Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (45 page)

“Isn’t that delicious? You can’t imagine what it does for makin’ love.”

It was after midnight when Alton and Wetzon got back to his apartment. Alton was jubilant; Wetzon subdued. Izz greeted them, ran around the living room, jumped on the sofa and settled in.

“You’re tired,” Alton said. “It was a strain, I know.”

“Yes and yes.” She smiled at him. “Congratulations, granddad.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No.”

He put his arms around her. “I love you very much. How about June?”

She buried her face in his shirt. “Who’s June?”

He laughed. “Our wedding.”

“Oh. June’s fine.”

“You could be a little more enthusiastic.”

“... I talked to Lydia.”

“Oh, for Chrissakes, what did she say? Leslie, Lydia’s a nut case.”

“She’s in love with you, Alton.”

“I’m not in love with her.”

“Were you ever involved with her?”

“Oh, Leslie. It was nothing. It meant nothing. It was something that happened after Tessa died. I was lonely and she was there.” He was very upset.

She stroked his back and said, “It’s okay, Alton. Really. It doesn’t matter.”

“What did she say to you?”

“It’s not important.” She pulled away from him and went into the bedroom, sat on the bed and slipped off her shoes.

“It is. She obviously upset you.”

She lay back and stared at the ceiling. “She said I wouldn’t fit with your family.”

Alton lay down beside her and held her. “Damn that woman,” he whispered into her hair. She turned to him. “Oh, baby,” he said.

Sometime later, when she was washing her makeup off her face, Alton came and watched her. “Hi,” she said, catching him in the mirror.

“Hi, yourself. Is everything okay?”

She dried her face with the towel and patted in moisturizer. “Sure.”

When they got back into bed, she told him about Susan’s will. “I’m going to give most of it away,” she said.

“Whatever you want to do is fine with me. I can take care of you.”

She hated that expression. “I can take care of myself. I’ve got a good business.”

“Sure you have.” He said it too quickly.

“The police are holding on to the bag of jewelry, not saying anything to the press or anyone.”

“What bag of jewelry?”

“The bag I told you about that I saw in Susan’s apartment. It had
Lenny/Celia
embroidered on the inside. You remember.” He seemed not to have heard her. “Alton?”

“I’m sorry. I just remembered something about Lenny Kaufer’s funeral. It was really weird, now that I think of it. Celia Kaufer stood up and made a plea for money.”

“A collection? At the funeral? I thought Lenny Kaufer was a wealthy man.”

“I suppose he was.”

“And his wife had to beg for money at his funeral? That doesn’t play.” But as she said it, it began to make sense. Lenny Kaufer had to be rolling in
cash,
and where was the logical place to store it?

The missing piece of the puzzle was what Poppy Hornberg had told her. Lenny Kaufer had stored his fortune in his safe deposit box.

It came again when she least expected it. The blinding flame, the searing heat, the burning stench of cordite. Intolerable! She forced herself awake.

Darkness smothered her. Alton mumbled in his sleep, moved his arm, releasing her. At the foot of the bed a pale lump sat up. Two eyes glinted at her.

She eased herself out of bed. Alton’s robe was hanging from a hook in the bathroom. She slipped it on and wandered into the living room, closely followed by Izz. Chilled, Wetzon settled herself on the sofa with the throw across her feet. Izz curled up on her feet.

The dream had been less vivid and shorter, and she’d been able to remove herself from it. What time was it? It was too dark to see the hands on her watch. And what difference did it make anyway? The real question was what was she doing here.

That line from
Fiddler on the Roof—
or something like it—kept knocking on her subconscious. What was it? Something Tevye says about a fish and a bird may fall in love, but where would they make a life together?

She loved Alton. How could she not? But he was at least two generations ahead of her. He was about to become a grandfather. She didn’t want to live his life, and that, she was certain, would be how they would live. The amazing disappearance of Leslie Wetzon, she thought. She had seen it happen last night.

Alton had wooed and won the fair maiden because she’d let him. She’d been vulnerable. She’d accepted his enveloping love, leaned on his strength, because with him she’d felt safe. But in her heart she knew that she could never sign on with him for life. Final solutions were not in the game plan for her.

Izz stirred, watchful. Wetzon swung her feet to the floor, dislodging the dog, and padded over to the window. Fog shrouded the museum and the park. The lights of the crosstown bus pierced the haze, stopping with a diesel wheeze below her.

She found her purse on the table in the foyer and pulled out her pen and Filofax, tearing a pink page from it.

“What to say, Izz?” The dog cocked her head. At the kitchen counter, pen in hand, for a long time Wetzon stared down at the pink paper. Finally, she wrote:

Dearest Alton, I’m so terribly sorry.

There was nothing else to say.

The ring came off her finger easily, as if it were never meant to be there. She folded the ring into the note, wrote
Alton
on the small square, and propped it against the coffee machine.

In the bedroom she dressed quickly. Alton lay on his back, his hair rumpled, his face young in sleep. She would never know anyone like him again.

You’re running away
, the little voice said.

I know. If I stay, he’ll talk me out of it.

Leashing Izz, who thought it was an adventure, and it was, Wetzon belted her raincoat and had just opened the outside door when she remembered Alton’s keys. No use holding onto them. It would mean she wanted to come back. She slipped the two keys from her key ring and set them in front of the pink paper square.

The Sunday
Times
lay on Alton’s door mat. She stepped over it, closing the door behind her.

Coward,
the voice scolded.
You just let the best thing that ever happened to you slip through your fingers.

The best
, she agreed, stepping on the elevator,
but not for me.

She passed through the lobby where a uniformed guard dozed in a chair. He opened his eyes as she and Izz flew by—because by this time she was running. In the morning he might think he’d dreamed it all.

Eastward, over Central Park, the sky was streaked with a pale glow. The fog was beginning to lift. Sidewalks were devoid of people, streets of cars. She could feel her city breathing.

Under her feet, the sidewalk tensed and she heard the muffled rumble of the IND express as it thundered past the Eighty-first Street station to Columbus Circle.

For several minutes she was the only person in the world.

And then the wail of a siren rose from somewhere across the Park. A yellow cab whizzed up Central Park West. Izz began to tug on her leash, and Wetzon walked west.

Columbus Avenue was still asleep. Stores were gated; fat green garbage bags sat in front of buildings waiting for the sanitation trucks.

A Con Edison excavation was in progress on the corner of Eighty-sixth Street. The faint smell of gas hovered over the area where a pit had been dug into the asphalt, and a van with blinking warning lights watched over men in yellow hard hats down in the hole. Another Con Ed worker stood watch above them. The sharp screech of a drill shattered the predawn quiet. When Wetzon and Izz passed, she saw the Con Ed man on the street wore small gold hoops in his ears.

She met no one in her lobby or on the elevator. Leaving a trail of clothing and leash, she crawled into bed. The last thing she remembered was Izz nuzzling the small of her back. And then she slept.

Her awakening came as from a long illness. Slowly. She was herself again, her own person. Izz licked her face and jumped off the bed, dancing, demanding to be fed. She fed Izz and made coffee, savoring each motion as she made it. The sun filled her kitchen with riches of light. As she showered, the song from
New Girl in Town
played over and over in her head until she finally sang “It’s Good to Be Alive.” And it was, it was.

She was working intently at her barre to the Brandenberg Concertos when her doorbell rang. Izz began barking. “Yes?” She looked through the peephole.

“Leslie, please let me in.”

She closed her eyes, opened them. “Okay.” Rolling her towel around the back of her neck, she opened the door. “Who let you up?” Alton followed her into the apartment and she closed the door.

“Your super. He recognized me.” He bent down to pat Izz, who was making a fool of herself over him. He wore jeans, a blue shirt, a navy blazer. Dried blood marked a shaving nick on his chin.

Be strong
; she thought.

“Leslie, I—” He reached for her and she backed away. He seemed an alien presence in her apartment, taking over her space.

“No, please, Alton. It’s not going to do any good.” She felt her lip tremble.

“I thought you loved me.”

“I do. I always will.”

Seeing the dent in her door, he said, “What happened to your lock?”

“Someone tried to break in Monday night.”

“Monday night? Why didn’t you tell me?” He was looking around, moving from the foyer into the living room.

“Because you would have pressured me to move in with you, and I can’t do that.”

“I didn’t know,” he said, as if to himself, taking in the quilts, the wall of books, the barre with its mirrored backdrop. “May I?” He pointed to the hallway.

She shrugged, watching him as he went down the hall and into her bedroom. A half dozen pliés at the barre kept her from thinking too much. He came back slowly. “Your apartment ... I didn’t understand ... I—” He seemed to be searching for the right words. “It ... you have ... a very distinct voice.”

She faced him, holding on to the barre, feeling the hard wood pressing against her spine. “I know. This is my home. This is who I am, Alton. Don’t you think it’s strange that you never once asked to see it?”

He looked devastated. “Leslie, I’ve assumed too much. Let me make it right. We don’t have to marry right away.”

“Oh, Alton, it’s all wrong. It will never work.” She folded her arms across her breast.

He came close and held her. She didn’t move. Heart thumping, she felt the physical pull between them. “We’ll make it work,” he said. “I’ll make it work.”

Slipping away, she said, “I need some space, Alton. I don’t want to be a trophy. I’m not sure I’d be happy in your world.” She smiled a wry smile. “Come on, you don’t really see me as Mrs. Alton Pinkus, do you?”

“I did. I also see you as Leslie Wetzon-Pinkus. I want you with me and I want you to be happy.” His hands hung at his side, awkwardly.

“Alton, you are a dear, wonderful man, but I can’t be with anybody. I’ve met you at the wrong time in my life. I feel trapped. I wanted to run away, which I did. I’m so sorry for leading you on. I’m sorry for everything.”

“I’ll give you space, baby, if that’s what you need, but I will
not
give you up. I love you. You’re my Leslie. I’m good for you and you’re good for me.”

“Alton, please, you’re making it so hard for me.”

“Is it Silvestri? Is that what it’s about?”

“There’s no one else. I’m really not your Leslie. I’m not anyone’s Leslie.” Why didn’t he see that and just go? Standing at her door, she couldn’t hold back the tears.

“You are, but I’m willing to give you all the time you need. You’ll see.” He kissed away the tears. “I once told you I’m a patient man. I am.”

Her phone began to ring. She opened the door. “Good-bye, Alton.”

“For now maybe, Leslie. I’ll call you.”

She closed the door on him with a surge of guilt. She knew—had he stayed or had the phone not interrupted them—she might have caved in.

The phone stopped ringing when her answering machine picked up, clicking in. She recognized Arthur’s voice immediately. “Leslie, I’m afraid—”

She grabbed the phone. “Arthur?”

“Leslie. Good, I’m glad you’re home. Please, if you can come with me—”

“Where?”

“I’ve just had a call from the D.A.’s office. They’ve issued a warrant for Mark Smith’s arrest.”

“He doesn’t want me with him!” Smith was lying on her bed sobbing. Her world had truly come to an end.

“Ma, please understand.” Smitty stood in the doorway, his eyes pleading with Wetzon. “I didn’t kill anybody. Wetzon, please make her understand. I have to do this myself.” He looked so like his mother, the deep hazel eyes, the olive coloring, the thick dark curls. “Ma, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “We have to get going.”

“Go ahead.” Wetzon walked them to the door. “We’ll be okay.”

“Leslie, unless they’ve come up with something new, they can’t hold him,” Arthur assured her.

She closed the door, sighing. From the bedroom she could hear Smith’s anguished sobs. She sat on the bed and stroked Smith’s tangled curls. “He’s grown up, you know. He wants to handle his problems himself. You should be proud of him. He’s a wonderful kid.”

Smith rolled over on her back, her face puffy, the skin around her eyes, red. Wetzon handed her a tissue. “I know. I am proud of him. There’s an ice pack in the freezer. I must look like hell.” Smith was wearing purple pinstripe trousers and a man-tailored white-on-white shirt with long sleeves. And she wasn’t even wrinkled.

When Wetzon got back with the ice pack, Smith was sitting up and shuffling her Tarot deck. She stopped to press the coldpack gently against her face, then thrust it back at Wetzon. “This is very important.”

“Oh, sure.”

Smith reacted only with a raise of eyebrow as she laid out the cards using the Queen of Wands as her center.

As she returned the ice pack to the freezer, Wetzon could hear Smith murmuring to herself. She was still murmuring when Wetzon returned. “My baby is in trouble.” Her eyes glistened. “But he did not kill anyone.”