A Motive For Murder (5 page)

“He’s dead,” a male dancer announced, removing his
fingers from the man’s throat. “Very dead.”

Auntie Lil pushed through the crowd and knelt beside
the body, taking care not to touch anything. Her eyes were drawn
first to the man’s neck. The knot cut savagely into the neck just
below the windpipe. She adjusted her reading glasses and bent so
close that some in the crowd thought she was attempting to revive
the victim. There, caught in the fibers of the deadly rope, were
minute wisps of a fluffy white substance that looked like cotton.
Finally, she looked up to confirm who was so very much hated that
he should be killed in such a public manner.

Just as she had suspected when the body first swung
into view, the murdered man was none other than Bobby Morgan,
agent—and very much deceased father—of Hollywood’s biggest child
star.

There was little else Auntie Lil could uncover before
the police arrived. Wisely, she had slipped out a side stage door
and made her getaway before she was detained for questioning. If
any of the dancers had reported her presence backstage to the
detectives, they had not caught up with her yet.

On the other hand, she had very little information to
go on when it came to the identity of the killer. Only that someone
had fashioned a very professional-looking noose around the neck of
Bobby Morgan without being noticed in the middle of a busy
backstage—and then given him a few good shoves to send him swinging
when it became obvious he was going to hover on the sidelines
unless he got a little help. She was certain that he could not have
swept across such a spectacular portion of the stage without a
deliberate push.

When a call came early the next morning announcing an
emergency meeting of the Metropolitan Ballet Board that afternoon,
she readily agreed to be there. Perhaps she could pick up more
information on Bobby Morgan’s death.

The conference room was strangely quiet when she
arrived. Board members sat glum and silent, exhausted after
battling their way through the phalanx of reporters and film crews
camped out in front. Lane Rogers did not even bother to glare at
Auntie Lil. She simply sat at the head of the long conference table
gazing down at her notes. Her face was drawn and white. Either
dozens of new wrinkles had appeared around her reddened eyes
over–night or she’d been too upset to follow her usual makeup
regime.

“Let’s get started,” Lane said abruptly. “Someone
lock the door.” Ruth Beretsky scurried to do her bidding.

“Lock the door?” Lilah asked. “Are we in danger?”

“In danger of being overheard,” Lane answered
ominously. Many of the assembled group turned to stare at Auntie
Lil, correctly interpreting the accusation for what it was.

“I did not inform the press about the Fatima Jones
decision,” Auntie Lil said firmly. “And I most certainly did not
murder Bobby Morgan.”

“Indeed,” Hans Glick added. “The matter of Fatima
Jones seems to me to be a moot point. Have you seen the newspaper
today?” He held up a handful of lurid headlines. “We have gone
overnight from being a respected institution to being a ‘hotbed of
intrigue’ as one despicable rag called us.” His outrage was
genuine. Any event out of Glick’s control enraged him. “We must do
something to regain our respectability.”

“We can try to repair the damage,” Lilah pointed out.
“But if the murderer turns out to be someone in the organization,
then we will be right back where we started.”

“Someone in the organization?” Raoul Martinez
bellowed. “We are artists, not murderers! Are you implying one of
my dancers is at fault?”

“It was someone backstage,” Lilah answered calmly. “I
should think that is obvious.”

“Anyone had access to backstage,” Martinez countered.
“The outer doors are not locked during performances and the
security is laughable. I have been saying for months that too many
unauthorized individuals are being allowed where they don’t
belong.”

“You have been trying for months to have board
members banned from backstage,” Lane corrected him. Her eyes slid
involuntarily to Hans Glick. “I can understand your desire to keep
interference to a minimum, but we do, after all, guide the
Metropolitan Ballet.”

“So what we are saying is that the murderer is most
probably a member of the company or the crew,” Auntie Lil said
brightly. “Or a member of the board.” Every face turned to her in
horror.

 “It certainly seems logical to me,” she
continued. “Of course, I am a bit more experienced than the rest of
you in such matters. You think none of us are capable of murder
because we live in nice homes and have money in the bank.” She
folded her hands neatly in front of her. “My dears, we are each and
every one of us capable of murder.”

Silence greeted her. Hans Glick was, of course, the
one to break it. “I will tell you what we should do,” he said. “We
must hire a private investigator for a great deal of money to get
to the bottom of this. We will leak our hiring of him to the press
and it will seem as if we are very serious about determining who
the culprit is, regardless of their possible position.”

“I thought we
were
very serious about
detemining who the culprit is,” Lilah said dryly. Glick looked
away.

Auntie Lil stood and walked to the chalkboard Glick
was so fond of using, unable to resist the impulse. “Nonsense,” she
said. “We are not paying anyone anything. I intend to solve this
mystery for free.” She drew a large question mark in the middle of
the board and a large dollar sign beside it. She tapped the
question mark. “Who is best qualified to determine the killer?
That’s obvious. I am. I have done it before, I am part of the
organization, and…”—she drew a heavy circle around the question
mark— “…I am happily devoid of any preconceptions as to the guilt
or innocence of anyone I meet, believe me. However, our
responsibility for controlling this mess must not stop with helping
to solve this murder.” She tapped the dollar sign before
dramatically erasing it as if it were an obscenity. “Some of you
may believe that the matter of Fatima Jones will go away, but I can
promise you it will not.” She locked eyes with Lane Rogers. “For
one thing, the two matters could very well be related.” Auntie Lil
walked back to the table in the shocked silence that followed this
remark. “Until that is determined, I think it would be wise to
correct the error of our ways as soon as possible. Fatima Jones
should be given the role she deserves. As Mikey Morgan will surely
not wish to continue dancing now that his father has died onstage,
as it were, he should not be a problem—if he was the problem in the
first place.”

“But think of the crowds,” Hans Glick pleaded.
“Granted this publicity is regrettable, but we sold out for the
entire run this morning. People will be expecting him to perform.
If we replace him, we may find ourselves with a flood of refund
requests.”

“If you are suggesting that we keep Mikey Morgan in
the role so that thrill-seeking ghouls can sit there and stare at
him, you are very much mistaken,” Lilah said quietly. “I will not
allow it. It is unseemly, it is inappropriate, and it will not go
over very well in civilized circles. I can guarantee you that I
will resign from the board. I will withdraw my funding. And I will
make sure my friends do the same.”

Auntie Lil was astonished. Ultimatums were not in
Lilah’s repertoire. Yet she sounded as if she meant every word she
said.

“I mean it,” Lilah added firmly, meeting Auntie Lil’s
eyes. “Children should be children and this young man is not going
to continue dancing given the circumstances.”

“Rudy Vladimir will step into the Drosselmeyer and
Prince roles,” Martinez said quickly, visions of his salary being
cut in half flashing through his mind. Lilah was one board member
who believed that artists should be paid enough to live well. “That
leaves the way open for Fatima Jones to dance Clara. I can move
Julie Perkins to a lesser role. She injured her foot last night
anyway. That can be my excuse.”

“What about our legal exposure?” Lane Rogers brought
up. “We have a contract with Mikey Morgan.”

Glick cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Actually,
the contract is not yet been signed. There were some problems.” He
blinked and one corner of his mouth twitched. “I had not yet
reached an understanding with the young man’s father as to the
exact percentage of the gate that he would be entitled to.”

“What?” Lane asked sharply. “We don’t give dancers a
percentage of the receipts. This is not a rock concert. Who
authorized you to pursue such an arrangement?”

“I am the board member in charge of business
affairs,” he said with dignity. “It is certainly within the realm
of my authority.”

“You better be damn glad you didn’t sign that
contract,” Lane snapped back, a hint of her Yonkers accent
returning.

Auntie Lil was in a hurry to find the killer and in
no mood for a political debate. “Good. It’s settled,” she said,
heading off a power struggle. “Fatima takes over as Clara. Rudy
will dance the roles of Drosselmeyer and the Prince. And I will be
the board’s official representative in the matter of Bobby Morgan’s
death.”

“And I will assist you,” Glick added.

“No, you will not,” Auntie Lil corrected him. “How
can we expect to appear impartial if one of the suspects assists in
the investigation?”

“See here,” Glick protested. “Why am I a suspect and
you are not?”

“Because I was sitting right up front in full view of
three thousand people when Bobby Morgan was killed,” Auntie Lil
explained logically. “I am sure there are many witnesses in this
very room who saw me.”

A murmur of assent rose from the back of the room. It
was true: Auntie Lil had been pretty hard to miss in that purple
getup she’d had on.

“I protest,” Lane said firmly. “You have no right to
such power.”

“Oh, let her,” a woman suggested from the back of the
room. “It will get her out of our hair.”

Ruth Beretsky cleared her throat and the entire board
turned to stare. She shrank from the scrutiny but gathered her
courage to speak. “I don’t see why we can’t accept Miss Hubbert’s
offer,” she said. “She isn’t asking for money. She has experience.
And a man is dead, after all. I think it’s rather generous of her
to offer, myself....” Her voice trailed off as the full impact of
Lane’s glare sank in, but Ruth still managed to hold her chin
defiantly high and refused to reverse her
opinion.    

“Let’s vote so we can go home,” someone suggested.
“This place gives me the creeps.”

“I’ll not have her interfering,” Lane began, but was
overruled by other voices calling for a vote.

Before Lane knew what had happened, the vote had been
taken. Auntie Lil’s plan was approved and the meeting was
adjourned.

“Wait!” Lane cried out as board members streamed for
the door, eager to get back to their murderless lives. “What about
the leak? Someone here is a spy. Someone is talking to the press. I
demand we find out who it is!”

Her words were in vain. The board members had
scattered. Not even Ruth Beretsky stayed behind to agree.

Despite her seeming indifference, Auntie Lil was just
as eager as Lane Rogers to determine Margo McGregor’s source for
her newspaper column on Fatima Jones. After all, she thought it
might relate to Bobby Morgan’s murder. So she took the direct
approach. She arrived at the Manhattan offices of
New York
Newsday
and refused to leave the waiting room until the
newspaper located Margo. Jimmy Breslin spent a few minutes hovering
behind a potted palm while he evaluated Auntie Lil as potential
fodder for his own Runyonesque column, but when she seized the
opportunity to take a catnap and began to snore, he slunk away in
disappointment.

The harried receptionist finally located Margo in a
third-floor snack area. “Why didn’t you return my calls last
month?” the petite columnist asked as she hurried out to greet
Auntie Lil. “First your nephew calls me and leaves a dozen urgent
messages and then I don’t even get a call back from either one of
you?”

Margo McGregor was pint-sized but she carried a lot
of weight in city press circles. It was rumored that the mayor sent
her a dozen roses each week just to stay on her good side. His
strategy was hopelessly old-fashioned and seldom worked, but the
poor man kept trying. Roses did not dissuade Margo McGregor. Not
even a Scud missile would cause her to miss a beat. She was a human
wolverine. Her deceptively friendly face twinkled out at readers
complete with button nose, friendly eyes, and an innocuous
schoolgirl flip to her short brown hair. But she was one of the
most sarcastic—and skilled—investigative reporters on any of New
York City’s dailies. She had brought down much bigger organizations
than the Metropolitan Ballet and would not hesitate to use her wit
and wiles against the pope himself if she felt he deserved public
exposure for a betrayal of ethics or trust.

“Let’s go somewhere for coffee,” Auntie Lil
suggested, certain that the single best place in the world to be
overheard was probably a newspaper waiting room.

“Sure. What’s on your mind?” Margo did not hurry
Auntie Lil. She knew from experience that the best way to get
infor–mation from a source was to let them take their time and work
out their fears at their own pace.

“I’ll tell you when we’re alone,” Auntie Lil promised
as they made their way into the hordes of busy strangers clogging
Forty-second Street.

“No problem,” Margo agreed. She wholeheartedly
supported Auntie Lil’s paranoia.

“I did have T.S. call you about the Fatima Jones
matter last month,” Auntie Lil admitted once they had settled in a
crowded coffee bar near Times Square. The seats were metal and
uncomfortable because, as usual, groups of younger people already
occupied the few plush, living-room-style arrangements dotting the
room. Manhattan had lately sprouted numerous such coffee bars,
ostensibly as havens for the hurried and weary. In reality, more
tempers were irked than soothed by the jockeying for good seats
that went on in these Java joints.