A Motive For Murder Part 8

Ben Hampton looked at Auntie Lil in keen admiration. "I couldn't have come up with a better solution myself."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

T.S. had one big concern about Auntie Lil's visit with Reverend Hampton. "Do you believe him?" he asked. They were sitting in a coffee shop near Lincoln Center, discussing their next move. T.S. had been surprisingly calm about foundation money going to help Hampton. The truth was, he had never wanted the money in first place and so didn't care where it went.

Auntie Lil nodded. "Why would Ben Hampton jeopardize his career by killing Morgan? Fatima Jones is just one cause in a long line of causes. Unless a better motive comes up, I don't think he's our man. I'd like to go over to the Metro this afternoon and question some other people. Feel up to the trip?"

T.S. calculated his schedule for the day. He was supposed to meet Herbert at four o'clock to learn the fox trot and after that both he and Auntie Lil were meeting with Gene Levitt, the producer who had lost millions when Mikey Morgan backed out of his movie contract. Auntie Lil had arranged the meeting with her usual tact: she had called up and demanded it. If T.S. could come up with a plausible cover story to get away for a few hours for the dance lesson with Herbert, he might be able to pull it off.

"Well, do you?" Auntie Lil demanded. "I can hear your wheels turning, Theodore."

"I can do it," T.S. said quickly. "But will anyone be there?"

Auntie Lil nodded. "They have cla.s.ses and rehearsals all afternoon. We'll be able to find someone."

The first someone they found turned out to be Lisette Martinez, wife of the Metro's artistic director and long its prima ballerina. She was a self-conscious exotic beauty as she sat in the suns.h.i.+ne on outside steps near a side door to the theater, smoking a forbidden cigarette. She was wearing rust-colored leotards and a black sweats.h.i.+rt. Her legs were wound with strips of white cloth as if she were a Thoroughbred preparing for a race. Her hair whipped loosely in the wind. She was in her mid-thirties, but the physical toll of her profession had aged her beyond her years. Up close, her lack of body fat accentuated every wrinkle.

Auntie Lil perched on the steps below her and smiled. T.S. hovered behind his aunt. Lisette stared at the two of them without expression, her eyes flat and dark. She took a long drag of her cigarette and looked up at the sky.

"Should you be smoking?" Auntie Lil asked, trying to establish rapport.

"Who are you? My mother?" The ballerina blew a smoke ring that was instantly dispersed by the breeze.

"No. I'm a member of the Metro's board, looking into the recent death of Bobby Morgan."

The dancer's eyes flickered. "Raoul told me about you. So did Lane Rogers. She doesn't want me to talk to you. Which means that I will." She stretched her legs in the sunlight and admired them, flexing them with feline grace. "Who's he?" she asked, nodding at T.S. as she cataloged his charms.

"My nephew Theodore."

The ballerina raised her eyebrows at T.S. in amus.e.m.e.nt, but he was too besotted to notice. She was a little haughty for his usual tastes, but Lisette Martinez had something all right. Fire seemed to flash from her eyes, her lips were incredibly expressive, and she had a way of holding her head and abandoning her hair to the wind that made T.S. think of silky strands spread across a bed pillow. She represented all things forbidden and exotic-and he was fascinated by her.

"We're here to ask questions in an official capacity," Auntie Lil explained.

"Raoul will be thrilled," the ballerina said, her sarcasm elegant in its subtlety. "He's rehearsing the brats inside. Parents keep pulling their kids from the show so he's helping Pork Chop Puccinni train the new beasts."

T.S. ignored the appropriate but nasty reference to the Metro's ballet master. "The parents are afraid their children are in danger?" he asked.

Lisette smiled enigmatically. "They are in danger. I've thought of killing a few of them myself over this past week."

"Did you know Bobby Morgan?" Auntie Lil asked, watching in disapproval as Lisette lit up a fresh cigarette.

"Sure, I knew the late great Bobby Morgan. He put the moves on me pretty hard when we met about six weeks ago."

"Put the moves on you?" Auntie Lil asked.

"He's the type," Lisette explained. "I was the most famous woman in the room. He had a biological urge to impress me."

"What form did his efforts take?" Auntie Lil asked.

"Ambus.h.i.+ng me in the hall between cla.s.ses. Asking me to lunch. As if I ever eat. Bringing me flowers. Cheap ones. Telling me how much money he made. The usual."

"Wasn't your husband offended?" T.S. asked.

"Raoul wouldn't have noticed if we'd fallen on him from the rafters," she said. "Which, come to think of it, Bobby almost did." She took another deep drag of her cigarette. "Raoul is not exactly Old Faithful, if you know what I mean. He's too busy to care what I do."

"Yes, but..." Auntie Lil began. Her voice trailed off. She was routinely tactless, but not even she could decide how to charge in on what was a very delicate topic.

"My aunt is inquiring about all the press stories," T.S. explained, correctly guessing Auntie Lil's thoughts. "We often read that your husband has a jealous temperament."

"That's just show," she explained. "Good publicity. Supports his reputation as a fiery artist. Raoul could care less who I see or what I do with them when I see them." A strand of hair blew into her mouth and clung to one side of her generously made-up lips. T.S. watched in fascination as Lisette carefully picked the hairs free with a long fingernail.

Auntie Lil didn't know who she wanted to slap more: Lisette or Raoul Martinez. In fact, she became so lost in a fantasy about the lecture she would give them both that T.S. had to take over the questioning.

"How did Morgan act when you rebuffed him?" he asked.

Lisette shrugged. "He didn't care. By that time, there were a dozen younger dancers hanging on him. Gold chains and lots of money look good when you're too young to know better." She glanced at her watch. "I have to get back in."

The door behind her opened abruptly and Raoul Martinez stuck his leonine head outside. The sunlight momentarily blinded him, but when his eyes focused on his wife-and the cigarette dangling from her fingertips-his face flushed in rage. "How many times must I tell you!" he roared. He burst through the door, s.n.a.t.c.hed the b.u.t.t from her hand, and ground it out beneath his foot. "You must conserve every ounce of your energy," he thundered. "Why will you not listen to me? Do you want to continue to be a star or are you going to give it up for the sake of this poison?" Lisette sat calmly throughout the tirade, but both Auntie Lil and T.S. inched as far away from the bellowing artistic director as possible.

"Who are you?" Martinez demanded, staring at T.S.

"My nephew," Auntie Lil said, wedging herself between the two men. "He is helping me with my inquiries."

"And who are you?" Martinez demanded of Auntie Lil, his anger blinding him nearly as much as the bright sunlight.

"A board member," she said indignantly. "Good heavens, I sit next to you every month."

Martinez peered at Auntie Lil, his eyes blinking in the bright sunlight. "Oh, yes. So you are. But don't bother my wife. She has work to do."

He grasped Lisette firmly by the elbow and pulled her inside, letting the wind blow the metal door shut in Auntie Lil's face with a bang.

"A charming sort of fellow," T.S. said.

"With a charming sort of temper," Auntie Lil pointed out. "Come on. Follow me."

"Where are we going?" T.S. asked, following her around the building toward the southwest side of the complex.

"I want to check out the Reverend's story," she explained. "And I need your help."

Auntie Lil's idea of his help was to command T.S. to stand in the bushes at the rear of the complex, back turned to the pathway so he could simulate heeding the call of nature while she briskly walked past in varying degrees of hurry. Feeling like a complete a.s.s, T.S. complied and was acutely embarra.s.sed to find himself the object of eagerly fearful scrutiny by a group of gray-haired female tourists sunning themselves by the bandstand.

"Hurry up!" he whispered fiercely as Auntie Lil jogged past for the third time.

"Did that sound like a machine gun?" she asked breathlessly, returning to his hiding place.

"No, it did not," he told her, irritated. "Though a machine gun is starting to sound awfully good to me." She missed the significance of his pointed stare. "What is the point of this?" he demanded.

She gazed thoughtfully at the rear exit of the Metro's theater. "I'm just trying to see if Reverend Hampton's story makes sense. Can you see up the path while turned like that?"

"Yes," he said wearily. "And please don't make me go it again. Those ladies already think I have the largest bladder in the history of mankind and all twenty of them are hoping I'll expose myself next."

"But I haven't yet sounded like a machine gun, have I?" she asked.

"You're wearing soft-sole shoes," he pointed out. "If you weighed five hundred pounds, you wouldn't make a tapping sound."

"Good point," she said, forehead furrowed in concentration.

"Better hurry!" a breathless voice interjected. A small blond woman scurried past with a hasty wave at Auntie Lil. She was a member of the Metro's board, one of the silent majority. "You'll be late."

"Late?" Auntie Lil asked after her.

The woman checked her diamond-encrusted watch. "The meeting starts at three-thirty today," she explained, hurrying around the corner toward the executive offices.

"A board meeting!" Auntie Lil's anger was instant. "They're trying to hold a meeting without me!"

"Maybe they tried to leave you a message," T.S. said. "If you'd just get an answering machine like the rest of the world, these things wouldn't happen."

"Nonsense. They are deliberately trying to exclude me and I intend to find out why." She started down the path before he could protest. "You'll have to meet that producer on your own," she called back. "Call me later and let me know what you think." She disappeared around the corner.

At least he wouldn't have to think up an excuse to cover up meeting Herbert, T.S. thought to himself as he hurried toward his clandestine dance lesson. The fox trot? Hah! If a fox could trot, so could he.

Herbert was not afflicted with T.S.'s lack of self-esteem about romantic matters. When T.S. had confided that Lilah seemed too busy to notice him recently, Herbert's take on the situation had been more objective and, most probably, more accurate: Lilah was working too hard. She needed a hobby. Women in her social cla.s.s were taking up ballroom dancing again. If T.S. would learn to dance, then he and Lilah would have a hobby they could enjoy together, he pointed out. And T.S. might be able to lure her away from board meetings for an evening or two each week.

Put that way, it was hard to argue, which was why T.S. was meeting Herbert nearly every day in a small rented studio on upper Broadway. Herbert had long been a ballroom dancer extaordinaire and often stepped out with Auntie Lil. "Your aunt attempts to lead at all times," he had once confided. "But she is otherwise a fine and skilled partner."

They finished the lesson early so T.S. would be on time for his meeting with Gene Levitt. He hated being late for anything, a trait Auntie Lil did not share.

"Do you think this producer has anything to do with the murder?" Herbert asked as they changed into fresh clothes with a masculine camaraderie that T.S. always felt was more like the movies than real life.

"He has the best motive of anyone," T.S. said. "Morgan ruined him professionally and financially. But I don't know if he was even there that night. Do you want to come along while I question him? Auntie Lil can't make it."

Herbert's normally golden glow flushed slightly as he patted a knapsack full of neatly packed clothing on the bench beside him. "No. I have a ballet lesson to attend. I have caught the bug, it seems."

"I salute you," T.S. said. "I suppose you're wearing tights?"

Herbert bowed modestly. "When in Rome, as they say."

Gene Levitt had fallen on hard times with the cruel swiftness that only a career in the entertainment business offers. His company had been reduced to a small but clean cubicle in a shared office complex run by a desperate real-estate management firm out to turn a buck on an under-occupied skysc.r.a.per in midtown. The other cubicles were rented out monthly to accountants, public-relations consultants, money managers, and other entrepreneurs seeking success. Since it was after regular working hours, the shared receptionist had long since departed. Many of the offices remained well lit, however, as self-employed hopefuls struggled to make ends meet.

Gene Levitt was clearly a soul on the way down. T.S. knew that he had, until recently, headed up a successful independent production company out of a studio in Hollywood. Now his kingdom had dwindled to eighty rented square feet of not so prime Manhattan real estate.

"It's not much, I know," Levitt said. "What can I say?"

He was a small man, trim and deeply tanned with receding black hair cut short and brushed back from a rounded forehead. He had babyish features that looked out of place on such a serious face. His b.u.t.ton nose and pursed lips belonged on a cherub, not a Hollywood executive facing disaster. He held his energy close to his body, seeming to hover above surfaces rather than sitting and standing like everyone else. His suit was custom-tailored. T.S. guessed that his wardrobe would survive the bankruptcy better than other aspects of his life.

"Have a seat." Levitt nodded toward a small plastic chair pulled up near his plain wooden desk. "I don't suppose you have money?"

"I beg your pardon?" T.S. asked. He felt uncomfortable in his sweater and casual slacks. It made him feel disadvantaged to face a man in a suit without similar corporate armor.

Levitt waved a hand nervously in the air. "Don't worry. I know you're here to ask me questions about that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Morgan. The old lady was pretty explicit about what she wanted on the phone. But I can't help myself. Reflex action. Thought I'd give it a try. So do you? Have money?"

"No money," T.S. said quickly. "At least none I can get my hands on."

"Join the rest of the world," Levitt said with a grimace. Smiling had long since disappeared from his repertoire. "That's why I'm in New York. I'm here on the East Coast trying to raise money for a new venture."

"Having much luck?" T.S. asked politely.

Levitt shrugged. "Movies are glamorous," he explained. "And I have a pretty good track record. Two successful independent features, nothing to write home about, but they made a fair piece of change. A line of cheapo horror pics. They turned a good profit, too. Plus a couple of made-for-television ventures. I make my people money."

"Or did, until the last time around," T.S. said.

Levitt sighed and the energy drained from him like a deflating beach ball. His compact frame slumped and he stared at the desktop glumly. Until recently," he admitted. "There's no way around it. It was a disaster."

"What happened?" T.S. asked, wondering if he should take notes. Sam Spade wouldn't be caught dead taking notes. But then, Sam Spade didn't have to report to Auntie Lil...

"We'd signed Mikey Morgan to star in a big-budget feature. Our biggest yet," Levitt explained. He picked up a fountain pen and jabbed joylessly at a blotter as he spoke. "We were lucky. We signed him before his back-to-back hits and got him on the cheap. Shooting was supposed to start last month in Hollywood on soundstages, followed by Seattle this month. We'd already contracted for the stages, put down a deposit, and invested a lot of money on location in Seattle when we got the bad news."

"The news being that Mikey Morgan was pulling out of the picture?"

Levitt nodded. "That b.a.s.t.a.r.d father of his left me a message on my answering machine. Can you believe that? The guy is costing me nine million dollars and he can't even tell me the bad news to my face."

"Wasn't there a contract?" T.S. asked. "How could he break it?"

"Sure there was a contract." Levitt rummaged around in a lower drawer and withdrew a thick sheaf of paper, tossing it across the desk at T.S. "Here. Maybe you can find a use for it. It's worthless to me."

"Why?" T.S. asked. He paged curiously through the doc.u.ment, amazed at the complexity of the terms and the petty conditions attached as riders. "Jellybeans?" he asked. "In five specified flavors at all times?"

Levitt shrugged. "I hope the kid's teeth rot. Soon."

"What excuse did Morgan use to pull out?" T.S. asked.

"Claims he had a prior legally binding arrangement elsewhere that was running over schedule. It was a lie, of course. He was stalling for time so he could stonewall the film. He knew I put my investors together project by project and that they aren't the most patient backers in the world. If he could have held out long enough, I would have had to fold the flick and go on to something else. If I took him to court, the kid would have been so old by the time the case came to trial that no one would have wanted him when we were through. Face it. He has another year or two of being cute and then it's good-bye time. It's already too late for me, of course. I'm ruined. I don't know if Morgan knew how far we had extended ourselves with pre-production expenses, but I wouldn't be surprised if he had. He had a reputation of costing people money."

"You sound resigned to losing your s.h.i.+rt," T.S. said.

"I'm not." Levitt patted down his pockets and located a pack of cigarettes. "But I'm prepared for the inevitable. Want one?" He offered the pack to T.S.

T.S. declined but did not have the heart to ask him to hold off. The guy needed a smoke pretty badly if his shaking hands were any indication.

"Morgan could have pulled his kid out a h.e.l.l of a lot earlier," Levitt admitted. "Before I'd put all that money on the line. Waiting until he did is what put me under. I gotta wonder if maybe it wasn't deliberate."