“Sure.” He grinned at her, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed again. “I can think of one or two immediately.”
When their breakfast arrived, they dug in, ravenous; dancers were always hungry.
“You knew Mort was crazy. He’s always been crazy.” Wetzon poured her army of vitamin pills onto the linen tablecloth and began swallowing them, one at a time.
Murder: The Musical Page 18