“Believe me, some of them are.”
“Where is the child’s mother?” Auntie Lil asked. “Why has no one heard of her?”
“That’s an interesting story,” Margo admitted. She checked her watch and began to speak even faster. “The mother and father divorced a few years ago, apparently over the future of their oldest son and biggest asset—Mikey. It seems that Mom was not keen on nonstop exploitation of Mikey and was worried about the effect of all the attention on his younger brothers and sister. But Dad was adamant on cashing in while the cashing in was good. So they split. There were a few other reasons, too, I understand.”
“A few other very female reasons?” Auntie Lil guessed.
Margo rolled her eyes. “Some women go for the ponytail-and-gold-jewelry look. Me? I like wrinkled Irish faces and scraggly beards.”
“Why did you run the story on Fatima Jones when you did?” Auntie Lil asked. “So close to opening night?”
“I didn’t know about it until then,” Margo explained. “When my source came to me, they let me know that Ben Hampton knew about it. I knew the good Reverend would make a big deal out of it. I also knew that it would be a real coup for me if I could get my column out first, making it look like Hampton had responded to my story. It doesn’t hurt to look like you have a lot of influence, even if you don’t.” She smiled modestly, although she was fully aware of the very real clout she wielded. “So now it’s your turn,” she told Auntie Lil. “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”
Auntie Lil described the murder and the way the body had swung first behind the set windows and then in front. “I am convinced that he was killed earlier in the show, perhaps strangled manually by the extra rope attached to the Christmas tree’s counterbalance. The killer made a noose out of this rope, figuring that once the tree started to descend, he could cut the counterbalance free and the rapid fall of the tree would jerk Morgan’s body onto the stage. It worked, but not well enough for the killer. I think he or she was waiting in the wings and, during the confusion of the Christmas-tree lights exploding, grabbed the hanging body and gave it a good shove to send it center stage.”
Margo stared at Auntie Lil. “That’s a pretty dramatic gesture,” she said. “Not to mention extremely risky if you want to stay anonymous.”
Auntie Lil nodded. “I know. Someone wanted this to be a very public murder.”
“What else?” Margo demanded.
Auntie Lil shrugged apologetically. She was not about to let Margo know about the tufts of cotton worked into the rope fibers. “Just that anyone could have found their way backstage. There are at least four fire-door exits opening on to separate sides and back alleys and none of them are locked during a performance. Any one of the fifty or so protesters could have slipped inside and done it. Or anybody backstage. Or a tourist passing by, for that matter.”
“Hell of a New York City souvenir,” Margo remarked. “You’ll give me more when you get it?”
Auntie Lil nodded. “And you’ll call me with the same?”
“Agreed.” The tiny columnist rose, her five-foot frame giving off a power that exceeded her physical limitations. “Be careful,” she warned Auntie Lil. “You remember what happened last time?”
Yes, Auntie Lil still remembered the sharp point of a knife twisted cruelly in her side the last time she and Margo had found themselves on the same case. “I’ll be careful,” she promised.
Auntie Lil left the coffee bar knowing a lot more about Bobby Morgan but very little about the possible identity of Margo McGregor’s source.
But what was it the columnist had said about having to run the story because she knew that Ben Hampton had been alerted as well? If someone had leaked the news to the Reverend Hampton, it didn’t guarantee that the informer was black, but it did indicate that the possibility was worth pursuing. Besides, using the chalkboard at the emergency board meeting earlier that day had reminded her of someone easily overlooked. She remembered the placid face of the maintenance man and the timing of his entrance at the acrimonious vote meeting. Had he been listening at the door?
Lincoln Center was no more than a four-dollar cab ride away. She decided to ask him for herself.
Auntie Lil camped out at the service entrance to the State Theater and shanghaied the man she had discovered was named Calvin Swanson. He was in a hurry to get home after a long day. But the maintenance man did not seem surprised to see her. “Evening,” he said, tipping his hat back on his head.
“I’m Lillian Hubbert. I’m on the Metro’s board of directors. May I talk to you privately?” she asked without preamble, figuring correctly that he was a man who wasted neither words nor actions.
“About what?” he said carefully, his eyes searching Amsterdam Avenue for a bus he could take home to the Bronx.
“Look, I’ll treat you to a cab ride home if you’ll just agree to talk to me for a few minutes about Fatima Jones and the vote to replace her in The Nutcracker.”
“Fatima?” He sang her name like he was at a gospel meeting. “What do I know about that girl except that she’s a fine dancer?”
“Oh, come on, Calvin,” Auntie Lil insisted as she managed to block a frantic executive with her hip and flagged a passing cab to a screeching halt with a well-practiced wave. Calvin opened the door with supreme satisfaction and a polite nod to the apoplectic businessman. Auntie Lil climbed inside first and waited for Calvin to give his address to the irate driver. Cabbies liked to stop for little old ladies in New York City; they did not like to stop for large black men. The driver, highly suspicious of his passengers, slammed the plastic divider between the front and back seats shut in defiance, leaving Auntie Lil and Calvin to exchange a knowing glance.
“Nice change to be taking a cab,” Calvin said.
“I bet,” Auntie Lil agreed dryly.
Calvin decided he liked the old lady’s attitude. “Miss Hubbert, I can’t help you. I have merely watched the girl practice. What could I tell you about Fatima Jones that you don’t already know? Just because we’re both black doesn’t mean we’re related.”
“I know that.” Auntie Lil paused. “Someone leaked the details of the board’s vote to oust her to the press. I think it might have been you.” She stared at Calvin’s face carefully as she spoke, hoping to read new information there.
His face remained blank and he shook his head. “Not me. I do admit I heard what you were talking about that day.” He shrugged apologetically. “Could hardly help it. If you don’t mind my saying so, you do talk very loud.”
Auntie Lil nodded. She was famous for her booming voice.
“I may even have listened in a bit at the door afterward and I can’t say I agreed with the decision,” Calvin added. “But I wasn’t surprised. And I certainly didn’t call the press.”
“But surely you know something,” Auntie Lil asked. “You work throughout the building every day. People may not notice you because you’re so familiar. They might have talked while you were around.”
“They might have,” he agreed. “But just because they don’t know how to keep their mouths shut doesn’t mean I don’t.”
“Please, Mr. Swanson,” Auntie Lil pleaded. “I worked hard to stop them from taking that role away from Fatima and now I’m working hard to find a killer. The two events may be related. Don’t you know anything that might help?”
“Like what?” Calvin settled back for the unexpected luxury of passing over the Harlem River by car. Even the sluggish murkiness of the river below them seemed to sparkle in the reflection of the arriving sunset.
“Have you seen anyone talking to the press?” Auntie Lil asked. “Did you notice any board members leaving the meeting and running right for the pay phone?” She knew this last scenario was absurd, since no one would be so obvious. Of course, she had wanted to be that obvious, but Theodore had stopped her.
“By the press, you mean that columnist who broke the story?” Calvin asked. “Or do you mean any press at all?”
&
nbsp; “Anything!” Auntie Lil declared in desperation.
Calvin rubbed his hands on his well-worn jeans. “I guess if I were you,” he finally said. “I would talk to that lady who runs the rehearsals.”
“Paulette Puccinni?” Auntie Lil asked.
“That’s the one. And maybe that fellow who plays the piano for her during rehearsals. The one she likes so much. The one losing his hair.”
“You saw them talking to someone?” Auntie Lil asked.
“Not exactly. But I’ve been seeing them huddled together in the hall a lot, kind of whispering and looking guilty. I would say they know something and it’s not good.”
Auntie Lil thought it over. “How would I approach them?” she asked.
Calvin shrugged. “I guess you’ll just have to wait until Tuesday,” he said. “I know they don’t come in tomorrow because both of them teach dance classes over at that Dance Center on Broadway.” He laughed. “Sure am glad I didn’t want to be a dancer when I grew up. I make more money than both of them. They teach classes over there to make some extra cash; at least that’s what I heard.”
“The Dance Center?” she asked.
“That’s it,” he replied. “I thought about taking a few classes there myself, you know. They were advertising ballet classes for older people, saying it was a good way to keep your joints stretched and all. My back hurt from some heavy lifting and I thought about giving it a try. After watching so many ballet classes and all, I guess maybe I caught a touch of the bug myself. But I ended up taking yoga instead, because when I went over to the Dance Center to take my sample class and sign up, I found out that the classes were for really old people. You know—even people as old as you.” He realized what he had said and ducked his head. “No offense meant, of course,” he said.
“No problem,” Auntie Lil assured him. “It’s no secret that I’m old.” She stared out the window and watched the high-rise apartments of Riverdale as their cab sped past. Ballet classes for old people led by Paulette Puccinni?
Auntie Lil knew exactly what her next step would be.
4
Later that evening a quick telephone call to an acquaintance in the corps de ballet gave Auntie Lil the information she needed: Paulette Puccinni’s favorite accompanist was a fifty-five-year-old man named Jerry Vanderbilt who had been with the company for the past four years. The two were as close as twin kangaroos in the pouch, “but not in that way, if you know what I mean. Jerry’s on the other team,” Auntie Lil’s confidante had revealed. And both, her source added, were suspicious of others in the company, gossiped a great deal between themselves, and while they were respected, were also considered a bit antisocial. And yes, both did teach senior ballet classes at the Dance Center. Because these classes were so rough on the instructors—old people could be far more stubborn than children—Jerry and Paulette earned double the going rate for their services. After a few moments of commiseration with her source over the low salaries paid to artists these days, Auntie Lil rang off to consider her strategy.
If Paulette Puccinni and Jerry Vanderbilt were that close, Auntie Lil wondered if directly questioning them would work. Even if one opened up to her, the other’s suspicions could prove contagious. She’d be better off choosing a more circuitous route to winning their trust. Besides, it would be more fun that way.
She rose early the next morning and called Theodore with an appropriate cover story: she was taking an exercise class. She felt guilty about misleading him, but he was, as expected, tiresome and pedantic about her extracurricular activities. When she told him she had been elected the board’s official spokesperson in the matter of Bobby Morgan’s death, he had reacted with the usual warnings not to interfere. She justified her lying by deciding that she needed to put her nephew off her scent for a while, until she made some progress.
Next, she called Herbert Wong, knowing he would be the perfect companion for her undertaking. He readily agreed to meet her on Broadway with exercise clothes in hand. He did not even ask why—a wonderful trait in a friend.
She hung up and pawed through her bureau drawer for suitable attire. Auntie Lil was incapable of appearing anywhere without what she deemed the perfect outfit. Her idea of the perfect outfit was admittedly unconventional at times, but she still felt the confidence that comes from knowing one is dressed for an occasion. Unfortunately, nothing in her current wardrobe would do. She hated synthetic fibers and it was tough to find tights in 100 percent cotton. In the end, she stopped off at a lovely boutique near the subway and found exactly what she wanted: a raspberry leotard and matching tights.
The young man at the front desk of the Dance Center was alarmingly cooperative. Of course, they could take a sample class. There was one starting in just a few minutes, in fact, and if they were interested in an entire series of classes... He launched into a sales pitch that left them dizzy and wondering about the financial footing of the place. Promising to return and discuss their bargain lifetime plan for multiple classes later, Auntie Lil and Herbert embarked on their latest subterfuge.
Herbert was well dressed for the occasion. He emerged from the locker room of the Dance Center clad in sleek black biking shorts. His ebony knit top had cut-off sleeves, just like a professional dancer. He wore black Chinese slippers that made Auntie Lil wish she had thought of them first; her own clunky white tennis shoes spoiled the effect of her ensemble.
The sales spiel had taken so long that they were late for class and apparently interrupted at a bad time. About a dozen elderly people lined the mirrored room, their faces reflecting the polished glow of a gleaming hardwood floor.
They were leaning against the barre—a long wooden rod that rimmed the room just above waist height. Their eyes were fixed eagerly on an argument that had broken out at the piano. A spry old lady no more than five feet tall stood nose-to-chest with the accompanist, Jerry Vanderbilt. A plump woman dressed in a diaphanous caftan was attempting to referee. Auntie Lil correctly inferred that the plump women was Paulette Puccinni, maître de ballet—or head of the Metro’s corps de ballet—when she was not instructing retirees on their form.
“I do not play too loud,” Jerry Vanderbilt was shouting. “How dare you insinuate I am deaf.” He was of medium height, with well-muscled shoulders. In fact, he was so extraordinarily strong-looking that Auntie Lil wondered if the physical demands of playing the piano for a living could account for his stature alone. Perhaps he lifted weights. Vanderbilt also had a chiseled, almost craggy face with a proud nose, wide eyes, and generous mouth. A German face, Auntie Lil thought, or perhaps Austrian, with maybe a touch of Eastern Europe in his prominent chin. His reddish brown hair was receding rapidly from a high forehead that was, at this particular moment, flushed an angry red.
The accompanist’s strength did not intimidate his current opponent. The tiny old lady scowled at his denial, then produced a small plastic box from the pocket of her tunic. She carefully extracted two wax earplugs from the box and dramatically inserted them into her ears, screwing each into place as if she were securing electrical fuses. “You sound like a herd of thundering elephants!” she snarled for emphasis.
Jerry glowered. “How appropriate. Since you dance like an elephant.”
“Please, please, please!” Paulette Puccinni pleaded, sweeping her caftan into the air as if taking flight. “You are upsetting the artistic air of the room. It is true all dance is based on emotion, but this is not the mood we are attempting to create.” She patted her student on the back, made soothing noises under her breath, and steered the old woman back to the barre. When she returned to the piano, Auntie Lil distinctly heard her hiss, “I’d like to rip her shriveled old ears off,” to Jerry through clenched teeth.
Jerry smiled thinly and began a dignified adagio beat, but stopped when he noticed Auntie Lil and Herbert standing by the door. “Newbies,” he said, sighing in exasperation.
“I’m so sorry we’re late,” Auntie Lil apologized. “The young man out front kept us. Are we intru
ding?”
“No, no, no,” Paulette insisted, confirming that she was paid by the pupil. “You simply must come in and join our little gathering.” Her caftan flapped about her like uncoordinated wings as she moved her arms in emphasis.
They crept to the center of the room, self-conscious in their dancing attire. Auntie Lil was acutely aware that she resembled an oversized M&M in her leotard, especially compared with the other students—who were astonishingly sleek for their age. The other women in the class eyed her covertly as they stretched and bent at the bane. The four men in the room were less critical. They looked as if they felt vaguely foolish at being there in the first place. One of them even wiggled his eyebrows at Herbert.
“We’re rank beginners,” Auntie Lil explained. “With emphasis on the ‘rank.’”
“No matter, no matter,” Paulette gushed, escorting her to the barre. “Today we are working on musical interpretation. It will give you just a taste of how soaring to the soul ballet can be. Good for your body tone, too, of course.” She patted Auntie Lil’s fanny in a conspiratorial way and it was all Auntie Lil could do to resist demanding that Paulette strip off the camouflage of her caftan and let it all hang out with the rest of them.
Herbert was as comfortable as a duck in water. He seemed to glide effortlessly toward the barre, accepted the space the other students made for him with a graceful nod, and began to stretch. Auntie Lil watched him enviously.
He was of indeterminate age. The best she could guess was older than seventy and younger than eighty. But he was also undeniably fit. His small frame was compact and muscled, upheld by a pair of deceptively thin legs. She already knew his strength and endurance were that of a man several decades younger. More than once she had been forced to call it quits on the dance floor when he had been willing to continue. Herbert also had wonderful equipoise. She suspected he practiced martial arts in private, some sort of balancing-the-harmony-of-the-body-with-the-harmony-of-the-world type thing, but she hadn’t the energy to ask him if her theory were true. His agility and balance would serve him well today.
A Motive for Murder Page 5