A Motive For Murder (23 page)

“Unusual like how?” he demanded, shifting impatiently
from foot to foot. “I went over this with the cops, you know.”

Auntie Lil glanced up at the rafters. “Unusual like
someone up on the catwalk where they don’t belong.”

“Hey,” he said, holding up a palm and backing away.
“I was the only one up on the catwalk, okay? Me, myself, and I. Are
you saying that makes me the killer?” His tone grew instantly
belligerent as he changed moods with the mercurial swiftness of the
drunk.

“Not at all,” Auntie Lil replied sharply. She had no
patience with people who could not control their liquor intake. “I
just need the benefit of your eyes. You were here. I was not. Did
you see anyone unusual near the catwalk, even just on the third
floor near its entrance perhaps?”

He shook his head but opened his mouth at the same
time, froze for a second, then snapped it shut.

 “You did,” Auntie Lil stated matter-of-factly.
“You saw something, didn’t you?”

The man stared at Auntie Lil as if debating whether
to try to fool her or not. “Maybe,” he finally admitted.

“Please tell me,” Auntie Lil said evenly. “You may be
in danger if the killer believes you know something. It might be
better if you tell.”

Harris shifted the clipboard and slipped his right
hand into a rear pocket. Rocking back and forth on his heels, he
studied Auntie Lil. “No one saw me,” he said quietly. “I saw
someone, but I can guarantee you they didn’t see me. I was hidden
behind that side curtain over there.” He nodded toward a series of
short curtainways stored at stage right. “I saw a guy who was sort
of out of place.”

“What did he look like?” Auntie Lil asked.

“I couldn’t tell,” Harris replied. “It was just a guy
in a cape.”

“Why didn’t you step forward earlier?”

He laughed and the sound was bitter. “They’d think I
was hallucinating. Puccinni’s out to get me. Says I drink on the
job. You think I’m stupid enough to come forward and say that I saw
some tall dude in a big black cape all wrapped around him so I
couldn’t see his face?”

“A cape?” Auntie Lil asked. “Maybe it was Mikey
Morgan playing Drosselmeyer?”

Harris shrugged. “Could have been,” he acknowledged.
Except his cue is on the opposite side of the stage. Hard to
say.”

Auntie Lil nodded. “Did you notice anything else
unusual about him?”

He chewed on the end of his pencil. “He wasn’t
wearing the right kind of shoes. They were shiny and black. Dress
shoes. That’s all.”

“What size?” Auntie Lü asked.

He stared at her like she was daft. “Do I look like a
shoe salesman to you?” he asked, before turning and walking
away.

She was disappointed he couldn’t tell her more, but
her thoughts were distracted by the scene unfolding onstage. In the
final moments before curtain, Fatima Jones was practicing the
timing of a difficult passage. It was the first time that Auntie
Lil had seen the young ballerina dance outside the confines of a
rehearsal room. The girl was impossibly lithe and as delicate as a
gazelle, an impression enhanced by her creamy tan color. Her arms
flowed through the air as if made of fluid, not flesh, and her long
neck curved up to cradle an oval head. Her features were delicate
and uniformly slender, from her thin curving nose to an exquisite
mouth and perfect almond-shaped eyes. As she moved about the stage
she seemed to float from spot to spot, propelled by long legs
unfettered by gravity. As she executed a series of graceful jumps,
a pair of young dancers scurried across the set, anxious to take
their places in time for curtain. Fatima missed crashing into them
by inches and drew back angrily, her eyes flashing fire. Her body
rose in height as her long neck appeared to grow even longer, like
a snake advancing on its prey. Her nostrils flared as she advanced
on the two boys and her dark eyes pinned them in a haughty glare.
Before she could scold them, they dashed away in fear.

Fatima Jones had more than the physical requirements
for a prima ballerina. She also had the attitude.

Auntie Lil’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound
of applause. The orchestra was taking its place. Should she wait
around and see the first act from backstage, trying to find out
more about when Bobby Morgan could have been killed? Or should she
take the information she had learned from Ricky Lee Harris and call
it a day?

Her decision was made for her. A tall blond man
hurried toward her and gripped her elbow. “How nice to see you
again,” Andrew Perkins said between clenched teeth. “But I believe
we are both trespassing.”

“Get your hands off me,” Auntie Lil whispered,
shaking her arm free as she pried his fingers from her flesh.

“You’re strong for an old lady,” he said, rubbing his
hand where she had dug ito it. “Don’t get excited. It’s just that I
saw Martinez heading this way. I assume you know him and are as
eager to avoid him as I am.”

Being discovered by Martinez was a good reason to
hurry. Auntie Lil slipped silently along the back wall toward the
exit, followed by Perkins. “What are you doing here?” she
asked.

He hesitated as if he were about to lie, but changed
his mind. “Looking for my daughter,” he said. “Julie hasn’t been
home in over a week.”

“I know,” Auntie Lil said as they emerged into the
bright light of the afternoon sun. “Want to tell me why?”

“No,” Perkins said, turning on his heels and hurrying
down the pathway to Ninth Avenue.

She was about to follow when the unmistakable hulking
figure of Lane Rogers turned the corner and headed down the walkway
toward her. A smaller figure shouted at Lane from behind, and when
she turned to see who it was, Auntie Lil took the opportunity to
slip into the familiar bower of bushes so prized by Ben Hampton.
She waited in the cool darkness, protected from anyone’s sight by
thick overhanging leaves, as Lane Rogers and Ruth Beretsky walked
past.

“But you can’t have a meeting about getting rid of
her without inviting her,” Ruth was saying. “It isn’t fair. You
don’t even know if she promised him the seat.”

“What do you know?” Lane said angrily. “Just shut up
and do what I tell you.”

“I know plenty,” the smaller woman cried, stopping to
glare at her companion. “I know a lot more than you think.”

“What does that mean?” Lane asked calmly.

“I heard you talking to Bobby Morgan,” Ruth said
angrily

“That was nothing,” Lane reassured her. “I didn’t
mean it.”

“Yes, you did,” Ruth hissed back. Her voice caught in
her throat—she was close to tears. “You meant every word.”

“Oh, Ruth,” Lane said, putting an arm protectively
around her friend’s shoulders. “You make too much of the little
things. Sometimes we say stuff we don’t really mean. Come on. We’re
going to be late for the meeting.” They hurried down the pathway,
leaving Auntie Lil to contemplate just exactly what had been said
to whom.

 “Why do you want to talk to Mikey?” Nikki
Morgan asked. She was dressed in a black linen dress and wore a
matching hat decorated with tiny red roses. She looked quite
Italian and very beautiful. More than one man passing by slowed to
admire her.

“I’ve talked to some people who were backstage the
night that your ex-husband was murdered,” Auntie Lil explained.
“They may have seen an extra person. Perhaps someone who didn’t
belong. I want to ask Mikey what he remembers.”

Nikki checked her wristwatch before squinting through
the sunlight at the door of the theater. “He’ll be out in about
five minutes. He meets me away from the crowd so no one will know
who he is. But I have to pick up the other kids from the YMCA in
half an hour after their swim lessons. It’s about five blocks down
Broadway.” She tapped a delicate foot against the pavement, her
high heels making a firm tap, tap, tap as she thought things over.
“I’ll let you talk to him for the half hour it takes me to get the
other kids dry and dressed. Then we’ll meet back here. You can take
him to a coffee shop or something. Buy him an ice-cream soda.”

“Ice-cream soda?” asked Auntie Lil. “That sounds like
a normal kid to me.”

Nikki Morgan looked at Auntie Lil from over her
sunglasses. “Don’t be too sure. You’ll find that he eats only
brand-name ice cream and real whipped cream. And he knows the
difference.”

Auntie Lil was in agreement with Mikey Morgan on the
subject of real whipped cream. Perhaps that was why she felt so
instantly at home nestled with him in a booth at
Rumpelmeyer’s,
the ridiculously overpriced cafe on Central
Park South. It was famous for its ice-cream treats and solicitous
nature toward the children of rich tourists. At that particular
moment, late on a Saturday afternoon, the joint was quite literally
jumping as screaming children crawled over leather-back chairs,
raced through the dining room, careened around scowling waiters,
and knocked seven-dollar-a-scoop ice cream into their parents’
laps.

“More sugar all around,” Auntie Lil murmured, but
nonetheless did not hesitate to slurp the bottom of her ice cream
soda out with a straw. “Let’s order another one,” she told a
surprised Mikey Morgan.

He had been very quiet throughout his first course of
plain ice cream, ordered so he could vouch for its freshness and
designer label. He perked up at her suggestion of more and decided
on a banana split. Auntie Lil told the waiter to make it two. The
waiter agreed readily since, at
Rumpelmeyer’s
prices, two
more orders of dessert would come close to pushing the bill into
high tip territory. He had decided that Auntie Lil was an aging
film star who no doubt lived in a nearby hotel. He was not quite
sure if Greta Garbo was dead or not, but he knew enough to be
certain that confident old women in black fedoras were forces to be
reckoned with—and might even be able to get him a part in a movie
or two.

“Know why I want to talk to you?” Auntie Lil asked
Mikey when the overly helpful waiter had left and they were alone
again. They had exhausted their supply of small talk, which had
chiefly consisted of making fun of Paulette Puccinni. Both Mikey
and Auntie Lil had suffered humiliation at her hands in ballet
class and this had helped establish common ground between them.

“Yes. About Dad’s murder.” The boy’s expression was
hidden behind the oversized sunglasses he wore. They were an
effective means of disguise. His face was so small that the lenses
obscured most of his distinguishing features. The only recognizable
components of Mikey Morgan, child star, were his ears and his
generous mouth. So long as he refrained from his trademark grin and
stifled his well-known war whoop, they had a chance of remaining
undetected.

 Auntie Lil got right to the point. “You entered
from stage left when you danced Drosselmeyer, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “So what?”

“So you weren’t hanging around onstage right the
night your father was killed? Near the spot where his body was cut
down?”

The boy stared at her, but his eyes were hidden from
her return scrutiny by the sunglasses. “No. Not until
afterward.”

“I saw you with your friends today before the
performance,” Auntie Lil said. “Examining the spot where they cut
him down.”

“So?” he said defensively, squirming in his seat.

“What were you doing?” she asked gently. “I heard
some of the boys laughing.”

“I wasn’t laughing,” he said.

“But what were you doing?” she persisted.

“We were just trying to figure out how he had been
hung up that way,” Mikey explained. “Why we didn’t see him fighting
back or hear him or anything.” He might have been talking about a
scene in a movie for all the emotion he displayed. Auntie Lil was
not fooled. She wondered how long he would be able to keep it
bottled up inside him.

“And the laughter?” she prompted.

Mikey sighed. “Just kid stuff. We were nervous. We
were talking about hanging Pork Chop Puccinni next time around. We
thought she’d be a good addition early on when Drosselmeyer first
enters the party. It would make the scene so much more interesting.
Drosselmeyer could reach out his boney old fingers for Clara and
whap! Pork Chop’s fat body could come flying across the stage and
smack him in the face.” He stretched out his hands to demonstrate.
“I hated playing that part,” he added. “Dad made me.”

“Why?” Auntie Lil asked.

Mikey shrugged. His banana split arrived and he dug
in with gusto, eating each section precisely in neat bites before
proceeding to the next one. Auntie Lil watched the whipped cream
disappear and one half of a banana before she spoke again. “Did he
say why he wanted you to dance the part?”

“He wanted us to be in New York,” Mikey explained.
“And he thought it would do me good to sit a couple of months out,
make people a little anxious that maybe I wasn’t coming back. Might
drive my price up. Do you know how much I get per movie now?” He
raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Yes, I do know,” Auntie Lil said firmly, hoping to
stop him before he could slip into his movie-star role. “Are you
aware that your father pulled you out of a movie and broke a
contract for you to do this?”

Mikey shrugged again. “It happens all the time. It
was a dumb movie anyway. The story line treated me like a kid. Dad
explained it all. It would have been bad for my image.”

“Did you always do everything your dad told you to
do?”

He had finished the other half of the banana and was
carefully spooning hot fudge into his mouth. The lower half of his
lip was smeared brown with the goo and this typical display of
childishness was reassuring to Auntie Lil. “I tried to,” he finally
said. “Dad knew what he was doing.”

A young girl walked by dressed in seductive clothing
far too old for her tender preadolescent years. Her blond hair was
coiled on top of her head and she wore plenty of makeup, though
Auntie Lil doubted she was even a teenager yet. Mikey watched her
walk by with obvious appreciation. “Her skirt is up her butt,” he
said, giggling, then eyed Auntie Lil for a reaction.