Murder: The Musical

by Meyers, Annette

  “What? Come outside for a minute. I can’t hear you over the noise.” He guided her past a portly gentleman who was blocking the doorway talking to someone outside.

  “Move one way or the other,” a harassed man at the door said. It was his job to check invitations and names against the party list.

  Out on the street behind police barricades the autograph seekers, the oglers and the media people swarmed. Flashbulbs popped. Stretch and normal limos were double-parked, clogging Forty-fourth Street. The sky above the neon marquees was a strange sulfery gray. Cold gusts of wind swept through Shubert Alley, tussling hair, swirling dirt into miniature cyclones. Wetzon’s shawl offered little warmth.

  “Twoey,” she said, “it’s not going to happen with me and Alton.”

  His face became serious. “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Well, then I’m going to have to live with it.” She felt herself getting angry. But Twoey was not to blame. She knew he cared for her. Her anger dissipated.

  They went back inside and Wetzon found Arthur at the bar getting himself a scotch. “Beer for me,” she said.

  Aline’s arrival on Edward’s arm brought another wave of applause. They were followed by JoJo and his wife, a fat mama type with cascading jet black hair and the shadow of a mustache. JoJo always fooled around with someone in the company and he always came back to his wife.

  Smith and Joel Kidde. She was fluttering her eyelashes at him. Did men still fall for that shit, Wetzon wondered. Joel had that proprietary male hand on Smith’s bare neck. Bye-Bye Hartmann, Wetzon hummed to the tune of “Bye-Bye Blackbird.” Joel was just another sleaze and not much better than Hartmann, but at least he would probably not end up in jail.

  “Arthur, did you talk to Marissa Peiser?” she asked over the babble.

  “Yes. They’re going to present the Hartmann case to a Grand Jury. It’s not going to be easy, I’m afraid, to keep you out of it, but she’s going to try.”

  “And Smitty?”

  “I’m confident that will never go to trial. Where do you suppose Carlos is?”

  “I was wondering that myself.” A germ of worry had begun to unsettle her mind.

  “A martini, extra dry,” Aline said. She edged herself toward Wetzon.

  “Congratulations, Aline. You’ve got a sure smash.”

  “Yes.” Aline’s dress was a black curtain of bugle beads, and she wore a heavy gold cuff on the wrist where the cast had been.

  “Have you seen Carlos?”

  “No.” She took a greedy swallow of her martini and looked at Wetzon with a touch of animosity. “You thin girls ...”

  “Aline, did you see the ring Edna Terrace is wearing?”

  Eyes flat as Tiddley Winks stared back at Wetzon. “Leave it be, Leslie.”

  If she’d been Smith, she would have said, Oh, for pitysakes. “I’ll see you later,” she told Aline.

  “I’ll see if I can find Carlos,” Arthur said, leaving her at the bar.

  No one, Wetzon was thinking, including Carlos, wanted to make waves. Who were they protecting? Phil? The show? The thing to do was go back to the theatre. Strange that the only person here tonight she could trust on this was Smith, and that only because of Smitty.

  She saw Sunny huddling with Mort, Kay Lewis in black silk pants and jacket, one of those Velcro casts on her bum ankle, and Nomi in a tuxedo pantsuit. Mary Cullin appeared behind Mort and ushered him into another room. The others followed. The New York Times had come in.

  No Carlos, no Fran Burke, no Edna, no Phil. She began to sweat. Fran had seen her with the canvas bag. Find Bernstein, that was the ticket. Let him handle it. She made her way slowly upstairs, searching for Bernstein or Carlos. The only thing that remained was for her to go back to the theatre. Down the stairs, she scooted past the bar and out on the icy street. She’d left her shawl somewhere, or maybe Twoey had checked it.

  Down Forty-fourth Street toward Eighth Avenue, she could see the lights of the glowing marquees of the Broadhurst, where Chita Rivera was starring in Kiss of the Spider Woman, and the Majestic, still the home of Phantom. At the St. James the marquee for the Who’s Tommy was in bright yellows.

  The wind was vicious. She stepped back in the doorway of the restaurant, hugging herself, and was bumped from behind by someone coming out. “Smith!”

  “Where are you going?” It was an accusation. Smith was holding a drink. In her black velvet Carolina Herrara, she was half-naked, wearing flimsy satin sandals.

  “Oh, for godsakes, Smith, go back inside. You’ll freeze like that.” Wetzon moved out of the way and the wind caught her hair and stood it on end.

  Smith stepped out anyway, shivering. “Tell me where you’re going.”

  “Okay. I think I saw the murder weapon at the theatre—out in the open, come to think of it, like The Purloined Letter.”

  Smith threw the drink into the gutter, but the wind caught the glass, lifting it in a wicked gust, and dashed it to smithereens against the scene shots of Crazy for You in the Plexiglass display windows of the Shubert Theatre, across the street. Hands on Wetzon’s shoulders, Smith insisted, “What are you saying?”

  “The murder weapon has to be Phil Terrace’s baseball bat. Carlos was supposed to smuggle it out or hide it somewhere in the theatre, but he’s not here. I’m afraid something’s happened to him.”

  “Let’s go,” Smith said, starting across the street.

  “No. Go back to the party. See if you can find Bernstein.”

  Smith hesitated. Her gold and crystal earrings bobbed in the swirling gusts. “All right, but if you’re not back in twenty minutes, I’m coming after you.”

  Nodding, Wetzon raced across the street into Shubert Alley. “Find Bernstein,” she called back to Smith.

  The wind whipped through Shubert Alley, riffling Playbills, scattering litter, pommeling her. She stopped at the Booth Theatre to catch her breath and then went on. Scaffolding on the construction across the way creaked and tilted ominously.

  The marquee of the Imperial was brilliantly lit. Hotshot: The Musical spelled out in thousands of lightbulbs. Wetzon banged on the lobby doors, but the lobby was dark and the doors were locked. Pausing only a second, she ran through the alley to the parking lot, the shortcut to the stage door.

  Eerie shadows leaned into her. A street sign—no parking—ripped somehow from its concrete bed, caught in the swirling wind, flew by a few feet from her and smashed into the brick side of the theatre. The wind scooped her up off her feet, screaming, and threw her at the stage door. She slumped to the ground and took stock of the physical damage. Torn hose, sleeve ripped at the shoulder, shoes a yard or so away, at least one of them anyway. She picked herself up and tugged at the stage door. “Damnation!” she screamed. The wind whipped the word from her lips.

  A devilish swirl gathered up her shoes before she could get to them. She ran after them—Ferragamos did not come cheap—then gave it up.

  When she turned back to the stage door, it was standing open.

  68.

  Nothing lit the backstage entrance. Wetzon groped her way in, leaving the door as it was to let in a faint gleam of light from the parking lot. The door had probably been open all the time.

  She stood in the darkness. It was hopeless. What was she to do? Take a breath, she told herself. She did, and yoo-hooed as if she were paying a social call, “Carlos? Are you here?” Her voice fell on dead air. She inched forward, touching the wall. She had done Fiddler on the Roof in this theatre. She ought to remember the basic layout.

  The stage doorman’s desk came up and bumped her. So far, so good. Now all she needed was a flashlight. Experience told her there would be one in the desk or on a hook nearby. She found it hanging from a hook on the side wall next to the desk.

  Her feet were freezing on the stone floor. She should have gone back for her shoes. Too late now. She turned on the flashlight; its beam flickered. Dying batteries, damn it. She swept the light around, saw nothing, moved through the corridor
into the wings. From there onto the stage. Even in the wan beam she could see the blue canvas case was gone. But where could Carlos be? Not wanting to think about what could have happened, she trained the light down on the orchestra pit and into the house. Standing on the stage of an empty theatre was creepy. She felt as if hidden eyes were watching at her.

  “Carlos?” She crossed the stage to the stairway leading to the dressing rooms. She’d have to go up. Maybe Smith had found Bernstein and they were already on their way.

  She put her foot on the first step and flashed the light upward. Nothing. “Carlos? Alley alley oxenfree!”

  A low moan sent a shiver up her spine. “Carlos?” Where had the sound come from? Not up—down below. But the orchestra pit had been empty.

  The costume room. Blast. That was a death trap, a maze. Another soft groan brought her down the stairs to the basement and into the costume room. She panned the dying beam around. Costumes on racks. Cluttered shelves, cartons of fabric scraps, a sewing machine, a dressmaker’s dummy. The smell of fabric chemicals. And something else. The distinctive, sweet smell of blood. Someone groaned again close by; slowly, she turned.

  The beam of light caught a movement on the floor near one of the costume racks. She scrambled over. Carlos lay on the floor. A nasty gash just above his right eye dripped blood. “Carlos!” She dropped to her knees and the flashlight slipped out of her hands and rolled away. “What have I done?” She lifted his head to her lap and almost immediately felt the blood seeping through her dress.

  “Birdie—” He caught her hand feebly. “Get out of here. Now.”

  “I’m not going to leave you. Who did this? Was it about the bat?” He didn’t respond. “Don’t die, Carlos. Please don’t die.” She fumbled for his pulse. Damn it, where was Bernstein?

  In the darkness she groped among the costumes above her for something soft to put under Carlos’s head. Crawling toward the weak beam of the flashlight, her hands came on a pair of shoes. It took less than a New York minute for her to grasp that someone was wearing them. And that someone had picked up the flashlight.

  The light slammed into her eyes, blinding her. “Girl, what are you doing here?” Fran poked her shoulder hard with his cane. A ball of pain shot down her arm. “Didn’t I tell you to leave it be?” He sounded furious.

  “Fran, please don’t hurt me. Carlos is lying over there bleeding. Can you help me get him out of here?”

  “Fran?” A woman’s voice, saturated in fear, called down the stairs. “Are you down there?”

  “Yeah, Edna.”

  “Is Phil with you?”

  “No. He’s probably at Sardi’s.” Fran reached down roughly and pulled Wetzon to her feet. “Get out of here, now.”

  “But Carlos—”

  “I’ll see to Carlos.”

  Trust a murderer, she thought. No way. She’d go up the stairs and his accomplice would whack her with the bat. “Let me help you, please.”

  He grunted something which she took for acquiescence.

  They couldn’t lift Carlos’s dead weight between them.

  “Go get an ambulance,” Fran said. His voice had grown weak. She felt his body shudder. The flashlight fell first, then the cane. Finally, Fran. Crashing, like the felling of a great oak.

  “Fran, my God, what’s wrong?”

  He groaned. A fetid odor drove away the sweet smell of blood. Wetzon’s stomach heaved. “Girl,” Fran rasped, “tell them ... tell ... it was me. Lenny ... my friend ... dying ...” His voice faded so she could hardly hear.

  “Fran?” She put her ear close to his lips. His chest heaved and twitched.

  “The car ... Bitch had to have ... tell them I did it.... She was something ... felt she was doing you while she ... stood there talking to you.” He broke off, coughing, and couldn’t catch his breath.

  Wetzon raised her head and touched Carlos’s wrist. Still a pulse there, thank God. “Fran?” He was still wheezing.

  Fran caught his breath and began again. “She took it all ... the key did it ... nothing left in the box ...” He grabbed Wetzon’s hand in an iron grip. “Tell ... I did it....”

  When he was silent, Wetzon tried to free her hand, but he wouldn’t let go. His tortured breathing chilled her. “Fran? Can you hear me? Let me get an ambulance.”

  “Bum actor ... left Edna and the kid ...” A cough rumbled in his throat again, and his voice grew weaker. “... always said she didn’t take ... the box ... believed her, and then ... wore Celia’s ring ...”

  “Fran, why did you kill Sam?” Fran didn’t respond. His breathing came in short gasps. Maybe he was dying.

  Carlos groaned. “Birdie?”

  “Carlos, do you think you can stand?”

  “Fran, where are you? What’s going on down there?” Edna again.

  Wetzon called, “Edna, get an ambulance! Fran is very sick.” She heard a scream, followed by running footsteps.

  Carlos groped for her, got to his knees. “Shit! I’ve got one major headache.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I got the goddam bat and came down here to hide it.” She could feel him fumbling around the floor. “Where is it?”

  “Fran must have conked you.” She picked up the flashlight and spun the beam in circles. “I don’t see the bat.”

  “Fran? Jeesus, Birdie, not Fran.”

  “I’m afraid so. He confessed.” She helped Carlos up and with her arm around his waist, his arm over her shoulder, they climbed the stairs awkwardly as she played the light on each step.

  “I don’t believe this. Christ, the reviews—did they come in?”

  “You would think of reviews at a time like this.”

  “Birdie, if Fran confessed and only you heard him, is that good enough?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not dead yet, but I think he’s dying.”

  “Yeah, the Big C. of the liver.”

  When they got upstairs, there was no sign of Edna. “She’s getting an ambulance, I hope,” Wetzon said.

  The shrieking whine of the wind jolted drafts of frigid air through the theatre and tore at the sides of the house. “What’s going on out there?”

  “It’s like a hurricane. Do you want to wait here?”

  “Not on your life.” They made their way through the stage door and out into the alley, where the wind hammered them, lifted and ripped at their clothing. “If we can get to Shubert Alley, I can leave you near the Booth and get help.”

  They staggered like two drunks, buffeted by surly gusts of wind, clinging to each other. Oddly, the theatre area had cleared and there was practically no traffic. At the entrance to Shubert Alley, a tall black figure appeared to be waving and screaming at them, but they couldn’t hear. They could hardly see for all the debris flying around them.

  As they came closer, Wetzon cried, “It’s Smith,” but the wind ate her words. What was Smith doing jumping around like a crazy person? She was running toward them. As they reached Shubert Alley, she pounced on them, knocking them over. As she fell Wetzon saw something pass within an inch of her head. “What the—Smith, are you crazy?”

  Carlos screamed. Wetzon turned and saw Phil, bat raised over his head. Above them the windows of the building seemed to be undulating. The scaffolding was gone. With a mighty boom the windows exploded. Glass shards showered on everyone below. Wetzon covered her head with her hands as great glass panels began to tear off the building. Captured by the fury of the wind, they were buffetted like bits of paper.

  Edna came running from Forty-fifth Street. Wetzon saw Phil with his bat raised again, saw the look of astonishment on his face as a saber of glass touched his neck, separating head from body as neatly as the guillotine.

  Phil’s body, bat in hand, lingered suspended for a moment, then crashed.

  “Dear God,” Wetzon cried. “Dear God.”

  The wind bounced and tossed Phil’s head like a football, and dropped it on the street in front of the souvenir shop. Edna’s screams mingled w
ith the wail of the wind and the sounds of sirens. She bent over the head of her son as if she would pick it up. Wetzon jumped to her feet, unaware of the glass cutting her soles. “Edna, no, you mustn’t. Come away.” Edna’s mouth was frozen in a scream.

  An ambulance pulled into Shubert Alley, followed by two police cars. Bernstein in his tacky tux and his yarmulke. Slowly and methodically, barricades were put up, closing Forty-fourth and Forty-fifth Street. The wind, as if it knew, began to die down.

  Dawn found Wetzon, Carlos, and Smith in an outpatient room at Roosevelt Hospital, drinking coffee with an antsy Bernstein. Carlos’s head was bandaged, one eye partially covered. Wetzon’s feet were bandaged and in blue hospital booties. A three-inch cut on Smith’s shoulder had been sewn and bound in a dressing. They were shell-shocked.

  “We got the whole story from Edna Terrace,” Bernstein said, pacing. “How her mother died not long after her father. Phil heard stories about Dilla Crosby all his life. When Edna recognized the ring Dilla was wearing as her mother’s, he decided to right the wrong and get it back.”

  “But why kill Sam?” Wetzon asked, even though she thought she knew. She set the coffee container down on the floor. Her whole body ached.

  “He mistook him for Mort Hornberg.”

  Wetzon nodded.

  “Christalmighty,” Carlos said. “That poor bastard. What a way to go, mistaken for Mort.”

  “And I guess Phil killed Susan because he wanted the jewelry and the money.”

  “Yeah. Edna went to see Susan Orkin and begged for it. She was afraid her kid would kill again. And Orkin called the police to get Edna out of there. That did it.”

  “But why didn’t Edna turn Phil in?” Wetzon asked. “She could have saved two lives.”

  “She’s a mother,” Smith said softly.

  “I’m going to send you people home in one of my cars,” Bernstein said. He picked up Wetzon’s untouched coffee and drank it. “We’re going to have to slip you out the side entrance; the front is crawling with reporters.”

  “Has anyone seen the Times?” Carlos asked plaintively.