Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (30 page)

“Leslie Wetzon. I like your secretary.”

Artie laughed. “Listen, I’m glad you called. You know I gave Terry a start date of four weeks from last Monday, but I think my manager is on to me. I don’t want to get fired with my pants down.”

“Are you telling me you haven’t Xeroxed your books?” It never ceased to amaze Wetzon that even seasoned brokers like Artie, who were thinking about changing firms, would delay photocopying their accounts. Without copies of their clients’ statements, it would be very difficult to get accounts transferred. A broker would have to resort to memory—an unreliable route —or worse, have to beg his clients for copies of their last statements. Clients get nervous if financial decisions don’t run smoothly and many would opt to remain with the broker’s previous firm. So both the manager at the new firm and the headhunter were constantly exhorting the broker to have his book copied.

Who actually “owned” these accounts was debatable. In recent years Merrill Lynch, by insisting that every broker hired sign a restrictive contract, had taken to hitting departing brokers and their new firms with restraining orders, which virtually put the broker out of business. Legally, it could be argued that in New York State one could not be prevented from earning a living. But the firms were reluctant to carry the expense of legal action, so a financial settlement was arranged: they “bought” the accounts from Merrill. It smelled a lot like blackmail to Wetzon, but there it was.

“I was going to do them a little at a time next week and the week after, but what if he fires me Monday? I’ll be up shit creek.”

“You bet you will.” And I’ll be out a really nice fee, Wetzon thought.

“I need someone to help me take everything out tomorrow so I can get copies made.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“I know. Mary has the kids. I can’t find anyone I trust ...”

“I’m in Boston, Artie.”

“Shit! You’re calling me from Boston?”

“Yes. But wait. ... I have to come back to New York tomorrow for a lunch appointment. I could meet you somewhere in the morning, say around eleven.”

“There’s a copy place around the corner from my office, but it’s closed on Saturday. Can you help me find one?”

“Sit tight. I’ll get B.B., my associate, on it right now. Then we’ll both meet you.... Where?”

“On the Madison Avenue side of the GM Building.”

She hung up and caught B.B. at the office, giving him the assignment. “And when you find a place, call Artie. Do you have his home number?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you don’t have plans for tomorrow.”

“Aw, Wetzon ...”

“I’ll give you ten percent of my share.”

“How about twenty?”

“B.B.! Oh, all right. Fifteen.”

“Deal.”

“Good. I’ll meet you at eleven in the Madison Avenue lobby of the GM Building, introduce you to Artie, hear what you’re going to do and let you both go do it. This is not something I can get into. I know at least a dozen brokers in that office, plus the manager and assistant manager. If anyone should be there tomorrow, we’re all dead.”

When she hung up, Wetzon was wired. Artie was probably as sure as a placement could get, once he had his books copied. It meant he was committed to making the move. She looked at her watch. Five o’clock. “How are you doing in there?” she called out to Smith. Smith didn’t respond, but a moment later the shower stopped.

The door opened and a turbaned and toweled figure came out of the perfumed fog and mist. “I’ll never get over this,” the figure said morosely.

“Yes, you will. You and Mark love each other.”

“But I’ve had a thought.”

“Yes?”

“Therapy, sugar. I should have thought of it right away. Mark will start therapy immediately. Dickie will know the right person.”

“Dickie. Ah yes.” Even Hartmann’s name, uttered with such affection by Smith, gave Wetzon a chill. What if he was using Smith to keep track of Wetzon and the evidence she had that would destroy him? “By the way,
Dickie
phoned the office looking for you. I told B.B. to call him and tell him where you are.”

“Oh, sweetie pie, you’re such a dear.” She was so delighted that Wetzon felt guilty.

“I have some lousy news, too.”

Smith looked up while toweling her hair dry. “Nothing could be worse than—”

“Sam Meidner’s been murdered. You missed all the excitement by going to Gloucester.”

“We didn’t go to Gloucester after all. I was too upset and Joel had to go to the theatre.”

“He did?”

Smith frowned. “What does this mean for our investment?”

“Not to worry. The show does go on. It’ll be a sellout in Boston.”

“Good. Joel says Sam is a pathetic has-been and should never have been hired.”

“God, Smith, the man is dead.”

“Oh, puh
-lease.
Did you know him?”

“Yes. Slightly.”

“Did he have an ungrateful child?”

“How would I know? Probably. Doesn’t everyone?”

“Humpf.”

“Smith, whoever killed Sam may have mistaken him for Mort. It means there’s a killer loose in the company.”

“Did you order anything?” Smith fluffed her hair without combing it.

“A club sandwich and some soup.”

“Sounds wonderful. I’ll be right out.” Humming, she went back into the bathroom and closed the door. Her mood had changed entirely.

Wetzon lay under the covers. How about a smidgeon of strychnine in Smith’s coffee? Or maybe she could push Smith out a window and blame it on Mort. Naa. It would be easier to get her out of the hotel room. Hartmann would have Wetzon’s undying gratitude, at least for the moment. She moved the phone to her stomach, groped for the memo pad with Bernstein’s phone number, found it, called it.

“Bernstein’s wire. Gross speaking.”

“Detective Gross, this is Leslie Wetzon. I believe Detective Bernstein is looking for me.”

“He was, but he’s gone home. It’s Friday. You know, the Sabbath.”

“Oh. Has something happened?”

“The story in the papers ...”

Wetzon sat up. “You mean, the papers know about Sam Meidner already?”

“Sam Meidner? No. We just heard about him an hour ago.”

“Listen, Renee, I’ve had four calls from journalists, including one from Liz Smith. What the hell is going on?”

“The media all got anonymous letters saying that Dilla Crosby’s killer is someone with
Hotshot
and that you were hired to find him.”

“Oh, God!”

“Do
you know who did it, Ms. Wetzon?”

“No! How would I know?”

“The letters say you do.”

“Listen, Les, this killer is emotional. Do you know what I’m saying? I don’t want you standing in the wrong place, opening your big mouth and saying the wrong thing.”

Why did Silvestri always set her up for a fight? Talk about saying the wrong thing ... “Is that official?”

“Christ, Les, what does official have to do with this? You’re a goddam sitting duck for a murderer.”

“What are you talking about, Silvestri? I’m not the one who’s going to be murdered up here. Mort is.”

“Mort? Hornberg?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“I keep my ears and eyes open and I make simple deductions. And there isn’t anyone connected to the show who doesn’t want to see Mort dead. And I mean that.”

There was a moment of silence, then Silvestri said, “I’ve talked with Madigan, and I want you to get your ass back to New York, and fast. Do you hear me, Les?”

She slammed the phone down. She could hear him shouting at her as she replaced the receiver. Who did he think she was that he could order her around? Oh, sure. Just one more person she didn’t have a decent relationship with. Thanks a heap, Mort.

The phone rang again, almost immediately, and she let it ring until Smith called, “Why are you letting the phone ring? Answer it.”

Why was everybody telling her what to do? That’s what happens when you’re short, Wetzon thought, kicking the covers off and swinging her feet to the floor. She answered the phone and her tone was surly.

“Well, I see you’re still sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” Dickie Hartmann was oozing smarmy.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wetzon responded, cold and icy as Boston Harbor in midwinter.

“Put my girl on and snap to it.”

Wetzon stood up and aimed the receiver for the glass top of the night table. The explosive crack on contact was music to her ears. “Ooops,” she said, listening to him curse. “Sorry,” she added in a high soprano voice. “Yoo hoo, Smith. It’s little Dickie Hartmann for you, and snap to it.”

A vision in a white terry bathrobe tore out of the bathroom, all scowls for Wetzon, and grabbed the phone. “Sweetie—”

The bathroom floor was clogged with towels where Smith had dropped them; everything was covered with a fine layer of dew, including the single remaining unused towel. Wetzon peeled off her clothes and let the shower thump down on her shoulders and back. She was, if anything, almost relieved to be leaving Boston, getting out of Smith’s magnetic field, even if for only a few hours. Unless Susan Orkin had something momentous to reveal, Wetzon could probably work her over, reason that the break-in attempt had been a fluke, and get her to come up on the three or four o’clock shuttle.

When Wetzon emerged from the bathroom, room service had been and gone. Smith was lying on the bed with her shoes on, sipping a glass of red wine and looking smug as a cat. She wore black velvet bell-bottoms and a glittery crimson sweater, all sequins, with a scooped neckline.

“So?” Wetzon’s beer and a tall glass were resting on ice. She poured, tilting the glass as the foam rose.

“He’s here. He’s speaking tonight at the NRA dinner. He’s filling in for Dan Quayle.”

Wetzon picked up the blow dryer. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Oh, don’t be such a tease. He got a mistrial. Isn’t he the best?”

“A mistrial? Wouldn’t you know. Another drug dealer saved, and more taxpayer money going for the new trial.” She turned the hair dryer on high and hot, drowning out Smith’s response, and shaped her hair with her hands. When she turned the dryer off, Smith just picked up the conversation where they’d left off.

“Anyway, sweetie pie, I’ll see you at the theatre tonight, and you’re welcome to come with us for a late supper.”

“Why how nice of you to ask. Are you sure Dickie would want me?”

“Sugar, he was the one who suggested it.”

“Indeed?”

“But I told him I was sure you’d made plans with your theatre friends.” She said it as if Wetzon’s theatre friends were a lower form of humanity.

“And so I shall. But thanks all the same.”

Smith gathered up her handbag and her cloth coat, throwing a covetous —no doubt about it—look at Wetzon’s fur. “See you later.”

“Bye,” Wetzon said, chortling. She wondered how long Smith would be able to resist mink.

After Smith left, Wetzon ate the club sandwich and finished the beer. She put on her makeup, thinking over the events of the past week.

Premonitions were weird. Yesterday, she herself had mistaken Sam for Mort in the theatre. Had Sam been murdered for himself or because someone thought he was Mort? Silvestri had said the killer was emotional. What exactly did that mean? If she could only have a conversation with Silvestri that did not break down because of the emotional subtext between them....

What was Sam doing with Carlos’s Panthere watch? If Walt Greenow was telling the truth about finding it in Sam’s hand.

One of Madigan’s crew had taken scrapings from everyone’s shoes, bagging them for the lab people. But the crime scene had already been contaminated by the number of people who had gone to check on whether Mort was still alive.

Why hadn’t they just called the police from the stage door phone? Who had suggested they make sure he was dead? Fran? Phil? Walt? She couldn’t remember.

She put on a black silk turtleneck, a slim wool ankle-length skirt, and fastened her new Donna Karan belt with the gold metal disks. She still had a twenty-three inch waist and she was proud of it.

When she emptied her purse, there it was. Carlos’s watch. Eighteen grandiose karats of gold. And encrusted with blood. Damn. She picked it up, rolled it back and forth in the palm of her hand, then called Carlos’s room.

“Yo?”

“Are you receiving? I want to give you something.”

“Birdie! I could use a neck massage.”

“I’ll be right over.” She wiped the blood off as best she could, slipped the watch on her left wrist, put a comb, some tissues, ten dollars and her American Express card into a small clutch bag. After making sure she had her key, she folded her coat over her arm, closed the door and walked down the hall to Carlos’s room.

“Ah, Birdie, my own true love.” Carlos pulled her into the room. “This is truly a nightmare from beginning to end.” He threw himself on the bed. “Who would want to kill Sam? He was such a nonentity.”

“I don’t think it’s a question of who would kill Sam. It was Mort who was getting his head bashed in, not Sam.”

“Jeeezus, Birdie!”

“Yeah, well, almost anyone here—and elsewhere—including thee and me, does not have Mort’s well-being in mind.”

Carlos rolled over on his stomach. “Do my neck.”

She sat down beside him and massaged his neck, while he moaned. “Any tighter and you wouldn’t be able to talk.”

“Don’t comment, just use those wonderful hands.”

“What time is it?”

“Oooo ooow.” Carlos moved his left wrist to where he could see it. “My watch. Jesus, I forgot to get it.”

“Where’d you leave it?” Feeling slightly treacherous, she slid her nails down the back of his neck.

“It needed a new battery. Do that again.”

Wetzon stopped what she was doing and slid the watch off her wrist, then dangled it next to Carlos’s nose.

He reached up and grabbed it, stared at it, nodded, rolled over and sat up, strapping it to his wrist. “How come you have it? Gee, Birdie, that was awesome. I’m a new man.” He grinned at her. “You ought to hire out as a sideline.”

“Thanks. I’ll consider it.” She studied him, her face somber.

Carlos took her face in his hands. “What’s up, pet? Is this getting to you?”