Murder: The Musical

by Meyers, Annette

  “The murderer is a young white male, probably in his twenties, who’s been deprived of a strong father figure.”

  Her heart sank. Izz opened her jet eyes and stared at her. “Anything else?” Wetzon said it with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

  “Yeah. We figure the killer’s real confused about his sexual orientation.”

  57.

  “So listen to this, Wetzon.” Gordon Prell was steaming across the phone wires at her. She shifted the phone to her shoulder and flipped through her messages. There was no sign of Smith, and there’d been no answer at her apartment last night.

  Wetzon had not been able to bring herself to listen to her messages. Not last night, not this morning. All she could think about was that Silvestri’s profile of the murderer fit Mark to a tee. And Silvestri had to know it.

  “Are you listening, Wetzon?”

  “Yes, Gordon.” She mouthed thanks to Max who’d just handed her Gordon Prell’s suspect sheet. Gross production in 1992: eight hundred thou. Nice.

  “I’m getting zero’d on the deals here. That’s not what they promised when I came over.”

  “You’re not getting anything at all?” She found that hard to believe.

  “Well, I’m getting some, but not what I used to get. So I says to Beverly—she’s Alan’s assistant—how come I’m not getting a piece of this, and she says no deals are coming down this week and she has no allocation, and I happen to know for a fact that’s not true.”

  “How do you know?” She looked at Susan’s photograph on the lower left of the front page of the Times and felt her heart catch in her throat. The headline said:

  MYSTERIOUS FALL KILLS POET

  Trust the Times to be conservative.

  “Because that putz Ray flaunted it at me. Well, maybe he didn’t, but his girl told my girl.”

  Nice going, Gordon, she thought. Make the girl headhunter feel good. She considered hanging up, but instead switched ears and opened the newspaper to the rest of Susan’s obit. What a whore you are, Wetzon, she told herself. “Gordon, talk to Alan.”

  “You haven’t heard the rest of it. I’ve got this gorgeous ashtray on my desk from the Petrified Forest, and when I told Ray he’s nothing but a dickhead, he peed in my ashtray.”

  “He what?”

  “You heard me, Wetzon. So I went into Alan’s office and let him have it, and you know what Alan said?”

  “I can hardly wait to hear....”

  “He has the nerve to say to me, ‘Well, Ray is number two in the office. He can pee in your ashtray. When you get to be number two, you can pee in his.’”

  Wetzon clapped her hand over her mouth to cover her laugh, then pulled herself together. “Gee Gordon, that’s awful. So I suppose you want to talk to a couple of other firms.”

  “No, I don’t. Management at all these firms are nothing but flaming assholes. Why should I trade one asshole for another? Not on your life. I’m going to be number two.” He hung up in her ear.

  “Oh, God,” she said aloud. “Only a masochist would put up with this.” She was weary to the bone, having slept in fits and starts all night. But no dreams, good or otherwise. At six Izz had awakened her and Wetzon had stuck her bare feet into her boots and thrown her fur coat over her flannel nightshirt, stuffing her pockets with paper towels and a plastic bag. Then she and Izz stood in the gutter in front of the building shivering, looking at one another, until Izz finally began to circle.

  A door slammed and Wetzon started. She’d dozed off. It was ten o’clock, and here was Smith coming through the door wrapped in mink, charcoal smudges under her eyes. Wetzon didn’t have the heart to tease her. Smith looked whipped.

  Throwing herself into her chair, Smith said morosely, “We’re going to make a lot of money.” She slipped out of her coat. “It’s really cold. I’m glad I didn’t give my mink away in a mad impetuous gesture.” Silently, she dared Wetzon to say something. “You don’t look any better than I do.”

  “The years are just dancing away with us.”

  “Oh, please.” But Smith smiled a minuscule smile.

  “How’s Mark?”

  Smith bowed her head. “He’s insisting we call him Smitty.”

  “Fine with me. How’s Smitty?”

  “That Arthur Margolies person is very nice, and Ma—Smitty can’t seem to warm up to Dickie, God only knows why.”

  “God and Wetzon.”

  Smith gave her a searing look. “Please, no jokes. I can’t handle it. This is all extremely traumatic for me. Can you believe the police suspect my baby ...” She stopped and called out, “Coffee, Max sweetie. Please hurry.” Staring at Wetzon, she said, “Where was I? Oh, I can’t even say it, it’s so awful. If it weren’t for Dickie, I would have had a breakdown.”

  Max opened the door and handed each a fragrant mug of coffee. “There, there, dear.” He gave Smith a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and left.

  “It’s so ridiculous. He seems so angry with me,” Smith said. “What have I done? Oh, my God.” She began to cry.

  Wetzon rushed to her and held her. “It’ll be okay. You’ll see. Our Smitty is not a murderer.”

  Smith sniffled. “Since you got us into this, we’re going to have to put our minds to finding the real one.”

  “Excuse me? I got us into this?”

  “And the cards are so confusing. I can’t read what they’re saying. Wands and swords. Wands?”

  “Wait a minute. By wand, do you mean a stick?”

  “Maybe.”

  Wetzon thought: The murder weapon. Fran Burke’s cane.

  “What am I ever going to do? I don’t know how I’ll live through this....”

  “Smith, any evidence they have is circumstantial, and he’s come forward of his own volition and talked to the police in Boston and here.”

  “That’s true.” She dried her eyes and blew her nose.

  “A lot of people had motive and opportunity, not just Smitty.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right. I know my baby didn’t do it.” She pulled her mirror from a drawer and looked at herself, frowning. “But he’s changed so, I hardly know him. How can he be one of those ...” Searching the pockets of her mink, she found what she was looking for—her Vuarnets—and put on the dark glasses. “He’s going into therapy, starting today. Maybe it’s a vitamin deficiency.”

  “Smith, please, being gay is not a disease.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Is he going back to school?”

  “Not yet. I don’t think it matters anymore. He’s had early admission at Harvard. All he has to do is take his finals in May. I’d like to keep him with me until he goes to college. A lot of things can happen in six months.” She took off her dark glasses and stared in the mirror again. “I look like Dracula’s mother.” Her eyes settled on Wetzon’s left hand, didn’t register, then did. “What’s that?” she shrieked. “Why didn’t you tell me? Let me see.”

  Wetzon held her hand out to Smith. “I guess I said yes.”

  “Oh, for pitysakes. You guess? Show a little excitement.” She held Wetzon’s fingers on her palm and studied the ring. All she needed was a jeweler’s glass to check the stone.

  “Whoopie.” Wetzon twirled her finger in the air.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Come,” Smith commanded.

  The door swung open and Max blinked at them. “The market is up one forty- five in heavy trading. No one wants to talk.”

  “Keep trying, dear Max. Someone will,” Smith said. “Close the door behind you.” She smiled at him.

  “How about lunch?”

  “You know you’ll have to supervise them better. Can you imagine? No one wants to talk.” Smith caught Max’s inflection exactly. “Lunch? Oh, sweetie pie, I can’t today. I’m getting a manicure, pedicure, and a facial. Then Enzo is going to trim me.” She ran a hand through her curls. “In fact—” she looked at her watch, “I’d better get moving.” Standing, she got back into her coat. “Anythin
g I should know about?”

  “You might check your messages.”

  “Oh.” She fanned through the pink slips and dropped them in her wastebasket. “Nothing.” She grinned at Wetzon.

  “Very funny. Kidder is supposed to be on the block again and Sandy Weill is eyeing it, and there’s a rumor that Lehman is going to be a leveraged buy-out.”

  “Tell me something new. Sandy Weill is a bottom feeder. He’s not going to pay top dollar for Kidder and GE is not going to sell Kidder at a bargain price. It’s all about testosterone.”

  “Thank you, Louis Rukeyser.”

  But Smith was already out the door.

  Wetzon spent the rest of the morning touching base with her regulars, listening for any signs of “the itch,” as she called it. But the trading was hot and the only itchy-sounding broker asked her to call him next week. What to do? She read through Susan’s obit again.

  Hungry, she opened the door and remembered she had promised B.B. some time. She’d take him to lunch. “B.B., come on and get a bite to eat with me. Max can hold the fort, can’t you, Max?”

  Max nodded. Into the phone he said, “Tell me, Joe, what is your product mix? Uh huh. And your assets under management? Well, that’s very good.”

  The phone rang, and B.B. grabbed it as they were putting on their coats. “Smith and Wetzon. Hold on. I’ll see if I can catch her.” He pressed down his hold button.

  “Who is it?”

  “Detective O’Melvany.”

  “I’d better take it.” She went back to her desk, picked up the phone. “Leslie Wetzon.”

  “Ed O’Melvany, Leslie. We have some crime scene photos of Susan Orkin’s place. Can you come have a look at them? You might pick up something we didn’t.”

  Well, if that wasn’t flattering ... “How about three-thirty this afternoon?”

  “Deal. We’re on Sixty-seventh Street, between Lex and Third. Ask for me.

  Wetzon and B.B. walked up to La Cucina in the Pan Am Building, where you could get a fairly decent sandwich on a French roll and salad already made up, packaged in plastic. The Pan Am Building was now the Met Life Building, but it would take a generation—at least—for New Yorkers to adapt to the name change.

  A cold wind had blown away the rain clouds and cool northern sunlight bathed the city. The president was speaking at a U.J.A. luncheon and police had erected barricades along Forty-sixth Street and up Park Avenue to the Waldorf. The streets were teeming with cops, especially around the hotel.

  “So what’s up, B.B.?” Traffic was sparce because lurid warnings of gridlock had been broadcast on the media. “The tuna nicoise is very good.”

  B.B. was silent as they chose their sandwiches and helped themselves to coffee. Wetzon paid the cashier and they sat down at one of the tables. He hung up his navy duffle and dug into his salad and sandwich as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. Working on her own sandwich, she knew he would tell her soon enough what was on his mind, but she wasn’t so sure she was going to like it. It was as if he had something to confess. Of course, he was going to tell her he was the murderer. Didn’t he fit the profile? Didn’t half of America?

  Finally, B.B. looked directly at her, then blurted out: “I’m leaving.”

  58.

  Wetzon sighed. “When?” Good thing he was telling her and not Smith. Smith would have torn him limb from limb.

  “In the spring. The end of April.”

  “Why?” She’d lost her appetite. The thought of training someone new was anathema to her right now.

  “Wendy and I are getting married.”

  “B.B., you’re so young.” Why did this young kid have no problem making a commitment?

  “I’m twenty-five now, Wetzon,” B.B. said, as if twenty-five were ancient. “Wendy’s father and grandfather are vintners. We’re moving to Oregon, and I’m going into the family business.”

  He was so earnest and ingenuous. “Well,” she said, “that’s wonderful. We’ll be sorry to lose you.”

  “Wetzon, I hope you’re not mad at me.” There was nothing left of his lunch but a curly carrot strip and some bread crumbs lying soggy in salad dressing.

  “I’m not. You have to move on with your life.”

  “Smith will be mad—”

  “I’ll take care of Smith.” She patted his hand. “Go on back to the office. We can talk more about it tomorrow.”

  She drank her coffee and watched B.B. gather up his empty containers and throw them away. He was a clean-cut, decent young man, and he was passing out of their lives. Oh, yes, Smith would be furious. They had been months finding Max after hiring people who either didn’t show up, didn’t last, or couldn’t handle either Smith or telephone sales technique. Or both. Training someone new always cut into earnings because of the time and supervision it took. That responsibility would fall on Wetzon. One more problem.

  Onward and upward, she thought, rising. She tossed her plastic container and coffee cup into the trash basket and walked through Grand Central Station to the Lexington Avenue subway. The lunch crowd mixed with travelers who came in via train from Westchester and Connecticut. Fast-food shops emitted pizza, popcorn, and hotdog odors, and the sun was a radiant stream through the glorious skylight way above.

  She got on the Lexington local and sat, her thoughts roiling. Moments later, a derelict in jaggedly torn jeans—the real thing—and a filthy nylon jacket sat down next to her. Grime had settled into his pores unchallenged. He was munching M&M’s from a cellophane bag one at a time. She shrank away, thinking she ought to get up.

  “Want some?” He thrust the package at her, smiling, showing a double-toothed gap.

  “Huh?”

  His foxy eyes stared at her.

  “No, thank you.” She rose and moved away from him, but he kept grinning at her and holding out the bag. Why did she feel so guilty about hurting his feelings? Flushing, she looked out at the dark tunnel with its flashing red lights. She had lost her sense of humor.

  She got off at the Sixty-eighth Street stop, near Hunter College and the massive, redbrick Seventh Armory, home, the sign said, of the Second Brigade, 42nd Infantry Division. The Nineteenth Precinct was on a mostly residential block. The building, one of the old stone precinct houses that can still be found here and there around the city, had been recently cleaned and renovated. The renovation was obviously done in 1991, for just under each hanging lamp on either side of the door was a plaque, 1887 on the left, and 1991 on the right.

  She climbed the outer stairs wondering at the baby blue painted window and door trim. All that was missing were the quaint window boxes overflowing with pansies.

  Inside, the building was colder than it was on the street. A woman with clipped white hair and a wide, makeup-free face was sitting huddled in a blue overcoat at a metal desk, a large sign-in book open in front of her. To her right was a red-and-white Coke container with a straw coming through its cover. The sign on her desk said: All visitors must sign in.

  “I have an appointment with Detective O’Melvany.”

  “Name?”

  “Leslie Wetzon.”

  “Sign in. Down there. Turn right. Use the stairs. Elevator doesn’t work. Detectives are on two.” She was a woman of few words.

  Two husky young men in sweats, carrying duffel bags, were coming down the stairs. They gave her the once-over, and she smiled. It gave her a lift, and hell, she had to admit she had a thing for cops.

  The squadroom looked the same as any squadroom. Detectives at desks, on phones, standing around drinking coffee, working on reports. On the walls were cluttered bulletin boards and cardboard notices. An elderly couple, clinging to one another, were being comforted by a woman detective. The same battered old typewriters were scattered about the room. What, no computers?

  O’Melvany met her halfway and brought her into his office. He was very friendly, took her coat, got her seated in one of the metal chairs with the fake leather seats, and offered her a Diet Coke, which she refused. A stack of folders a
nd a cassette machine were on his desk. Behind the desk was a large bulletin board. A map of the precinct was pinned on it. He said, “I’d offer you coffee, but it’s really poisonous.”

  She shook her head. “Was Susan murdered?”

  O’Melvany turned the machine on and emptied the butt-filled ashtray into a wastebasket before replying. “Looks that way,” he told her. “She didn’t try to stop the fall. No bruises on her hands. She was dead or unconscious when she went down those stairs. Her head looked like the Crosby woman. He hit her square in front.”

  “He?”

  “Generally speaking.”

  “Still no murder weapon?”

  “A pipe maybe.”

  “Or a cane?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Death by blunt instrument unknown.” Wetzon closed her eyes and pressed her hand over her mouth. I can’t stand this, she thought.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded.

  “You don’t look it.” When she opened her eyes, he was standing over her, oddly concerned, as if he knew her better than he did. It was confusing.

  “I am,” she assured him. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “Are you up to giving us a statement?” He sat down on the edge of his desk, one big foot on the floor.

  “Isn’t that why I’m here?”

  “Okay, walk me through.”

  “Susan and I were supposed to have lunch Saturday, but ... she was afraid of someone. She has been since Dilla was killed. Susan thought she was going to be next.”

  “Why would she think that?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me. I think she knew, though. She said someone was stalking her, that someone had tried to break into her apartment. When she didn’t show up, I called the apartment and got a busy signal. I thought she was at home so I went on over.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “I met her housekeeper, Rhoda, downstairs with Izz, Susan’s dog. The dog recognized me, so I offered to take her up with me while Rhoda did the marketing.”

  “Was the door to the apartment closed?”

  “It was locked. Izz had the house key hidden in her collar. I knew that from my first visit.”