A Motive For Murder (33 page)

“What in God’s name is going on here?” Auntie Lil
demanded. “It looks like a tornado
hit.”      

“He won’t let me play Sega Genesis,” Mikey whined.
“He’s been playing that dumb duck-blind game for hours. He’s like
obsessed.”

“Bring me a cookie,” T.S. shouted over his shoulder
before steadying his aim for the upcoming duck.

Auntie Lil picked up a bag of cookies, marched over
to T.S., and conked him over the head with it before switching off
the television set. “You have obviously lost your mind,” she
said.

T.S. looked around as if he were coming out of a
trance. “What time is it?” he asked.

“It’s time to ask this young man a few more
questions,” Auntie Lil said grimly. “Sit down.” Her natural
authority was so great that both T.S. and Mikey sat obediently on
the couch. “Not you,” she told T.S. “For God’s sakes, go comb your
hair and straighten up this place. You’re both a mess.”

T.S.’s eyes were glazed; he was having trouble
focusing at close range.

“Go wash your face,” Auntie Lil instructed him
firmly. She sighed and sat next to Mikey. “This is my friend
Herbert Wong,” she said, nodding toward the door where her friend
stood. “He’s helping me out, and if you want a bodyguard, he might
be of assistance.”

Mikey looked the small Asian man over with scorn. “If
I need a grandpa, I have my own.”

Auntie Lil sighed. “We will both ignore that comment.
I went back to the Metro today and I met a very angry man. Angry
enough to do something like follow you, perhaps. I began to wonder
why he might follow you, if indeed he is the man. So I have a
question for you.”

Mikey squirmed uncomfortably and evaded her eyes.

“I asked you if you saw anything suspicious
backstage,” Auntie Lil reminded him. “You said ‘no.’”

“I didn’t see anything,” Mikey insisted, his eyes
sliding to the blank television. “I was busy getting ready to go
on.”

“I think you did see something,” Auntie Lil said. “I
think you saw someone who had been wearing your Drosselmeyer cloak
try to replace it before you came looking for it. Did you?”

Mikey stared out the window for a moment then turned
to Auntie Lil, widening his eyes and holding her gaze with an
innocent expression. “No,” he said. “I would have told you. Why do
you think that?”

“Because if you are being followed, there’s a reason.
And I think that reason may be that either you saw the killer or
the murderer thinks you saw him. If you know more, you must tell me
now.”

Mikey shrugged. “I can’t tell you something I don’t
know.”

“Fine. I talked to your mother. You can go home
tonight.”

“No!” Mikey shouted. “I’m not going home.”

“But you are going to tell me what I want to know,”
Auntie Lil said. She waited, hands folded in her lap. She’d seen
the gleam in his eye. He would tell her sooner or later.

“It was dark backstage. I can’t be sure.” His lower
lip stuck out in a pout.

“What do you think you saw?” she asked slowly.

Mikey shrugged. “Nothing much. A man putting my cloak
back in place on a hook by the big fuse box.”

“What did the man look like?” Auntie Lil asked
patiently.

Mikey’s face scrunched up in concentration. “He had
dark hair.”

“How tall was he?” Auntie Lil said.

Mikey bit his lower lip with his teeth while he
thought the question over. “Average height,” he finally said. “He
wasn’t tall, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did you recognize him?” Auntie Lil asked again.

Mikey shook his head emphatically. “You won’t make me
go home, will you?” he asked just as T.S. reentered the living
room, a thick envelope in his hand.

The boy turned to T.S. “Can I stay? Please?”

“I don’t see why he can’t stay another day just to be
safe,” T.S. conceded. “We were going to order in Indian food
tonight and we already have two movies picked out. Here—this came
an hour or so ago. From Margo McGregor.” He handed the envelope to
Auntie Lil and picked up an unopened video-game box, reading the
description with interest. “Two people can play this one,” he told
Mikey. “Want to give it a try?”

Auntie Lil gave up. She took the envelope to the
dining-room table and shoved aside a stack of video movies with
titles that favored the words
Kung Fu.
Herbert joined her,
scooping a bag of potato chips off the chair before he sat down.
She opened the envelope and spread out several dozen
black-and-white oversized photographs.

“What are we looking for?” Herbert asked.

“This woman,” Auntie Lil said, holding up a photo of
Lisette Martinez entering the party on the arm of her husband,
Raoul. “With this man.” She held up another photo, this time
showing a bored Bobby Morgan being cornered by a determined Lane
Rogers. Lane’s sweeping Grecian gown made her look like the patio
window in a badly decorated suburban home.

“You mean a photo like this one?” Herbert asked. He
held up a glossy print of Lisette Martinez and Bobby Morgan
laughing together.

Auntie Lil grabbed the photograph and examined it.
Morgan’s face was far more animated than in the first shot. His
grin was wide and he was holding his champagne glass aloft with one
hand while he held out an oval gold cigarette lighter in the other.
Lisette’s head was thrown back and her long hair rippled behind her
like a dark waterfall. One elegant arm was extended in front of her
and a cigarette dangled from between her graceful fingers. Unlike
the other more crowded photos, this shot showed only the two of
them alone in a corner of the room. The table beside them held four
bottles of champagne. “Just like this one,” Auntie Lil said.

“What do you expect to find?” Herbert whispered. They
were crouched in a darkened storage room on the third floor of the
Metro, the one where Auntie suspected Bobby Morgan had been killed.
Despite the murder, security at the Metropolitan was still dismally
poor. Auntie Lil and Herbert had simply waited until that night’s
performance of
The Nutcracker
was over and then slipped in
the side door when a distracted group of dancers exited. They were
able to make their way upstairs without being noticed and had
waited in the darkness ever since.

“I don’t know what we’re going to find,” Auntie Lil
admitted. “Do you think everyone has left yet?”

Herbert shrugged. “Is this wise?” he asked. “We could
be caught.”

“I gave her a chance to tell me the truth. Now I’m
going to find out why she’s lying.”

“How?”

“By searching her locker and her husband’s office and
every other room of this place if I have to.” Auntie Lil’s fingers
worked over the thick rope coiled on the floor. If Jerry
Vanderbilt had called the police as she had advised, and told them
this was likely a crime scene, they had probably left the room
exactly as it was before. Perhaps they had dismissed the bits of
cotton and dirty ribbon as leftover refuse from an earlier use for
the room. And maybe they were right.

“Where are we going to look first?” Herbert asked
softly.

“Her locker. I’m going to pry it open and see what’s
inside. Those two are hiding something.”

“Why didn’t you tell me we’d be breaking and
entering? I could have brought tools,” Herbert said.

Auntie Lil patted her enormous handbag in the
darkness. “Don’t worry. I’ve got us covered. I raided Theodore’s
toolbox. I could have stolen the furniture right out from under his
nose. Those two will be in exactly the same position when we
return, mark my words. They’ll be sitting on the couch, slack-jawed
and glassy-eyed, with drool running down their chins.”

“At least he is not protesting having to babysit,”
Herbert pointed out.

“Did you hear that?” Auntie Lil whispered. They fell
silent as footsteps approached the room. The doorknob rattled as if
someone had bumped into it. Auntie Lil’s heart was pounding so
loudly in her chest that she was sure Herbert could hear it. A few
seconds later, the door to the catwalk slammed shut with a bang,
causing them both to flinch. The footsteps returned past their
room, and a minute later the sliver of light leaking in under the
door of their room disappeared. The upper floor was now in total
darkness.

“Ricky Lee Harris,” Auntie Lil whispered. “The
lighting director. He’d be one of the last to leave.”

They waited five minutes to be safe, then crept
cautiously from their hiding spot and out to the third-floor
hallway. There were no windows in the cavernous backstage building,
so they had to find their way around in the darkness. Auntie Lil
kept her hand on the wall and carefully followed it back toward the
inner stairs. Two floors below, they heard a door slam. Auntie Lil
froze; Herbert bumped into her and took a step backward. They
waited, ears straining for unfamiliar sounds, but heard nothing.
Auntie Lil put her mouth close to Herbert’s ear. “Someone was just
leaving,” she barely sighed. “Shall we go on?”

Herbert touched her arm in assent and they began to
descend the stairs. The lockers were on the second floor at the far
end of the hall, well beyond the other rooms and closer to the
first-floor steps. It was a long walk given the need to maintain
absolute silence. Auntie Lil’s legs began to ache with tension long
before they reached their destination. But the door to the dressing
area opened easily to her touch and they slipped inside without
trouble. She fished a navy scarf out of her pocketbook and
carefully taped it over the small window in the door with strips
from a roll of cellophane tape she also produced from the depths of
her bag. Herbert was well acquainted with the endless contents of
her purse and not the least surprised. Next out of her carryall was
a small penlight. She handed it to Herbert and he lit her way to
the first locker on the right. It was the most spacious of the
lockers and a small brass label confirmed that it belonged to
Lisette Martinez. A small metal lock barred entry, but it was
easily jimmied apart with the shaft of a screwdriver. In fact, it
flew open so suddenly that the tool banged against the metal door
of the locker with a clang. They froze, their breath loud in the
silence. But no footsteps approached and they continued with their
task. Auntie Lil opened the door, holding her breath as she lifted
the latch. The metal door opened quietly and she crouched before
it, examining the contents inside using the narrow illumination
emanating from the tiny flashlight. The top shelf of the locker
held a stack of neatly folded T-shirts. She searched between and
beneath them but found nothing unusual. Several pairs of toe shoes
were stored behind the clothing and she pulled them out for
inspection. They were delicate in appearance but sturdy in
construction. Soft satin pleats covered canvas sidewalls the
consistency of cardboard. The soles were heavy canvas and the
hardened tips reinforced inside with carefully sculpted wads of
cotton batting. She examined the cotton under the light. It was
impossible to tell if it matched the shreds found by Bobby Morgan’s
body. But one thing was certain: the ribbon that Auntie Lil had
found on the floor of the storage room had been a grimy white. And
while Lisette Martinez probably wore white shoes in many ballets,
she did not store those shoes in her locker. All three pairs were a
pale pink and the ribbons matched the shoes exactly. Auntie Lil was
disappointed but undeterred. She replaced the shoes carefully and
searched the pockets of several pairs of sweatpants hanging from
hooks on each side of the locker. She discovered bits of tobacco in
each pocket and a few sticky breath mints, but nothing more. The
floor of the locker proved more promising. Amidst a heap of clean
cotton socks, Auntie Lil uncovered a small leather-bound date
book.

“Why would she keep this in her locker instead of
with her?” Auntie Lil whispered to Herbert, holding the date book
aloft for his inspection.

Herbert opened it and examined a few pages. “Maybe to
hide it from her husband?” he suggested.

“Exactly,” Auntie Lil agreed. They searched through
the date book’s calendar pages carefully. Last spring, Lisette had
marked approximately three days a week with the initial L and
nothing more. By summer, the initial C had taken L’s place, though
an occasional B appeared. In September, the B was followed by an
arrow blocking out an entire week.

After that, C disappeared from the calendar, and
except for the initial —which appeared no more than two times a
month—the days were blank. Beginning in mid-October, B began
appearing again almost every other day before disappearing abruptly
one month later. After that, the pages were blank.

“No wonder she needed a calendar,” Auntie Lil
whispered. “She had to have some way to keep all these men
straight.”

“You think those are dates with men?” Herbert
asked.

“They can’t be anything else,” Auntie Lil decided.
She slipped the date book into her purse. “Let’s compare this to
her husband’s calendar, shall we? I think we’re going to find that
Raoul Martinez was not in New York last September during the time
when B was blocked off for an entire week.”

“So ‘B’ stands for Bobby Morgan?” Herbert asked.

“That’s my bet,” Auntie Lil agreed. She checked the
floor of the locker a final time but found nothing more of
interest. Carefully shutting the door, she replaced the lock. It
hung open crookedly. “She’ll know someone has been in her locker
anyway when she sees the date book is missing,” Auntie Lil decided.
“It may be better to spook her and see what she does next.”

After removing the scarf from the window, they
silently inched their way back toward the first-floor steps. When
they reached the stairwell, they caught the tail end of an echo.
The sound was elusive. A scrambling? Rats? Someone sliding past
below? Auntie Lil touched Herbert’s arm lightly, not daring to
speak. He patted her hand reassuringly. They waited in the
darkness, straining to hear more. The night was silent. Slowly they
began to move down the steps, making it to the first floor without
incident. Raoul Martinez kept a cluttered office toward the back of
the building, near the rear exit doors. Auntie Lil was prepared to
slip the lock with her Macy’s credit card. Indeed, she used it more
to gain illegal entry than she did to charge purchases. But to her
surprise, the office door opened easily. She hurried inside with
Herbert right behind her. They shut the solid wooden door behind
them and Herbert flicked on the penlight.