“What happened to not polluting the art with outside influences?” T.S. asked.
“Oh, who cares,” Paulette snapped back. “We’re talking about one crummy toy soldier out of twenty, thanks to the hordes that Raoul pours on stage each night. You call that art?”
Her rapid lapse back into acerbic observation was comforting to T.S. He much preferred the sarcastic version of Paulette Puccinni to the coquettish and sentimental versions.
“Is that it?” she suddenly demanded. “You only wanted to ask me more questions about that infernal murder?”
“That’s it,” T.S. admitted, resisting the urge to apologize. He had not misrepresented himself. It was her fault for misreading his intentions.
“Have it your way,” she announced, standing up and assuming her regal carriage. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” She strode from the room in a billow of brightly colored cloth, leaving behind the sweet stench of floral perfume.
T.S. was struck with a sudden pang. There was something oddly sad about her parting shot. He had been boorish. And he had led her on a bit. How could he have stooped so low?
He dashed out the door to apologize and nearly collided with an agitated Andrew Perkins. The man did not even recognize T.S. He simply mumbled an apology and continued past.
T.S. did not hesitate. He followed Perkins automatically, keeping him in sight as they both hurried down the hall. Perkins pushed through the exit doors. T.S. waited a few seconds before following. Perkins paused for a moment in the sunlight, looked around, and immediately relaxed. He leaned against the corner of the theater and began to smoke a cigarette as he watched the street carefully. T.S. casually removed the bloody handkerchief from his pocket and placed it back over his nose. It wasn’t bad for an impromptu disguise.
After a few minutes a cab came roaring up the inner roadway that provided an easy drop-off point for patrons attending Lincoln Center shows. The taxi glided to a halt and the back door opened. T.S. caught a glimpse of a slender arm as someone beckoned Andrew Perkins inside. Perkins ground out his cigarette and hurried to obey. He folded his lanky frame inside the cab and slammed the door shut just as the enthusiastic driver gunned the engine. As the taxi shot past, T.S. darted toward the driveway, shamelessly stooping for a better view. Despite the handkerchief still over his nose, he had a clear look at the woman’s face and was absolutely positive. Dark glasses and a scarf could not hide all of her features, nor the trademark haircut he had seen at Morgan’s funeral.
Andrew Perkins had just hopped into the backseat of a cab with Nikki Morgan.
13
“You’re what?” Herbert asked, straining to hear Auntie Lil over the backdrop of street noise. “I never thought I’d say this, but I can’t hear you.”
“I’m whispering!” she explained. “I’m in the lobby of a warehouse on Twentieth Street. I’m going home with Emili Vladimir for dinner. In case anything happens to me, I wanted someone to know.”
Herbert Wong was no fool. He was well aware that his time spent with Auntie Lil had been severely curtailed in recent weeks by his dance interests. She would never admit that she missed him. It was not her way. But he knew what this phone call really meant. “I have let you look into this too much on your own,” he told her. “Wait for me now. I will go with you.”
“No,” Auntie Lil said. “There isn’t time. She’ll be downstairs in a minute. I’m only going to Brighton Beach. I’ll be fine. I just wanted someone to know.”
“Lillian,” Herbert said in a businesslike tone, “I do not approve. Your voice tells me that you may be in danger. You must call me tonight when you get home and let me know that you are okay. Starting tomorrow, I will stick to you like paste.”
“Glue,” Auntie Lil said. “Stick to me like glue.”
“Glue,” Herbert conceded. Had he detected a note of relief in her voice? That pleased him. Auntie Lil was so capable that one seldom had the opportunity to be of assistance. Of course, when she finally did need his help, it was usually a pretty lively affair. “Do not forget to phone,” he warned her. “Or I will come over and check on your safety for myself.”
“I won’t,” Auntie Lil promised, ringing off just as Emili Vladimir emerged from the building’s elevator. Her imperious manner had disappeared, along with her black leotard. She was wearing jeans and a carefully ironed man’s shirt. Her face had relaxed, softening her features, and her wide smile was framed beautifully by the dark waves of her unbound hair. She was, Auntie Lil realized, a stunning woman. “I hope you’re hungry,” Emili warned her.
“I’m always hungry,” Auntie Lil admitted.
“Good. I made stuffed cabbage last night and it’s always better reheated. I’m starved myself. I usually forget to eat all day when I’m creating.” Emili stepped back nimbly to avoid Auntie Lil’s huge pocketbook as she tried to get a cab. Auntie Lil’s cab-hailing methods were spectacular and had been known to harm innocent bystanders. They also worked. As a taxi screeched to a halt, Emili climbed inside with a sigh. “This is a luxury. I can’t afford to take a taxi on my own.”
“It does beat the subway,” Auntie Lil agreed.
Auntie Lil had not been to Brighton Beach since the days when she had visited a favorite fit model who had recently given birth to twins (and given up her career as a perfect size eight). The Brooklyn neighborhood had changed in the ensuing years from a comfortable middle-class enclave into a neighborhood in flux, caught between the old world and the new. The main avenue was lined with four-to-ten-story brick buildings in various states of repair. In each case, the ground floor was given over to small businesses, ranging from grocery stores to shoe-repair shops to dry cleaners and apparel shops. A few blocks over, a grimy waterfront served as home for a community of noisy seagulls and the homeless, who had made themselves comfortable amidst the industrial decay.
What set Brighton Beach apart from other New York City neighborhoods was that most of the store signs appeared in the ornate Cyrillic letters of the Russian alphabet as well as in English. The area was referred to as “Little Odessa” by many people, including a number of detectives assigned to its precinct. Beginning in the seventies, wave after wave of Russian, Polish, Balkan, and Czechoslovakian immigrants had fled their homelands under relaxed travel laws and settled down in Brighton Beach to pursue the American dream. Most were hardworking, newly Godfearing, and relatively honest. Some were not. Auntie Lil knew that a branch of Russia’s largest organized crime organization controlled illegal gambling, loan sharking, prostitution, and extortion in the area. Behind the windows thick with Polish sausage and Russian caviar lurked illegal betting parlors, currency smuggling operations, and access to a dark underworld.
All Auntie Lil could think of as she passed through the bustling streets was whether Emili Vladimir belonged in the hardworking category or in the dark underworld. It would be easy to find a hired killer in Brighton Beach. And the price would be a bargain compared with many other sections of New York. But why would Emili kill Bobby Morgan? Unless she had been the woman that Ruth Beretsky had spotted him with. And even then, what had been her motive? Did it somehow involve a seat on the board?
“Right here,” Emili told the driver as the taxi pulled up in front of a two-story brownstone that was nestled between larger buildings. A black wrought-iron fence rimmed a concrete yard barely big enough to house a pair of garbage cans and one lawn chair. Someone had placed tubs of begonias in each corner of the fence, lending the yard a festive air.
“Are you the gardener?” Auntie Lil asked.
“My upstairs neighbor,” Emili explained. She waved to a stout woman staring out of a second-story window before leading Auntie Lil inside.
The Vladimirs’ apartment consisted of four narrow rooms that opened off opposite sides of a central hallway. The small kitchen was jammed with ceramic canisters, storage jars, and rows of spice bottles. The outdated appliances were spotlessly maintained and looked at home with the flowered linoleum and lace panel curta
ins. The lingering odor of a recently cooked meal made Auntie Lil’s stomach grumble.
“Let me put this in the oven right away,” Emili said, removing a foil-covered pan from the refrigerator. “Rudy will be home soon and he only has an hour before he has to turn around and go back for curtain.”
“He comes all the way home to eat dinner for an hour?” Auntie Lil asked.
Emili nodded. “It’s one of the few times we get to spend together.”
They toured the rest of the apartment, Auntie Lil admiring the overstuffed furniture with heavy brocade upholstery in the living room. Lace doilies covered the chair arms and the walls were decorated with colorful impressionistic paintings of the Russian countryside. She read the signature. “Are you the artist?” Auntie Lil asked, admiring a scene that showed a hay wagon stopped beside a mountain lake.
“My father,” Emili explained. “He was a passionate painter, an aberration in our otherwise dance-mad family.”
It was obvious which bedroom was Rudy’s and which belonged to Emili. Rudy’s was crammed with sweatpants, athletic and flat dance shoes, posters of popular sports figures, cassette tapes, and schoolbooks. Emili’s was a feminine lair, crowded with satin pillows, lace, lingerie, perfume bottles, tiny pairs of delicate shoes, and a large canopied oak bed.
The wall on the other side of the bed intrigued Auntie Lil. She stared at the portrait of a handsome man dressed in formal eveningwear posed against a red velvet curtain. He had an elongated face, high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and thin lips. His dark eyes were wide and almond-shaped, giving him a slightly Asian look. His hair was light brown and carefully brushed back from his forehead.
A small maple table—a genuine antique to Auntie Lil’s practiced eye—had been placed in front of the painting. Its surface was filled with votive candles in red glass cups. Emili strode to the table and lit the candles, cupping each glass jar until the flame had stabilized. She knelt in front of the table and stared up at the portrait. Auntie Lil waited in the doorway until she had finished praying and used the time to scrutinize the man in the painting. Was this a self-portrait of Emili’s father? Was it her husband? If so, he didn’t look much like Rudy. Rudy was rounder, less ethereal looking, and much more robust. If this man resembled anyone Auntie Lil knew at all, he looked like Andrew Perkins, the young ballerina’s father. She studied the man’s face more closely. How very odd. Was there a connection?
Emili finished her silent ceremony. She rose and stroked the portrait with graceful fingers. “This is what I wanted you to see,” she said.
“I don’t understand,” Auntie Lil admitted.
“This is my husband,” Emili explained. “Rudy’s father. He was a great dancer, a star of the Kirov Ballet. An untouchable. Or so everyone thought. He’s been gone now for fifteen years. They killed him.”
“Who killed him?” Auntie Lil asked, bewildered.
Emili shrugged. “Them. The Soviet authorities. Perhaps some organization I never knew existed. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Erik is gone and I am the cause.”
“How could that be?” Auntie Lil asked.
Emili sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the portrait. “Do you know how I first came to the States?” she asked.
Auntie Lil shook her head. “Only that you defected.”
Emili nodded. “Six years after Baryshnikov defected. And the same way. The authorities had finally relaxed enough to allow us to travel again. Or rather, they needed the money a world tour would bring in. I was with the Kirov doing a production of The Dying Swan in Toronto. One morning I woke up and walked away from it all. It was easy. First I took a bus to the border. I went into a bar and an American woman there sold me her driver’s license for fifty dollars. When you’re from Russia, you learn how to spot people who will agree to such things. I crossed the border by bus into New York State that night and no one even bothered to look at the license. I just waved it and they let me through. It was a very crowded bus. I took another bus from Buffalo here to New York City and presented myself to a branch of the U.S. Embassy at Rockefeller Center. No one but my husband knew I was going to do it. I wasn’t even sure myself.”
“Why did you do it?” Auntie Lil asked.
“I was pregnant with Rudy. Only two months. No one in the company knew. I wasn’t going to raise my child in Russia.” Emili laughed bitterly. “If it had been today, it wouldn’t have been so important to get out. Things have changed so much. Now there is no more U.S.S.R. There is not even an enemy to blame for my husband’s death. All of that has disappeared, along with my Erik.”
“But why would they kill him?”
“He couldn’t get out fast enough and joining me was something they could hold over him to try to make him talk. But he didn’t know enough to please them. Many of our friends were on their dissident lists. They probably threatened Erik or offered to let him join me if he would only turn in some of our friends. He would never have agreed to that. Maybe that is why he died.”
“How could that have been your fault?” Auntie Lil asked.
Emili stared down at her hands. “They picked him up while he was waiting near the border at Urkutsk for a signal from me. As soon as he heard I had defected, he was going to cross over. But they fooled us. They kept the news very quiet. They were embarrassed about it happening again. Then a friend of mine betrayed me. A man who was in the company with me. I called him from New York and he promised to call Erik and tell him I had been granted asylum. It was a backup plan to make sure Erik got the news. Instead, the government representative traveling with us on tour got to my friend first. They’d been watching him from the moment I disappeared and knew that I had called. My friend told them where Erik was waiting. They convinced him to phone Erik and say that I had been detained, that all plans were off. So Erik did not cross over the border. They came to get him the next day. For questioning only, they told the manager of the Urkutsk hotel. No one ever saw him again.”
“Then he may be alive,” Auntie Lil said.
Emili shook her head. “No. Erik is dead. I can feel it.” Tears welled from her eyes and trickled down her face. She made no move to wipe them away. “So you see, that is why I could not have harmed that Morgan man. I have already had a hand in one man’s death. Because of me, a man’s life has been cut short before his time. I would not be a party to such a thing again.”
Before Auntie Lil could reply, a clatter in the front hall signaled the arrival of Rudy. Books tumbled to the floor in the distance, a chair was bumped, and light footsteps padded rapidly down the hallway toward them. He shouted a question in Russian, his voice cracking as it struggled to escape that elusive mixture of child and man.
“Another fifteen minutes,” Emili answered in English. “I’m heating it up now. Come into my bedroom, Rudy. We have a visitor.” She stood and wiped the tears from her face, replacing her grief with a smile. Rudy dashed into the room but stopped short when he saw Auntie Lil. He was tall and well muscled yet almost impossibly graceful. He had a thick mop of blond hair that fell into his eyes and was cut short on the sides in the current style of New York City teenagers. His eyes traveled from Auntie Lil’s face to the portrait of his father on the wall. He studied the lit candles flickering beneath the image, then his eyes lingered on his mother’s face.
“This is Lillian Hubbert,” Emili explained, gesturing toward Auntie Lil. “She’s on the Metro’s board.”
“I know who you are,” Rudy said. He offered his hand to Auntie Lil politely. “All of Mikey’s friends do.”
Although the stuffed cabbage was excellent—and Auntie Lil had astonished her hostess with her appetite—she had not learned anything new that might help her in identifying Bobby Morgan’s murderer. She felt that Emili and Rudy Vladimir were exactly what they appeared to be: a small family made stronger by trouble, devoted to dance, poor but talented, and at least in the case of Emili, grateful for the freedom they enjoyed in their lives. Rudy had been a typical American teenager, eating
noisily, boisterously recalling events of the day, answering Auntie Lil’s questions with one- or two-syllable replies and generally remaining unconcerned about anything except whether Auntie Lil would leave enough stuffed cabbage rolls for him to have seconds. After dinner, he had raced to his room, changed into fresh clothes, and dashed out the door for the subway with a hurried good-bye. Auntie Lil left soon after and had the distinct feeling that Emili would be in bed and fast asleep before she got halfway home. There had been no sign of a man in Emili’s life, other than the oil portrait on the wall. There were no photographs of her with anyone but her son on display, no mementos, fresh or dried flowers, and certainly no men’s toiletries hidden in the bathroom cabinet. Auntie Lil knew because she had given it a thorough search.
All together, the evening had been a draw. She had gotten an excellent dinner but little else. Well, perhaps a new friend. She could do worse, Auntie Lil reflected, settling back against the seat of her cab with a sigh. The taxi was one of the newer models, painted a vibrant yellow that bordered on orange. She admired its cleanliness then spotted the telephone mounted on the divider between the front and back seats. It was absurd, she reflected, how modern man could not leave that abominable contraption behind for even a few minutes. It probably did not even work, the reception no doubt horrific.
Telling herself that she was simply testing the new technology, she searched through her cavernous purse for a credit card and slid it through the magnetic reader. She contemplated which of her many acquaintances she might call. Of course—Herbert. He answered immediately and sounded relieved that she was safe. As they chatted and made plans to meet in the morning, the taxi emerged from a cluster of industrial buildings onto a main thoroughfare with a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline. Auntie Lil stared at the magnificent outline of brightly lit buildings etched against the twilight, the electric glow seeming to be fed by the slow-moving line of car headlights that inched toward the great city. She felt the wonderful sense of security that talking to a friend in a cozy cab in the midst of such chaos provided and suddenly understood quite clearly why car phones were so popular.
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