A Motive For Murder (18 page)

“I arranged for his bail,” Auntie Lil admitted. “I
can’t go arranging bail for everyone the police haul in.”

“Besides, Gene wasn’t arrested,” T.S. said. “He was
just brought in for questioning. He went willingly.”

“I know, but he’s scared. He called me. He said his
lawyer hadn’t shown up yet and he was afraid it was because he was
out of money.”

The blood drained from T.S.’s face. “Oh my God,” he
said, stricken. “I was supposed to call his lawyer for him.”

“See!” Jerry cried. “You’ve abandoned him. Now you
simply must help.”

“Theodore.” Auntie Lil frowned in disapproval. “Give
me the name and phone number.” She scanned the piece of paper. “How
could you have forgotten?”

He was too ashamed to explain. He had forgotten
because he’d gotten caught up in the romance of sitting at a bar
sipping Dewar’s and soda while perusing the financial files,
searching for clues before Auntie Lil spotted them.

“He’s been languishing for hours,” Jerry declared.
“You must help. It’s all your fault!”

Auntie Lil lowered the piece of paper and gazed
coolly at the accompanist. “Young man,” she said, despite the fact
that Jerry was well past fifty. “Gene Levitt has been brought in
for questioning, not for torture. And he is not our responsibility.
However, if you can prove to my satisfaction that he is not
involved in the death of Bobby Morgan, we may help. Perhaps.”

“I can prove it,” Jerry whispered loudly. As if
attracted by some magnetic force, they leaned forward until their
foreheads nearly touched over the dinner table. “Come with me back
across the street to the theater,” he said softly. “I want to show
you something.”

Auntie Lil glanced across the avenue. “I thought the
theater was dark tonight.”

“It is,” Jerry explained. “But they’re blocking
Apollo.
Man does not live by
Nutcracker
alone.
There’s something I want to show you. Not even the police have seen
it yet.”

“Okay,” Auntie Lil agreed. “As soon as you call your
friend’s lawyer”—she thrust the paper at him—“and I finish my
mashed potatoes, we’ll go.”

 The Metro’s theater was eerily deserted. As
Jerry ushered them in a side door toward the backstage area, Auntie
Lil stopped to peek through a crack in the curtains at the empty
auditorium. The stage was well lit with a utilitarian glare and
Martinez stood at its center, demonstrating a series of steps to an
attentive male dancer. Martinez’s wife, Lisette, waited patiently
to one side for her partner to receive his instructions. Four other
ballerinas clustered stage right, watching the proceedings with
little interest. They had long since learned their parts and were
ready to go home. It was nearly nine o’clock at night and they had
been rehearsing since before noon. Paulette Puccinni sat in the
front row, taking notes and charting the choreography for future
reference. It seemed odd to have dancers without music, but the
only sounds that broke the silence were the authoritative commands
of Martinez. His voice was not unpleasant, however. Indeed, it
softened perceptibly as he explained his vision of the dance,
transforming his personality from forbidding to compelling. His
body seemed to grow in length and agility, taking on a lightness as
he demonstrated moves.

 “Come on,” Jerry whispered. “He hates outsiders
at rehearsals. Let’s go upstairs before he sees us.”

The Metro’s theater included three stories of
administrative and rehearsal floors built in behind the stage and
auditorium. To access each floor, they had to walk up a set of
steps then traverse the floor to reach the next stairwell and
floor. Auntie Lil had visited these work areas of the Metropolitan
Ballet on several occasions and knew that the layout made sneaking
around difficult indeed. She also knew that the first floor housed
rehearsal rooms where classes were held each morning. The second
floor stored the locker rooms, scenery, sets, costumes, and
complicated electrical equipment necessary to sustain a varied
repertoire. The third floor provided room for the all-important
toe-shoe room, sheet-music shelves, and more storage areas. Jerry
led them to this top floor, switching on lights as they made their
way through the otherwise deserted building.

“This is a madhouse during the day,” Jerry explained.
“Everyone went home a couple of hours ago.”

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 forward 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.