Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (44 page)

According to Carlos’s daily phone reports from Boston, once Mort had let up on him, Phil Terrace had blossomed into an excellent stage manager, and no one on the show had come to blows. Such it is when a show is a hit. In fact, at the beginning of the second week in Boston, Mort and Poppy had gone to Sarasota, where they had a house, leaving the show in Carlos’s hands.

Wetzon walked over to Madison. Every cab was occupied. It had rained every day since March had dribbled in. Two weeks of dampness, soggy shoes, torn umbrellas, mud on raincoats, and mildew. Every face she passed had that bleak pinched look that came from the absence of sunlight. She kept walking. On the corner of Fifty-seventh and Fifth a food wagon stood under a dripping umbrella. The vendor was selling pretzels that had to be spongy with moisture. In a doorway, a Senegalese vendor held up silk scarves with the Hermes signature in the center, most likely knockoffs. Two female tourists were feeling the merchandise and exclaiming in Italian.

She caught a No. 7 bus up Amsterdam. The bus was crowded. Wet umbrellas sprinkled those seated; everyone was irritable. The smell of wet wool was oppressive. Wetzon, jammed between chunky, sweating men and their attaches and umbrellas, studied her ring.

Tonight was Sandra Semple’s big dinner party, where Alton was going to announce their engagement. Why wasn’t she more elated?

When she got off the bus, she was thinking, I could call and tell him I’m not feeling well. All the way up in the elevator, she combed her brain for a reasonable excuse for not going. It was an exercise in futility.

Izz’s enthusiasm, on the other hand, more than made up for what Wetzon lacked. Sensing Wetzon was going out, she followed her from room to room, not letting her out of sight. Izz stood on her hind legs with her paws on the rim of the tub while Wetzon showered. “It’s okay, you dumb bunny,” Wetzon assured her. “You’re going with me.” Izz blinked and stretched her tongue to catch the droplets of water that sprayed her.

What did it all mean, Wetzon thought, as she blow-dried her hair. With her free hand she pulled her hair back from her face. Not quite long enough. It might be ages before she had the length for her topknot again. In the bedroom she took her black spandex jersey from the dry cleaner’s bag and stepped into it, pulling it on and slipping her arms into the sleeves. It wasn’t even snug. She
had
lost a lot of weight.

She sat down on the bed and Izz joined her. Bernstein’s card was next to the phone; so was O’Melvany’s. She was collecting detectives’ cards, or so it seemed. She called O’Melvany because Susan had been murdered in the Nineteenth Precinct.

“O’Melvany.”

“Hi, um,”—she never knew what to call him—”this is Leslie Wetzon. Is this a bad time?”

“You got me on my way out. What do you have?”

“I thought you should know that I had a call from a lawyer named Bryan Kendall of Kendall and Slotkin. He told me I am Susan Orkin’s chief beneficiary.”

O’Melvany whistled through his teeth. “How much are we talking about?”

“The apartment, some stocks and bonds, a car, her copyrights, whatever the safe deposit box yields and maybe some insurance. You might want to call Mr. Kendall.” She gave him the phone number. “I suppose that gives me a motive.”

“If you knew about it before.”

“I didn’t. And I don’t want the money. It’s blood money. I hate it.” Her voice cracked; she swallowed hard.

“Take it easy.” He sounded concerned. “Maybe you should talk to Sonya.”

“It’s okay. I’m okay. I saw Sonya yesterday. Thanks. Is there anything new? I didn’t see anything in the papers about the bag of jewelry.”

“You won’t. We’re keeping it to ourselves for the time being.”

After she hung up, she finished dressing and put her makeup on more carefully than usual. This was a special occasion. She attached the leash to Izz’s rhinestone collar. They were holding back on the bag of jewels. Why?

The phone rang as she was belting her raincoat. Izz began barking, running to the door and back.

“Forget it, dog.” She answered the phone.

“Birdie, darling!”

“Carlos! God, it’s good to hear your voice. When are you coming home?”

“Tomorrow, and I can’t wait.”

“Me, too.”

“How’s the show?”

“Great. Mort went off to Florida.”

“I heard. Do the police have anything new on Sam’s murder?”

“Listen, dear heart, the cops have been hanging out here since Sam got it. They know the show by heart. One paunchy detective even did the opening number for me after the Wednesday matinee.

Wetzon giggled. Izz pulled on her leash. “How was he?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I’ve got to go, doll. Tonight is Sandra Semple’s dinner party and Alton’s making the grand announcement.”

“Are you excited?”

“Truth?”

“Of course.”

“I’m scared.”

“La di dah, darling. You’ll be ‘Sadie, Sadie, Married Lady’ before the summer solstice.”

“Oh, please. May I hang up now? I’ll see you Sunday. Arthur invited me to dinner.”

“Good. I just have one more thing on my little mind....”

“Yes?”

His voice sobered. “I had a drink with Fran Burke tonight.”

“What kind of cane was he using?”

“Gray metal or aluminum, or something. Can I finish here before you take over?”

“But of course.”

“He gave me a weird message for you. I don’t know what it means, and I’m not crazy about delivering it, but he said you’d understand.”

“Talk fast. I’m going to be late.”

“Fran said to tell you that you should return what doesn’t belong to you.”

Wetzon’s hands were freezing. A tiny pulse throbbed in her throat.

“You look beautiful, Leslie.” Alton took her hand and kissed her clammy palm. “Stop worrying. They’ll all love you.” They got off the elevator and walked down the hall to the last apartment, where Alton rang the bell.

She wanted to tell him she didn’t care whether they loved her or not, but she didn’t say it. She dreaded this night. After tonight her commitment to Alton would be formalized.

Sandra Semple opened the door and flung herself at Alton. “Dad!” She was wearing almond silk brocade pants, a black body suit cut to her cleavage, and an almond and black brocade vest. It was her own design and Wetzon had seen it on a model in
Mirabella.
“Come in. Come in.” She kissed the air next to Wetzon’s cheek. “Hello, Leslie.”

A maid in a blue uniform with white trim took Wetzon’s raincoat, and she found herself standing alone; Sandra had moved Alton on into the living room with dispatch. Wetzon could hear the enthusiastic greetings all the way out to the foyer.

This was the third time Wetzon had been here and she’d never felt comfortable. Sandra never quite looked her in the eye. Alton’s daughter obviously didn’t approve of her. Maybe she should just take her coat back and slip away.

“I thought I’d lost you.” Alton loomed up in front of her. “Come on, I want you to meet some people who are dear to me.” His hand settled possessively on the back of her neck. Like a yoke, she thought.

The living room was a blur of faces. She recognized Janet Barnes, Twoey’s mother, and good vibes, Laura Lee Day, who was chatting with an attractive man in a navy blazer.

“This is Adam, my older son, and Jill, his wife.” A big man, like his father, Adam was heavier by some fifteen or twenty pounds. He looked more like the photo of Tessa than his father. Adam, she knew, was a reporter for the
Washington Post
, and Jill, a short woman with frizzy red-blond hair, was a free-lance writer whose articles appeared in magazines. Her wide blue eyes settled on Wetzon’s ring, and she nudged her husband.

“And this is Lawrence.” Alton moved Wetzon to face his youngest child, a twenty-five-year-old edition of his father. Lawrence was in the University of Iowa writer’s program. He shook her hand and Alton moved her on to others, cousins, long-time family friends.

“Isn’t sex lovely,” Laura Lee whispered as their cheeks touched.

“What kind of thing is that to say?” Wetzon flushed. How could Laura Lee know that Wetzon and Alton had made love before they came downtown?

“Darlin’, you have that blurry-edged look about you that only comes after good sex.”

Wetzon laughed. “Oh, Laura Lee, you are blessed.”

“I’d like you to meet Paul D’Amico. Paul, this is my friend, Leslie Wetzon.”

“Leslie.” Paul D’Amico shook her hand and smiled at her with incredible green eyes.

“Alton, this is my friend Laura Lee Day, and this is Paul D’Amico.” While Alton and Paul shook hands, Wetzon mumbled to Laura Lee, “Who is he?”

“Dinner, everyone,” Sandra announced, standing in the archway to the dining room.

Laura Lee whispered, “Tell you later.”

Sandra seated Alton at the head of the table and herself to his right, Jill to his left. Wetzon was seated between Adam and Lawrence. She was a fish out of water.

The only person she didn’t remember meeting was a dark-haired woman who sat across from her. Several times Wetzon looked up from her plate and found the woman studying her. With nervous fingers she found her wineglass and sipped.

Sitting between Alton’s two sons, Wetzon was tongue-tied. The first course was a mushroom risotto. She managed to swallow a small amount of the congealing mixture on her plate until the main course was served, a gallantine of chicken with miniature steamed vegetables, followed by a salad and three little balls of fruit sorbets and rolled crisp almond cookies. Conversation roamed from local politics to the arts, to economics and finance. By the time coffee arrived, Wetzon knew she’d had too much wine.

The dark-haired woman was still staring at her.

“Ahem.” Sandra stood, smiling and happy. “We have a thrilling family announcement to make.”

Oh, God, Wetzon thought. Thrilling? What was so thrilling? An irresistable urge to slip under the table seized her. Still, Sandra seemed happy about it. Wetzon closed her eyes.
Here it comes.

Beside her, Adam suddenly rose. Wetzon opened her eyes. “Jill and I are going to have a baby,” he said. “Congratulations, Dad, you’re going to be a grandfather.”

Alton looked dumfounded. Wetzon felt his eyes on her. Sweat rolled down her back, settling in the band of her pantyhose. He seemed to be asking her approval as the dinner guests watched. But what did Adam’s baby really have to do with her? She had to do something, so she smiled at him, and Alton beamed.

Everyone at the table began asking questions about the baby, and Wetzon thought,
maybe he won’t say anything about us.
Then she prayed he wouldn’t.

Sandra began pouring the champagne, which the maid had set out in two standing ice buckets. Watching her glass fill, Wetzon knew she wouldn’t reach for it. Champagne did not agree with her, and anyway, she didn’t feel like celebrating. She looked at her watch. Ten o’clock. This was the longest evening she’d ever spent.

Alton got to his feet. “I have some news myself,” he said. “Come over here next to me, Leslie.” A murmur ran around the room as Wetzon rose and joined him. “You all know my friend, Leslie Wetzon.” There was his hand again on the back of her neck. “Well, Leslie’s made me very happy by consenting to be my wife.”

The shocked silence that followed was broken at last by Laura Lee. “Well now, best wishes and much happiness to you both,” she exclaimed.

The rest joined in, but Wetzon knew it was half-hearted. Alton didn’t seem to notice. He tilted her chin and kissed her, and over his shoulder Wetzon caught Sandra’s undisguised disapproval.

Wetzon looked desperately for Laura Lee. But Laura Lee had moved her seat to talk with Janet Barnes. The maid began to clear the table. Sandra suggested that everyone adjourn to the living room, where coffee would be served.

It was the perfect time for Wetzon to escape, and she did.

Distinctly light-headed, she went upstairs, used the bathroom, combed her hair, stalling. She wandered into the library, a room of soft green carpeting, high ceilings, wood paneling. There was even a rolling ladder to reach the upper shelves of the bookcases.

On a table were assorted family photographs in simple silver frames. Tessa, Alton, and their children at different ages. Tessa and a younger version of the dark-haired woman who had stared at Wetzon all evening. Wetzon picked up the photograph.

“Tessa and her little sister,” a voice at Wetzon’s elbow informed her. “Lydia Davidoff.”

Startled, Wetzon dropped the photograph. Lydia picked it up and looked at it a long time, then set it back on the table.

“I’m sorry,” Wetzon stammered, guilty, not knowing why.

“What would a girl like you want with Alton?” Lydia said. “He has to be at least thirty years older than you.”

“I’m thirty-nine.”

“Even so.” Lydia wandered around the room straightening things that didn’t seem to need straightening.

“He’s a wonderful man.” Why was she defending herself?

Lydia stopped and faced her. “A girl like you can get men her own age.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t fit with us. We’re a very close family.”

It came to her all at once. “You’re in love with him.”

Lydia’s dark eyes filled with tears.

Oh, God,
Wetzon thought.

“Wetzon darlin’, I wondered where you’d gotten to.” Laura Lee blew into the library like a crisp March wind.

Lydia turned away and left the room.

“Oh, God,” Wetzon said aloud this time, sinking into a chair, her head in her hands. “That was Sandra’s mother’s sister. I mean, Alton’s sister-in-law. She’s in love with Alton. I feel awful.”

“Oh, darlin’, in the love-and-marriage game there is always someone who loses and someone who wins. And it’s the winner who is sometimes the loser, if you catch my drift.”

“I do.”

“Well then, come on back to the fray.”

“Not until you tell me who that gorgeous man is.”

“You mean Paul?”

“I do.”

“Promise not to tell.”

“Who would I tell?”

“Well, darlin’,” Laura Lee steered her out of the library. “He’s a Jesuit.”

“Laura Lee! A priest?”