A Motive For Murder (17 page)

“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 was 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 semiphoring 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.”