A Motive for Murder

by Gallagher Gray

  “The catwalk isn’t much of a secret anymore, is it?”

  Jerry shrugged. “Can I help it if people talk?”

  “You better hope no one tells Harris you turned him in,” T.S. pointed out sensibly. “If he’s the brute you seem to feel he is.”

  Jerry looked startled at the idea. “I hadn’t thought of that. I have a class with Paulette at the Dance Center this afternoon, but after that, maybe I should lie low.”

  “Maybe you should,” T.S. agreed. “When your options are getting strangled with an extension cord or being beaten to death with a pointe shoe, I’d say that now is a good time for you to develop a bad case of the flu.”

  Auntie Lil had him hooked. T.S. had to admit it. How else to explain why he was heading for Lincoln Center to talk with Ricky Lee Harris and Paulette Puccinni instead of spending a quiet few hours at a civilized museum? He had to admit he was a little intrigued by this Harris fellow. Auntie Lil had described her encounter with him and the lighting director had assumed a Heathcliff-like stature in T.S.’s mind.

  A harried-looking prop mistress directed T.S. around a corner and up to the second floor, where he discovered Ricky Lee Harris bent over a lighting board in a workshop room, muttering to himself.

  “Excuse me,” T.S. said. He had been right: the man was dark, large, and brooding. The bushy eyebrows lent him a nineteenth-century look.

  “Who are you?” Harris growled. He removed a tiny fuse from the back of the lighting board and held it up in the air, scowling.

  “T. S. Hubbert. My aunt talked to you Sunday just before the matinee.”

  Harris glanced at him without interest. “I think your aunt has a few loose screws.”

  “A lot of people think that,” T.S. admitted. “It’s a common mistake.”

  “A mistake?” Harris repeated. He bent back over his work. “How much of a mistake could that be?”

  “I wouldn’t underestimate my aunt,” T.S. said, wondering how the conversation had wandered onto this strange path. “She’s pretty hard to fool. There are a couple of people behind bars who would agree.”

  “You’re kidding?” Harris ran a hand through his thinning hair and shifted from foot to foot. “What do you want? Are you her cleanup batter?”

  Pleasantries and small talk would only be wasted on this character and as T.S. stepped closer he realized why: Harris smelled of stale beer. “I came to ask you a couple more questions,” he said.

  “You an undercover agent or something?” Harris asked. “Why should I answer any question you ask?”

  “Technically, you don’t have to. But my aunt does represent the Metro board. Your employers.”

  “I don’t need reminding about who signs my paychecks. Small as they are.” He began fiddling with the dials of the lighting board. “Hurry up and ask your questions and leave. I have work to do.”

  T.S. ignored his rudeness. “I heard you had an argument with Bobby Morgan the day before he died.”

  “So? I suspect half the company had an argument with him that day.”

  “Maybe. But why did you?”

  The big man shrugged. “He was being a Class-A jerk. Accused me of not lighting his precious human money machine properly. Hinted that I wasn’t sober enough to handle the light changes. As if I didn’t have a computer to do that for me. If you ask me, he was in the mood to climb down someone’s throat and I was the one nominated.”

  “How ugly did it get?”

  “Pretty ugly,” Harris admitted. “If I don’t like someone, I don’t bother hiding it. Know what I mean?”

  T.S. knew. He could nearly feel the heat of the man’s glare. “Did you threaten him?”

  Harris laughed. It was an ugly, mocking sound. “I was the one being threatened, not him. He said he’d make sure I lost my job. And let me tell you—if he was able to force that no-talent son of his onto the Metro stage, then I can guarantee you that he had the power to get me fired.”

  “Which made you pretty mad,” T.S. pointed out.

  “Not mad enough to kill him.” Harris folded his arms and spoke more slowly. “Let me spell it out for you. I was not the only one to have a fight with Morgan on that day. He was in a foul mood. He was biting people’s heads off left and right. Maybe he was nervous for his son. Maybe he’d gotten a call from the IRS that morning. Maybe his girlfriend left him high and dry. I don’t know. But I do know that he created havoc backstage the day before the premiere. So I didn’t take it personally when it was my turn, okay? I have enough real enemies to worry about.”

  He returned to the lighting board as if the matter had been settled. T.S. stared at him for a moment before checking the time. Paulette Puccinni would be getting out of her dance class soon. His time would be better spent with her than with this lout. He left without bothering to say goodbye.

  T.S. heard Paulette Puccinni approaching long before he saw her. Her piercing voice rang through the stairwell of the Dance Center building in shrill indignation, directed, he suspected, at a cowering Jerry Vanderbilt.

  “How dare you inform the police of those ill-founded accusations?” she was screaming. “And how dare you sneak into class late just so I can’t tell you exactly what I think of you—you piano-playing worm.”

  “Unfounded?” Jerry shouted back, his figure unseen but his deep voice easily recognizable. “Who’s kidding who? You know as well as I do that you’ve been selling old toe shoes and pocketing the cash for years and blaming the corps. Now you’re about to get caught, so you plaster warnings all around to throw everyone off your trail.”

  If the pair thought that arguing in the stairwell afforded them privacy, they were very much mistaken. The empty space amplified their voices for anyone within fifty yards to hear.

  “You are despicable. I ought to slug you,” Paulette screamed in very unartistic terms. “Don’t you talk to me about stealing. You tried to heist a piano! Wait until I tell them all about that!”

  “Go ahead. They won’t believe you. You already told them about me and Gene and you were dead wrong,” Jerry countered angrily. “You’re just jealous I have a friend.”

  “That’s exactly right, Jerry,” Paulette shot back. “A friend as in one friend. Because you and I are through!” She burst out the exit doors at the base of the stairs, flinging them open with such enthusiastic force that T.S. was flattened against the concrete wall. His head reverberated with a terrific boing as the hollow metal met his skull.

  “Now see what you’ve done,” Jerry cried. “I think you’ve killed him!”

  “My God,” Paulette fluttered, rushing to T.S.’s side.

  T.S. slumped against the wall, somewhat dazed, but coherent enough to know that he did not want this overblown, over-perfumed, and over-gauzed woman fussing over him in front of dozens of strangers. He had never met the ballet mistress up close and was starting to wish he had kept it that way. “I’m fine,” he groaned, holding a hand over his nose. Was it broken?

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated over and over as a small crowd gathered. She loosened his collar as he tried to swat her away, and then she sat on the floor next to him and pulled his head into her lap as if he had the vapors instead of a bloody nose. Oblivious to most people’s desire for privacy in such matters, she stared at T.S. with eager eyes. “Why, I recognize you now by your hair. Such a distinguished silver mane. I’ve seen you at the ballet with that Hubbert woman. You’re her bachelor nephew, aren’t you? You live in a fabulous apartment on York Avenue, but you have no one to share it with. I heard you retired early from some Wall Street job with scads of money.” She peered at him more closely and he could smell peppermint on her breath. “You are still her bachelor nephew, aren’t you?”

  Dazed, he stared at her without comment, struck dumb at hearing his entire life tumble from her lips so unexpectedly.

  “Don’t you remember me?” she asked breathlessly. “We met across the lobby at intermission during Giselle last year. At least our eyes met. I had on a midnight-blue caftan s
prinkled with silver moons and stars. Very cosmic. I felt a spark of electricity leap between us. I know you remember.”

  T.S. touched his nose and cringed. “You’ve disfigured me,” he said.

  “Why were you doing lurking behind the door?” Paulette demanded, her sympathetic demeanor disappearing as fast as it had arrived.

  “I wasn’t lurking, I was waiting for you,” T.S. said angrily, sitting up and glaring at the gathered crowd. He felt something sticky on his fingers and realized his nose was bleeding. Thank God he always carried a handkerchief. He balled it up and tilted his head back, pressing the linen firmly over his nostrils. He couldn’t bleed on his jacket or sweater. He had that dinner date with Lilah.

  “You are a dangerous woman,” Jerry declared from his prime viewing spot at the head of the pack. “How many men have fallen at your touch?”

  “Get out of here before you’re next!” Paulette warned him. The pianist took her at her word and scurried away, head held high as if he, for one, were above this low-class fracas.

  “I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,” Paulette told T.S., her fluttery persona returning as she realized that a lobby full of people were watching her closely. She stood and grabbed T.S.’s free arm, jerking him upright. “Is there any permanent damage?”

  “No, no. I’m fine,” T.S. said, pulling his arm away. But Paulette could not be dissuaded. Every time he drew free, she clamped back on, securing herself as efficiently as a lamprey eel to his side. In the end, he staggered out the lobby with Paulette adhered to his side like an overblown goiter.

  “I can’t walk with you hanging on me like that,” he complained through the bloody handkerchief.

  “Let me help you walk, then,” she suggested, looping her second arm over his. His entire right side was losing feeling thanks to her tourniquetlike support. “I’m so terribly sorry this had to happen.” Her eyes lit up as a new thought occurred to her. “You did say you were waiting for me, didn’t you?” she asked in a teasing tone. “I thought I felt a spark between us back there. I have quite an instinct for such things.”

  A spark between them? T.S. wished there was a blowtorch between them. He could use the breathing room. Preoccupied with his nose, he allowed himself to be led out into the chaos of Broadway during rush hour.

  “A woman can sense these things so much better than a man, don’t you think?” Paulette asked in a conspiratorial tone as she pressed her body against his. The sleeve of her giant caftan was caught in a sudden updraft and the corner lashed out, whipping in the wind and narrowly missing his eyes.

  Not content with maiming him, she was now intent on blinding him, he thought. The multipronged assault was confusing. “Yes, I did come to see you,” he admitted, unaware that this confession invited gross misinterpretation.

  “You’re attracted by artistic women, aren’t you?” she asked. “The fiery temperament is sexy, don’t you think?”

  His sanity returned in a rush. He realized with horror that Paulette thought he had romance on his mind. Panic flooded through him and he blurted out, “Where are you taking me?”

  She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, causing a ten-person pileup behind her. “What do you mean, where am I taking you? I thought you were taking me somewhere.”

  “I came to talk to you about Bobby Morgan,” he explained, still pressing the handkerchief cautiously against his nose. He thought the bleeding had stopped.

  Paulette patted his arm reassuringly. “Of course you did,” she said. “It’s as good an excuse as any. Shall we avail ourselves of the dancers’ lounge at the Metro? It’s only a few blocks away and we’ll have some privacy.”

  She wanted to dangle him in front of the other members of the corps, T.S. realized with a rare flash of insight into the female mind. She wants to parade me as her beau, like I was some sort of prize tuna catch. But at the same time that he was grasping her intent, another part of him—probably the one genetically linked to Auntie Lil—also surmised that allowing her to do so would mean he could get more information out of her. He made a decision to go along.

  “Sure you’re not stunned?” she asked.

  He had failed to answer. Better act quickly. T.S. stashed his handkerchief away and pulled out his personnel-manager smile and agreed to the dancers’ lounge. At least he wouldn’t have to watch her eat. But as they neared Lincoln Center—and Paulette insisted on taking a tour of the plaza first—he realized his error. Suppose Lilah happened past and saw them? The thought made his stomach flip. Or suppose another board member recognized him and then told Lilah? That was even more likely. He ducked his head lower and lower, putting his nose in danger of bleeding again, as he attempted to maintain a discreet profile. Never again, he swore to himself. Next time he needed information, he’d leave the flirtatious approach to others.

  Mercifully, they reached the dancers’ lounge without being seen by anyone he knew. It was a small room tucked between two rehearsal rooms on the first floor, just off the long hallway. Paulette plopped herself down on the worn couch and arranged her caftan around her like she was a queen receiving homage.

  “Right here, love,” she directed, patting a cushion beside her. “This talk is probably pretty confidential. Am I right?”

  Shelley Winters in Night of the Hunter. That’s who she reminded him of, T.S. decided grimly. He suppressed a gulp and obediently perched beside her, his rump so close to the edge that he’d tumble to the floor if he so much as sneezed.

  “What is it you wanted to say?” she prompted brightly. “Go on. You aren’t the first, you know. Others before you have found difficulty finding the right words. I quite understand. It’s important to express the feelings like we’re having in just the right words.”

  What in the world was she talking about? T.S. had to end this debacle quickly before he found himself in front of a Las Vegas judge dressed as Elvis, exchanging I do’s with a white lace caftan-clad Paulette.

  “I understand that you and Bobby Morgan had words,” he said quickly.

  Her face fell. “Are we going to talk about that again?” she said. “I thought I had exhausted the subject at lunch with your aunt last week. Are you sure that’s what’s on your mind?”

  “Quite sure,” T.S. said emphatically. “I heard that you and Bobby Morgan fought quite often over the subject of his son’s dancing skills.”

  Paulette sighed, a prolonged and dramatic offering of breath that any martyr would have envied. “Jerry is so obvious sometimes. I suppose he’s been blabbing to you. Of course Bobby Morgan and I fought. His son had no talent. He didn’t when he was a student here six years ago and he doesn’t now.”

  “But you agreed to his dancing the role,” T.S. pointed out.

  Paulette was indignant. “I most certainly did not. No one asked my opinion. I would never, never have agreed to Mikey Morgan being put in that role.” Her anger was genuine. “I was appalled at the board’s interference. Performing roles should be awarded based on talent alone. Not politics. Not ticket sales. Not pity. Just talent. If we are to allow other influences to interfere, then what is ballet? Ballet should remain pure, a living, growing entity apart from such concerns. Attach strings to the ballet and what do you have? You have puppets!” She mimed a marionette and the effect was not the least bit comical. She passionately believed in her point. “Worse than allowing that abomination to dance was removing Fatima Jones from the role of Clara. That child is the finest ballerina I have ever trained. The absolute finest. I don’t care if she is green, purple, brown, blue, or black. She should have danced that role from the start.”

  “She’s in it now,” T.S. pointed out, taken aback by her fury.

  “She most certainly is. And I have never seen a finer Clara.”

  “What did you think of Julie Perkins?” T.S. asked.

  “She’s a competent student. Perhaps the next best to Fatima. But nowhere close. And we did not do her a favor by thrusting the role of Clara onto her. I believe it has undermined her confidence
to an irreparable degree.”

  “She is dancing badly now?” T.S. asked.

  Paulette waved a hand impatiently. “Not badly. Just with disinterest. She never had enough emotion. Now she is a robot. She simply goes through the motions. Perhaps she is burned out. I have seen it happen before at that young an age. She was brought en pointe too early, I suspect. Though not by me. I see her massaging her feet when she thinks no one is looking. I intend to give her a few more days and then confront her. She may be hiding some serious physical problem. Or her problem may be emotional.”

  T.S. remembered something that Mikey Morgan’s mother, Nikki, had revealed. “If you think Mikey Morgan is such a horrible dancer,” T.S. asked, “why are you letting him dance as one of the toy soldiers?”

  “How do you know about that?” Paulette asked coolly, her gaze turning suspicious for the first time.

  “His mother,” T.S. explained.

  The ballet mistress relaxed. “I promised her I would keep it quiet.”

  “But why?” T.S. asked.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Paulette said, smoothing the skirt of her caftan out primly over her knees.

  “Try me,” T.S. suggested

  Paulette sighed again, this time wistfully. “I know what it’s like to be a child star,” she said slowly. “It seems incredible looking at me now, I know. But I was something of a prodigy in my time. And I paid a heavy price. I had no friends my own age. Not one. I deeply regret that now that I am older. I find I don’t know how to have a friend.”

  She wiped one eye and T.S. fervently hoped the memory would not trigger a flood of tears. “When Nikki Morgan approached me about her son, I understood his desire to be with his friends. After all, his father had just died. So I agreed to teach him a small toy soldier role. He handles it fine.”