Murder for Lunch

by Haughton Murphy

  It was largely through Frost’s efforts, and those of an old investment-banking client and colleague, William Burbank, that NatBallet now had its own theatrical home. Three years or more had been needed to marry together the elements required to erect the Zacklin Theatre: straight-out commercial greed (Everett Zacklin’s desire to erect an enormous office and cooperative-apartment complex on West Fifty-third Street), artistic Lebensraum (the desire of the management of NatBallet for a larger stage, more seats and expanded space for rehearsals), civic do-goodism (the desire of the City Planning Commission, when selling its soul to the Great God Bulk, to command a price for it), and the amiable pragmatism of the City’s Mayor (eager to be both friend of the City’s real estate lobby and patron of the arts, a straddling act he was able to perform by encouraging the Zacklin colossus).

  A complex package of tax abatements, tax-exempt bonds, zoning variances, landmark waivers, Federal and state development grants, and sweetheart mortgages from the City’s leading banks had all been necessary to launch the Zacklin project. Not to mention the enthusiasm of one of the burgeoning investment-banking firms—enthusiasm enhanced after a lunch of the senior partners with the Mayor—for occupying most of Zacklin’s commercial floor space, and the seemingly insatiable desire of the possessors of flight capital or hit-record royalties for the deluxe duplex—or triplex or quadruplex—apartments that Zacklin had to offer atop his multi-use edifice.

  As far as Frost was concerned, the important rabbit that emerged from the builder’s capacious hat was the theatre, the construction of which was a condition to the zoning variances Zacklin needed. Zacklin had originally resisted the grandiose plans Clifton Holt had devised, aided and abetted by both Cynthia and (as his enthusiasm grew) Reuben Frost. Then Reuben, shrewdly sensing the solution after a dinner with Zacklin and his wife, Rhoda, suggested naming the theatre the Zacklin. (Frost had in fact been revolted by the idea, but Mrs. Zacklin had thought it just fine and persuaded her husband to accede to the physical, acoustic, artistic and aesthetic wishes of Clifton Holt in designing the new theatre—the new Zacklin Theatre. Frost had suppressed his reservations and maintained a longer perspective on the whole matter. It was clear to him that Holt’s reputation would continue to grow. He had already received the Handel Medallion, the City’s highest award for cultural achievement, and it seemed only a question of time before he became one of the “honorees” (hateful word) at the Kennedy Center in Washington. Coupled with the four Oscars that the choreographer had already won for motion-picture direction, it seemed obvious to Frost that this heap of honors would fuel a movement to rename the Zacklin Theatre after Holt—possibly at a very public ceremony at which Rhoda Zacklin would preside over the change.)

  All the tenants in both the commercial and residential space professed to be pleased with Everett Zacklin’s development. There had been some minor rumblings from the apartment owners, whose chandelier-lined entryway stood beside the alley leading to the stage door. This minority felt that the ragtag assemblage of dancers in rehearsal clothes often seen emerging from the theatre was undignified; but other apartment owners thought just the opposite, and liked the idea of their proximity to NatBallet’s glamour and artistic prestige.

  Those at NatBallet were pleased, too. Dreams of clean, well-lighted studios, air-conditioned dressing rooms, storage space for scenery, a stage floor that all dancers who used it pronounced the best in America, and wing space that permitted dignified—and safe—stage exits were all realized. (No more need for stagehands to grab a male dancer in mid-flight as he leaped into a grand jeté from the stage into nonexistent landing space in the wings; no more forty-minute intermissions while the simplest scenic drops were trundled back and forth from temporary quarters across the street.)

  Reuben Frost’s part in the Zacklin negotiations had been the culmination of his legal career, and had helped allay his reservations about retiring. Under the inexorable rules at Chase & Ward, he had been required to retire as the firm’s Executive Partner in 1978 and to retire altogether as a partner in 1982. He was, of course, still “of counsel” to the firm—a quite luxurious title, in actuality; while it did not permit him to share in the firm’s considerable profits, it did allow him to have an office, to carry on legal work for those who still called for his personal services, to keep a secretary, and to get assistance when necessary from the firm’s pool of bright young associate lawyers.

  The Zacklin negotiations had enabled Frost to remain active, giving him the supportive feeling that he was still capable of performing well as a lawyer. They involved just what he liked: complex financial arrangements, the chance to draft difficult legal documents in clear and straightforward language, the opportunity to use to the fullest the negotiating skills developed over almost a half-century of practice.

  The directors of NatBallet, in part in recognition of his work in procuring the Zacklin Theatre and in part knowing a good and available commodity when they saw it, had prevailed upon Reuben to become Chairman of the Board. It was another welcome affirmation of his usefulness, and his wife, aware of his occasional sadness at being retired and growing old, urged him to take the job.

  Normally the Theatre and the rehearsal studios were dark on Monday—the Company performed on a Tuesday-through-Sunday week—but Holt, ever the demanding taskmaster, had insisted on extra rehearsals for his new work, set to the music of César Chávez’ Piano Concerto. Frost had reluctantly agreed to Holt’s request, though knowing painfully well the damage this would do to the Company’s budget (and perhaps to the rehearsals necessary to sustain other ballets already in the repertory); but Holt, as NatBallet’s Artistic Director, had final say in such matters, subject only to restraint from the Board if his proposed actions threatened the Company with insolvency. The stage rehearsal of the second movement of Chávez Concerto had been scheduled as a prelude to the Board meeting—or perhaps as a peace offering for the strain rehearsing the work had placed on the Company’s budget.

  While he waited, Frost looked around the semidarkened theatre, still feeling a slight sense of wonder that it had ever been built. The interior was not entirely to his liking; the red velvet plush was, he thought, reminiscent of faded and tacky movie palaces of the ’20s; but then, so was the principal auditorium of the Kennedy Center in Washington. Everything else about the theatre was fine—excellent acoustics, clear sightlines from any location and a 3,500-seat capacity that accommodated NatBallet’s growing audience.

  Frost’s reverie was broken by the arrival of Andrea Turnbull, one of his fellow directors and a perpetual trial to him. Turnbull, a wealthy widow from Syracuse, had moved to New York City two years earlier, apparently with the intention of making a name for herself within the City’s artistic establishment. Her bountiful donations—two large annual contributions that the Company hoped would become a habit and the generous underwriting of two new productions (Chávez Concerto being one of them)—had easily won her a place on NatBallet’s Board.

  But while her neat, large checks were attractive, Andrea Turnbull was not. Frost, if the truth were known, found her just this side of repulsive. She was overweight, with straggly brown hair and clothes that looked as if they had been purchased in a thrift shop. While other wealthy women of her age—Frost guessed her to be roughly fifty-five—were often obsessed with face-lifts and the latest treatment designed to smooth out wrinkles, Andrea Turnbull could not even be bothered to have the simple electrolysis that would have removed the slight but noticeable mustache above her upper lip.

  Not much was known about Mrs. Turnbull except that her husband had left her a substantial fortune, earned in a profitable farm-equipment and automobile dealership in Syracuse, augmented by shrewd plunges in the stock market. As far as was known, she had no friends, or at least any who would publicly acknowledge their friendship. The result was a fanatical devotion to NatBallet and a seemingly endless amount of time to meddle in its affairs. Unlike the other directors, who deferred almost without question to Clifto
n Holt’s artistic judgments, she was constantly giving Holt advice on all subjects—what ballets to have in the repertory, what dancers to feature and promote, even what the design of the Company’s program should look like.

  Holt was not a notably patient man, and he had more than once caused Mrs. Turnbull to threaten to snap her checkbook shut. But each time Frost, as a reluctant but effective peacemaker, had resolved the conflict. He had grown battle-weary in the process and now groaned inwardly as the woman approached; he knew from the expression on her face that a new storm was brewing.

  “Reuben, thank God I’ve caught you here alone. I must talk to you,” she said as she pushed in front of Frost, making clear that she wanted to sit next to him.

  “Fine, Andrea What is it this time?” Frost asked, trying to keep a tone of resignation out of his voice.

  “Did you see Paganini Variations Friday night?”

  “No, we weren’t here on Friday.”

  “Disgraceful! Clifton let that Cassidy boy dance the lead. He’s not ready for a part like that. He should be learning basics in the corps, not attempting lead roles for which he is not suited.”

  Paganini Variations, one of Clifton Holt’s earliest works, had become the “signature” ballet of the Company. Universally praised by NatBallet’s followers—and grudgingly admired even by those who were normally critical of the Company and Holt as a choreographer—its performances were often used by Holt to signal to the public which dancers were then in favor. Veronica Maywood had begun dancing the major female role when she had been promoted to principal dancer twelve years before. She was considered the authoritative interpreter of the part, though she had had a number of partners in the ballet, most recently Aaron Cassidy, a strikingly handsome twenty-year-old who was steadily advancing to the top ranks of the Company—advancement that was well deserved in the opinion of most, though apparently not in Andrea Turnbull’s.

  “The role calls for a noble prince, Reuben,” Turnbull went on, pressing her case. “Cassidy is a colt and dances like a colt. He’s clumsy and awkward, and I—”

  “Andrea, dear, you are of course entitled to your views, but most people think Cassidy is very good—just the sort of bravura young blood the Company needs,” Frost said. “Certainly Clifton thinks that.”

  “I know Clifton thinks that. And Clifton is wrong. That boy is not promising, and neither you nor Clifton can convince me otherwise. I think Clifton and he must have something going, if you ask me.”

  Frost was able to ignore Turnbull’s sexual innuendo by turning—eagerly—to greet Adelaide Simms, who had come up beside him. Mrs. Simms, who had married into a major perfume fortune, was a cheerful lady of goodwill who had been a friend of the Frosts for many years. Reuben got to his feet and kissed her on both cheeks (or, more precisely, made a vaguely kissing sound as he rubbed against each of her cheeks).

  “How are you, Adelaide?” Frost asked.

  “Wonderful, Reuben. Couldn’t be better. Are we in for a treat this afternoon?”

  “We shall see,” Reuben answered. “But you know Clifton can always produce surprises.”

  “He certainly can,” Andrea Turnbull chimed in. “I was just telling Reuben what stupid judgment Clifton is showing by pushing that Cassidy boy.”

  Neither Frost nor Simms had a chance to reply, as other members of the Board began arriving. Frost took the occasion to leave his seat and greet the newcomers, leaving Adelaide Simms to listen to Mrs. Turnbull’s latest grievance.

  As the assembled group talked, a dozen members of the Company filed onto the dimly lit stage. As always at a ballet rehearsal, they appeared in various types of motley, carefully and thoughtfully selected to suggest insouciance: a Rolling Stones sweat shirt here, flaming pink leg warmers there; a torn and dirty T-shirt on one boy, an exotic turban on another girl. Only Veronica Maywood and Laura Russell, who would rehearse the lead part, wore any semblance of a costume. Both wore identical green chiffon shifts designed for the performance. Aaron Cassidy and Roy Irwin, their male counterparts, were by contrast wearing sweat shirts and warm-up pants.

  Kirk Drinan, one of the Company’s pianists, nervously picked out difficult passages from the piano transcription of Chávez’ dissonant work. Frost could not help hearing them as he returned to his seat. He had more than a little apprehension about Clifton Holt’s latest undertaking. He was unfamiliar with the music, but Cynthia had heard a record of it and had pronounced it undanceable. Part of the interest in Holt’s ballets was watching the resolution of difficult problems the choreographer created for himself; if Cynthia was right—and the excerpts Frost was now hearing indicated that she was—Holt this time had set himself the ultimately impossible task of making a ballet to ferociously difficult music.

  Frost had another feeling of foreboding as well, after his brief encounter with Hailey Coles. Ever since the premiere of Paganini Variations, Veronica Maywood had been Holt’s favorite ballerina (and, for a period in the late 1970s, his mistress). In virtually all Holt’s works since, and certainly the major ones, the leading female parts had been made on her. But now, for the first time, Holt was rehearsing two dancers—Maywood and Laura Russell—and had not indicated which of them would dance the premiere. There was no question that Russell was outstanding, dancing at nineteen with a maturity that one expected only in a more seasoned performer. But Maywood had always been the favorite and was thought by many to be dancing exceptionally well during the current season.

  Frost knew that Maywood was both strong-willed and temperamental. He hoped, as he took his seat beside Andrea Turnbull, that Holt’s decision would not create fireworks; he knew from long experience that fireworks within the Company had a way of throwing off sparks and burning others, creating unwanted morale problems in the process.

  “I see he has Cassidy in this one too,” Turnbull grumbled. “I’m not sure that I paid the money for this ballet as a vehicle for that pretty-boy.”

  “Andrea, we’ll have to talk about this later. Right now I think Clifton is about to begin.”

  Holt had come on stage. Although he had long since given up dancing, he maintained a slim, wiry profile. Never a danseur noble, never a handsome prince, he nonetheless had an immediately recognizable air of authority—one, Frost reflected, that would have been as effective in a corporate boardroom as on the stage of the Zacklin. Something about his manner and his brisk, choppy and decisive movements said Don’t cross me, don’t tread on me.

  After talking briefly to Maywood and Russell, Holt came down the steps leading from the stage into the orchestra. He seemed oblivious of the Board members seated behind him. He had apparently told Veronica Maywood and Roy Irwin to dance the rehearsal, as Laura Russell and Aaron Cassidy moved to the side of the stage.

  All the dancers, except Russell and Cassidy at the side, left the stage, and Holt signaled Kirk Drinan to begin playing. The music that emerged could best be described as prickly. It was reminiscent of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, but without Stravinsky’s undeniable inventiveness and with a decided Latin overlay. Twelve corps dancers—six girls, six boys—entered from the wings, forming rapidly dissolving patterns to the complex music. Then Maywood and Irwin came out and started a pas de deux. They had scarcely begun when Holt stopped them. He went forward to the edge of the orchestra pit and spoke to them in a voice inaudible to those in the auditorium. Maywood dramatically shrugged her shoulders, but did not speak.

  The pas de deux resumed. This time Holt allowed it to continue only slightly longer than before. Again Holt talked to the dancers. This time Maywood could be heard saying from the stage that she was “uncomfortable doing the steps that way. It’s simply too awkward.”

  “You mean too hard?” Holt said, this time in a mocking voice that could be heard.

  “No, Clifton, not too hard. Just too damned clumsy and awkward. I don’t feel right doing it.”

  Holt did not respond but only beckoned to the pianist to begin the passage again. This time the duet of the dance
rs continued for five minutes. Maywood had said the steps were not hard; to the spectator they nonetheless seemed extraordinarily complex—sharp, jagged, syncopated movements executed in unorthodox positions—and both dancers were sweating hard when Holt again stopped the music.

  This time the choreographer went back up the steps to the stage, took the dancers aside, and talked to them quietly, his arms and legs outlining the movements as he wanted them executed. Russell and Cassidy came closer to hear the conversation, anxious to avoid similar problems when they rehearsed.

  From the auditorium, the talk did not seem agitated, though what was actually being said could not be heard. The clustered group on the stage appeared to be a quintet of professionals discussing a technical problem. Then the atmosphere changed. Veronica Maywood stepped back away from Holt and her partner and began shouting.

  “Clifton, this music is impossible, and you know it. I refuse to go on with it. I feel like a goddamn Mexican jumping bean, doing the goddamn Mexican hat dance! These steps are just plain clumsy and designed to make us—or at least me—look weird and ungraceful. Let Laura do it if she wants to. You’re being perverse, Clifton, and I’m not going to be a part of it!”

  Maywood grabbed her towel from the side of the stage and walked off. The corps members, peeking out from the wings to see the excitement, looked stunned, as did Roy Irwin, watching his partner disappear. Only Laura Russell seemed serene, as she stood staring at her slippered feet.

  Clifton Holt was furious. What would he do? Go on with Laura Russell? No, he turned to the small group seated in the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize. We do not seem as far along as I had hoped with our ballet. I think we should cut our losses and call this rehearsal off. Thank you for coming, and better luck next time.”

  “See what I mean, Reuben?” Andrea Turnbull said to Frost in great excitement. “The man is a monster. Trying to do the impossible and torturing his dancers. We’ve got to do something.”