Murder: The Musical

by Meyers, Annette

  “What’s all the screaming about?” Walt Greenow was standing in the corridor.

  “Leslie claims someone offed Mort.” The hysteria factor drove Phil’s voice up an octave. He started laughing. “He’s too mean to die.”

  “Call the police,” the orange-haired woman sobbed. “Call an ambulance.”

  “Christ,” Fran said. “How are we going to get the show open?”

  Walt frowned. “I’m going to have a look. Maybe you made a mistake.”

  “I didn’t make a mistake.” Cerberus sat down in her chair, blubbering.

  What had happened to Mark? Wetzon tried to free herself from Fran.

  “Take it easy, girl. If Mort’s dead, our moving faster isn’t going to help. Maybe he’s not dead.”

  “Oh.” Maybe he wasn’t. Fran was right.

  Phil’s laughter burbled. “Smoked in the men’s smoker,” he said.

  The laughter unglued her. She thought: Mort would die if he knew he’d come to his final rest in a toilet.

  “Everyone wait here,” Walt ordered. He went off down the corridor.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Phil said. “No one can shoot off a gun in the theatre and keep it quiet.”

  “Weren’t you outside?” Wetzon shook her head impatiently. “And anyway, how do you know it was a gun?”

  He flushed. “I don’t. I just assumed ... That’s what I would have used on him.” He said it with a grisly pleasure.

  “That’s just wonderful, Phil. Why are we standing here as if we’re waiting for the overture to start? Move away from the phone, Fran.”

  Phil was laughing again. “The men’s smoker. What a way to go.” Neither he nor Fran moved.

  Wetzon leaned against the wall. Her eyes met those of the orange-haired woman. Something was going on here that didn’t include them. Images flew past her: Mort ranting, stamping his feet, cruelly humiliating people. Where was Carlos? Oh, right. Waiting for her at Remington’s.

  Fran rubbed his nose. His leather gloves were dark with moisture. “Someone better find Sunny. We’ll need a statement to the press.”

  “What kind of statement?” Sunny was looking from one to the other.

  Twoey loomed up behind her. “Wetzon, you’ve got blood on your face.” He would have come to her, but the small space was suddenly crowded with people.

  Wetzon touched her cheek. How had she gotten blood on her face? Whom had she touched? Fran? ... Mark. She stamped her foot, Mort- inspired, pleading with them. “What’s the matter with all of you? Get out of my way.” She tried to worm herself between Phil and Fran Burke.

  Poppy came in from the alley, wearing a fur coat and combat boots, followed by Aline and Edward, and ... Kay....

  “Wait until we know for sure,” Fran said.

  “Know what?” Poppy asked, brushing snow from her fur.

  “Let’s all go check it out,” Phil suggested. He sounded as if he were inviting them to a picnic.

  “You can’t,” Wetzon said. “You’ll contaminate the crime scene.”

  Aline let her eyes roam their faces, as if making an assessment. “What crime?” she said cautiously.

  “What is she talking about?” Poppy fixed Wetzon with a hostile stare.

  Phil laughed maniacally.

  “Let’s be careful what we say,” Fran said. “Poppy, you stay here.”

  “Not on your life,” Poppy said.

  It was like some goddam Charlie Chan movie from the 1940s, Wetzon thought, watching them all troop off.

  Poppy’s voice floated back, “What is it? You can tell me.”

  Wetzon jumped for the phone, punched in 911, and waited. No sound. She looked at the receiver in her hand, her eyes following the wire to its multicolored roots.

  Someone had pulled it.

  37.

  “He’s gone. Dead!” Aline was the first to appear, then Kay Lewis, who looked, for once, disconcerted. Brushing her cape, agitated, Aline kept repeating, “So much blood.”

  “As in the Scottish Play,” Wetzon murmured.

  Kay said, more to herself than anyone, “I’ve been around so long I thought I’d seen everything.”

  Aline stared at her. “I’m going back to the hotel. Edward, please.” She motioned to a rather chalk-faced Edward, and clutched her cape around her. Her wrist cast was blotched with blood.

  “It would be better to stay until the police come. No one’s even called them yet.”

  “Yes, they have.”

  “How could they—? Oh, no, not from the phone in the smoker?”

  Aline nodded, shuddering.

  “So stupid,” Wetzon fumed, pacing the tiny space. “Who made the call?”

  “Fran did.”

  “And I suppose everyone crowded into the smoker?”

  Aline nodded again. “Come on, Edward.” She held the door open.

  The cold air felt good. As if nature brought reason to a murder scene. How absurd. The dank alley was suddenly bright with the rolling lights of a police car; snowflakes danced in the headlighted spots. Two uniformed police officers got out of the patrol car, slamming their doors. They stopped Aline and Edward and exchanged a few words. Aline shrugged, and the cops politely ushered them back to the theatre. The crackle of the police radio sullied the otherwise silent alley.

  “Leslie—” Walt was standing behind her, very close. “Take this.” He put something in her hand.

  “What—?”

  “Put it away. Don’t ask any questions.” He reeked of sweat.

  “But Walt—” She put it in her purse.

  “It was in his hand.” Walt faded back and was gone.

  Snow fell like talcum, and she thought again of Carlos sitting in Remington’s waiting for her. She looked at her watch. Not even one yet. The object Walt had slipped her floated from her subconscious. She hadn’t even had to look at it to know what it was. Carlos’s beloved Panthere watch from Cartier’s.

  Another squad car skidded to a stop in the alley and this one slammed with a dull crunch into the right fender of the first. “Shit!” someone spat as the driver side door opened.

  Could Carlos ...? No way! Wetzon moved farther from the door. No. Mort was eminently killable. He’d alienated everyone—or almost everyone.

  Twoey was at the stage door waiting, and he took immediate charge, introducing himself as the producer. The producer? With Mort out of the way, Twoey had given himself a promotion. Stop it, Wetzon.

  The all-too-familiar business of herding those present together to take statements began. Twoey was everywhere, introducing them to the police, soothing the weeping widow, getting them all seated in the front orchestra, near the stage. But no one was able to stay seated, jumping up and down like Mexican beans. Mark had reappeared but he was avoiding Wetzon, wouldn’t even meet her eyes.

  Sunny was in a trance, paler than usual. Edward patted Aline’s good hand continuously, patting and patting. She jerked it away. “Don’t do that. You’re giving me agita.”

  The house lights came on; a bare bulb worklight was lowered from the flies. Walt Greenow advanced stage front and whispered something to Twoey.

  An oversize man in a black raincoat circumnavigated the rake and stepped to the edge of the stage. He looked up at the grids containing almost a thousand dimmers and nearly as many lights, then out at the small, nervous group in the orchestra. “I’m Detective Willis Madigan, BPD.”

  Poppy’s voice rose in a howl.

  Wetzon came down to the apron. “Detective Madigan, please can you send for a doctor for Mrs. Hornberg?”

  “Try to stay calm, everyone. We’re going to get your statements as quickly as possible, then we’ll let you go. I’ll be back to talk with you individually as soon as I can.” Madigan didn’t say anything about a doctor.

  Aline rose from her seat abruptly, stepped into the aisle and fainted dead away. Edward groaned and covered his face. He made no move to help Aline.

  “Mark, get some water,” Wetzon said. Mark looked like death w
alking, but he obeyed. Kneeling in the aisle, Wetzon tried to coax Aline into a sitting position. “Would someone help me?” No one moved. What a lot they were, she thought angrily. Narcissists. All wrapped up in themselves.

  Walt stood over her; Twoey knelt beside her.

  Someone laughed, high and hysterical. Sunny?

  They propped the unconscious woman up. “Aline, can you hear me? Get your head between your knees.” Between your fat, dimpled knees, Wetzon thought. Lord, Wetzon, why does your fertile brain make nasty jokes at a time like this?

  Mark returned with water in a paper cup, and Aline’s eyes fluttered open. From her vantage point on the floor, Wetzon saw the knees of Mark’s jeans were smudged with that funny deep rust color of dried blood.

  A uniformed officer with scruffy brown hair and a notepad introduced himself as Officer Bryant. He invited Nomi, the lighting assistant, to come with him to the back of the orchestra; another officer took Walt Greenow into one of the stage dressing rooms. JoJo and Mark were designated next.

  Conspicuously missing and probably at Remington’s were Peg Button, Carlos, half of the cast members, and possibly Sam Meidner, if indeed he’d been lured from his hotel room.

  Phil moved over two seats to sit next to Wetzon. Had he pulled the phone cord from the wall? “What do you think is going to happen?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Phil.”

  Fran sat behind them, breathing hard. “We’ll get a new director. Carlos, or maybe Gideon Winkler.” He didn’t sound unhappy.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  There was a dead silence. Everyone’s eyes were on the stage. Phil jumped out of his seat; Fran laid a hand on his arm, pulling him back.

  The worklight caught in the eyes of the man, blinding him to his audience, but unmistakably framing him against the backdrop.

  Poppy Hornberg emitted a bone-chilling, paralyzing wail.

  38.

  “Who are you?” Detective Willis Madigan emerged, a huge shade, from the wings.

  “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing on my set?” Mort Hornberg was standing on the stage, alive and well and breathing fire. And just behind him, Carlos, his hand shading his eyes, peered into the orchestra, where everyone was on his feet, even Aline.

  A violent shiver shook Wetzon. Then who—Who?

  After the long moment of shocked silence, everyone began talking at once in a kind of hysteria of relief.

  “Mort! Thank God.” Sunny’s voice broke. She clung to Twoey, who stared up at Mort, showing no emotion at all.

  Shrieking, “My darling, you’re alive!” Poppy made the stage through the pass door and embraced Mort as a lover might. Mort looked flabbergasted.

  Stepping around the happy couple, Carlos came to the apron, knelt and peered into the house. “Birdie? Is that you? What’s this all about?”

  She waved at him, but couldn’t be sure he saw her.

  Madigan’s roar rose above the babble. “If you’re Mort Hornberg, who is the dead man in the smoker?”

  “Dead man?” Mort said.

  “In the smoker?” Carlos stood up slowly.

  Aline said, “Oh, my God, then—?”

  “Who is—?”

  Fran bowed his head, his jowls creased with pain. Only he had remained seated when everyone else had jumped up. Had he known all along the dead man wasn’t Mort?

  “Everyone please be quiet!” Madigan ordered, raising his voice over the hubbub. “Mr. Hornberg, there’s been a homicide in the men’s smoker. We presumed it was you.” He looked out into the orchestra, then down at his notepad. “Miss ... ah ... Watson, would you please come up here.”

  “Why would anyone think it was me?” Mort’s face was blotched with outrage.

  Wetzon rose. It seemed she was going to be the next to be interviewed.

  Twoey caught her hand and squeezed it. “Do you want me to come with you?” he asked.

  She shook her head, then stood on tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “Could you have brought the show in?”

  His face broke into a wide grin. “With a little help from my friends.” He nodded at Sunny.

  “Wait a minute, wait one minute.” Mort stamped his foot and pushed Poppy away from him. “What’s this going to do to the performance tonight?”

  “Mort, please, there’s someone lying dead in the smoker.” Poppy clung to him. “We all thought it was you.”

  Madigan cleared his throat. “Okay, if the dead man isn’t Mort Hornberg, then who is he?”

  “I can answer that question for you, Willis.” A short man in an Irish knit rainhat and a brown L.L. Bean stormcoat took center stage.

  B movie all the way, Wetzon thought, as she came up on stage. Even to exit and entrance lines. Actually, the whole scene since Mort’s miraculous resurrection was being performed like a play within a play, with everyone acting his part to the hilt. The cast was presently doing Murder in the Men’s Smoker and was pretty much the same group that had performed so valiantly in Dilla’s Death.

  Except for ...

  It was Sam Meidner lying in his own blood in the men’s smoker.

  In the same instant Madigan read from the ID in the wallet: “Samuel Meidner.”

  The gasp from the onlookers was so in unison it might have been choreographed. It was part of the performance.

  “I take it you all know this man?” Madigan looked from one to the other for verification.

  Edward tittered.

  Mort said, “You don’t mean to tell me that it’s Sam you took for me?”

  “We all did,” Twoey said.

  “He was wearing your hat,” Poppy said.

  “I’m wearing my hat. What’s got into all of you?” Mort was furious with them. “We’ll take another half hour and then get back to work. We have a performance tonight.”

  “You mean we’re going on?” Phil spoke for everyone.

  “Of course, unless the representative from the Boston Police Department sees fit to close us down. Does he?”

  Madigan shrugged. “It’s your choice. But the men’s smoker is off limits. I’m sealing it, and I’m going to post a man at the door to see it stays that way.”

  “We can’t do a performance without a working men’s room, Mort,” Sunny Browning objected. “And how will it look, I mean, doing a performance with Sam—?”

  “Isn’t there act-of-God insurance for something like this?” Twoey asked.

  Mort looked at Twoey scornfully. “No one—and I mean no one—closes down my show.”

  “If I can break in here, I want my officers to get everyone’s statement. Including yours, Mr. Hornberg. In fact, we’d be happy to take yours right now.”

  “Who would have wanted to kill poor old Sam?” Carlos said, sotto voce, moving into the wings with Wetzon. “He was a harmless old—”

  “If we all mistook him for Mort, then the murderer may have, too. Which would give almost everyone here a motive. I’m glad you were in Remington’s where everybody could see you.”

  His eyes slipped away from her and out into the orchestra of the theatre. Wetzon’s eyes followed. Smitty. Wetzon caught an exchange between the boy and Carlos that she didn’t understand and would have questioned had not one of the uniforms tapped her on the shoulder. With his head he motioned her toward one of the dressing rooms.

  The room she entered was freshly painted an off white. Stage makeup, some in an open blue metal toolbox, the rest lying willy-nilly about the dressing table, was the center of attraction in the narrow room. Tucked into the frame of the bulb-studded mirror were photographs. A box of tissues, a dingy bra, and an open package of Fig Newtons fought for space with the jars, tubes, and brushes, tools of the trade.

  Under the dressing table were a crumpled pair of lacy black tights and two pairs of tap shoes.

  Wetzon sat on the bench in front of the dressing table. Greasepaint—although it was no longer really greasepaint—had a certain resiny odor. A whitish powder lay like pseudo-snow on the base
of a black porcelain lamp, its shade ecru with age. Wetzon stared into the mirror. Her face was smudged red, like the smudges on Mark’s jeans, as if she’d put on her blusher in the dark.

  The cop taking her statement was the one with the scruffy hair, who’d come on stage with Madigan. Officer Bryant. After she answered the name, address and occupation questions, Bryant asked, “How did you get blood on your face and coat?”

  She looked down at her coat. Matted fur, dried sticky. Had she gotten it from Mark? “I don’t know. There was blood mixed with snow on the floor near the stagedoor, but how did it get on my coat?” And what was the blood doing near the door? Sam was lying dead in the smoker. Touching the stiff fur of her coat, she said, “We don’t know that this is Sam’s blood.”

  “But we can find out.” Bryant proceded to take some scrapings from the matted fur and store them in a glassine bag.

  She was thinking disconcertedly that they would do the same thing with Mark’s jeans when Bryant snapped his book closed and told her not to leave town without letting them know.

  “I’m going back to New York on Sunday. Is that going to be a problem? I have a business to run.”

  Bryant frowned. “I’ll mention it to Madigan.”

  Wetzon made her way across the stage to the pass door. Carlos was sitting orchestra left, giving a statement to one of the other officers, and motioned her over.

  “Can we try again? Remington’s—in ten minutes?” He looked at the cop. “How much longer?”

  “Ten minutes is okay.”

  Wetzon continued up the aisle, heading for the ladies’ lounge. She had to clean the blood off. In the last row Phil sat with a woman in her forties, maybe late forties, large round glasses and brown, shoulder-length hair held in place by a red velvet headband. She wore a black cloth coat. They were having a heated argument in whispers so that all Wetzon could hear was the searing sibilance, like a snake hissing, which Phil broke off the minute he caught sight of her.

  “Hi, Phil.”

  “Mom, this is Leslie Wetzon. She’s a friend of Carlos Prince.”