A Motive for Murder

by Gallagher Gray

  On cue, Ruth produced a thick document from her briefcase and stacked it on the table for all to see.

  “Are we insured?” a timid voice asked from the rear. All eyes turned to Glick.

  “I believe so,” he said uneasily.

  “You believe so?” Auntie Lil repeated loudly.

  Glick cleared his throat. “I was investigating a more economical source of liability insurance, but I believe the old policy is still in effect.”

  “You better do more than believe,” Lane ordered. “You better find out right now.” Her face flushed red. “Someone must pay for Bobby Morgan’s death and I would prefer that it not be the Metro.”

  “I suggest you remain calm,” Glick said, hoping to deflect attention from himself. “It would be a mistake to let your personal feelings interfere with your role as board chairman.”

  “My personal feelings?” Lane locked eyes with Glick and a dangerous glint flared in her gaze. “What do you mean by that?”

  Glick cleared his throat again. “I mean that perhaps you are too close to the situation to be able to effectively govern. Perhaps someone more experienced in crisis management should take over. Someone who is not involved quite so personally. Someone like myself.”

  “What personal feelings are you referring to?” Lane asked, her voice quivering with incipient anger.

  Glick straightened his tie and dropped his voice to a professionally soothing tone. “Now, now, Lane. No one is questioning your ability. It is just that we were all aware of your personal relationship with the deceased. Perhaps it is clouding your judgment here today.”

  Before Lane could react, the standoff was interrupted by a knock at the door. The room froze. Who would dare interrupt an emergency meeting?

  The door opened and a beautiful woman in her late thirties entered. Her long brown hair rippled around her face in gentle Pre-Raphaelite waves, softening the effect of her sharp features and triangular chin. Her brown eyes were large and heavily rimmed with dramatic liner. She moved gracefully, her skirt swishing against long legs. She was—or had been—a dancer.

  “I am Emili Vladimir,” she announced to the startled board. Clearly, she was not cowed by the prospect of speaking before a group of strangers. She marched to the head of the table, her self-confidence obvious. Lane Rogers automatically sat down, then looked startled at her own reaction.

  “My son, Rudy, is now dancing the parts of Drosselmeyer and the Prince,” the stranger explained to the group.

  “Of course,” Raoul Martinez interrupted, his deep voice filling the room. “I am charmed, madam. A pity we have never met before.” He slipped from his chair and hurried to kiss Emili Vladimir’s hand. “I saw you dance in Paris, madam,” he added. “The Dying Swan when you were with the Kirov. You were magnificent.”

  Emili Vladimir dipped in a practiced half curtsy, acknowledging the compliment. “I am no longer a performer,” she explained modestly to her waiting audience. “My grand days are over now. I come before you today as a mother.”

  Martinez took an empty seat nearby and gazed at her as if he were a disciple awaiting instructions. She looked around the room carefully, making eye contact with everyone present. “I wish to personally thank all of you for giving my son the opportunity to dance in these roles.” A slight Russian accent lent steel to her otherwise softly husky voice. “It is a great step forward for him. He has worked very hard to get here. We have come many miles to be in America and sacrificed a great deal for his studies, as I am sure you know. There have been many obstacles along the way, but we did not let anything stop us. We have worked hard to attain this dream. I am here today to assure you that Rudy will make the Metropolitan Ballet proud, not only now but for many years to come. If his father were here, I am sure he would be deeply grateful for your generosity.”

  The board sat, stunned into silence. Her appearance was so unexpected and her gracious words so at odds with the board’s bickering that no one knew how to react. Some of the members felt unfamiliar patriotic pride stirring within them at her words of praise for America, land of opportunity. Auntie Lil was more pragmatic. She was wondering where Emili Vladimir had been the night Bobby Morgan died and how she had known of the board meeting today.

  Martinez broke the silence. “Your son is a most talented dancer,” he cried suddenly, leaping to his feet and bowing again. “Most talented. I am proud to say he is a student of mine.”

  “Yes.” Her smile was beatific. “When he was a child, I taught him myself. But, of course, I cannot claim credit for his talent. It is God we must thank for that.”

  She had pointedly not thanked Martinez, Auntie Lil noted with amusement. She suspected Emili could dance rings around the artistic director, both inside the classroom and out.

  Lane Rogers looked up from her notes at the slender creature standing beside her. Tight lines of authority appeared grimly at the corners of her mouth. But before she could speak, Hans Glick interrupted. “We are most pleased with your son,” Glick told Emili. “Ticket sales are overwhelming and the reviews in today’s papers were glowing. I received word just a few hours ago that we are sold out throughout the run.”

  “That is not my son’s doing,” Emili said modestly. “I am sure it is due to the epic scope of your production and to the talents of the young ballerina Fatima Jones.”

  Martinez took “epic” as a compliment and moved closer to their visitor. She smiled prettily, but nonetheless stepped back out of panting range.

  Lane Rogers had had enough of the interruption, particularly the spectacle of men melting in front of her eyes. “Thank you for stopping by,” she said briskly. “We are delighted that you are pleased. Good day.”

  Emili turned her placid eyes to Lane. Her smile did not waver. “You must forgive my interruption,” she said sweetly as she floated toward the exit with trained grace. “It is just that we are not used to such opportunity, to having the doors opened in this way. Life has been so very hard for Rudy and me. America is truly a wonderful place. I just wanted to thank you all personally.” She smiled and bobbed her head before slipping out, leaving most board members wondering uneasily just how terrible things had been for the Vladimirs in Russia.

  “A charming lady,” Martinez announced in the silence.

  “Pick your jaw up off the floor,” Lane snapped. “We have work to do.” She glared at Glick. “I suggest you check on that insurance policy now. Ruth will accompany you to the files and make photocopies of the current policy for everyone.”

  “Oh, shut up, Lane!” Ruth cried out unexpectedly. The entire room stared in astonishment. “I’m tired of you telling me what to do all the time. Go make the damn photocopies yourself.”

  “The idiot let our liability insurance lapse,” Auntie Lil explained over a belated dinner in a brick-and-hanging-plant-heavy restaurant across from Lincoln Center. “If we don’t prove that the Metro is not responsible for what happened—and find out who is—we could lose everything.”

  “We?” T.S. asked uncomfortably.

  “Not our foundation, but the Metro. I’d like to strangle Glick. He was pursuing some sort of scheme designed to involve his company in supplying the Metro’s insurance.” Auntie Lil was enthusiastically demolishing a grilled steak the size of Montana and a pile of mashed potatoes that rivaled Mount McKinley. “He said it would have saved us a lot of money. Now, of course, we could lose millions. I thought the board was going to turn on him and strangle him with his tie. So did Glick. He announced a prior appointment and left.”

  “What does this mean for us?” T.S. asked, savoring his more modest meal of lamb chops and rice.

  Auntie Lil shook her head. “We have to try even harder, Theodore. And for God sakes, pray the killer has nothing to do with the Metro.”

  “Maybe it was someone connected to Gene Levitt,” T.S. said hopefully. He summarized what he had learned in his meeting and produced the list of investors in the failed Mikey Morgan movie.

  “You don’t think it wa
s Levitt himself?” Auntie Lil asked.

  T.S. shrugged. “He’s so nervous. He shakes all the time. I just can’t see him holding still long enough to conk someone over the head and string him up.”

  “Theodore!” Auntie Lil stared at him, wide-eyed.

  “What?” He dabbed self-consciously at his chin with a napkin, thinking she had spotted stray food. For someone with such creative table manners, Auntie Lil was awfully picky about his own.

  “You’re absolutely right. I should have thought of it myself. Bobby Morgan had to have been conked out first and then strung up,” she said. “He would have put up too big of a fight any other way.” She leaned forward, her bright orange scarf trailing across a mound of baby carrots. “This means the struggle could have occurred at any time prior to or during the performance—and the body could have been stored somewhere for a while. I couldn’t figure out why no one noticed the struggle, but that explains it. And it gives us hope. Perhaps it wasn’t someone in the company at all. Everyone had access to the backstage area.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Let me see the list of investors.”

  T.S. pulled out the pertinent papers and they scanned the materials while they ate. “I don’t really see any names I recognize,” Auntie Lil admitted. “I think this woman was on some television show a few years back and I thought this fellow had died years ago. Hmmm... here’s a name that looks familiar. Know him?”

  T.S. shook his head. “No. But I’ve heard of him. He must be one of the Hollywood types Levitt spoke about. Here are a couple of guys I recognize. But they’re well-respected money managers. Wall Street leaders for sure. I can’t imagine them killing Bobby Morgan over an investment.”

  Auntie Lil stared out the window of the restaurant and across Ninth Avenue toward Lincoln Center. “I wonder what Levitt’s telling the police,” she said. “Do you honestly think he told you everything?”

  T.S. shrugged. “I’m surprised at how much he did tell me. I don’t know him from Adam and he freely admitted anything I wanted to know. I think I would have heard his whole life story if the detectives hadn’t arrived to take him away.”

  “Isn’t that Herbert?” Auntie Lil asked suddenly, peering across the traffic at the subway entrance. She could have put her reading glasses on to make sure, but hesitated in front of her nephew. She disliked admitting any sort of physical weakness.

  T.S. stared out the window. “I don’t see him. What would he be doing up here anyway?” he asked innocently, knowing full well that Herbert was hiding his ballet lessons from Auntie Lil in the hopes of sparing her feelings about her own ineptitude.

  “Maybe not,” Auntie Lil said slowly. “But that’s definitely Jerry Vanderbilt. Rehearsals must be over.” She waved her handkerchief in the window like a seaman semaphoring for help.

  “Not now,” T.S. said, staring balefully at his remaining lamb chop. “I’m tired of talking to suspects.”

  “Too late. Here he comes!” Auntie Lil declared gaily, her spirits buoyed by the prospect of more information.

  “Thank God!” the Metro’s accompanist cried as he burst through the restaurant’s swinging doors. Several New Yorkers at the bar froze but returned to their wine spritzers after satisfying themselves that he wasn’t waving a weapon. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I heard you were at a board meeting, but when I got there, it had already been adjourned.”

  “News travels fast.” Auntie Lil moved over to make room for him. “I suppose you heard about the lapse in liability insurance as well?”

  The pianist flapped a long hand, dismissing the topic. “Who cares? That’s only money. You’ve got to help Gene.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Auntie Lil asked.

  “Gene Levitt?” T.S. interrupted.

  “He didn’t do anything wrong. You must help him.”

  “You know Gene Levitt?” T.S. asked.

  The flush that spread over Jerry Vanderbilt’s craggily masculine face was remarkable. T.S. looked tactfully away, but Auntie Lil scrutinized him with frank curiosity. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  “I met him at a party last month,” Jerry explained.

  “This is very important,” Auntie Lil said, suddenly alert. “Did he introduce himself to you or was it the other way around?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Jerry said. He stared down at the table. “It was a tree-trimming party in the Village. My friends John and Grant were hosting. They knew Gene from when they lived in Los Angeles. They invited him because he had just moved to New York and didn’t know anybody. They were the ones to introduce me to him.”

  “Did he know you were a pianist for the Metro?” T.S. asked.

  “Of course.” Jerry was offended. “They couldn’t just introduce me and not say what I did. I’m lucky to be gainfully employed doing something I love. Why should I hide it?”

  Auntie Lil and T.S. exchanged a glance that did not escape Jerry. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “It wasn’t like that at all. He was very honest from the start. We hit it off right away. He told me how Bobby Morgan had ruined him the very first time we went out to dinner together. He didn’t try to hide anything. He said he’d been ruined and explained why. I wasn’t his spy or anything.”

  “But he asked you lots of questions about Bobby and Mikey Morgan,” T.S. guessed.

  “I offered him the information. Though nothing that could have hurt anyone. I just told him the kid couldn’t dance and that his performance would be a disaster. It wasn’t like it was a state secret or something.”

  “Gene did not kill Bobby Morgan,” Jerry continued. “You have to help him. I heard that you helped that big-mouth Reverend guy.”

  “I arranged for his bail,” Auntie Lil admitted. “I can’t go arranging bail for everyone the police haul in.”

  “Besides, Gene wasn’t arrested,” T.S. said. “He was just brought in for questioning. He went willingly.”

  “I know, but he’s scared. He called me. He said his lawyer hadn’t shown up yet and he was afraid it was because he was out of money.”

  The blood drained from T.S.’s face. “Oh my God,” he said, stricken. “I was supposed to call his lawyer for him.”

  “See!” Jerry cried. “You’ve abandoned him. Now you simply must help.”

  “Theodore.” Auntie Lil frowned in disapproval. “Give me the name and phone number.” She scanned the piece of paper. “How could you have forgotten?”

  He was too ashamed to explain. He had forgotten because he’d gotten caught up in the romance of sitting at a bar sipping Dewar’s and soda while perusing the financial files, searching for clues before Auntie Lil spotted them.

  “He’s been languishing for hours,” Jerry declared. “You must help. It’s all your fault!”

  Auntie Lil lowered the piece of paper and gazed coolly at the accompanist. “Young man,” she said, despite the fact that Jerry was well past fifty. “Gene Levitt has been brought in for questioning, not for torture. And he is not our responsibility. However, if you can prove to my satisfaction that he is not involved in the death of Bobby Morgan, we may help. Perhaps.”

  “I can prove it,” Jerry whispered loudly. As if attracted by some magnetic force, they leaned forward until their foreheads nearly touched over the dinner table. “Come with me back across the street to the theater,” he said softly. “I want to show you something.”

  Auntie Lil glanced across the avenue. “I thought the theater was dark tonight.”

  “It is,” Jerry explained. “But they’re blocking Apollo. Man does not live by Nutcracker alone. There’s something I want to show you. Not even the police have seen it yet.”

  “Okay,” Auntie Lil agreed. “As soon as you call your friend’s lawyer”—she thrust the paper at him—“and I finish my mashed potatoes, we’ll go.”

  The Metro’s theater was eerily deserted. As Jerry ushered them in a side door toward the backstage area, Auntie Lil stopped to peek through a crack in the curtains at the empty audi
torium. The stage was well lit with a utilitarian glare and Martinez stood at its center, demonstrating a series of steps to an attentive male dancer. Martinez’s wife, Lisette, waited patiently to one side for her partner to receive his instructions. Four other ballerinas clustered stage right, watching the proceedings with little interest. They had long since learned their parts and were ready to go home. It was nearly nine o’clock at night and they had been rehearsing since before noon. Paulette Puccinni sat in the front row, taking notes and charting the choreography for future reference. It seemed odd to have dancers without music, but the only sounds that broke the silence were the authoritative commands of Martinez. His voice was not unpleasant, however. Indeed, it softened perceptibly as he explained his vision of the dance, transforming his personality from forbidding to compelling. His body seemed to grow in length and agility, taking on a lightness as he demonstrated moves.

  “Come on,” Jerry whispered. “He hates outsiders at rehearsals. Let’s go upstairs before he sees us.”

  The Metro’s theater included three stories of administrative and rehearsal floors built in behind the stage and auditorium. To access each floor, they had to walk up a set of steps then traverse the floor to reach the next stairwell and floor. Auntie Lil had visited these work areas of the Metropolitan Ballet on several occasions and knew that the layout made sneaking around difficult indeed. She also knew that the first floor housed rehearsal rooms where classes were held each morning. The second floor stored the locker rooms, scenery, sets, costumes, and complicated electrical equipment necessary to sustain a varied repertoire. The third floor provided room for the all-important toe-shoe room, sheet-music shelves, and more storage areas. Jerry led them to this top floor, switching on lights as they made their way through the otherwise deserted building.

  “This is a madhouse during the day,” Jerry explained. “Everyone went home a couple of hours ago.”