A Motive For Murder (20 page)

“Oh?” T.S. asked. “If you are not to blame, who
is?”

Glick frowned. “It appears one of my assistants
failed to send in the quarterly premium, believing that the other
policy would take effect sooner than it did.” He paused. “I will
have to fire her, of course.”

“Why not just cut off her head?” T.S. suggested. “In
the middle of Lincoln Center would be nice. We could invite all the
board members and maybe Reverend Hampton could arrange for a few
protesters.” He wasn’t usually so sarcastic, but Glick’s attempt to
blame some poor hapless subordinate offended his personnel manager
soul.

“I beg your pardon?” Glick’s eyes widened. Humor was
not in his repertoire—particularly humor directed at him.

“Never mind,” T.S. said, sighing wearily. The day’s
dance lesson had exacerbated his sore right knee and he hated
reminders that he was growing inescapably old. “What else did you
want to discuss?”

“You haven’t asked about my foot,” Glick said. “I
presume you have heard how it happened?”

T.S. knew, of course, but was not eager to admit that
he had been lurking in the wings and seen everything. “I heard,” he
offered.

Glick’s expression was grim. “I was not interfering,”
he explained. “I was merely correcting a glaring error. Martinez
had no right to threaten me. I may well sue him over his actions.
They led directly to my injury.”

“Good idea,” T.S. said absentmindedly, gazing
longingly at his liquor cabinet. There was a fresh bottle of
Dewar’s inside.

T.S.’s wandering eye escaped Glick. “That is not
important, however. What is important is that I have had an
epiphany.” Glick held a hand in the air and pointed toward
heaven.

“An epiphany?” T.S. asked. Out of the corner of his
eye, he saw Eddie’s tail begin to switch more rapidly.

“Yes.” Glick leaned forward breathlessly, staring
intently at T.S. “As I was falling off the stage and into the
orchestra pit, it suddenly occurred to me. I know how Morgan was
killed.” He let a dramatic silence fill the apartment, though it
was marred by the scratching of Eddie’s paw on Glick’s cast. The
cat had discovered that fine dust could be created by clawing the
plaster and was busily making his mark on the unsuspecting
guest.

“Tell me your theory,” T.S. said, his Dewar’s
forgotten as a new thought intruded. He wished Auntie Lil was there
to help him evaluate Glick’s manner. Was he being too smooth? A
little too enthusiastic? Had he seen them at the theater after all,
up in the catwalk? Did he know they had already figured out how
Morgan was killed? Was he trying to join their team, as it were,
before he was suspected himself?

“Morgan was killed before the rope went around his
neck,” Glick explained triumphantly. He was not strangled during
the performance. Otherwise someone backstage would have seen him. I
would have seen it.” He stared intently at T.S. “Very little
escapes my attention,” he added. “I have wondered ever since the
murder why I did not see the killer myself. I was backstage
watching everything. I felt it my duty to ensure a smooth
production. My honor was on the line as a member of the board.”

Yes, and you are constitutionally incapable of
letting well enough alone,
T.S. thought.

“I was all over that stage area,” Glick explained.
“The entire first act. I didn’t see anyone unusual at all. Where
then had the killer hidden? Where had the struggle taken place? Who
had done the killing?” Glick’s eyes gleamed and T.Š. wondered if
the hospital had given him pain pills for his broken foot. He
seemed stimulated well beyond his usual Swiss reserve.

“Go on,” T.S. said, hoping the man might reveal
more.

“As I was falling off the stage, I realized that
Morgan must have been killed in much the same way.” Glick
continued. “I believe the struggle occurred prior to the
performance, or perhaps quite early on. In a deserted area of the
stage far from witnesses. Then Morgan was tied to the rope to make
it look as if he were strangled and pushed to create the momentum
that sent him swinging across the stage.” He finished triumphantly,
eyes still gleaming, and waited for T.S.’s reaction.

Glick was correct, T.S. felt sure. Auntie Lil had
reached the same conclusion. But he was not about to give away
their theory. Instead, he forced himself to be enthusiastic. “I
think you’re right,” he told Glick. “This is vital.” He noticed
Eddie’s intense scratching for the first time and shooed him away
from Glick. Eddie went sullenly, Brenda beside him, their ample
rumps leisurely and defiantly strolling from the room. Once again
their fun had been ruined.

“You must tell the police what you have told me,”
T.S. said. “Immediately.”

That would get Glick out of his hair.

“Yes,” Glick agreed. “I must tell them. Perhaps I can
assist them in fleshing out this theory. Your aunt has been very
stubborn in resisting my efforts to help her. The police may be
more welcoming.”

“Absolutely,” T.S. agreed, bobbing his head so hard
that he felt like one of those purple cows in the back window of
cars. “Go to them at once and tell them all that you have told me
here today.”

T.S.’s enthusiastically biblical-sounding suggestion
worked. It propelled Glick off the couch and onto his crutches. To
T.S.’s intense relief, Glick made a beeline for the front door,
stopping on his way out to ask a final question. “Is my theory
consistent with yours?” he asked, once again in command.

“Our theory?” T.S. said, his laughter convincingly
casual. “We don’t have a theory. I’m just doing this to humor my
aunt.”

“Of course,” Glick said, joining in the laughter.
“You know how old ladies are. They have nothing else to do. We must
do our best to keep them amused.” He waited for T.S. to open the
front door, then crutched his way to the elevator, his manner
suddenly jaunty.

“Onward and upward, eh?” he called back to T.S. as
the elevator arrived. “I’m sure the police will be delighted to be
enlightened,” he said as the doors closed on him.

Sure they will,
T.S. thought to himself.

“Glick said
what?”
Auntie Lil asked as their
cab approached Nikki Morgan’s apartment on Manhattan’s Upper West
Side. “How could he arrive at such a theory just from falling off
the stage? I don’t trust that man.”

“Fortunately, we can let the police decide that for
themselves.” T.S. paid the driver and endured Auntie Lil’s usual
unsolicited advice about what constitutes a proper tip. She was a
notoriously generous tipper.

They approached the front door of Nikki Morgan’s
apartment building with awe. It was a magnificent ten-story stone
structure on Riverside Drive overlooking a park that ran alongside
the Hudson River. The neighborhood was a favorite of professional
families who could not bring themselves to flee to the suburbs but
nonetheless craved greenery along with their urban blight. Rents
were astronomical, but the quiet more than paid for itself.
Available apartments in the area were scarce.

“She’s not doing too badly for herself,” T.S.
observed. “I bet she got a ton of alimony.”

“I bet she earned it,” Auntie Lil replied.

Nikki Morgan’s attire at the funeral had been elegant
and sparse. Her sprawling and crowded apartment was at odds with
this image, but since it was home to four children, its chaotic
atmosphere was easily explained. Even when quiet, as it was that
evening, the scattered toys and clothes of four young lives filled
every corner. In the living room, wedged between a pile of hockey
equipment and a stack of computer-game cartridges, sat a beefy man
with red hair.

“This is Harry,” Nikki explained. “One of my lawyers.
He insists on being here. He’s afraid you’ve come to twist my arm
into a settlement. He’s going to tell me what to say and I am going
to ignore him. He’s promised not to make a peep unless you mention
the lawsuit.” When she smiled, her austere face was transformed
into one of singular beauty. T.S. wondered what she had ever seen
in Bobby Morgan. Auntie Lil wondered the same. Nikki seemed
remarkably friendly and willing to talk. Either she had remained
silent to the press out of some particular quirk of her own or the
nearly empty bottle of red wine that sat on a sideboard had only
been recently opened.

“I don’t want to talk about the lawsuit at all,”
Auntie Lil explained. She scooped a pile of freshly folded laundry
off a chair and plopped it on top of a radiator with the practiced
ease of one who wholeheartedly endorses the pile method of
organization in her own life. “I think that’s best kept between
the lawyers. I only wanted to get a chance to meet you, to talk to
you a bit about your husband. I believe you know about my role as
the board’s representative investigating your husband’s
murder.”

“Ex-husband,” Nikki reminded her as she perched on
the edge of a small French antique chair that had miraculously
escaped annihilation in the child-oriented household. T.S. chose a
chair across from their hostess in hopes of seeing her smile once
again.

“Ex-husband,” Auntie Lil agreed. “We are not trying
to solve the case per se. We leave that to the police. But we do
want to aid them in their efforts and we do have access to so many
more people…” Her voice trailed off as she sought the right
approach. “So without interfering, we are pursuing our own path.
Just to reassure ourselves that the board is doing everything
humanly possible to find the killer.”

“I see,” their hostess said cheerfully. “You want to
cover your butts. Perhaps some of you even have a conscience.”

“Exactly,” Auntie Lil conceded. “I suppose all of us
are motivated by the desire to cover one end or the other. How is
Mikey, by the way?”

“Mikey?” She looked surprised. “You know, you are the
very first person to ask how my son is doing.” She glanced around
as if to assure herself that they were alone. “I sent them out to
the movies. All four of them. It’s not easy for Mikey to be living
back at home. He’s more of a stranger to his brothers and sister
than anything else at this point. Bobby taking him to L.A. was the
fastest way he could possibly have alienated him from his siblings.
But there was nothing I could do. He’s doing quite well right now,
I think, though it’s hard to say. Mikey has always shown emotion
only on cue. Even as a baby, he rarely cried or smiled. He usually
just watched everyone else as if trying to figure out exactly what
was in any situation for him.” Her bright smile faltered. “He’s a
lot like his father, actually.”

“You sound as if you didn’t approve of what your
ex-husband did for your son’s career,” Auntie Lil said.

“Approve of it?” Nikki Morgan stared at Auntie Lil.
“Don’t you ever watch television?” she asked. She popped up
suddenly and strode to the sideboard, where she poured herself a
healthy glass of red wine. Drink?” she asked, but all three of her
guests politely declined.

Auntie Lil looked apologetic. “I’m afraid I don’t
watch television.”

“How wonderful!” Nikki looked at Auntie Lil with new
admiration. “I try so hard to keep the kids from rotting their
brains watching too much, but it’s impossible. I’m surprised you
missed the tabloid reports. Bobby and I broke up specifically
because we disagreed on how he should handle Mikey’s career. He
wanted to milk him for every dollar while he could. I didn’t see
the point. We already had more money than we could possibly need. I
thought Mikey deserved what was left of his childhood instead. But
Bobby always wanted more money and more fame. I accused him of
violating his parental duties. He accused me of trying to steal
money from Mikey. Our fight over Mikey’s career was the basis of
our whole divorce.”

“He sacrificed the marriage over money?” Auntie Lil
asked.

“Not over money. Over fame,” Nikki explained. “Bobby
never stopped trying to make up for being bumped out of the
spotlight. When I first met him, it was about four years after his
show had been canceled. He was only twenty and in despair. I
thought I could help him. I loved him. I got him to go back to
school, to study business. We started a family right away. I was
very young when Mikey was born. I wanted to show Bobby that life
held a lot more than the chance to be on the cover of
TV
Guide.
At first I thought he agreed. But as the children grew
older, I realized that I was nothing more than a broodmare to him
and that he looked at our children as potential clients more than
anything else.”

“That’s ghastly!” T.S. burst out. His own mother had
been less than affectionate, but she had never gone so far as
that.

Nikki shrugged. “At the time it was happening, it
wasn’t so horrible. I didn’t see it. It took nine years of therapy
for me to figure it out. I just thought he wanted the best for his
kids. When he insisted on getting their teeth straightened right
away, the dance lessons, the modeling schools, the speech training,
I just thought he wanted to make sure they were well prepared for a
capricious world. He really wanted to make sure they looked and
acted like professionals on camera.”

“Are your other children also in show business?”
Auntie Lil asked politely.

Nikki shook her head firmly. “Not for lack of trying.
They see what their brother gets—the money, the attention, the
letters, the absurd spectacle of adults falling all over themselves
to get near him—and they want it, too. But I’m not letting them get
near it. Period. When they are out of college and away from the
house, it will be their choice. Until then, the only camera any of
them will get in front of is my Instamatic on their birthdays.”

“That must be a very difficult policy to maintain,”
T.S. said.

Her eyes flashed with resolve. “It is, but I feel
quite strongly about it. Bobby took Mikey’s childhood away from
him. I am not going to let it happen to the others.”