Auntie Lil and T.S. stopped to read a prominent notice posted on the door of the locked shoe room. ATTENTION! the top of the poster proclaimed in bold red letters, followed by a neatly printed warning: It has come to management’s attention that members of the corps are reselling pointe shoes in violation of company policy. May we remind you that the Metropolitan spends more than $100,000, per year on shoes alone. All used, ill-fitting, or otherwise outdated pairs should be turned into the wardrobe mistress and remain the property of the Metropolitan Ballet. In addition, lockers are subject to search by the wardrobe mistress at any time. Anyone caught violating this policy will be subject to fines, suspension, and possible discharge.
“Good grief,” said T.S. “What are the shoes made of anyway? Gold?”
“Layers of canvas and satin,” Auntie Lil explained. “With cotton wool stuffed into the toe area. But it’s not what they’re made of that makes them so valuable, it’s how they are made. It takes a master cobbler hours to create each shoe, and even after he is done, the girls work with the shoes on their own, attaching ribbon, embroidering the tip, wetting the vamp, softening the pleats. You wouldn’t believe the trouble and care that go into a pair that may only last three or four performances. That’s why no one is allowed to touch pointe shoes but the owner. It’s a long and expensive process to supply the corps with them. If a girl could get her hands on a usable pair that she doesn’t need, she could get fifty or more dollars for them.”
T.S. looked down at his plain old Hush Puppies with new appreciation.
“This way,” Jerry Vanderbilt hissed from around a corner. “Hurry up.” They followed him down the hall and stopped in front of a storage room. A smaller door marked the end of the corridor to their right.
“Where does that door lead?” T.S. asked uneasily.
“Catwalk above the stage,” Jerry explained. “This floor is level with the top of the main stage. Electricians and technicians work on the rafter areas from here.” He turned his back on the door to the catwalk and led them into a small but cluttered room that obviously provided storage space. An unused upright piano was shoved against one side, huge stage lights were stacked at random at one end, excess rope was coiled in a massive mound on the floor, and sealed lockers rimmed the walls.
“This is a general dumping ground,” Jerry explained. “I’m surprised there aren’t a bunch of over-the-hill dancers living in here.”
A large bump from outside the room startled them. Auntie Lil moved closer to the door.
“I thought we were the only ones up here,” T.S. said uneasily.
“We are.” Jerry frowned. “Might be the crew working on lighting angles or something.”
“Let’s get this over with,” T.S. demanded suddenly. “I keep expecting the Phantom of the Opera to appear.”
“Don’t say that,” Jerry warned. “You’re tempting fate. That’s what the girls call the murderer that never got caught.”
“What murderer?” T.S. asked uneasily.
“A violinist was strangled here at Lincoln Center about ten years ago,” Jerry said. “Don’t you remember? They never caught the killer. The police thought it might have been a member of one of the Lincoln Center crews since she was so pretty, that he was a spurned lover. But no one was ever charged. Hey, maybe he’s the one who murdered Bobby Morgan.”
“Speaking of which,” Auntie Lil said firmly, “what did you want us to see?”
“This is it,” Jerry said, holding out his hands.
“This is what?” T.S. asked.
“This room,” Jerry said. “It’s where it was done. It’s where he was killed. I’m almost certain.”
“Why do you say that?” T.S. asked, keeping an eye on Auntie Lil. She was on her hands and knees, lifting up debris and searching for evidence. All she lacked was a magnifying glass and a hunting cap.
“I was in here the day before the premiere,” Jerry explained. “I came to check on the piano.”
“Why?” Auntie Lil demanded, moving a heavy light to one side so she could check the corner behind it.
“I don’t have one at home,” he explained, his tone growing indignant. “Here I am, one of the best rehearsal pianists in New York City, maybe the world, and I don’t even have my own piano at home. They pay me far less than I am worth. Someone mentioned there was an extra one stored in here. I came by to see if it was in good enough shape to salvage. If it was, I was going to ask Raoul if I could buy it from the Metropolitan.”
“Buy it or steal it?” Auntie Lil asked.
“Buy it,” he protested. “Paying for it out of my salary a little at a time. I came to check it out first. I wasn’t sure if it was worth it. It was badly out of tune and you know what that does to my ears. I have perfect pitch.”
“And you saw something suspicious?” T.S. asked.
“No. That was later. I returned to this room two days after Bobby Morgan was killed, this time with Mario. He’s the Metro’s piano tuner. He was going to look at the piano and give me his opinion. As it turns out, the piano is hopeless. I shall have to find other means of keeping up my skills.”
“Try working,” Auntie Lil suggested. “Play the piano more and gossip with Miss Puccinni less.”
“Yes, well, thank you very much for the advice.” He glared briefly at Auntie Lil, but she was too busy examining the rope to notice. “Anyway,” he continued. “I saw at once that everything in the room had been disturbed. The rope had been moved, the lights were knocked over, some of the locker doors were hanging open, even the piano was sticking out from the wall like someone had bumped into it.”
“Perhaps the stagehands needed props?” T.S. suggested.
Jerry shook his head. “At that time, The Nutcracker was the only production we were even considering. The sets had long ago been pulled together and were being stored on the first-floor level. Likewise with the lights. They had been in place for weeks by that point. Hardly anyone even knows this room exists. I can’t figure out why someone was in here.”
“I can,” Auntie Lil said. She held up a length of dirty white ribbon that had been torn off at one end and neatly clipped at the other. Small shreds of a white substance clung to a portion of its fabric. “See these white bits of material?” she asked. “I saw them before. Clinging to the heavy rope around Bobby Morgan’s neck. I think you’re right. I think he was killed in here sometime during the first act and then tied to the stage rope and maybe even tossed from the catwalk at the right time.”
“That makes sense,” Jerry agreed. “I saw Bobby Morgan alive just a few minutes before the show so he can’t have been killed any earlier than the first act. But during the show would be hard without being seen,” he added. “During a performance, a crew member usually stays up here. Anyhow, the point is that Gene was with me the entire time and can’t have done it. He was sitting next to me in the audience, which tells you how much I care for him.” He paused. “I do not willingly sit through The Nutcracker for just anyone. It had to have been someone else. Maybe a crew member saw something.”
“Indeed. Where would I find this crew member?” Auntie Lü asked.
Jerry thought for a moment. “I think you need to talk to Ricky Lee Harris. He’s our lighting supervisor. He’d know. Or he might even have been the one up here that evening, since it was opening night.”
“I want to see the catwalk,” Auntie Lil said, carefully replacing the ribbon where she had found it. “I also suggest you call the police, young man. Immediately. No need to mention our presence here, of course.”
“It’s this way,” Jerry said, leading them back out into the hall and toward the smaller door set against the end of the passageway. He pushed on it and a sliver of stage light leaked through. Auntie Lil and T.S. followed him through the door onto a narrow steel walkway that hugged the back of the stage, far above the sight lines formed by the curtain. Below them, the four female members of the corps were practicing their steps, moving in unison, stopping, backing up and moving forwar
d again. Raoul Martinez had disappeared, as had his wife and the principal male dancer. But they could hear the faint hum of voices talking further back in the auditorium.
“This is incredibly high,” Auntie Lil said, peering over the edge. “If Morgan wasn’t killed first, his neck would certainly have broken on the way down.” She looked at the thick cords of rope dangling near the far end of the catwalk. “Those are there during a performance?” she asked.
Jerry shook his head. “There might be a few loose ends around, but mostly the ropes are used to hoist backdrops or anchor counterweights. During a show, they wouldn’t be here on the catwalk.”
Auntie Lil crept farther out onto the walkway and T.S followed reluctantly. Though the floor was steel, he imagined it swayed beneath his feet. It made him dizzy.
“Listen!” Auntie Lil commanded, grabbing his elbow with a surprisingly firm grip. “We know that voice.”
Beneath them, concealed behind the side curtains, a man was speaking to the corps de ballet. His brisk, no-nonsense accent floated up to where they stood high above the stage.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” the clipped voice said. “But I have seen Apollo several times, including one magnificent performance in Zurich. I cannot help but see that you are moving the wrong way on the stage during this most crucial of scenes. You will conceal the most interesting part of the choreography if you do. May I suggest that you sweep right and then veer just a touch to the left so that the principal dancers are revealed. I will show you how to do it.” Hans Glick stepped from the shadows and took the stage, prancing in the direction he had indicated and sweeping his arms out in an oddly feminine gesture.
“What in the hell does he think he’s doing?” Jerry Vanderbilt whispered. He had joined them on the catwalk and was staring down at the action below. “Martinez will break his neck if he catches him interfering.”
The four ballerinas were huddled together, giggling. They had no intention of following Glick’s advice. But since they would not be the ones getting roared at by the artistic director, they considered Glick potential entertainment and made no move to stop him.
“Is that Julie Perkins?” Auntie Lil whispered. “The dancer on the right?”
T.S. squinted through the bright lights. “I think you’re right,” he said.
“What in God’s name are you doing on my stage!” a voice roared from the auditorium. Pounding footsteps followed and the massive figure of Raoul Martinez dashed into view. He scurried around the orchestra pit and, without bothering to take the steps, swung himself up onto the stage with the deftness of a panther. He waved his arms and screamed at Glick, “How dare you presume to instruct my dancers? How dare you presume to interfere on my stage? Get out! Get out or I will break your neck now!” He advanced on the suddenly frozen Glick, arms outstretched as if he intended to follow through on his threat.
Glick swayed to one side, eyes wide, as he calculated his exit routes. “I was merely waiting for the rehearsal to end so that I could speak with you in private about a certain matter. I suppose now is a bad time?”
“Get out!” Martinez roared again. He took another step forward and a frightened Glick retreated, catching his foot in the sunken pit that housed the prompter for operatic productions. He tumbled backward, falling over the small metal hood of the pit. His arms flailed and his slender body did a full turn as he slid down the curve of its roof and tumbled over the edge of the stage into the orchestra pit, crashing on top of several music stands and tipping over an entire row of metal chairs in a dominolike effect. The din was unending. It sounded like a parody of a cartoon sound effect. Yet neither Auntie Lil nor T.S. dared laugh for fear of being discovered.
Martinez marched to the edge of the stage and peered into the pit. “See what happens when you interfere with my authority?” he yelled down at Glick.
Paulette Puccinni had crept to the edge of the pit and was gazing fearfully down at Glick. “I think he’s hurt,” she stage-whispered.
“I am hurt!” a voice wailed from the pit. “I’ve broken my foot.”
“Good!” Martinez thundered back. “Now get out of my theater before I break your head!”
Glick needed no further convincing. He crawled past the fallen chairs and clawed his way over the lip of the orchestra pit, hauling his body into the seating area. Glancing nervously at Martinez, he hobbled up the center aisle, dragging one leg behind him like a character from a horror movie. The dancers began to laugh and Paulette turned her head to hide her smile.
Martinez was not amused. “If I catch you in here again without authorization,” he shouted after Glick, “I’ll throw you out personally. Maybe next time from a window!”
Auntie Lil and T.S. exchanged a glance. “We’ll just slip quietly out,” Auntie Lil whispered. “There’s been enough excitement for the night.”
Jerry Vanderbilt had gone pale. “I’ll go with you,” he whispered back. “Don’t make a sound.”
They tiptoed single file from the catwalk, taking exaggerated care not to make any noise. As the elevator bore them down to street level and away from the artistic director’s furious temper, Auntie Lil suggested that they wait outside the auditorium for Julie Perkins to emerge after rehearsal.
“Are you serious?” T.S. asked. “What if Martinez comes out first?”
“We’ll hide in the bushes,” Auntie Lil suggested. “I hear you know a good spot.”
“You two can hide away,” Jerry Vanderbilt told them as he scurried toward the subway. “But I’m getting the hell away from Martinez.”
Most any girl would have screamed in fright had two figures emerged from the shadows and flanked her in the middle of the night. Julie Perkins was not like most girls. She seemed to regard T.S. and Auntie Lil’s sudden presence as nothing more than a stage cue well met.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she asked, her dancer’s bag held slightly behind her, ready for a swing if need be. Although only sixteen, Julie Perkins had the bearing of a confident woman. Her delicate face had been hardened by fatigue and glowed with a dull ashen sheen in the reflected light of the street lamp. Her blond hair was still pulled back in a tight dancer’s knot, although thin wisps of it had escaped at each temple and waved prettily down the sides of her high cheekbones. She wore jeans and a light turtleneck underneath a leather jacket embroidered with the logo of a recent Broadway hit show. Her makeup lay heavy against the paleness of her gaunt face.
Auntie Lil explained who they were and why they were there. Julie looked at her for a moment then got right to the point. “Why do you want to talk to me?” she asked, staring down the side street as if searching for a cab. “Lane Rogers told one of my friends we were not to talk to you.”
“The board has empowered me to talk to anyone who may have been backstage the night Bobby Morgan was killed,” Auntie Lil explained. “That includes you. I think he was killed just before or during the performance. What do you think?”
Julie made a face. “I’m trying to forget about it all, if you don’t mind.”
“But did you see anything unusual?” Auntie Lil persisted. “Anything that might point to the killer?”
The young girl reached for a pack of cigarettes stored in a back jeans pocket. Auntie Lil and T.S. watched in silent disapproval as she lit the cigarette with an expensive gold lighter shaped like a flat oval and began to puff away. Smoking was an occupational hazard, they were beginning to realize, a necessary evil relied upon by ballerinas desperate to keep their weight down. T.S. saw that Julie smoked the same brand as her father and with the same intense non-enjoyment.
“Well?” Auntie Lil prompted.
The girl blew smoke out her nostrils, sending tendrils curling in T.S.’s face. He suspected it was deliberate, but remained silent. She was stalling for time and he did not want to give in to her distractions.
“Look,” Julie finally said, “I was in over my head, okay? I was being sent out center stage in front of a full audience dancing a part that I r
eally wasn’t ready for, okay?”
She looked defiant in the moonlight, hard and otherworldly, like someone whose cynicism was not shaped by age or circumstances but somehow innate. “I didn’t want to dance the part. I told Paulette I couldn’t. She insisted. My father insisted. Raoul insisted. Everyone insisted. I knew if I failed, I wouldn’t get another chance at a lead for a long time. I didn’t want to, but I did it. I did it knowing that everyone would compare me with Fatima and that I would end up looking bad.”
She sucked deeply on the last of her cigarette then dropped it to the sidewalk, letting the butt smolder. “So in answer to your question, I noticed absolutely no one and nothing the night of the performance. I was too scared to notice anything but my cues.”
Auntie Lil appraised her silently. “How do you feel about being replaced?” she finally asked.
“Relieved,” Julie answered. “I’m no fool. I could probably never dance that part. Perky is not in my repertoire.”
It certainly was not, T.S. thought to himself. He had never run across a more depressingly mature teenager. It was as if Julie Perkins had been born old, made weary at birth by the weight of expectations.
“Why don’t you live with your father anymore?” Auntie Lil asked abruptly.
The girl looked up in surprise. “He told you that?” she said.
“No, we went to see him and I looked in your room. I could tell you had moved out. Where are you staying?”
“With a friend,” she said. “And I’m not telling you who because then you’ll tell my father and he’ll come and get me and try to make me come home. He sent you, didn’t he?”
“No, he did not. Why don’t you want to go home?” Auntie Lil asked.
“Because my father lives at home,” Julie said simply. “And I hate my father.”
She slipped her dancer’s bag up on one shoulder and stepped between them, walking away as naturally as if she had just bid them a loving farewell. Two cabs screeched to a halt on Ninth Avenue when they saw her and she hopped into one nimbly, zooming away without a backward glance. Her silhouette was framed in the back window of the cab and looked as regally unmovable as the bust of an ancient Egyptian queen.
A Motive for Murder Page 14