A Motive For Murder Part 19

"Lillian!" he called out. "I'm so sorry. I was delayed."

Auntie Lil stared at his feet. He wore black s.h.i.+ny shoes that did not fit his casual attire.

"I know they don't match," Herbert apologized. "I've just had a ballroom dancing lesson."

"What kind of shoes are those?" Auntie Lil demanded.

Herbert looked perplexed. "Ordinary men's dress shoes. The kind one would wear with a tuxedo. I wear them to ballroom dancing practice since I dance most often at formal events."

"That's it," Auntie Lil decided. "The Reverend Hampton heard a man wearing dress shoes running down this path. That's the tapping sound he was talking about."

"Does that narrow it down?" Herbert asked.

"Not on opening night, it doesn't," Auntie Lil conceded. "But it does rule out anyone wearing dance shoes. They would be softer and less likely to make a sound."

"What is the purpose of our visit this afternoon?" Herbert asked her, falling easily into step beside Auntie Lil.

"To catch a liar," Auntie Lil replied.

The Metro's backstage halls were deserted. Most of the dancers were in cla.s.s. Cla.s.sical tunes mingled and overlapped as they pa.s.sed by each door. Auntie Lil peeked in a few windows and saw solemn rows of Metro dancers bending and stretching to the steady beat of piano music. But the legendary Lisette Martinez was not among them.

"Maybe she doesn't need to practice?" Herbert suggested.

"Everyone takes cla.s.ses at the Metro," Auntie Lil said. "She's here somewhere." They pa.s.sed by the dancers' lounge and Auntie Lil stuck her head inside. Lisette Martinez sat on the lumpy couch, her feet tucked beneath her, holding an unlit cigarette and gazing at it with longing. She did not seem to recognize Auntie Lil when she entered the room.

"You don't remember me?" Auntie Lil said. Herbert stood at the doorway quietly, saying nothing.

Lisette looked up at her and her expression was unreadable. "I remember you now," she said flatly.

"May I sit down?" Auntie Lil asked.

"Can I stop you?" the dancer replied.

Auntie Lil took a seat at the opposite end of the couch. "The first time we talked, you said you didn't meet Bobby Morgan until Nutcracker rehearsals began," Auntie Lil said.

"That's right. What of it?" Lisette raised the cigarette absently to her lips, realized it was not lit, and dropped it back down in her lap.

"But you attended the Metro charity ball in Los Angeles last spring," Auntie Lil said. "And Bobby Morgan was there."

"So were six hundred other people and I didn't meet all of them."

"You're the prima ballerina of the Metro," Auntie Lil pointed out. And you yourself told me that he always flirts with the most famous women around. I believe you said that he had a need to do so."

Lisette yawned. "I can't remember every man I meet. It would be impossible. I am frequently approached."

"Bobby Morgan did not strike me as a man who was easy to forget."

Lisette shrugged. "Why is it so important when I met him?"

"Someone's coming," Herbert announced from the door. "And I do not think that you will like who-" He stopped abruptly as Raoul Martinez charged into the room.

"Why aren't you in cla.s.s?" he demanded of his wife. He saw Auntie Lil and his face flushed with anger. "I told you to stay away from my wife."

"I was just pa.s.sing by," Auntie Lil explained innocently.

The artistic director stepped close to Auntie Lil and towered over her as he spoke, trying to intimidate her with his size. He was a powerful man and his muscles quivered against his tight-fitting leotard top as he struggled to maintain his temper. "I am going to tell you this one more time," he said. "The board may have given you the right to poke around and stick your nose where it doesn't belong, but I have absolute power when it comes to what goes on backstage or onstage here at the Metro. If you ever come near my wife again, I will have to see that you-"

"See that she what?" Herbert asked, sliding in between the larger man and Auntie Lil. Herbert was small, but his power seemed all the greater for being so compact. He waited quietly for an answer and his body was still and calm. His breathing was slow, but his eyes never left Martinez's face.

The artistic director looked away and his gaze settled on his wife. "Get to cla.s.s now," he ordered. "I won't have you evading cla.s.ses when the others must be there."

Lisette stood and stretched elaborately, knocking the unlit cigarette to the floor. She glanced down at it then deliberately ground it into the carpet as she strode by her husband and glided gracefully from the room. Martinez glared at Auntie Lil as if it were her fault.

"I have a right to be here," Auntie Lil said, more calmly than she felt.

"Stay away from my wife," Martinez ordered again. "And stay away from me." He turned abruptly and stomped from the room, but the effect was spoiled by the shoes he wore. It's hard to stomp in soft leather slippers.

As Herbert and Auntie Lil approached the door of T.S.'s apartment, strange noises emanated from inside. They heard a series of beeps, then a boing, a squawk, and the sound of a gunshot followed by a plop. "What in the world?" Auntie Lil asked, knocking on the door.

"Who is it?" T.S. yelled, not bothering to come to the door.

"Me," Auntie Lil said firmly. "Let me in now."

"Go let her in," T.S. ordered Mikey, his voice m.u.f.fled by the door.

The door opened to reveal the back of Mikey Morgan's head. Unconcerned with whoever had just arrived, he was looking at T.S. in scorn and complaining loudly, "Come on, that's a dumb game. It's for babies. Let's play Sega. The one where you hang cheerleaders from meat hooks."

"Just let me have one more round," T.S. said, not bothering to greet his guests.

Auntie Lil and Herbert stepped inside the chaos of T.S.'s apartment. The floor was littered with plastic bags, clear wrappings, fast-food sacks, and articles of T.S.'s clothing that Mikey had discarded once they returned home from their shopping expedition. Brenda and Eddie had knocked the top bun from a leftover hamburger littering the floor of the foyer and were busily licking the meat patty. Every surface in the room was covered with video-movie and game boxes, comic books, bags of snacks, and half-eaten cookies. T.S was oblivious to the mess. He stood mesmerized in front of his large-screen television set, holding a green plastic device up in front of his eyes like a visor. As an animated duck flew out of the bushes depicted on the screen before him, T.S. bent his legs slightly and pressed a b.u.t.ton on the control device. The duck squawked, flapped its wings, and tumbled from the video sky to the sounds of T.S.'s triumphant yell. "Got him!" he shouted. Another duck flew out of the bushes and he fired again, sending it plummeting to earth with a plop.

"What in G.o.d's name is going on here?" Auntie Lil demanded. "It looks like a tornado hit."

"He won't let me play Sega Genesis," Mikey whined. "He's been playing that dumb duck-blind game for hours. He's like obsessed."

"Bring me a cookie," T.S. shouted over his shoulder before steadying his aim for the upcoming duck.

Auntie Lil picked up a bag of cookies, marched over to T.S., and conked him over the head with it before switching off the television set. "You have obviously lost your mind," she said.

T.S. looked around as if he were coming out of a trance. "What time is it?" he asked.

"It's time to ask this young man a few more questions," Auntie Lil said grimly. "Sit down." Her natural authority was so great that both T.S. and Mikey sat obediently on the couch. "Not you," she told T.S. "For G.o.d's sakes, go comb your hair and straighten up this place. You're both a mess."

T.S.'s eyes were glazed; he was having trouble focusing at close range.

"Go wash your face," Auntie Lil instructed him firmly. She sighed and sat next to Mikey. "This is my friend Herbert Wong," she said, nodding toward the door where her friend stood. "He's helping me out, and if you want a bodyguard, he might be of a.s.sistance."

Mikey looked the small Asian man over with scorn. "If I need a grandpa, I have my own."

Auntie Lil sighed. "We will both ignore that comment. I went back to the Metro today and I met a very angry man. Angry enough to do something like follow you, perhaps. I began to wonder why he might follow you, if indeed he is the man. So I have a question for you."

Mikey squirmed uncomfortably and evaded her eyes.

"I asked you if you saw anything suspicious backstage," Auntie Lil reminded him. "You said 'no.'"

"I didn't see anything," Mikey insisted, his eyes sliding to the blank television. "I was busy getting ready to go on."

"I think you did see something," Auntie Lil said. "I think you saw someone who had been wearing your Drosselmeyer cloak try to replace it before you came looking for it. Did you?"

Mikey stared out the window for a moment then turned to Auntie Lil, widening his eyes and holding her gaze with an innocent expression. "No," he said. "I would have told you. Why do you think that?"

"Because if you are being followed, there's a reason. And I think that reason may be that either you saw the killer or the murderer thinks you saw him. If you know more, you must tell me now."

Mikey shrugged. "I can't tell you something I don't know."

"Fine. I talked to your mother. You can go home tonight."

"No!" Mikey shouted. "I'm not going home."

"But you are going to tell me what I want to know," Auntie Lil said. She waited, hands folded in her lap. She'd seen the gleam in his eye. He would tell her sooner or later.

"It was dark backstage. I can't be sure." His lower lip stuck out in a pout.

"What do you think you saw?" she asked slowly.

Mikey shrugged. "Nothing much. A man putting my cloak back in place on a hook by the big fuse box."

"What did the man look like?" Auntie Lil asked patiently.

Mikey's face scrunched up in concentration. "He had dark hair."

"How tall was he?" Auntie Lil said.

Mikey bit his lower lip with his teeth while he thought the question over. "Average height," he finally said. "He wasn't tall, if that's what you mean."

"Did you recognize him?" Auntie Lil asked again.

Mikey shook his head emphatically. "You won't make me go home, will you?" he asked just as T.S. reentered the living room, a thick envelope in his hand.

The boy turned to T.S. "Can I stay? Please?"

"I don't see why he can't stay another day just to be safe," T.S. conceded. "We were going to order in Indian food tonight and we already have two movies picked out. Here-this came an hour or so ago. From Margo McGregor." He handed the envelope to Auntie Lil and picked up an unopened video-game box, reading the description with interest. "Two people can play this one," he told Mikey. "Want to give it a try?"

Auntie Lil gave up. She took the envelope to the dining-room table and shoved aside a stack of video movies with t.i.tles that favored the words Kung Fu. Herbert joined her, scooping a bag of potato chips off the chair before he sat down. She opened the envelope and spread out several dozen black-and-white oversized photographs.

"What are we looking for?" Herbert asked.

"This woman," Auntie Lil said, holding up a photo of Lisette Martinez entering the party on the arm of her husband, Raoul. "With this man." She held up another photo, this time showing a bored Bobby Morgan being cornered by a determined Lane Rogers. Lane's sweeping Grecian gown made her look like the patio window in a badly decorated suburban home.

"You mean a photo like this one?" Herbert asked. He held up a glossy print of Lisette Martinez and Bobby Morgan laughing together.

Auntie Lil grabbed the photograph and examined it. Morgan's face was far more animated than in the first shot. His grin was wide and he was holding his champagne gla.s.s aloft with one hand while he held out an oval gold cigarette lighter in the other. Lisette's head was thrown back and her long hair rippled behind her like a dark waterfall. One elegant arm was extended in front of her and a cigarette dangled from between her graceful fingers. Unlike the other more crowded photos, this shot showed only the two of them alone in a corner of the room. The table beside them held four bottles of champagne. "Just like this one," Auntie Lil said.

"What do you expect to find?" Herbert whispered. They were crouched in a darkened storage room on the third floor of the Metro, the one where Auntie suspected Bobby Morgan had been killed. Despite the murder, security at the Metropolitan was still dismally poor. Auntie Lil and Herbert had simply waited until that night's performance of The Nutcracker was over and then slipped in the side door when a distracted group of dancers exited. They were able to make their way upstairs without being noticed and had waited in the darkness ever since.

"I don't know what we're going to find," Auntie Lil admitted. "Do you think everyone has left yet?"

Herbert shrugged. "Is this wise?" he asked. "We could be caught."

"I gave her a chance to tell me the truth. Now I'm going to find out why she's lying."

"How?"

"By searching her locker and her husband's office and every other room of this place if I have to." Auntie Lil's fingers worked over the thick rope coiled on the floor. If Jerry Vanderbilt had called the police as she had advised, and told them this was likely a crime scene, they had probably left the room exactly as it was before. Perhaps they had dismissed the bits of cotton and dirty ribbon as leftover refuse from an earlier use for the room. And maybe they were right.

"Where are we going to look first?" Herbert asked softly.

"Her locker. I'm going to pry it open and see what's inside. Those two are hiding something."

"Why didn't you tell me we'd be breaking and entering? I could have brought tools," Herbert said.

Auntie Lil patted her enormous handbag in the darkness. "Don't worry. I've got us covered. I raided Theodore's toolbox. I could have stolen the furniture right out from under his nose. Those two will be in exactly the same position when we return, mark my words. They'll be sitting on the couch, slack-jawed and gla.s.sy-eyed, with drool running down their chins."

"At least he is not protesting having to babysit," Herbert pointed out.

"Did you hear that?" Auntie Lil whispered. They fell silent as footsteps approached the room. The doork.n.o.b rattled as if someone had b.u.mped into it. Auntie Lil's heart was pounding so loudly in her chest that she was sure Herbert could hear it. A few seconds later, the door to the catwalk slammed shut with a bang, causing them both to flinch. The footsteps returned past their room, and a minute later the sliver of light leaking in under the door of their room disappeared. The upper floor was now in total darkness.

"Ricky Lee Harris," Auntie Lil whispered. "The lighting director. He'd be one of the last to leave."

They waited five minutes to be safe, then crept cautiously from their hiding spot and out to the third-floor hallway. There were no windows in the cavernous backstage building, so they had to find their way around in the darkness. Auntie Lil kept her hand on the wall and carefully followed it back toward the inner stairs. Two floors below, they heard a door slam. Auntie Lil froze; Herbert b.u.mped into her and took a step backward. They waited, ears straining for unfamiliar sounds, but heard nothing. Auntie Lil put her mouth close to Herbert's ear. "Someone was just leaving," she barely sighed. "Shall we go on?"

Herbert touched her arm in a.s.sent and they began to descend the stairs. The lockers were on the second floor at the far end of the hall, well beyond the other rooms and closer to the first-floor steps. It was a long walk given the need to maintain absolute silence. Auntie Lil's legs began to ache with tension long before they reached their destination. But the door to the dressing area opened easily to her touch and they slipped inside without trouble. She fished a navy scarf out of her pocketbook and carefully taped it over the small window in the door with strips from a roll of cellophane tape she also produced from the depths of her bag. Herbert was well acquainted with the endless contents of her purse and not the least surprised. Next out of her carryall was a small penlight. She handed it to Herbert and he lit her way to the first locker on the right. It was the most s.p.a.cious of the lockers and a small bra.s.s label confirmed that it belonged to Lisette Martinez. A small metal lock barred entry, but it was easily jimmied apart with the shaft of a screwdriver. In fact, it flew open so suddenly that the tool banged against the metal door of the locker with a clang. They froze, their breath loud in the silence. But no footsteps approached and they continued with their task. Auntie Lil opened the door, holding her breath as she lifted the latch. The metal door opened quietly and she crouched before it, examining the contents inside using the narrow illumination emanating from the tiny flashlight. The top shelf of the locker held a stack of neatly folded T-s.h.i.+rts. She searched between and beneath them but found nothing unusual. Several pairs of toe shoes were stored behind the clothing and she pulled them out for inspection. They were delicate in appearance but st.u.r.dy in construction. Soft satin pleats covered canvas sidewalls the consistency of cardboard. The soles were heavy canvas and the hardened tips reinforced inside with carefully sculpted wads of cotton batting. She examined the cotton under the light. It was impossible to tell if it matched the shreds found by Bobby Morgan's body. But one thing was certain: the ribbon that Auntie Lil had found on the floor of the storage room had been a grimy white. And while Lisette Martinez probably wore white shoes in many ballets, she did not store those shoes in her locker. All three pairs were a pale pink and the ribbons matched the shoes exactly. Auntie Lil was disappointed but undeterred. She replaced the shoes carefully and searched the pockets of several pairs of sweatpants hanging from hooks on each side of the locker. She discovered bits of tobacco in each pocket and a few sticky breath mints, but nothing more. The floor of the locker proved more promising. Amidst a heap of clean cotton socks, Auntie Lil uncovered a small leather-bound date book.

"Why would she keep this in her locker instead of with her?" Auntie Lil whispered to Herbert, holding the date book aloft for his inspection.

Herbert opened it and examined a few pages. "Maybe to hide it from her husband?" he suggested.

"Exactly," Auntie Lil agreed. They searched through the date book's calendar pages carefully. Last spring, Lisette had marked approximately three days a week with the initial L and nothing more. By summer, the initial C had taken L's place, though an occasional B appeared. In September, the B was followed by an arrow blocking out an entire week.

After that, C disappeared from the calendar, and except for the initial -which appeared no more than two times a month-the days were blank. Beginning in mid-October, B began appearing again almost every other day before disappearing abruptly one month later. After that, the pages were blank.

"No wonder she needed a calendar," Auntie Lil whispered. "She had to have some way to keep all these men straight."

"You think those are dates with men?" Herbert asked.

"They can't be anything else," Auntie Lil decided. She slipped the date book into her purse. "Let's compare this to her husband's calendar, shall we? I think we're going to find that Raoul Martinez was not in New York last September during the time when B was blocked off for an entire week."

"So 'B' stands for Bobby Morgan?" Herbert asked.