A Motive For Murder (6 page)

“So what happened?” Margo asked. “He never called me
back. Why the change of mind?”

“I chickened out once the vote was taken. My nephew
convinced me that it would be better to let it go, that it might
harm the Metropolitan more than I intended.”

“It probably will,” Margo agreed. “But from what I
under–stand, it will not be your fault. You voted against it.”

“You’re well-informed. And I need to know who told
you about the vote,” Auntie Lil said. “Your source may well be
connected to the murder of Bobby Morgan last night.”

“I wondered,” the columnist admitted, pulling a small
note–book from her backpack. “Tell me what you know about the
murder.”

Auntie Lil shook her head firmly. “You tell me who
your inside source is first.”

Margo gazed at Auntie Lil from above the rim of her
coffee cup, her eyes an innocent blue. “Miss Hubbert, you know that
there is no way that I am going to give you the name of my source.
That is my livelihood. All I have is my word when it comes to
building trust with people. I wouldn’t give the name to the Supreme
Court itself and I am certainly not giving it to you.”

Auntie Lil considered herself more important than the
Supreme Court, but knew better than to argue. She had a more
roundabout method in mind. She sighed heavily, as if the burdens of
the world were just too much for her. Taking a handkerchief from
the depths of her enormous pocketbook, she patted her brow
daintily. “It’s very distressing, this entire matter. I am merely
attempting to help the Metro board out of a tight spot and do the
right thing.”

Margo McGregor was not in the least bit fooled. She
had seen Auntie Lil in action. “What’s the deal?” she demanded.
“What’s the trade?”

Auntie Lil stuffed her hankie out of sight and pulled
out her own notebook. Pen poised above a clean page, she began
firing questions. “Can you tell me some facts that weren’t in the
paper about the Fatima Jones incident? Could you help me out
without divulging your source? Do you know who on the board
approached the Morgans about Mikey dancing or was it really the
other way around? Tell me what you know and I will tell you what I
know about the death of Bobby Morgan.”

Margo thought it over while she sipped her coffee.
Auntie Lil was content with her latte, a concoction of coffee and
steamed milk. She had long ago discovered that the only difference
between a latte and a cappuccino was a lot of hot air. Quite
naturally, she avoided the hot air. “Well?” she finally asked,
impatient as always.

Margo shook her head. “I am a fool to do this,” she
admitted. “But just in case you come up with something good, here
goes. But I get to hear it first if you uncover anything about the
murder, no matter who is involved. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Margo flipped back to some well-worn pages near the
front of her notebook. Auntie Lil tried without success to read the
writing upside down in hopes of finding a clue to her source’s
identity. Margo, well aware of Auntie Lil’s tricks, pulled the
notes closer to her chest and smiled. “Bobby Morgan approached the
board,” she told Auntie Lil sweetly. “Hans Glick, to be 
specific. It was Morgan’s idea to put his son in the role and he
said it was because his son was at that awkward stage between child
star and adolescent. He thought legitimate stage credits and a
little seasoning would help his son make the transition more
smoothly. Also, he was adamant about no Fatima Jones being in the
show from the very beginning, but no one seems to know how he knew
about her in the first place.” She looked up at Auntie Lil. “What
you have to remember about Bobby Morgan is that he had his own
agenda here. He was a student himself at the Metro thirty years ago
and didn’t do very well. When he was plucked from the student ranks
to audition for a new sitcom back in the sixties, he was one of two
Metro students to get a part. The other had stage experience as
well. Bobby Morgan left dancing behind to try to become a child
star. For a while he succeeded. His sitcom ran for a good eight
years and he was a big television star in his own right during the
late sixties and early seventies. Until he turned eighteen.”

“What happened then?” Auntie Lil asked.

“Talk about an awkward age. He was hit with
everything most adolescents go through at age twelve. Height gain.
Pimples. A month’s worth of bad hair days at a stretch. Mood
swings, all that stuff. Delayed adolescence had helped prolong his
appeal for many years, but when it hit, his career was over. He
wasn’t cute anymore and the show had gone stale. Both his looks and
the show disappeared, almost overnight. I don’t know what happened
to him in the years in between, but by the time he arrived back on
the scene a few years ago, this time as manager to his son, there
were a lot of people who felt that the father was using the son to
settle some old scores.”

“So Bobby Morgan was also a child star?” Auntie Lil
said. “Like father, like son?”

Margo nodded. “In a manner of speaking. He was
nowhere near as successful as Mikey has been, but that’s in part
because he didn’t make the move into film and he didn’t have a good
manager when he was Mikey’s age. I understand his parents blew most
of his earnings and he didn’t have much left by the time his show
was canceled. He’s been living pretty well off his son’s earnings
for the last couple of years. Twenty percent of twelve million a
year is not too shoddy.”

“And he sent Mikey to the Metro Ballet School to
follow in his footsteps?”

Margo nodded. “A lot of stage parents do that, at
least at first. Ballet teaches a child grace and stage presence.
They also learn to work like dogs and the constant rejection of
auditions is good for them. Toughens them up.”

“Sounds like they’re breeding pit bulls,” Auntie Lil
said.

“Believe me, some of them are.”

“Where is the child’s mother?” Auntie Lil asked. “Why
has no one heard of her?”

“That’s an interesting story,” Margo admitted. She
checked her watch and began to speak even faster. “The mother and
father divorced a few years ago, apparently over the future of
their oldest son and biggest asset— Mikey. It seems that Mom was
not keen on nonstop exploitation of Mikey and was worried about the
effect of all the attention on his younger brothers and sister. But
Dad was adamant on cashing in while the cashing in was good. So
they split. There were a few other reasons, too, I understand.”

“A few other very female reasons?” Auntie Lil
guessed.  

Margo rolled her eyes. “Some women go for the
ponytail-and-gold-jewelry look. Me? I like wrinkled Irish faces and
scraggly beards.”

“Why did you run the story on Fatima Jones when you
did?” Auntie Lil asked. “So close to opening night?”

“I didn’t know about it until then,” Margo explained.
“When my source came to me, they let me know that Ben Hampton knew
about it. I knew the good Reverend would make a big deal out of it.
I also knew that it would be a real coup for me if I could get my
column out first, making it look like Hampton had responded to my
story. It doesn’t hurt to look like you have a lot of influence,
even if you don’t.” She smiled modestly, although she was fully
aware of the very real clout she wielded. “So now it’s your turn,”
she told Auntie Lil. “What do you know that you’re not telling
me?”

Auntie Lil described the murder and the way the body
had swung first behind the set windows and then in front. “I am
convinced that he was killed earlier in the show, perhaps strangled
manually by the extra rope attached to the Christmas tree’s
counterbalance. The killer made a noose out of this rope, figuring
that once the tree started to descend, he could cut the
counterbalance free and the rapid fall of the tree would jerk
Morgan’s body onto the stage. It worked, but not well enough for
the killer. I think he or she was waiting in the wings and, during
the confusion of the Christmas-tree lights exploding, grabbed the
hanging body and gave it a good shove to send it center stage.”

Margo stared at Auntie Lil. “That’s a pretty dramatic
gesture,” she said. “Not to mention extremely risky if you want to
stay anonymous.”

Auntie Lil nodded. “I know. Someone wanted this to be
a very public murder.”

“What else?” Margo demanded.

Auntie Lil shrugged apologetically. She was not about
to let Margo know about the tufts of cotton worked into the rope
fibers. “Just that anyone could have found their way backstage.
There are at least four fire-door exits opening on to separate
sides and back alleys and none of them are locked during a
performance. Any one of the fifty or so protesters could have
slipped inside and done it. Or anybody backstage. Or a tourist
passing by, for that matter.”

“Hell of a New York City souvenir,” Margo remarked.
“You’ll give me more when you get it?”

Auntie Lil nodded. “And you’ll call me with the
same?”

“Agreed.” The tiny columnist rose, her five-foot
frame giving off a power that exceeded her physical limitations.
“Be careful,” she warned Auntie Lil. “You remember what happened
last time?”

Yes, Auntie Lil still remembered the sharp point of a
knife twisted cruelly in her side the last time she and Margo had
found themselves on the same case. “I’ll be careful,” she
promised.

Auntie Lil left the coffee bar knowing a lot more
about Bobby Morgan but very little about the possible identity of
Margo McGregor’s source.

But what was it the columnist had said about having
to run the story because she knew that Ben Hampton had been alerted
as well? If someone had leaked the news to the Reverend Hampton, it
didn’t guarantee that the informer was black, but it did indicate
that the possibility was worth pursuing. Besides, using the
chalkboard at the emergency board meeting earlier that day had
reminded her of someone easily overlooked. She remembered the
placid face of the maintenance man and the timing of his entrance
at the acrimonious vote meeting. Had he been listening at the
door?

Lincoln Center was no more than a four-dollar cab
ride away. She decided to ask him for herself.

Auntie Lil camped out at the service entrance to the
State Theater and shanghaied the man she had discovered was named
Calvin Swanson. He was in a hurry to get home after a long day. But
the maintenance man did not seem surprised to see her. “Evening,”
he said, tipping his hat back on his head.

“I’m Lillian Hubbert. I’m on the Metro’s board of
directors. May I talk to you privately?” she asked without
preamble, figuring correctly that he was a man who wasted neither
words nor actions.

“About what?” he said carefully, his eyes searching
Amsterdam Avenue for a bus he could take home to the Bronx.

“Look, I’ll treat you to a cab ride home if you’ll
just agree to talk to me for a few minutes about Fatima Jones and
the vote to replace her in
The Nutcracker.”

“Fatima?” He sang her name like he was at a gospel
meeting. “What do I know about that girl except that she’s a fine
dancer?”

“Oh, come on, Calvin,” Auntie Lil insisted as she
managed to block a frantic executive with her hip and flagged a
passing cab to a screeching halt with a well-practiced wave. Calvin
opened the door with supreme satisfaction and a polite nod to the
apoplectic businessman. Auntie Lil climbed inside first and waited
for Calvin to give his address to the irate driver. Cabbies liked
to stop for little old ladies in New York City; they did not like
to stop for large black men. The driver, highly suspicious of his
passengers, slammed the plastic divider between the front and back
seats shut in defiance, leaving Auntie Lil and Calvin to exchange a
knowing glance.

“Nice change to be taking a cab,” Calvin said.

“I bet,” Auntie Lil agreed dryly.

Calvin decided he liked the old lady’s attitude.
“Miss Hubbert, I can’t help you. I have merely watched the girl
practice. What could I tell you about Fatima Jones that you don’t
already know? Just because we’re both black doesn’t mean we’re
related.”

“I know that.” Auntie Lil paused. “Someone leaked the
details of the board’s vote to oust her to the press. I think it
might have been you.” She stared at Calvin’s face carefully as she
spoke, hoping to read new information there.

His face remained blank and he shook his head. “Not
me. I do admit I heard what you were talking about that day.” He
shrugged apologetically. “Could hardly help it. If you don’t mind
my saying so, you do talk very loud.”

Auntie Lil nodded. She was famous for her booming
voice.        

“I may even have listened in a bit at the door
afterward and I can’t say I agreed with the decision,” Calvin
added. “But I wasn’t surprised. And I certainly didn’t call the
press.”

“But surely you know something,” Auntie Lil asked.
“You work throughout the building every day. People may not notice
you because you’re so familiar. They might have talked while you
were around.”

“They might have,” he agreed. “But just because they
don’t know how to keep their mouths shut doesn’t mean I don’t.”

“Please, Mr. Swanson,” Auntie Lil pleaded. “I worked
hard to stop them from taking that role away from Fatima and now
I’m working hard to find a killer. The two events may be related.
Don’t you know anything that might help?”

“Like what?” Calvin settled back for the unexpected
luxury of passing over the Harlem River by car. Even the sluggish
murkiness of the river below them seemed to sparkle in the
reflection of the arriving sunset.

“Have you seen anyone talking to the press?” Auntie
Lil asked. “Did you notice any board members leaving the meeting
and running right for the pay phone?” She knew this last scenario
was absurd, since no one would be so obvious. Of course,
she
had wanted to be that obvious, but Theodore had stopped her.