A Motive For Murder (7 page)

“By the press, you mean that columnist who broke the
story?” Calvin asked. “Or do you mean any press at all?”

“Anything!” Auntie Lil declared in desperation.

Calvin rubbed his hands on his well-worn jeans. “I
guess if I were you,” he finally said. “I would talk to that lady
who runs the rehearsals.”

“Paulette Puccinni?” Auntie Lil asked.

“That’s the one. And maybe that fellow who plays the
piano for her during rehearsals. The one she likes so much. The one
losing his hair.”

“You saw them talking to someone?” Auntie Lil
asked.

“Not exactly. But I’ve been seeing them huddled
together in the hall a lot, kind of whispering and looking guilty.
I would say they know something and it’s not good.”

Auntie Lil thought it over. “How would I approach
them?” she asked.

Calvin shrugged. “I guess you’ll just have to wait
until Tuesday,” he said. “I know they don’t come in tomorrow
because both of them teach dance classes over at that Dance Center
on Broadway.” He laughed. “Sure am glad I didn’t want to be a
dancer when I grew up. I make more money than both of them. They
teach classes over there to make some extra cash; at least that’s
what I heard.”

“The Dance Center?” she asked.

“That’s it,” he replied. “I thought about taking a
few classes there myself, you know. They were advertising ballet
classes for older people, saying it was a good way to keep your
joints stretched and all. My back hurt from some heavy lifting and
I thought about giving it a try. After watching so many ballet
classes and all, I guess maybe I caught a touch of the bug myself.
But I ended up taking yoga instead, because when I went over to the
Dance Center to take my sample class and sign up, I found out that
the classes were for really old people. You know—even people as old
as you.” He realized what he had said and ducked his head. “No
offense meant, of course,” he said.

“No problem,” Auntie Lil assured him. “It’s no secret
that I’m old.” She stared out the window and watched the high-rise
apartments of Riverdale as their cab sped past. Ballet classes for
old people led by Paulette Puccinni?

Auntie Lil knew exactly what her next step would
be.

Later that evening a quick telephone call to an
acquaintance in the corps de ballet gave Auntie Lil the information
she needed: Paulette Puccinni’s favorite accompanist was a
fifty-five-year-old man named Jerry Vanderbilt who had been with
the company for the past four years. The two were as close as twin
kangaroos in the pouch, “but not in that way, if you know what I
mean. Jerry’s on the other team,” Auntie Lil’s confidante had
revealed. And both, her source added, were suspicious of others in
the company, gossiped a great deal between themselves, and while
they were respected, were also considered a bit antisocial. And
yes, both did teach senior ballet classes at the Dance Center.
Because these classes were so rough on the instructors—old people
could be far more stubborn than children—Jerry and Paulette earned
double the going rate for their services. After a few moments of
commiseration with her source over the low salaries paid to artists
these days, Auntie Lil rang off to consider her strategy.

If Paulette Puccinni and Jerry Vanderbilt were that
close, Auntie Lil wondered if directly questioning them would work.
Even if one opened up to her, the other’s suspicions could prove
contagious. She’d be better off choosing a more circuitous route to
winning their trust. Besides, it would be more fun that way.

She rose early the next morning and called Theodore
with an appropriate cover story: she was taking an exercise class.
She felt guilty about misleading him, but he was, as expected,
tiresome and pedantic about her extracurricular activities. When
she told him she had been elected the board’s official spokesperson
in the matter of Bobby Morgan’s death, he had reacted with the
usual warnings not to interfere. She justified her lying by
deciding that she needed to put her nephew off her scent for a
while, until she made some progress.

Next, she called Herbert Wong, knowing he would be
the perfect companion for her undertaking. He readily agreed to
meet her on Broadway with exercise clothes in hand. He did not even
ask why—a wonderful trait in a friend.

She hung up and pawed through her bureau drawer for
suitable attire. Auntie Lil was incapable of appearing anywhere
without what she deemed the perfect outfit. Her idea of the perfect
outfit was admittedly unconventional at times, but she still felt
the confidence that comes from knowing one is dressed for an
occasion. Unfortunately, nothing in her current wardrobe would do.
She hated synthetic fibers and it was tough to find tights in 100
percent cotton. In the end, she stopped off at a lovely boutique
near the subway and found exactly what she wanted: a raspberry
leotard and matching tights.

The young man at the front desk of the Dance Center
was alarmingly cooperative. Of course, they could take a sample
class. There was one starting in just a few minutes, in fact, and
if they were interested in an entire series of classes... He
launched into a sales pitch that left them dizzy and wondering
about the financial footing of the place. Promising to return and
discuss their bargain lifetime plan for multiple classes later,
Auntie Lil and Herbert embarked on their latest subterfuge.

Herbert was well dressed for the occasion. He emerged
from the locker room of the Dance Center clad in sleek black biking
shorts. His ebony knit top had cut-off sleeves, just like a
professional dancer. He wore black Chinese slippers that made
Auntie Lil wish she had thought of them first; her own clunky white
tennis shoes spoiled the effect of her ensemble.

The sales spiel had taken so long that they were late
for class and apparently interrupted at a bad time. About a dozen
elderly people lined the mirrored room, their faces reflecting the
polished glow of a gleaming hardwood
floor.           

They were leaning against the barre—a long wooden rod
that rimmed the room just above waist height. Their eyes were fixed
eagerly on an argument that had broken out at the piano. A spry old
lady no more than five feet tall stood nose-to-chest with the
accompanist, Jerry Vanderbilt. A plump woman dressed in a
diaphanous caftan was attempting to referee. Auntie Lil correctly
inferred that the plump women was Paulette Puccinni, maître de
ballet—or head of the Metro’s corps de ballet—when she was not
instructing retirees on their form.

“I do not play too loud,” Jerry Vanderbilt was
shouting. “How dare you insinuate I am deaf.” He was of medium
height, with well-muscled shoulders. In fact, he was so
extraordinarily strong-looking that Auntie Lil wondered if the
physical demands of playing the piano for a living could account
for his stature alone. Perhaps he lifted weights. Vanderbilt also
had a chiseled, almost craggy face with a proud nose, wide eyes,
and generous mouth. A German face, Auntie Lil thought, or perhaps
Austrian, with maybe a touch of Eastern Europe in his prominent
chin. His reddish brown hair was receding rapidly from a high
forehead that was, at this particular moment, flushed an angry
red.

The accompanist’s strength did not intimidate his
current opponent. The tiny old lady scowled at his denial, then
produced a small plastic box from the pocket of her tunic. She
carefully extracted two wax earplugs from the box and dramatically
inserted them into her ears, screwing each into place as if she
were securing electrical fuses. “You sound like a herd of
thundering elephants!” she snarled for emphasis.

Jerry glowered. “How appropriate. Since you dance
like an elephant.”

“Please, please, please!” Paulette Puccinni pleaded,
sweeping her caftan into the air as if taking flight. “You are
upsetting the artistic air of the room. It is true all dance is
based on emotion, but this is not the mood we are attempting to
create.” She patted her student on the back, made soothing noises
under her breath, and steered the old woman back to the barre. When
she returned to the piano, Auntie Lil distinctly heard her hiss,
“I’d like to rip her shriveled old ears off,” to Jerry through
clenched teeth.

Jerry smiled thinly and began a dignified adagio
beat, but stopped when he noticed Auntie Lil and Herbert standing
by the door. “Newbies,” he said, sighing in exasperation.

“I’m so sorry we’re late,” Auntie Lil apologized.
“The young man out front kept us. Are we intruding?”

“No, no, no,” Paulette insisted, confirming that she
was paid by the pupil. “You simply must come in and join our little
gathering.” Her caftan flapped about her like uncoordinated wings
as she moved her arms in emphasis.

They crept to the center of the room, self-conscious
in their dancing attire. Auntie Lil was acutely aware that she
resembled an oversized M&M in her leotard, especially compared
with the other students—who were astonishingly sleek for their age.
The other women in the class eyed her covertly as they stretched
and bent at the bane. The four men in the room were less critical.
They looked as if they felt vaguely foolish at being there in the
first place. One of them even wiggled his eyebrows at Herbert.

“We’re rank beginners,” Auntie Lil explained. “With
emphasis on the ‘rank.’”

“No matter, no matter,” Paulette gushed, escorting
her to the barre. “Today we are working on musical interpretation.
It will give you just a taste of how soaring to the soul ballet can
be. Good for your body tone, too, of course.” She patted Auntie
Lil’s fanny in a conspiratorial way and it was all Auntie Lil could
do to resist demanding that Paulette strip off the camouflage of
her caftan and let it all hang out with the rest of them.

Herbert was as comfortable as a duck in water. He
seemed to glide effortlessly toward the barre, accepted the space
the other students made for him with a graceful nod, and began to
stretch. Auntie Lil watched him enviously.

He was of indeterminate age. The best she could guess
was older than seventy and younger than eighty. But he was also
undeniably fit. His small frame was compact and muscled, upheld by
a pair of deceptively thin legs. She already knew his strength and
endurance were that of a man several decades younger. More than
once she had been forced to call it quits on the dance floor when
he had been willing to continue. Herbert also had wonderful
equipoise. She suspected he practiced martial arts in private, some
sort of
balancing-the-harmony-of-the-body-with-the-harmony-of-the-world
type thing, but she hadn’t the energy to ask him if her theory were
true. His agility and balance would serve him well today.

Auntie Lil was another story. She was a stout woman,
certainly not fat, but no one would ever call her willowy. She had
not changed shape or gained weight in forty years. Her body had
found its equilibrium and, despite her fondness of food and Bloody
Marys, had stayed at its most comfortable size. Unfortunately, her
optimum physical shape was nowhere near that sought after in
ballet. American ballet dancers were tall. Auntie Lil was medium
height, at best. Ballerinas had small breasts and long, slender
arms that could arc above their heads in graceful
positions de
bras.
But Auntie Lil had developed large square shoulders and
impressive biceps during her career as an assistant fashion
designer. She still carried much of her bulk up high, giving her an
awkward center of gravity. Finally, most dancers also had long,
lean legs; Auntie Lil’s were like muscular sausages. Despite these
obstacles, she was grimly determined to prove to herself that she
could be a ballet dancer.

Too bad Paulette Puccinni did not want to help. “Face
the barre,” she ordered the class. “Grasp it firmly. And listen
carefully as we work on posture. It sounds simple, but it is not.
Ready? Go!” She began to bark out orders as if she were a 
gunnery sergeant training a new crew. “Bend your body over the
front third of your foot. Knee up and straight in back. Thighs out.
Let me see those inner thighs. Lift up the abdominal muscles. Up,
up, up. Lift the rib cage. Up, up, up. Relax the shoulders. Stretch
the neck. Head erect.” She clapped her hands sharply on each
command, the echoing sound in counterpoint to the impro–vised tune
her accompanist contributed.

 Auntie Lil tried to do as she was told, but
with each sharp clap and each barked command, she felt her body
rebelling as it was pulled farther and farther away from its
natural center of balance. She ended up hunched over the barre,
teetering precariously, all of her muscles clenched desperately
inward.

“No, no, no, no, no! Exactly wrong. I told you it
would not be easy.” Paulette made a beeline for Auntie Lil. “What
is your name, dear?”

“Lillian Hubbert.”

“Class, watch as I help Lillian attain the proper
posture.”

“Please,” Auntie Lil murmured. “You may call me Miss
Hubbert.”

Paulette retaliated by pulling Auntie Lil’s shoulders
back. “I said shoulders back,” she instructed firmly.

Auntie Lil obeyed, but every time Paulette pulled one
of her body parts, the corresponding muscles on the other side of
her body quite naturally followed. Auntie Lil felt she could be
given credit for flexibility, but Paulette disagreed. After tugging
Auntie Lil this way and that, the former ballerina finally gave
up.

“The fundamental problem, Miss Hubbert,” she said,
“is that your head is simply too big for ballet. It destroys your
balance. But do carry on. Trying is better than nothing. At least
you are getting some physical exercise.” With this parting shot,
her eyes sought out a fresh victim. She steamed toward Herbert Wong
before stopping short in surprise.

“Excellent! Excellent,” she cried, clapping her hands
together like a trained seal who smells herring on the wind.
“Class, we have here a natural. Look at that balance, note his
regal carriage, note the straight line from the nape of his neck
all the way down to the base of the spinal column. Bravo!
Bravo!”