A Motive For Murder (8 page)

The class burst into spontaneous applause while
Herbert posed like a dignified crane. Auntie Lil checked out her
own contorted frame in the mirror and hoped the class would be over
soon. She’d had enough time to evaluate Paulette Puccinni and Jerry
Vanderbilt. She planned to show them no mercy and was anxious to
get started.

The interpretive dance portion of the class was a
little better. It also gave Auntie Lil an opportunity to observe
Paulette up close. Swooping her way to the front of the long line
of students swaying obediently behind their teacher, Auntie Lil
evaluated Paulette’s physical conditioning. She knew that many
years ago, Paulette had been a prima ballerina who had studied
under George Balanchine. Rumor had it that she had walked away from
the American Ballet Theater during one of his tempera–mental fits.
She had then thrown herself into a yearlong sulk, compounded by
excessive drinking and overeating. Eventually, she had been offered
a new job training the corps at the newly founded Metropolitan
Ballet But by then, her aging body and rusty technique were
incapable of recovering from the months of abuse. Her dancing days
were over. Some said she did not take the transition well. She was
still quite strong, however, as Auntie Lil realized when Paulette
single-handedly moved the piano back several feet to make room for
a group interpretation of cattails waving in the wind. She pondered
whether this fact was significant as she bent to the left and
right, doing her best to convey the essence of cattailhood.

“Thank God that’s over!” Auntie Lil whispered to
Herbert a half hour later in the reception area. They had showered
and studied the upcoming class schedule while they waited for
Paulette and Jerry to finish with a private lesson in the
studio.

“I really enjoyed myself,” Herbert admitted. “I have
always admired the deceptively effortless grace of ballet.” For
emphasis, he bent his knees out and dipped low in a
grand
plié.
Auntie Lil ignored him.

“Here she comes,” she muttered, nodding toward the
studio door. A frightened-looking student scurried from the room
and Paulette emerged soon after, her caftan billowing in a blast of
air-conditioning.

“Miss Puccinni?” Auntie Lil said as she stepped
forward to block her exit.

“Yes?” the dance instructor asked suspiciously,
staring at Auntie Lil as if her street clothes obscured her
identity.

“I am Lillian Hubbert. We just met in class.”

“I remember. Don’t feel bad, dear. You tried your
best.” She patted Auntie Lil’s shoulder. Some people just aren’t
built for the ballet.”

“I am not here to discuss my balletic
abilities,”Auntie Lil answered quickly. “I am a board member of the
Metropolitan and I am inquiring in an official capacity into the
death of Bobby Morgan three nights ago. You remember, I
presume?”

Paulette froze just as Jerry Vanderbilt came charging
through the door behind her. He crashed into her and stopped in
surprise.

“She’s on the board,” Paulette explained tersely.
“She wants to ask us questions about Morgan.”

“I didn’t say that specifically,” Auntie Lil said.
“But now that you mention it...”

The pair exchanged a glance. “Better be nice,” Jerry
grudgingly advised Paulette. “She pays the bills.”

“What exactly do you want?” Paulette asked, drawing
herself up to her full height. Her eyes blazed and Auntie Lil
caught a hint of the fiery presence that had been her hallmark
during her prima ballerina days.

“I just want to ask you a few questions in a very
friendly way. Over lunch,” Auntie Lil explained.

“I never eat lunch, but all right,” Paulette agreed.
“I can make an exception. But you’ll have to be quick. We have
another class in two hours.”

Auntie Lil doubted that Paulette’s stout frame had
missed too many lunches lately, but she played along. “Fine,” she
agreed. “You must join Herbert and me for a salad. Perhaps you can
be wicked and order the consommé.”

 It was like eating lunch with a malevolent
Abbott and Costello. Paulette and Jerry had the ability to finish
each other’s sentences with extrasensory spite.

“Raoul Martinez was never a great dancer,” Paulette
said when Auntie Lil asked her about the Metro’s artistic director.
“Perhaps not even a very good one. He just rode the craze for dark,
brooding men in the seventies. He was more of a—”

“Poor man’s dancing Errol Flynn,” Jerry finished.
“Even starred in some Grade-C flicks back in Spain wearing tights
and waving a sword.”

“He seems an excellent artistic director,” Auntie Lil
said mildly. She was waiting for her foot-long chili dog with
melted cheese and onions. It was a little much, even for Auntie
Lil, but she had the urge to get even with Paulette for her earlier
humiliations and she had a hunch this was one way to do so. The
former dancer had rather wistfully ordered a large garden
salad.

“He controls the company fine,” Jerry said
enigmatically. “It’s the ones who are closer to home he has trouble
controlling.”

This was hardly a discreet reference. The whole dance
world knew that Raoul Martinez was married to the Metro’s aging
prima ballerina, a temperamental woman who was named Lisette
Casanova-Martinez. Their stormy relationship and public fights were
legendary in ballet circles and had even ended up on the gossip
pages of New York’s tabloids on several occasions.

“Yes, I’ve heard,” Auntie Lil murmured. The waiter
was approaching their table with a well-filled tray. Her lunch
smelled exquisite. The huge hot dog steamed with the delightful
odor of a fair’s midway, causing Paulette’s nose to twitch in envy.
She stared at the enormous platter of cholesterol-inducing goo with
undisguised envy as it was set in front of Auntie Lil. Herbert had
confined himself, as usual, to broiled fish and a salad. Only Jerry
had joined Auntie Lil in enthusiastic gluttony—after all, he wasn’t
paying—and was about to dive into a plate heaped high with fried
seafood.

“Jerry can eat anything and never gains an ounce,”
Paulette said, staring at the golden battered shrimp like a gull
might eye the fried shrimp’s more alive brethren.

“Metabolism,” Jerry explained, crunching in
contentment. The free lunch was putting him in a good mood. “If
you’re really digging for the dirt on Morgan’s death, you ought to
talk to Martinez,” he said helpfully.

“Among others,” Paulette added.

“Oh yes?” Auntie Lil waited to hear more. The
synchronistic effect she had feared might work against her was
working for her instead. Paulette and Jerry seemed to be in a race
to cast aspersions on as many other people as possible.

“You mean the fight?” Paulette asked Jerry, raising
her eyebrows. He nodded back mysteriously.

“What fight?” Auntie Lil demanded.

Herbert remained silent, watching his companions. In
this way, he could pick up nearly as much useful information as
Auntie Lil could with her mouth going.

“With Paulette here,” Jerry offered with a wicked
smile.

Paulette looked grim. “I wasn’t talking about the
fight with
me.
That was just a small misunderstanding.
Besides, I wasn’t the only one he fought with during the six weeks
of rehearsal,” she retorted, eyeing Jerry back.

The accompanist countered by thoroughly confusing the
issue. “True,” he admitted. “Morgan did have a knockdown-drag-out
with Martinez about the interpretation of the play and the demands
he was making on his son, after he fought with Paulette here over
driving his son too hard in rehearsal.”

“His son is not a dancer,” Paulette offered in her
defense. “Never has been.”

“And he also fought with that know-it-all board
member,” Jerry finished. “The one who is always lurking around the
halls trying to run everything.”

“True,” Paulette agreed. “I thought he was the
president at some bank somewhere. Doesn’t he ever actually go there
and work?”

“Hans Glick?” Auntie Lil said. “Fought over
what?”

Jerry and Paulette shrugged simultaneously, but
Paulette spoke first. “Everything, I’d say. They argued all the
time. Some ongoing thing. They’d meet in the halls outside the
rehearsal rooms while I was trying to improve the poor boy’s
technique. We could hear them arguing outside the door.”

“I play rather quietly,” Jerry explained. “Helps the
mood, you see. They were arguing over contract negotiations.
Couldn’t really hear the details, though God knows I tried.” He
gave a bright smile and popped another shrimp into his mouth.

“I see.” Auntie Lil bit into her gooey hot dog,
sending a waterfall of pungent chili tumbling off the other end.
Paulette groaned and licked her lips as she watched Auntie Lil eat,
unaware that she had moaned out loud.

“So he argued with Glick over the contract terms and
with Martinez about the demands of his son’s role,” Auntie Lil
said. “Was that all he argued about with either man?”

“What else would they argue about it?” Paulette
answered too quickly and Auntie Lil knew she was lying. Especially
when she exchanged a glance with Jerry. A signal had been sent and
received.

“That’s all?” Auntie Lil repeated.

“What else?” Jerry echoed with a shrug.

“How badly did you argue with Morgan?” Auntie Lil
asked Paulette.

Paulette flushed lightly. “We had harsh words a few
times. He claimed I was trying to cripple his son.”

“But you convinced him it was the best thing for
Mikey?”

“Hah!” Jerry shoveled a forkful of crispy clams in
his mouth and munched with divine satisfaction. “She backed down
when he threatened to have her canned.”

“Jerry!” Paulette glowered at him and her thin smile
faded to an ominous frown. Her eyes gleamed as if she were
searching her brain for equally incriminating information on
him.

“Who do you think could have killed Morgan?” Auntie
Lil asked quickly. If they began to fight with each other, all of
their energy would go into the battle. She needed their attention
for just a few minutes more.

“A lot of people,” Paulette and Jerry answered almost
simultaneously. They burst into what they considered to be wicked
laughter. To Auntie Lil and Herbert it sounded more like nasty
cackles. The pair took mutual delight in the misfortune of
others—and were none too kind with each other, either.

“A lot of people at the Metro?” Auntie Lil
prompted.

Paulette nodded. “He had a colossal ego and he used
his son to feed it. He’s made quite a few enemies in a few short
weeks.”

Jerry nodded agreement. “But how’s this for a
dark-horse-killer candidate?” He relished the nervous expression
that flick–ered across Paulette’s face. “Surely you’ve noticed that
Madame Chairman had the unreciprocated hots for our murder victim?”
He raised an eyebrow for emphasis.

Auntie Lil’s mouth dropped open at a most unfortunate
time, considering she was eating a chili dog. “Lane Rogers took a
romantic interest in Bobby Morgan?”

“I don’t know how romantic it was,” Jerry admitted
with a sly giggle. “It was certainly interesting.”

“I think when a woman reaches a certain age she
should put such things behind her,” Paulette added, wrapping her
caftan around her as if no man, by God, was going to gawk at her
body.

Auntie Lil could not have disagreed more. She thought
people should go on falling foolishly in love for as long as their
breath held out. But she did not say anything except, “How could
you tell her affections were not returned?”

“How could we tell?” Jerry asked. “Just look at her!
The only person who would look at Madame Chairman’s body with any
interest might be the defensive coach of the New York Giants!” He
and Paulette shared a laugh.

“There must be more to it than that,” Auntie Lil
insisted. “How did you know she was interested in him?”

“She followed him around,” Paulette offered. “Through
the halls, trapping him in corners, saying she needed to discuss
all sorts of trivial things. It was humiliating, really. I could
hardly bear to watch.”

Auntie Lil knew full well that Paulette Puccinni
could hardly have borne not to watch, but she held her tongue. “And
you knew her affections were not returned because of...?”

“The way he would run into the men’s room and hide
when he saw her coming was a dead giveaway in my opinion,” Jerry
explained, deadpan.

It was hard to argue with that reasoning. “Why didn’t
Martinez bar Morgan from the rehearsal areas?” Auntie Lil asked,
switching tracks. “He seems to have caused quite a bit of chaos
wherever he went.”

“Not enough guts,” Paulette explained. “None of us
want to be unemployed by next season and it seemed obvious to us
all that Bobby Morgan had an awful lot of influence with the board.
After all”—this time it was her turn to stare at Auntie Lil—“he
managed to have one of the finest dancers to come along in decades
removed from her role.”

Auntie Lil was surprised at the honest indignation in
Paulette’s voice. It seemed the first true ring of emotion she had
heard from the woman. “You taught Fatima Jones?” she asked.

Paulette nodded. “I inherited her from the New School
of Ballet. She came out of their public-school program. She already
had her own style, but her technique lacked polish. I taught her
everything I know. She’ll go further than I ever went.” She sighed
involuntarily.

“You had quite a distinguished career,” Herbert
offered gallantly. “It is high praise indeed to predict the young
girl will surpass it.”

“Paulette is right. Fatima is better than any of our
young dancers and already better than most of the principals.”
Jerry shot a glance toward Paulette and an unspoken message was
once again received. “Especially Lisette, Martinez’s own wife.”

“Lisette is way past her prime,” Paulette agreed. “If
she had any pride, she’d hang up her shoes and go on to other
activities.”