A Motive For Murder Part 3

"Paulette Puccinni?" Auntie Lil asked.

"That's the one. And maybe that fellow who plays the piano for her during rehearsals. The one she likes so much. The one losing his hair."

"You saw them talking to someone?" Auntie Lil asked.

"Not exactly. But I've been seeing them huddled together in the hall a lot, kind of whispering and looking guilty. I would say they know something and it's not good."

Auntie Lil thought it over. "How would I approach them?" she asked.

Calvin shrugged. "I guess you'll just have to wait until Tuesday," he said. "I know they don't come in tomorrow because both of them teach dance cla.s.ses over at that Dance Center on Broadway." He laughed. "Sure am glad I didn't want to be a dancer when I grew up. I make more money than both of them. They teach cla.s.ses over there to make some extra cash; at least that's what I heard."

"The Dance Center?" she asked.

"That's it," he replied. "I thought about taking a few cla.s.ses there myself, you know. They were advertising ballet cla.s.ses for older people, saying it was a good way to keep your joints stretched and all. My back hurt from some heavy lifting and I thought about giving it a try. After watching so many ballet cla.s.ses and all, I guess maybe I caught a touch of the bug myself. But I ended up taking yoga instead, because when I went over to the Dance Center to take my sample cla.s.s and sign up, I found out that the cla.s.ses were for really old people. You know-even people as old as you." He realized what he had said and ducked his head. "No offense meant, of course," he said.

"No problem," Auntie Lil a.s.sured him. "It's no secret that I'm old." She stared out the window and watched the high-rise apartments of Riverdale as their cab sped past. Ballet cla.s.ses for old people led by Paulette Puccinni?

Auntie Lil knew exactly what her next step would be.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Later that evening a quick telephone call to an acquaintance in the corps de ballet gave Auntie Lil the information she needed: Paulette Puccinni's favorite accompanist was a fifty-five-year-old man named Jerry Vanderbilt who had been with the company for the past four years. The two were as close as twin kangaroos in the pouch, "but not in that way, if you know what I mean. Jerry's on the other team," Auntie Lil's confidante had revealed. And both, her source added, were suspicious of others in the company, gossiped a great deal between themselves, and while they were respected, were also considered a bit antisocial. And yes, both did teach senior ballet cla.s.ses at the Dance Center. Because these cla.s.ses were so rough on the instructors-old people could be far more stubborn than children-Jerry and Paulette earned double the going rate for their services. After a few moments of commiseration with her source over the low salaries paid to artists these days, Auntie Lil rang off to consider her strategy.

If Paulette Puccinni and Jerry Vanderbilt were that close, Auntie Lil wondered if directly questioning them would work. Even if one opened up to her, the other's suspicions could prove contagious. She'd be better off choosing a more circuitous route to winning their trust. Besides, it would be more fun that way.

She rose early the next morning and called Theodore with an appropriate cover story: she was taking an exercise cla.s.s. She felt guilty about misleading him, but he was, as expected, tiresome and pedantic about her extracurricular activities. When she told him she had been elected the board's official spokesperson in the matter of Bobby Morgan's death, he had reacted with the usual warnings not to interfere. She justified her lying by deciding that she needed to put her nephew off her scent for a while, until she made some progress.

Next, she called Herbert Wong, knowing he would be the perfect companion for her undertaking. He readily agreed to meet her on Broadway with exercise clothes in hand. He did not even ask why-a wonderful trait in a friend.

She hung up and pawed through her bureau drawer for suitable attire. Auntie Lil was incapable of appearing anywhere without what she deemed the perfect outfit. Her idea of the perfect outfit was admittedly unconventional at times, but she still felt the confidence that comes from knowing one is dressed for an occasion. Unfortunately, nothing in her current wardrobe would do. She hated synthetic fibers and it was tough to find tights in 100 percent cotton. In the end, she stopped off at a lovely boutique near the subway and found exactly what she wanted: a raspberry leotard and matching tights.

The young man at the front desk of the Dance Center was alarmingly cooperative. Of course, they could take a sample cla.s.s. There was one starting in just a few minutes, in fact, and if they were interested in an entire series of cla.s.ses... He launched into a sales pitch that left them dizzy and wondering about the financial footing of the place. Promising to return and discuss their bargain lifetime plan for multiple cla.s.ses later, Auntie Lil and Herbert embarked on their latest subterfuge.

Herbert was well dressed for the occasion. He emerged from the locker room of the Dance Center clad in sleek black biking shorts. His ebony knit top had cut-off sleeves, just like a professional dancer. He wore black Chinese slippers that made Auntie Lil wish she had thought of them first; her own clunky white tennis shoes spoiled the effect of her ensemble.

The sales spiel had taken so long that they were late for cla.s.s and apparently interrupted at a bad time. About a dozen elderly people lined the mirrored room, their faces reflecting the polished glow of a gleaming hardwood floor.

They were leaning against the barre-a long wooden rod that rimmed the room just above waist height. Their eyes were fixed eagerly on an argument that had broken out at the piano. A spry old lady no more than five feet tall stood nose-to-chest with the accompanist, Jerry Vanderbilt. A plump woman dressed in a diaphanous caftan was attempting to referee. Auntie Lil correctly inferred that the plump women was Paulette Puccinni, maitre de ballet-or head of the Metro's corps de ballet-when she was not instructing retirees on their form.

"I do not play too loud," Jerry Vanderbilt was shouting. "How dare you insinuate I am deaf." He was of medium height, with well-muscled shoulders. In fact, he was so extraordinarily strong-looking that Auntie Lil wondered if the physical demands of playing the piano for a living could account for his stature alone. Perhaps he lifted weights. Vanderbilt also had a chiseled, almost craggy face with a proud nose, wide eyes, and generous mouth. A German face, Auntie Lil thought, or perhaps Austrian, with maybe a touch of Eastern Europe in his prominent chin. His reddish brown hair was receding rapidly from a high forehead that was, at this particular moment, flushed an angry red.

The accompanist's strength did not intimidate his current opponent. The tiny old lady scowled at his denial, then produced a small plastic box from the pocket of her tunic. She carefully extracted two wax earplugs from the box and dramatically inserted them into her ears, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g each into place as if she were securing electrical fuses. "You sound like a herd of thundering elephants!" she snarled for emphasis.

Jerry glowered. "How appropriate. Since you dance like an elephant."

"Please, please, please!" Paulette Puccinni pleaded, sweeping her caftan into the air as if taking flight. "You are upsetting the artistic air of the room. It is true all dance is based on emotion, but this is not the mood we are attempting to create." She patted her student on the back, made soothing noises under her breath, and steered the old woman back to the barre. When she returned to the piano, Auntie Lil distinctly heard her hiss, "I'd like to rip her shriveled old ears off," to Jerry through clenched teeth.

Jerry smiled thinly and began a dignified adagio beat, but stopped when he noticed Auntie Lil and Herbert standing by the door. "Newbies," he said, sighing in exasperation.

"I'm so sorry we're late," Auntie Lil apologized. "The young man out front kept us. Are we intruding?"

"No, no, no," Paulette insisted, confirming that she was paid by the pupil. "You simply must come in and join our little gathering." Her caftan flapped about her like uncoordinated wings as she moved her arms in emphasis.

They crept to the center of the room, self-conscious in their dancing attire. Auntie Lil was acutely aware that she resembled an oversized M&M in her leotard, especially compared with the other students-who were astonis.h.i.+ngly sleek for their age. The other women in the cla.s.s eyed her covertly as they stretched and bent at the bane. The four men in the room were less critical. They looked as if they felt vaguely foolish at being there in the first place. One of them even wiggled his eyebrows at Herbert.

"We're rank beginners," Auntie Lil explained. "With emphasis on the 'rank.'"

"No matter, no matter," Paulette gushed, escorting her to the barre. "Today we are working on musical interpretation. It will give you just a taste of how soaring to the soul ballet can be. Good for your body tone, too, of course." She patted Auntie Lil's f.a.n.n.y in a conspiratorial way and it was all Auntie Lil could do to resist demanding that Paulette strip off the camouflage of her caftan and let it all hang out with the rest of them.

Herbert was as comfortable as a duck in water. He seemed to glide effortlessly toward the barre, accepted the s.p.a.ce the other students made for him with a graceful nod, and began to stretch. Auntie Lil watched him enviously.

He was of indeterminate age. The best she could guess was older than seventy and younger than eighty. But he was also undeniably fit. His small frame was compact and muscled, upheld by a pair of deceptively thin legs. She already knew his strength and endurance were that of a man several decades younger. More than once she had been forced to call it quits on the dance floor when he had been willing to continue. Herbert also had wonderful equipoise. She suspected he practiced martial arts in private, some sort of balancing-the-harmony-of-the-body-with-the-harmony-of-the-world type thing, but she hadn't the energy to ask him if her theory were true. His agility and balance would serve him well today.

Auntie Lil was another story. She was a stout woman, certainly not fat, but no one would ever call her willowy. She had not changed shape or gained weight in forty years. Her body had found its equilibrium and, despite her fondness of food and b.l.o.o.d.y Marys, had stayed at its most comfortable size. Unfortunately, her optimum physical shape was nowhere near that sought after in ballet. American ballet dancers were tall. Auntie Lil was medium height, at best. Ballerinas had small b.r.e.a.s.t.s and long, slender arms that could arc above their heads in graceful positions de bras. But Auntie Lil had developed large square shoulders and impressive biceps during her career as an a.s.sistant fas.h.i.+on designer. She still carried much of her bulk up high, giving her an awkward center of gravity. Finally, most dancers also had long, lean legs; Auntie Lil's were like muscular sausages. Despite these obstacles, she was grimly determined to prove to herself that she could be a ballet dancer.

Too bad Paulette Puccinni did not want to help. "Face the barre," she ordered the cla.s.s. "Grasp it firmly. And listen carefully as we work on posture. It sounds simple, but it is not. Ready? Go!" She began to bark out orders as if she were a gunnery sergeant training a new crew. "Bend your body over the front third of your foot. Knee up and straight in back. Thighs out. Let me see those inner thighs. Lift up the abdominal muscles. Up, up, up. Lift the rib cage. Up, up, up. Relax the shoulders. Stretch the neck. Head erect." She clapped her hands sharply on each command, the echoing sound in counterpoint to the improvised tune her accompanist contributed.

Auntie Lil tried to do as she was told, but with each sharp clap and each barked command, she felt her body rebelling as it was pulled farther and farther away from its natural center of balance. She ended up hunched over the barre, teetering precariously, all of her muscles clenched desperately inward.

"No, no, no, no, no! Exactly wrong. I told you it would not be easy." Paulette made a beeline for Auntie Lil. "What is your name, dear?"

"Lillian Hubbert."

"Cla.s.s, watch as I help Lillian attain the proper posture."

"Please," Auntie Lil murmured. "You may call me Miss Hubbert."

Paulette retaliated by pulling Auntie Lil's shoulders back. "I said shoulders back," she instructed firmly.

Auntie Lil obeyed, but every time Paulette pulled one of her body parts, the corresponding muscles on the other side of her body quite naturally followed. Auntie Lil felt she could be given credit for flexibility, but Paulette disagreed. After tugging Auntie Lil this way and that, the former ballerina finally gave up.

"The fundamental problem, Miss Hubbert," she said, "is that your head is simply too big for ballet. It destroys your balance. But do carry on. Trying is better than nothing. At least you are getting some physical exercise." With this parting shot, her eyes sought out a fresh victim. She steamed toward Herbert Wong before stopping short in surprise.

"Excellent! Excellent," she cried, clapping her hands together like a trained seal who smells herring on the wind. "Cla.s.s, we have here a natural. Look at that balance, note his regal carriage, note the straight line from the nape of his neck all the way down to the base of the spinal column. Bravo! Bravo!"

The cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s 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 temperamental 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 G.o.d that's over!" Auntie Lil whispered to Herbert a half hour later in the reception area. They had showered and studied the upcoming cla.s.s 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 plie. 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 ident.i.ty.

"I am Lillian Hubbert. We just met in cla.s.s."

"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 cla.s.s 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 consomme."

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 relations.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d 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.