A Motive For Murder Part 12

"What?" T.S. asked. "But Rudy Vladimir just got glowing reviews for-"

"Of course he did," Nikki said. "And he deserves them. But Mikey begged me to let him stay. He wanted to be near his new friends. He said they were the only ones he'd ever had. How could I say no?" Her eyes were pleading as she looked up at them. "Please don't tell anyone, but he's one of the toy soldiers," she explained. "He's always been stiff on stage. Now it works to his advantage."

"And no one knows?" Auntie Lil asked.

Nikki shook her head. "Paulette Puccinni knows. And the other boys. But they protect Mikey. They haven't told the press. He slips into the theater and dresses quickly in his costume each night." She sighed and finished the last of her wine. "You mustn't think I am being disrespectful to Bobby's memory. It's just that I know Mikey and he needs to work to take his mind off what has happened."

"How has he reacted to his father's death?" Auntie Lil asked.

Nikki shrugged. "I couldn't tell you. He doesn't let anything show. Or very little. And he's been acting for so long that I can no longer tell what's genuine and what's a.s.sumed. Except that ever since Bobby died, Mikey's been withdrawn and anxious to be around his family, maybe even afraid that the same thing will happen to him."

"What?" Auntie Lil asked. "Have there been threats?"

The lawyer half rose from the couch, alarmed at the prospect Nikki waved him back down. "None that I know of. But he does seem afraid. Afraid and trying hard to hide it."

"Do you think he's in danger?" Auntie Lil asked.

Nikki shrugged. "My husband was never one to be overly concerned about who he did business with. If they had the money, he'd take it. I have no idea who he was a.s.sociated with or of the caliber of his colleagues. I believe it is entirely possible, indeed probable, that his business affairs had a great deal to do with his death." She laughed bitterly. "That or one of his affairs."

"Mrs. Morgan," her lawyer warned, rising from the couch. "You must not speak about the possible causes of his death."

"Oh, sit down, Harry," she commanded, uncorking the bottle and pouring the last of the wine into her gla.s.s. "Bobby is dead and I'm not going to say anything that isn't absolutely true." She dared him to protest but he was obviously well versed in her ways and he sank back down into the overstuffed cushions silently. It was a gross violation of lawyerly responsibility, and both Auntie Lil and T.S. wondered simultaneously whether Harry had a personal stake in Nikki's happiness.

Nikki turned to Auntie Lil. "My husband was absolutely incapable of seeing a beautiful woman without making a play for her," she explained.

"Lack of self-esteem," Auntie Lil offered. She was never shy about her psychological opinions.

"Exactly," Nikki said. "But think what that did to my own self-esteem." She held her gla.s.s of wine up to the light and examined its color in the glow of a lamp. "Just like blood," she said, bringing the gla.s.s to her lips. "Or maybe Communion." She fell silent for a moment, lost in memories, then shook her head and continued. "l could have dragged a hundred women into the divorce proceedings. But I didn't."

"Why not?" T.S. asked. "It sounds as if he was pretty nasty to you."

Nikki looked up. "The children already hated their father for taking Mikey to California and leaving them behind. I didn't want to make it worse. He was their father. So I kept the other women out of it."

"Any woman in particular?" Auntie Lil asked.

Nikki shrugged. "Just open the New York City phone book and begin with the As. That will give you a start." She noticed that her gla.s.s was empty and sat it down unsteadily on the sideboard. "The kids will be home in an hour," she said.

Harry rose with fresh authority. "I think you should lie down before they get home, Nikki." He put his arm around her in a very unlawyerlike gesture and began to lead her from the living room, his face softening as he murmured to her under his breath.

"I'm sorry to have to ask you another question," Auntie Lil said as Nikki reached the door to the hall.

Her lawyer looked up in irritation, but Nikki focused her hazy eyes on Auntie Lil's face and waited for the question.

"Who inherits your husband's wealth now that he is gone?" Auntie Lil asked. "And who gets control of Mikey's money?"

"I do," Nikki explained. "He left me everything, even though we were already divorced when he made out his last will. And I get control of Mikey's trust until he turns twenty-one." Her eyes blinked and large tears began to trickle silently down her cheeks. "He really did love me," she whispered softly. "He just didn't know how to show it." She moved slowly down the hallway of her cluttered apartment, helped along by the gentle proddings of her lawyer. She looked tiny and vulnerable in his ma.s.sive arms.

Auntie Lil wanted to spend the night at T.S.'s apartment, primarily so she could bounce endless and highly creative theories off T.S. He endured them in typical fashion: he ignored most of them and watched the nightly news on mute while she talked. It was much more interesting to fill in his own details about the endless parade of politicians and criminals pa.s.sing by on the television screen anyway.

Just as Auntie Lil was speculating that Nikki Morgan's lawyer may have had something to do with the murder, T.S. caught a glimpse of a familiar face on the screen. A small band of type at the base of the screen popped up, indicating that the footage was live.

"Look!" he told Auntie Lil, turning up the volume so that they could hear. The screen came into better focus. A polished young newswoman with upswept blond hair and a slight overbite was staring earnestly into the camera, partially blocking the chaotic entrance to a police station. Behind her, a haggard-looking Gene Levitt was being escorted out the front door by a lawyer in an ill-fitting suit.

"WNBC has just learned from highly placed sources that a new development in the Bobby Morgan murder may be leading authorities closer to the killer," the blonde intoned with breathless-and well-practiced-excitement. "Witnesses have been coming and going from Midtown North all day, providing hardworking detectives with missing pieces to the puzzle."

One of the puzzle pieces-Gene Levitt-spied the camera and lost his temper. He rushed toward the newscaster as if he intended to push her down. His shirt was open, his tie was missing, and he looked as if he had not slept all week. Just as he reached the blonde, arms intervened, pulling him away to one side and out of camera range. His lawyer ran after him, shouting frantically. Meanwhile the blonde continued her well-rehea.r.s.ed monologue without taking the slightest notice of the commotion behind her. She began to recap the known facts about Bobby Morgan's death.

"Gene Levitt is just getting released?" Auntie Lil said. "Two days seems a long time just for questioning."

"And why do I think that isn't his usual lawyer?" T.S. asked. Levitt's regular lawyer, T.S. knew, would be wearing a suit that fit. Word must have reached everywhere that the producer was flat broke.

The blonde had finally worked her way up to her late-breaking tidbit. "Prior rumors proved unfounded this evening as a producer embroiled in questionable business deals with the deceased was released after nearly two days of questioning. Apparently, attention was deflected from the suspect when a previously unknown a.s.sociate of Bobby Morgan's called the crime team in charge of the case and revealed details of Morgan's death until now known only to the coroner's office and detectives a.s.signed to the case. One delighted detective on the case termed the unexpected event as akin to 'the bad apple falling right out of the tree and into our laps.'"

"So much for confidentiality," T.S. muttered. "And similes."

"Although the name of the new suspect is not yet known, I have been a.s.sured that a plainclothes team is bringing him in right now and we are on the spot to bring you this important development live." The blonde's eyes sparkled with the prospect of barging in on the bust. T.S. could practically see her calculating the resulting rise in her ratings.

"Oh, dear," Auntie Lil said. What sounded suspiciously like a giggle erupted from her lips. She pointed to the television.

T.S. stared in disbelief as a crippled Hans Glick was hustled into camera range by two huge plainclothes detectives. There was no need for his crutches as each ma.s.sive detective was gripping him firmly by an arm and practically lifting him off his feet. Glick's wire-rim gla.s.ses were askew, his normally impeccable hair stood on end, and his self-a.s.sured face had dissolved into a flushed and panicked study in frustration.

"Here comes the suspect now!" the newscaster cried, pouncing on Glick with the swiftness of a cat on a baby sparrow.

She thrust the microphone in Glick's face, b.u.mping it on the tip of his nose. "What is your name, sir?" she shouted above the commotion.

"Come on, Sally. Knock it off," one of the detectives growled, trying to elbow the newscaster away. She held her place and the detectives were forced to stop and figure out a way around her.

"Sir! What is your name?" The microphone knocked Glick on his top lip and he jerked upright, perhaps realizing for the first time that it was entirely likely that hundreds, maybe even thousands, of his clients and coworkers were watching the late-night news and witnessing his humiliating march into police custody. He ducked his head with the unerring instincts of a thrice-convicted felon, hiding his face from the prying camera. Twisting, he attempted to turn his back and his broken foot b.u.mped the newscaster in the shins.

The newscaster spied the cast. Headline-making theories zigzagged through her brain before tumbling from her lips. "Sir! Did you have that cast before you were taken into custody? Have you been brutalized by the police?"

"Oh for chrissakes, Sally," the detective nearest her shouted. "Get the h.e.l.l out of the way! We didn't touch the guy. Now beat it." Lifting Glick up in the air, his two escorts bore him over the tangle of camera and microphone wires. One of the detectives hip-checked the newscaster solidly as they pa.s.sed. She bounced against a bystander and right back into the trio, catching Glick's plaster-encased foot in her stomach. She skidded sideways from the impact, but recovered and started after them.

Suddenly new prey caught her attention and she froze like a pointer spotting a duck. "Follow me!" she whispered at the camera and viewers were swept along again, rushing past sleeping junkies and unknown drunks being hustled up the precinct stairs. "Reverend Hampton!" the newscaster called out. "Ben! Just for a minute."

The figure dominating the archway into the precinct stopped and turned to the cameras with a graceful and effective sweep. Ben Hampton smiled broadly, at home in all his cinematic glory. Lights blazed and the cameraman scrambled to adjust the lighting for this well-known media icon.

"He looks different," T.S. said. "What happened to his hair?"

Indeed, the Reverend Ben Hampton was a changed man. In place of his electrified hairdo was a well-cropped buzz cut that accentuated the kingly shape of his head. He had ditched his trademark bright tie for a subdued navy one that complemented his tasteful charcoal-gray suit. As he held out his hands for quiet, the entire sidewalk fell silent as if awed by his personal magnetism. When he spoke, his voice was softer than usual, more authoritative and less strident. It swept his listeners along like a mighty current, pulling them toward his conclusions.

"I am here voluntarily this evening," he explained into the camera. "I have put the unfortunate incident of my misguided arrest behind me and have taken it upon myself to report back to the police with additional information I may have on the true murderer of Bobby Morgan-father, agent, Hollywood man extraordinaire."

"Are you kidding me?" T.S. asked the television out loud. Talking to inanimate objects was another Hubbert trait.

Hampton bowed his head as if he were wilting under the weight of many sorrows. "It is a sad day in this city's history when no one is safe from crime. When no one-not even those of us fortunate enough to live in the crystal palaces of Lincoln Center-can escape random death."

He looked out at the cameras with blazing eyes. "I am taking it upon myself to fight crime in this glorious city of ours starting right here and right now. I will fight it in every way and by every means humanly possible. Tomorrow, I urge you to look for a column in New York Newsday outlining my twenty-point plan for preventing crime. A column by the talented reporter, Margo McGregor." The newscaster's microphone wavered. She wasn't keen on letting him plug a compet.i.tor on air. Sensing her displeasure, Ben Hampton grabbed the microphone and began talking into it as he paced the steps. "Join me in my fight against crime on all fronts!" he exhorted. "We will fight crime from our homes and on the streets." He paused and flashed a bright smile. "My allies in this fight are many. For example, I am proud to announce that the Metropolitan Ballet has named me to their board and agreed to increase its scholarships to minorities as a way to enable our city's children to leave the streets and take to the stage in the search for normal lives, where dreams are reachable and crime unthinkable."

"What?" Auntie Lil shrieked, rising from the sofa. "I never said he could be a board member."

"What exactly did you say?" T.S. asked, alarmed.

"I can't remember! I can't think." She sat down abruptly.

Within minutes, T.S.'s phone began to ring.

"Don't get it," Auntie Lil warned.

"Don't worry," he replied.

"How do they know my number?" he asked as the fourth frantic message from a board member was recorded for posterity on his answering machine.

"I put you down in case of emergency. I guess Lane Rogers considers this an emergency," she said glumly.

By midnight, his entire supply of answering-machine tape had been used and still no word yet from Lane Rogers or, worse for T.S., from Lilah Cheswick.

"Lane's probably waiting in a car outside my apartment," Auntie Lil said. "Hoping to run me down."

"Anything's possible," T.S. said as he finally unplugged the telephone.

"I don't know if I can sleep," Auntie Lil admitted, staring at the now blank television screen.

"Then spend the time thinking of what you're going to do to get out of this mess," T.S. suggested as he swept out of the living room intent on sleep. There were some problems she'd have to solve on her own.

CHAPTER TEN.

T.S. watched Auntie Lil use most of a tub of cream cheese on a single half of bagel. "You can't be serious," he said. "They'll lynch you if they see you."

"Unfortunate choice of words, Theodore. I must go. I want to talk to the boy. And I haven't time to deal with this Reverend Hampton mess. They'll have to figure it out on their own." She sc.r.a.ped the last of his sour cherry jam from the jar and eyed it with disapproval. "Can't you buy bigger jars?" she asked.

He removed the sticky spoon she had dropped on the bare surface of his treasured oak dining table and carefully sponged the spot clean. He put down yet another place mat, which she promptly ignored. There was no point in chastising her. She simply did not notice.

"What can Mikey Morgan tell you?" T.S. asked.

"That's what I want to find out. But I better go in disguise. The board will be out to tan my hide." She thought for a moment. "Do you still have that fedora I gave you in 1969?"

"Still in the original box," he said grimly. "As if you didn't remind me of it constantly."

"Perfect. And I'll need to borrow your black jacket. I'm sorry but I must insist you sit this round out. We would simply be too conspicuous together."

If Auntie Lil's aim was to avoid being conspicuous, she failed miserably. Her idea of a disguise was to look like an elderly and chubby Marlene Dietrich. She tucked her wiry white hair up under T.S.'s black fedora and smoothed out its brilliant scarlet band. She wore her black crepe trousers from the day before with one of his oversized white T-shirts and his black tuxedo jacket. The odd thing was, she looked wonderful.

Even odder, hardly anyone gave her a second glance when she boarded the crosstown bus that would take her to Lincoln Center for a matinee of The Nutcracker. Of course, this was New York City-and most of the riders' attention went to a well-dressed man at the rear of the bus who was eating sunflower seeds, mumbling to himself and wearing a pair of boxer shorts upside down on his head.

To Auntie Lil's chagrin, the Metro's rear fire-exit doors had been locked, against all regulations she knew. She hovered near a tree for cover and scouted around for errant board members. She had neither the energy nor inclination to tangle with anyone over the Reverend Hampton. Fortunately, the maintenance man, Calvin Swanson, appeared before any board members did.

"Pssst!" Auntie Lil hissed from her spot behind a tree. She stepped out into the sunlight and adjusted the brim of the hat low over her eyes.

"Why are you dressed up like that, Miss Hubbert?" Calvin said. "You look real sharp, but seems to me that's evening wear you got on."

She placed a finger to her lips. "Avoiding the board," she explained.

"Can't blame you." He raised his eyebrows. "They got another one of them emergency meetings scheduled for today. I had to clean the room. There's an agenda printed on the chalkboard. You're on it."

"Me?" Auntie Lil asked. "What did it say?"

Calvin shrugged. "Just your name. 'Lillian Hubbert,' it said, right at the top under a heading called 'New Business.'"

"Oh, dear," she said absently. "They believe I'm responsible for Reverend Hampton thinking he's on the board." She didn't add that she was responsible.

"Yeah," Calvin said, drawing the word out into four syllables. "I saw him on television last night. I was a bit surprised myself. Didn't think the board had the gumption to let a man like that sit among them. I must say I've gained some new respect for the board. And what about that Swiss fellow? Think he did it? He sure did look guilty, didn't he? Ducking his head and all." He stroked his chin thoughtfully as he contemplated the possibility that Hans Glick would be sent up the river for life. "I'd like to see him try and get along with a warden, the way he keeps trying to tell folks what to do."

One of the exit doors opened and a pair of nervous parents scurried out to take their seats in front for the matinee. Auntie Lil stared at the door, then at Calvin. Calvin shook his head.

"Please, Calvin," she said.

"I've got orders to keep them locked," he explained. "From the top. That chairman lady."

"She's breaking the law," Auntie Lil explained. "Those are fire doors. They are supposed to be kept unlocked at all times. You could get in trouble if anything should happen."

Calvin shrugged and produced a huge ring of keys from his pocket. "Sorry, Miss Hubbert. Can't help you. But I do need to unlock that door, come to think of it. Seems I can't find my mop." He fiddled with the lock and tried a couple of keys until he found the right one. The door opened with a metallic bang and he propped it ajar with a pail of soapy water he was carrying. He poked his head inside then stared across the courtyard. "Must have left my mop in the main building. Guess it will take me a good ten minutes to get the dang thing." He headed off slowly without looking back.

Auntie Lil was no idiot. The moment Calvin was far enough out of sight to be able to claim a clear conscience, she slipped inside the theater and hid behind the first flat of scenery she saw.

It was quiet backstage. The show would begin in half an hour. She could hear the distant murmur of voices and an occasional thump, but the area was so immense that most of the action was taking place much closer to the stage. She stepped cautiously from her hiding place and inched along the wall to stage right. She wanted to see the spot where Bobby Morgan had been cut down.

A group of dancers beat her to it. As she drew near, she saw a circle of figures bent over the spot where Bobby Morgan's body had lain. The dancers were already in costume, making it impossible for her to tell who they might be. She detected five toy soldiers, several mice, and a number of young boys in nineteenth-century garb. One of the mice was using his tail as an impromptu noose and demonstrating an apparent theory on a willing toy soldier. Auntie Lil watched this charade then realized with sickening clarity that one of the toy soldiers might be Mikey Morgan. How could he reenact his own father's murder? One of the boys spoke, eliciting laughter, and as he pointed overhead, others followed his gaze and stared up at the catwalk. Several heads nodded in agreement.

Their meeting was interrupted, however, by the stout figure of Paulette Puccinni. She wore a peac.o.c.k-blue caftan embroidered with hot-pink flowers. As she shooed them away from the spot and into place on various sides of the stage, Auntie Lil stepped behind the oversized grandfather clock used in the show to watch the dancers take their places.

Young Rudy Vladimir padded by on soundless feet, his innate grace obvious even when he was merely walking. He was dressed as Drosselmeyer and wore a large top hat. A big black cloak flapped behind his slender figure. He scurried across the pa.s.sageway and waited quietly in the wings, stage left. A burly man clad in blue jeans and a plaid shirt walked past Rudy, stopped, leaned forward to check out Rudy's face, then walked on. The man had black hair that was thinning on top and a permanent scowl. He was wearing headphones and held a clipboard in one hand so he could check off items on a list as he walked. He headed directly toward Auntie Lil's hiding place but stopped abruptly to open a fuse box in the wall. He examined the fuses carefully, made a few check marks on his list and continued on his rounds. When he was a few feet in front of her, Auntie Lil stepped from her hiding place and called out to him.

"Yoo-hoo. Young man."

If a woman well into her eighties dressed as a man surprised him, the crew member did not show it. He squinted and stepped closer to get her in better focus. He was either nearsighted, drunk, or quite possibly both. "Who are you?" he asked. He looked down at his list. "You're not in the show."

"I'm on the board," she explained.

"No board members backstage," he said firmly in a voice that was just slurred enough around the edges to confirm that he had been drinking. "New rule. Who can blame them?"