Wetzon hid a smile. Ah, she thought, the education of Xenia Smith. Smith might just come out of this a better person. “Well, I guess Dilla was either bisexual or maybe, as people often said, just plain rotten and calculating. Anyway, the king gave her a gorgeous mink coat and a red Corvette, among other things.”
Smith punched air with her right fist. “Yes!”
So much for Wetzon’s daydream of a new Smith. “Thank you very much. So King Lenny was stashing cash and stuff away for years in his mega safe deposit box.”
Smith smiled. She always smiled when she heard about money, or schemes to get same. “Go on.”
“Then the king got sick—cancer—and it was bad. While he was in the hospital dying, with his loving family around him, someone with a key to his safe deposit box signed in as his wife, Celia, and cleaned everything out. And when the box was opened after he died, it was empty. I heard that story from Poppy Hornberg.”
“Very ingenious.”
“No. Very larcenous. At the king’s funeral Celia Kaufer made a tearful appeal for the money. I heard that from Alton. I guess they weren’t destitute, but they had an expensive life style that they could no longer support.”
“Of course, it was never returned.”
“Of course. This is like putting a picture puzzle together. Not all the pieces fit the first time around. Fran Burke was Lenny Kaufer’s protege. I think he’s been sort of godfathering Phil.”
“That old coot might have killed Dilla to avenge his mentor.”
“True. When I first visited Susan, Dilla’s mother and sister and brother-in-law were there packing her things. Susan’s dog Izz—by the way—I have a foster dog now. A Maltese.”
“You? A dog? How does Alton feel about that?”
“It’s of no consequence.”
“Wait a minute, where’s your ring?”
“I’ve broken it off with Alton, Smith.”
“I can’t believe even you would do anything so stupid.”
Offended, Wetzon said, “Well, I guess I did, and it’s not up for discussion. Do you want to hear the rest?”
“Get to the end, please.”
“You know you have the attention span of a duck? Remember the embroidery inside the pouch of jewelry that Susan sent me? It said Lenny/Celia. Everyone on Hotshot saw Dilla wearing that ring the whole week before she was murdered, but she wasn’t wearing it when we found her. And when I met Edna Terrace, she was wearing a ring just like the one Carlos and Sunny described.”
“So we’re back where we started. Who would kill for a ring? Was it worth a couple of mil? If it was, I could see killing.”
“Oh, shut up, Smith. If Dilla cleaned out Lenny’s safe deposit box, she was killed for revenge. I bet Dilla thought by giving Phil a job, she could make up for what she had done. On the other hand, when the police drew up the profile of Dilla’s murderer, they said it was a young man with no strong male role model, which is why Smitty—”
A tear rolled down Smith’s cheek. “But sweetie, isn’t Phil Terrace a young man? Does he have a father? It’s so unfair.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, the police are not always right. I met that Fran Burke. That old man should be sent to the glue factory.”
“Fran controls the ice now. If that ring belonged to Celia Kaufer, both Fran and Edna would have recognized it immediately. Maybe Dilla thought enough time had passed so that she could wear it.”
“Then she was a fool.”
“Fran hated Mort for how he was treating Phil. His eyes aren’t so good. He could have mistaken Sam for Mort in the men’s smoker. His cane is a blunt, cylindrical object.”
“Yes,” Smith said, excitement in her voice. “And he’d have nothing to lose.”
“What makes you say that?”
Smith clasped her hands together under her chin. “Walter Greenow told me this is Fran’s last show. He’s dying of liver cancer.”
66.
Wetzon outlined her lips with the lip pencil, then filled them in with a brush. Her hand trembled. Openings always made her nervous.
Almost two weeks had passed. Hotshot: The Musical had come in from Boston and played a week of totally sold-out previews. Ticket scalpers were lined up before the box office opened each morning. People were behaving as if it were the Second Coming.
Alex Witchel’s wonderful interview with Carlos had appeared in last Sunday’s Times, and Mort would be on the cover of Time next week.
Smitty had been indicted for homicide—Susan’s—by a grand jury and was out on bail, but Arthur still felt the case would never go to trial. No hard evidence had come to light, only Susan’s note in her date book and Smitty’s thumbprint on the service door. And still no murder weapon.
“So what do you think, Izz?” Oh, dear, she was going to have to watch herself. Izz lay on Wetzon’s bed watching Oprah, seemingly mesmerized by the timbre of Oprah’s voice.
Alton phoned every day. Wetzon wavered each time she heard his voice. His steadying presence in her life was beginning to fade. Stepping into her standby basic black wool and spandex jersey, she pulled it up over her hips and stuck her arms in the sleeves. Yet she had to admit she liked the adventure of living alone again, the stir of anticipation about the new and unexpected.
Opening night curtain was six-fifteen. Early, so the critics could write their reviews and deliver them on the eleven o’clock news, as well as meet deadlines on the few daily newspapers left. She remembered the days when there were seven.
She put a coat of clear polish over her pink nails and fluttering her fingers, lay down on her bed waiting for the polish to dry. It was a good excuse for Izz to shimmy over and crawl up on Wetzon’s belly to stare at her. “Don’t look at me, watch Oprah.” Oprah’s subject was the joy of May/December marriages. Pointing the remote at the screen, Wetzon zapped her. Enough of that.
The phone rang. She jostled Izz aside and answered it, careful to protect her polish.
“Leslie? This is Sonya.”
Wetzon had rescheduled her Thursday session with Sonya because of the opening. “Hi, Sonya. You didn’t forget that the opening is tonight, did you?”
“No. I wanted to tell you why I asked you to hold April first for me. It’s ... well, Eddie and I are getting married.”
Sonya and Eddie.... “You mean O’Melvany?” Wetzon felt a rush of ... what? Envy?
“Yes. Are you surprised?”
“I shouldn’t be. I knew that you guys were seeing each other, but getting married ...”
“We both want it to be official, and we’d like you to stand up for us because you introduced us.”
“Me? Gosh, Sonya, I’d be honored.”
“We’re going to meet at the Municipal Building at One Centre Street. One o’clock on April first. Can you do it?”
“Yes, of course. Sonya, best wishes and all that.”
“Thank you, Leslie. You can’t imagine how happy I am.”
Try me, Wetzon thought. Just try me.
When her downstairs buzzer sounded, she draped her black cashmere shawl around her and left, much to Izz’s distress.
In her lobby a nervous panther named Carlos was pacing. “Come on, come on, Birdie, we’ll be late.”
“Where’s Arthur?”
“In the cab. Let’s go.” He hustled her into the cab next to Arthur.
“What’s with your friend?” she asked, and they both laughed. Carlos ignored them.
The theatre marquee was a rainbow of brilliant hues. Barricades had been set up to keep oglers and photographers back. Celebrities always requested tickets for openings of shows that were going to be hits so that their photographs would be in the next morning papers. There would be plenty of stars out tonight. A mounted policeman sat high on his observation tower talking to a man in an ill-fitting tux and a yarmulke. Bernstein. All dressed up for the opening. Why was he here? Wetzon tried to get his attention but the crowd was thickening.
“Let’s get a drink,” Arthur s
uggested, and they headed over to Sardi’s.
Spring had arrived three days earlier and not a minute too soon, either. She had not had her terrifying dream since the night she’d left Alton. Don’t look for solutions, Sonya had said, and she was trying not to.
They had a quick drink at the bar and then came back to the theatre and took their seats. Around them sat Cher with a dark-haired young man, Mary Tyler Moore, Mike Nichols, and Diane Sawyer. Julie Andrews was two rows away. Sunny Browning had whispered to Wetzon in the lobby that she had placed Wetzon and Arthur next to the MacBeths, otherwise known as Frank Rich and his wife, Alex Witchel. Wetzon was aware from experience that you took care what you said on opening night because you never knew who was sitting next to you or in front of you. Or, for that matter, behind you.
It was dressed-to-kill night. Smith wore a black off-one-shoulder long narrow sheath with a slit to the thigh, and a huge lemony taffeta shawl. She clung exquisitely to Joel Kidde’s arm. Behind her was Smitty, looking the handsome boy-man in black tie.
Wetzon’s eyes traveled up to the mez, dreading the vision of Dilla’s broken body. Just before the houselights began to dim, she caught another glimpse of Bernstein. Then the house went dark and JoJo appeared in black tie and tails. He waited for the applause to die down, then he raised his baton. The overture began.
The show sailed from number to number with at least three showstoppers in the first act. The fancy-dressed audience, which included investors and cast family members among the celebrities, seemed to be having a grand time.
During intermission, Wetzon ran into a radiant Poppy Hornberg in the ladies’ room, her face pink and blooming, probably because of her recent stay in Florida. “Isn’t it wonderful?” Poppy gushed. She seemed less acerbic, even mellow, and it was flattering.
“You look lovely, Poppy. A hit musical in the family agrees with you.”
“Oh, it’s not that—some part of it maybe—but I’m—” Poppy lowered her voice, but excitement raised it again. “I’m pregnant.”
Good grief, Wetzon thought. Sonya was getting married. Poppy Hornberg was pregnant. What was happening? “I’m so happy for you and Mort. When?”
“We’ve been trying for years, Leslie. Can you imagine? The end of November.”
Back in her seat as the second act curtain went up, Wetzon was distracted. She watched from a far planet until the finale, “Merrily, the M.16,” brought the entire audience, except the critics, to their feet. The MacBeths left the theatre, and the ovations continued through the bows. Then JoJo reprised “M.16” as the audience exited.
“Well,” Arthur said, with a broad smile, “shall we go backstage?”
“Of course.”
They waited until the audience filed out, and went up on stage through the pass door. Well-wishers surged around the creators.
“Congratulations, Mort,” Wetzon said. He was beaming in his ruffled shirt and Armani tux.
“Bless you, darling,” he said, kissing her, shaking hands with Arthur. “It was wonderful, wasn’t it? Quite my best work.”
“I meant the baby,” Wetzon said, intentionally wicked.
He actually turned red. “Yes, it’s swell, isn’t it?”
She moved on, and her place was filled by Carol Burnett, wearing the exact same dress as Smith, but with a coral shawl. Arthur had slipped away. Where was he? Twoey and Sunny were talking with Smith and Janet Barnes, Twoey’s mother. Alton had left that morning for California, or he would most certainly have been there. The crowd swelled and Wetzon suddenly found herself in the wings, pushed up against the stage manager’s desk. She caught sight of Phil briefly—wearing his baseball cap on backward, his face glowing—and she waved to him. Now, she stepped back and bumped something propped up under the desk. Whatever it was was wrapped in a blue canvas fencing bag. It toppled over. She bent to pick it up, grasping it through the canvas. It wasn’t a foil; it was a baseball bat.
She straightened, smoothing her dress. Phil was into the Broadway Show League, wasn’t he? She recalled the conversation in the Polish Tea Room the day Hotshot left town. There was nothing wrong with his being on the baseball team. On the other hand, the bat was a cylindrical-shaped object. And Phil was, as Smith had pointed out, a young man with, perhaps, some gender confusion and no strong father influence.
Bernstein was here somewhere. She could mention it to him.
A voice said, “Is there a problem, girl?”
Wetzon jumped. “Oh, God, Fran, you startled me. I was thinking about ... Carlos. I haven’t been able to get to him.”
“Well, come with me,” Fran said, taking a firm grip on her elbow. His cane, a metal one, hung loosely on his arm.
“What happened to your beautiful antique cane?”
“It was wormy and starting coming apart, so I put it away.” His blue eyes were calculating, as if trying to read her. “I told you to leave it be, girl. You should have listened to me.”
Across the crowded stage she saw Arthur and waved frantically. But he didn’t see her. The din of voices, all talking at once, was deafening. She tried to pull her elbow from Fran’s grasp. Couldn’t. He had a powerful grip for an old man who was supposedly dying of cancer. “Let me go, please, Fran.” But he was propelling her inexorably away from Carlos.
67.
Wetzon pulled back and kicked Fran in the instep, hard. He gasped in pain, releasing her. Without a look back, she plunged through the crowd to Carlos.
“Birdie, dear heart!” Carlos had spotted her pawing her way through the noisy crowd. Everyone and his cousin from every area of show business was here tonight, it seemed, because a hit was in the offing. You wouldn’t find most of these people at the opening of a bomb. They couldn’t even give those tickets away. Of course, there were always some who would come to take pleasure in a competitor’s failure. But not tonight.
“Carlos! It was wonderful!” She threw her arms around his neck, smiling all the time, and whispered in his ear, “I think I’ve found the murder weapon. Phil’s bat.” If she could swipe that bat, the forensic people would be able to check whether there was any blood on it....
“What? I can’t hear you, darling. Tell me at Sardi’s. Paul, Joanne, bless you for coming—”
Well, Wetzon thought, superceded by the ravishing Paul Newman. Joanne Woodward, wearing little makeup, still looked at least a decade younger than she had to be.
After Paul and Joanne moved on to congratulate Mort, Wetzon tried once more to tell Carlos.
“Carlos, Phil’s bat. Can you get it out of the theatre tonight or hide it somewhere until I can find Bernstein?” Where was he anyway? She would do it herself except she couldn’t now in front of everyone, and it would look suspicious if she stayed in the theatre after everyone left. Unless she could hide herself somewhere.
Carlos was looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. He said, “It’s baseball season, Birdie.”
“I’m serious, Carlos. It could be the murder weapon.”
He winked at her. “Maybe I’ll humor you just this once.” Damn. He wasn’t even taking her seriously.
“Wetzon!” Twoey grabbed her from behind and lifted her off the ground. He was glowing.
“I guess you’re having a good time.” She threw him a grin.
“The best. And I have you to thank. I owe you. Come on to Sardi’s.”
She looked pointedly at Carlos. “Don’t nag,” he said, making his mouth a kiss.
Sardi’s, which sat smack in the middle of the Theatre District on Forty- fourth Street between Broadway and Eighth, was the most convenient place for an opening night party and there was a certain history involved. For more years than most could remember Sardi’s had been the most popular Broadway restaurant among show people, not so much for the food, but because Vincent Sardi made theatre people on every level feel welcome. He actually gave discounts to actors and their families, particularly during holidays when actors had to play both a matinee and an evening performance. Everywhere over the banq
uettes around the room were caricatures of present and laterday Broadway names. It was a hallowed tradition for opening night parties to be set there.
Tonight, Mort had taken over the entire restaurant to celebrate his latest soon-to-be (the critical approval hadn’t come in yet so it was not official) smash hit musical. Move over Phantom, Wetzon thought.
Wetzon looked around for Bernstein. Maybe no one had bothered telling him there was a party after the show. She smiled. Mort would hate to pay for someone who wore a cheap tux and a yarmulke.
Applause started near the entrance as Mort entered, and she joined in half-heartedly.
“How do you think we’ll do with the New York critics?” Twoey asked.
Wetzon saw Mary Cullin, Mort’s long-time press agent, draw him aside for a whispered conference. Had the reviews begun to come in so early? She knew a private phone line had been set up so that Mary could get her call from someone at the Times the minute Frank Rich turned in his copy. “Great,” she told Twoey. “With a few possible minor reservations about the subject matter.”
“We can handle that. Can’t we, Sunny?” Sunny Browning was wearing black, too. But, then, New York women always opted for black. It was their color.
“This will be a word-of-mouth hit,” Sunny said, smiling. “I don’t think the Times will matter. There was a line at the box office when it opened this morning. Edna told me we wrapped over a hundred thousand in advance sales before lunch.”
“Was Edna wearing Dilla’s ring, Sunny?”
Sunny’s smile faded. “Leave it be, Leslie. This is a celebration.”
Twoey was looking at them, confused by their intensity.
“You and Fran. What’s the matter with all of you? That damn ring may have been the catalyst for three murders, Sunny.”
They stepped back as Cher squeezed by, followed by Phil Donahue and Marlo Thomas. Joel Grey gave Wetzon a high five and a “long time no see, Leslie.”
Sunny moved away and started talking to Mort. Twoey looked down at Wetzon. “Hey, congratulations! Where’s the happy bridegroom?”
“If you mean Alton, we’re giving it a rest.”
Murder: The Musical Page 37