Murder: The Musical

by Meyers, Annette

  A soft percussion loop followed by string instruments tuning up filtered through the house and show curtains and from under the stage floor, adding to the theme of buoyant apprehension.

  Wetzon came down the steps and into the empty house. The wood plank and the computers were gone, as were the wires and cables that had made the aisles a lethal obstacle course. The first group of ticket holders were massed at each aisle entrance, eager for ushers to show them to their seats. The excited expectation that normally filled a theatre at the first public performance of a musical had been enhanced, no doubt, by the murder of the composer. This audience, at the very least, would not be demanding and judgmental. By just being there, they’d gotten their money’s worth.

  Bucking the flow of traffic, Wetzon worked her way up the side aisle. Boston theatregoers still dressed for theatre, which was more than you could say for the careless and inappropriate dress of many New Yorkers.

  Three monitors clung to the edge of the mez, incongruously high-tech among the lavish carvings and gold leaf of the ninety-three-year-old theatre.

  Adding to the incongruity were the three white Porta Pottis lined up like giant sentinals in the lobby near the ladies’ lounge.

  Fran Burke stood against the back wall near the sound booth talking to Sunny Browning. He was flexing his swollen hand on the head of a hospital-issue aluminum cane. When he caught sight of Wetzon, he signaled her over by tilting his head.

  “Do you want me to talk to the kid?” Fran was saying as Wetzon reached them.

  Sunny shook her head. “No, I guess it’s better if I do it. I’ll get Twoey. He’s known him for years.” She looked at Wetzon appraisingly. “I hear you are investigating Dilla’s murder.”

  “Gossip travels fast. But honestly, I don’t know any more than you do ...”

  “I wouldn’t get involved if I were you, girl.” Fran reached into one of his capacious pockets and brought out a collection of rubberbanded tickets with holes punched in them. Dead wood, they were called, because theatre passes had originally been made of wood. “I have a ticket for you.” He shuffled through the pack and pulled one out and handed it to her. L102. “Carlos has 101.”

  “What happened to your beautiful cane?” Wetzon put the ticket in the pocket of her coat.

  “This one’s better for snow,” Fran said offhandedly.

  “Fran!” A young man appeared from the lobby. “Bill wants to know if you put three tickets away for Joel Kidde.”

  “Yeh. Excuse me, ladies.” Fran took to movement slowly as if his joints had locked when he stood still for any length of time, which they probably did. Watching him, Wetzon thought: He’s the grand old man of company managers. It made sense he would control the network of ice—if there really were one.

  “Something up with Smitty?” Wetzon and Sunny were pressed against the wall by the entering crowd.

  “Mort wants me to get rid of him.”

  “When?”

  “Now. Tonight. I’ll wait till after the performance, but what a shitty thing —not to let the kid stay for the opening.”

  “Real class, that Mort Hornberg.” Wetzon felt a frisson of guilt as she moved toward the center aisle. This had been her doing, but why did Mort have to be so heavy-handed about it? He could have sent Smitty away after the opening.

  The house lights dimmed slightly. Wetzon saw Smith with Joel Kidde take their seats down front. Audrey Cassidy and Gideon Winkler sat next to them. Gideon’s golden hair hung loose to his shoulders. He was wearing his cape and could have been mistaken for a WASP vampire.

  Wetzon was seated, one in from the aisle, and as the house lights dimmed, JoJo appeared on the podium, a fat penguin in his black tux. A tremor went through the audience, followed by a spattering of applause. JoJo raised his arms, pointed to the cymbalist. Wetzon’s heart thudded. This was the birthing moment. The cymbals clashed and the overture—a rare event now in the modern musical, but one Wetzon loved—began, rich and complex, with marching brasses one moment blending to a haunting ballad on strings. The audience was elated.

  Carlos slipped into the aisle seat beside her and squeezed her hand. His was dry and cold.

  The house lights went out. The red velvet stage curtain rose like swag draperies, revealing a brightly painted scrim of a carnival scene, a shooting gallery, which as they watched, seemed to explode in a thousand lights like fireworks on the Fourth of July, and in its wake revealed the entire cast for the opening number.

  Over the roar of the rapt audience, Wetzon said, “Amazing.”

  Carlos grinned at her, looking pleased.

  The first act swept by as each number received an ovation, forcing JoJo to pause for the applause. Carlos began to squirm. Twice he jumped up and disappeared to the back lobby where Wetzon knew the creative staff congregated, pacing.

  When the first-act curtain came down with an explosion of lights and a crescendo of cymbals, Wetzon was already out of her seat and up the aisle, listening. For as long as she had been in show business, everyone connected to a show, friends and family, was expected to mingle with the audience at intermission and pick up the flavor of the comments.

  “Where did it happen?”

  “I heard the orchestra pit.”

  “No, I think it was in a urinal.”

  “Can you imagine—”

  “I heard he was a compulsive gambler, that it was a mob killing.”

  “Really? Didn’t he get sued for support by an ex-lover or something?”

  “They’re all talking about the murder.” Wetzon was irritated beyond words. “What are you hearing, Aline?”

  “Same as you.” Aline gave her a sideways look. “I hear you’re a detective.”

  “Oh, please. I was doing someone a favor, is all. The show is wonderful.” As she’d hoped, everything had fallen into its creative place, and the first act played, even if it was a trifle too long.

  “It’s working. But the first act’s too long.” Aline was wearing a red dress that was more fringe than dress. “Most of them only came because they like blood. Ghouls. You know, we had only half a house sold until word of Sam’s murder got out.”

  “But it’s going so well.” Wetzon refused to let Aline’s negativity get to her. Across the lobby she saw Twoey, his face glowing, talking to Smith and Joel.

  “There’s always the second act,” Aline said glumly.

  The house lights dimmed once more and JoJo was back on the podium.

  Wetzon settled into her seat and Carlos was beside her as the curtain went up for the second act. “Did you see Mort? Is he pleased?”

  “He’s in the alley retching, darling.”

  “Oh, good.”

  In the middle of the opening number a lightning streak of blue light cut across the stage, followed immediately by yellow, red, then a circling kaleidescope of colored lights underscored by frantic whooshing. Primaries and secondaries gave way to each other in fractions of seconds, slicing the stage with color. A tremor, like an aftershock, rolled through the audience. Carlos groaned and rose from his seat. The orchestra squeaked to a halt, were admonished by JoJo to continue, and jerked forward.

  Disconcerted cries came from various parts of the theatre. The actors could hardly be seen through the intensely swirling colored lights. Running footsteps thudded down the side aisle. Kay. Mort’s voice. Muffled screams.

  Carlos raced down to the orchestra pit and scooted across the theatre to the pass door, following Kay.

  Without warning, all the lights went out. It was as if someone had pulled a giant plug, thrusting the entire theatre into darkness. The audience gasped. The orchestra stuttered, stopped, started. Had someone screamed?

  A light. A bare white bulb worklight suddenly lit the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please?”

  Mort stood under the worklight. The beam elongated him grotesquely, playing ghoulish games with his face.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Morton Hornberg. Can�
��t you recognize him? His picture was in the paper this morning....”

  “He’s older than I thought....”

  Mort said, “We’re having a problem with one of our computers that regulates our lighting, but with your indulgence, we’re going to continue the show with the worklight and hope that you’ll let your imaginations do the rest. If anyone would prefer to come back for a later performance, stop at the box office on the way out. But I would ask you to stick around. There’ll be some bumps, but you’ll get a swell performance.”

  Mort got a round of applause. No one left. It was, Wetzon thought, as if they were hanging in to see blood.

  In spite of Mort’s promise, the second act was hairy. The company was rattled, and it was almost a relief when the curtain came down to a standing ovation. The audience had already begun to file out quickly in the semidarkness.

  On stage, everyone looked stunned. The actors, still in costume, were milling around distractedly, clustering near the lighting board.

  Mort was screaming, “You goddamn idiot! You can’t get anything right! It should have been you that got it, not Dilla.”

  Phil’s face looked creased and ill. “Go fuck yourself, Mort.”

  “What did you say? What was that?”

  “I said, fuck you. It should have been you that got it, not Sam.”

  “Get out of my theatre!” Mort was jumping up and down. “Get out of my theatre! I’ll see you’ll never work again.”

  Wetzon’s eyes were drawn away from Phil, away from Mort to the empty rows of the theatre yawning back from the stage. Someone was standing in the dark, watching.

  “Did you see her?” A woman’s voice, close by.

  “Poor Kay.”

  “Kay?” Wetzon said. “What happened to Kay?” She posed the question to JoJo, who had come up from the orchestra pit.

  “Don’t know. Joclyn, did something happen to Kay?”

  Joclyn’s face was a scourge of smeared makeup. “She came running up here to deal with the mess and smashed into Phil’s stool near the stairs and took a header. Broke her ankle.”

  Straining her eyes to the rear of the stage, Wetzon caught a glimpse of Nomi kneeling over a stretcher.

  “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to Mass General we go,” Gideon sang, grinning.

  “So?” Mort demanded. “What do you think?” His hands were on his hips and he looked belligerant.

  “Of course, it’s salvagable. You’ll need a new score. This one won’t do at all.”

  Smith was nodding enthusiastically. Wetzon moved away. What the fuck did Smith know about it? In the wings Smitty stood, ashen faced, watching Mort. Like his shadow.

  Someone was up on a ladder, trying the lights, while Walt was playing with the computer. Wetzon wandered over to watch, and as she watched, the computer flickered and came back on line.

  “Got it!” Walt shouted, gathering a small crowd around him and the computer.

  “Oh, shit,” someone said.

  “Look.”

  On the screen across the lighting plot was a white band on which were typed the words:

  MURDER: THE MUSICAL.

  44.

  “I know it was someone’s weird idea of humor ... but—” With the tip of her finger Wetzon drew a W on the frosty glass. She twirled the glass and watched her initial moisturize and drip onto the linen tablecloth.

  Carlos was on his second martini when their grilled tuna arrived. Tremont Street, outside Hamersley’s Bistro, still had car traffic though it was moving slowly in the aftermath of the snowstorm. In his open kitchen Gordon Hamersley, wearing his ubiquitous Red Sox cap, was fielding the last of his entrees.

  Gideon had stood on stage for an hour taking the show apart while Mort and Carlos steamed. “We absolutely must bring in Glenn Close. You can’t do this type of material without a star. I know Glenn would love it.”

  “How the fuck do you know?” Mort demanded.

  “Well ...” Gideon tried to look modest but failed. “I took it on myself to call her during intermission. And we’ll bring Guare in to come up with a little wit. This one has a lead ass.”

  “Over my dead body.” Aline’s face was livid. No doubt John Guare’s days would be numbered if he turned up in Boston to work on the book.

  Gideon smiled. “Darling, anything can be arranged.”

  “Wake me when it’s over,” Carlos announced, and whisked Wetzon away to Hamersley’s, where he pleaded with Gordon to feed them even though it was late.

  Now, an hour later, Wetzon looked across the table at Carlos. “You’re getting very drunk.”

  “You bet your ass I am.” He ordered up his third double martini.

  “Tough about the show,” the waiter said.

  “Good news do travel fast.” Carlos oozed frigid charm, but the waiter didn’t get it.

  “The lady sitting over there. She told me the first act was great, but too long. She told me to tell you to cut the number about revolvers.”

  Carlos saluted the white-haired lady, who beamed at him.

  “Oh, Lord.” Wetzon raised her eyes to the ceiling.

  “I wish I were going with you tomorrow.” Then softly, “Birdie, darling, stay in New York. Don’t come back.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think it’s safe. That stupid Susan may be able to write a wonderful lyric, but she didn’t do you a favor with those anonymous letters. Oh, yes, I heard all about them. Needless to say, it’s on everyone’s lips. I think whoever killed Dilla also got Sam.”

  “Why do I not get my back up when you tell me to go home, but when Silvestri says it ...”

  “I take it the flatfoot ordered you home.” He laughed.

  “I hate a sloppy drunk.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Arthur will be up tomorrow.”

  “What if I can’t get Susan to come back?”

  “Oh, dear heart, not to worry. We’ll manage. You saw the first act. It’s all there, no matter what Gideon says. And if it turns out he’s going to reconceive the show, I’ll be home in a New York minute.”

  The cabdriver who took them back to the Ritz recognized Carlos and told him that the lyrics were hard to understand. Get the actors to enunciate, he urged Carlos.

  Everyone’s a critic, Wetzon thought, as she paid the driver and pushed Carlos out of the cab because he was doubled over. “Nerves,” she told the driver.

  When she slammed the cab door she saw Carlos was tilting badly.

  “Oh, Mr. Prince,” the doorman said, following them into the hotel. “Excuse me for saying ... I thought you might want to know—”

  Carlos looked at him as if he had two heads, which, to Carlos’s inebriated eyes, he probably did. “Speak up, my man.”

  The doorman touched his shiny black hat. “My cousin Sean saw your show tonight.”

  “Oh, goody. And what advice does Cousin Sean have for me?”

  Wetzon gave Carlos a bit of elbow.

  “He thinks you can make it better by switching the number you end the first act with to the opening of the second.”

  “Deliver me,” Carlos groaned, and kept walking. “It’s started, Birdie. Every porter, cabdriver, waiter, and his cousins are going to give me notes on the show.”

  “Thank you very much and good night,” Wetzon told the doorman, running to keep up with Carlos.

  He rested his arm on her shoulder and leaned into her, spraying her with gin fumes. “Please take me away from all this.”

  They had the elevator to themselves, which was a good thing considering Carlos’s condition. “If only I could. Funny, how I’ve never seen it before. You’re all killing each other bit by bit. Every day a little death.”

  “Oh, pet, you’re so clever. You and Sondheim.”

  They got off the elevator. Wetzon followed Carlos, who was doing drunken leaps down the corridor. At any moment, he would fall on his face. The door to Wetzon’s room was standing open; Smith’s makeup case and overnighter were in the hall.

  “I have a
fairy godmother after all,” Wetzon murmured.

  “Of course you do, dear heart, and her name is Carlos Prince.”

  “That does it. Go to your room.”

  “Come over and tuck me in, Birdie. There’s a little something I need to talk about.”

  Wetzon stopped in front of her open door. Dick Hartmann was helping a radiant Smith on with her coat.

  “Oh, here’s Little Miss Wetzon,” Hartmann said. The attorney had a focus problem with one eye, so you always felt he was talking to someone next to or behind you.

  “Sweetie! I’m so glad to see you. I was just about to leave you a note.”

  “Oh, shucks, are you moving out, Smith?”

  “Dickie has a suite at the Four Seasons.”

  “How lovely, Dickie. Smith, I’m going back tomorrow. Artie Agron’s manager is on to him. B.B. and I are going to help him clear out and copy his books.”

  “Well, of course, business comes first. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

  “I’ll live.”

  Smith pursed her lips. “My baby is on his way home.”

  “To New York?”

  “Yes. Mort insisted on it, and rightfully so, I think. Don’t you, sugar?” She looked at Hartmann, whose nod was imperceptible. “Mark didn’t tell the truth about his age, and Mort was extremely concerned. Joel had his limo take Mark to Logan for the last shuttle.” She sighed and fluffed her hair, stepping past Wetzon into the corridor. “Joel is such a dear.”

  “Yes, he is. And he’s absolutely crazy about you.” Hartmann flashed Wetzon a nasty look, which flew over her shoulder. “You should have seen him, Dickie. He couldn’t do enough for Smith. ‘Night, y’all.” She closed the door, smiling, then surveyed the room. It looked as if a cyclone hit it. “But, sweetie pie,” Wetzon said aloud, “it’s all yours.”

  She gave her coat a shock by hanging it on a real hanger instead of over the back of the chair. Picking up all the towels, she piled them on what had been Smith’s bed. The white terry robe she laid across hers. She had the overwhelming urge to lie down with it.

  “Not tempted to do anything foolish, are we?”

  She hadn’t heard the key in the lock, and when she spun around, there was Hartmann standing near the door. He made a gun of his forefinger and thumb and cocked it at her. His floating eye was disconcerting, and she wanted to laugh at the melodrama, but she knew his connections were dangerous.