Murder: The Musical Read online

  “Ms. Meyers, who once worked for director Harold Prince, provides plenty of dish to keep readers who are either in the know or out of the loop laughing up their sleeve. … the juiciest of her five witty mysteries featuring Leslie Wetzon, the ethical half of Smith & Wetzon, a Wall Street headhunting firm.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Theatre Buffs will have fun trying to identify the real-life characters behind her fictional ones.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “With a savvy, sassy style and an excellent ear for dialogue, Annette Meyers can boast of having one of the brightest, most entertaining series with her Smith and Wetzon mysteries… Meyers is among that handful of authors who have taken the mystery genre beyond its traditional boundaries. Murder: The Musical is her best to date.”

  —Sun Sentinel

  “Annette Meyers has created one of the most fascinating and entertaining series featuring a female amateur sleuth on bookstore shelves these days.”

  —Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

  FOR MY FRIEND FRANK PRINCE, WITHOUT WHOM THERE WOULD BE NO CARLOS.

  IN LOVING MEMORY.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Books by Annette Meyers

  It’s not enough that I succeed, my friends must also fail.

  —Theatre saying (apocryphal, but sometimes attributed to Gore Vidal)

  There are two end products when one produces a musical for Broadway: the production and money. If you believe the play is the thing, you should get the hell out of the commercial theatre. On the other hand, if you think money is the only product, get into another business. It’s easier to make money on Wall Street.

  —Leslie Wetzon, partner, Smith and Wetzon

  THE LIMITED PARTNERSHIP INTERESTS BEING OFFERED ARE SPECULATIVE SECURITIES WHICH INVOLVE A HIGH DEGREE OF RISK. ACCORDINGLY, THE OFFERING IS SUITABLE ONLY FOR PERSONS WHO CAN AFFORD TOTAL LOSS OF THEIR INVESTMENT.

  —From the offering circular of Hotshot: The Musical, a new Broadway musical

  1.

  The alley behind the theatre was dank and eerily quiet. Generations of urine, cat and human, had infused the brick and concrete with a permanent acrid stench. Hardly noticeable during the run of a hit show, the odor became all the more pronounced when the theatre was dark and infinitely worse when it rained.

  Above them, the fire escape climbed the outside wall like a skeletal iron vine.

  The stage door was locked. A nor’easter complete with driving rain and fierce winds had been whipping the city all night. It had now calmed to an icy February drizzle verging on sleet.

  Carlos kicked the steel door. “Damn!” He was tense, wired tighter than a spring.

  The rain thumped on her umbrella. Wetzon shifted it to her right hand and put her arm around Carlos’s shoulder. Conspicuously absent was the production stage manager, Dilla Crosby, not quite affectionately known as Killa Dilla, who should have been there to open the stage door. “It’s early—”

  “I told Dilla I wanted her here early—and look—no doorman—and Walt’s not here to turn on lights!” Carlos stamped his booted foot in a filthy puddle. “It’s all so thankless. Why do I bother—?”

  “Because you love it and you know it. And you know that Killa Dilla never fails. Whatever her shortcomings, she always comes through—”

  “For Mort. She comes through for Mort. And me only when it suits her. Or when it suits Mort.”

  Wetzon tilted her head. “My, my. Who is this paranoid person? Certainly not my best friend Carlos.”

  Carlos was taken aback for a moment, then gave her a great bear hug, umbrella and all. “I love you, Birdie, darling. Do you know that?”

  “Hey!” The figure coming toward them was nearly hidden behind a huge black umbrella.

  “Well, see, there she is.” As soon as she spoke, Wetzon realized her error; she knew Dilla from the old days, and the figure under the umbrella wasn’t Dilla.

  “That’s not the Killa, you dope. That’s Phil Terrace. The ASM and utility gofer. And him you don’t know.” Carlos stepped out from under Wetzon’s umbrella to join the assistant stage manager under his more generous one. Another figure was splashing toward them through the slush. “Oh, good. Here comes Walt. Bless us, we won’t be in union violation.”

  “Hey, look who’s here.”

  Walt Greenow was huge, built like a linebacker. Over the years, his shoulders had softened; protruding from his waistline was an old-fashioned spare tire. “Leslie, right?” His brown hair had crept all the way to the back of his head and was now liberally salted with gray. In spite of his size, Wetzon remembered Walt as a sweet pushover. He’d done it all over the years: props, electrics, carpentry. His face was lit by a big smile. “Have you seen the Killa? I was here earlier, but she wasn’t around.” He held up a huge ring of keys. “I had to get the spare from the Shuberts. They said she never returned the keys last night.”

  Phil looked worried. “I don’t know.” Phil Terrace was a serious young man with moist eyes and a dark wispy beard. The damp black fisherman’s cap hid his hair. “We were supposed to meet here at eleven so we could tape the stage. She must have overslept....”

  Wetzon shook her head. “Killa Dilla? I don’t think so. Unless, of course, she’s changed radically.”

  “She hasn’t,” Carlos assured her. “More likely Mort gave her something urgent to do, like get him a milk shake, for Chrissakes.”

  “Hi, darling!”

  “Morning all.”

  “Lovely day, guys!”

  Three lithe young women straggled down the alley balancing stuffed-past-bulging shoulder bags and umbrellas. That they were dancers was hard to miss, for they wore their tights and leg warmers and soft low boots with a certain casual air, their legs splayed, their walk, ducky. Watching them, Wetzon felt a sharp twinge of envy.

  One demanded, “Why are we standing out here in the rain?”
>
  “That sounds like a lead-in to me,” Carlos said, twirling Phil’s umbrella from him and splashing a soft shoe à la Gene Kelly.

  “Shit! Some asshole jammed something in here.” Walt pulled a mini tool kit from the inside pocket of his shabby tan raincoat and bent over the lock. “Christalmighty, these old locks—”

  “I’m going to try the front of the house,” Phil announced, dashing off.

  “I needed this?” Carlos raised a dramatic plea to the dreary sky and let the rain come down on him. “What’s going on, Walt?”

  “Come on! It’s open!” They all looked toward the mouth of the alley, where Phil was beckoning to them.

  Behind Phil, the three boy dancers who completed Carlos’s chorus stood waiting, and together they all slogged through the pelting rain to Forty-fifth Street to the front of house. An unlit marquee, still heralding the last show, which had closed eight weeks before, a flop, hung like a bleak warning over the entrance.

  Wetzon shivered. It was always creepy seeing the remnants of the departed ... almost as if the funeral were over, but the closets of the dead would have to be gone through. The box office was dark, although there was probably a treasurer assigned. Previews would begin in just over a month. Box office personnel on Broadway usually consisted of a treasurer, an assistant treasurer, and one or two others, depending on the success of the show. The treasurer’s particular responsibility was for the count but everyone sold tickets and answered phone inquiries.

  Across the street, readying themselves for the matinee, the lights on the marquees of the Golden for Falsettos and the Plymouth for The Song of Jacob Zulu bled streamy neon raves in the rain, and if she squinted, she could just barely see the Martin Beck where the hit revival of Guys and Dolls was playing. Sam’s, next door to the Imperial and the Broadway gypsies’ favorite burger spot, thrived in the center of all this activity.

  Phil was holding the center door open. Trailing wet umbrellas, they all trooped into the dark house.

  “Walt, get the lights. I’m going to kill Mort, I am,” Carlos muttered to Wetzon. “We’re supposed to be sharing everything, and he monopolizes Dilla. I have to claw for every second I get.”

  They walked into the orchestra and the stage lights came on. The theatre secreted a musty odor, laced with ancient mold.

  Inside, Carlos became considerably more cheerful. “Come on, boys and girls. I just want to go over one tiny change.” He vaulted to the stage, a slim, elegant man in a black silk turtleneck under a black leather trenchcoat.

  Wetzon, watching him, decided he hadn’t changed much since they’d been gypsies together, and dancing partners. Maybe a little line here and there on his handsome face. A little gray at the temples. He was a dear man, and they had been close for over fifteen years. She had seen him become a choreographer and he had seen her leave dancing entirely, and to his dismay, go into the Wall Street headhunting business with Xenia Smith. “I’ll just wait here ...” Wetzon stopped in front of the orchestra pit.

  “You could come on stage, Birdie. I won’t be long.”

  “Naa.” If she put her feet on the stage, Wetzon thought, she might want to be twinkle toes over Broadway again. She laughed out loud, and Carlos shot her his sardonic look over one leathered shoulder.

  Phil took off his wet cap and slapped the moisture out against his jeans. The assistant stage manager had a high forehead, showing the beginning of premature baldness, and a crown of kinky hair. Self-consciously, he smoothed his hair and replaced his cap. “I’d better do the tape,” he said, looking around for permission.

  “Sure ... sure ... go ahead, Phil.” Carlos’s attention was on the dancers and his work.

  Wetzon stood for a moment looking into the desolate orchestra crypt—Oops, she thought, where was her mind? Orchestra pit. A brown paper bag lay crumpled on the seat of a chair with a broken leg, three other chairs were upended every which way. A lone metal music stand, bent out of shape, and a page or two of sheet music were all that remained of the doomed last show. The lingering smell of the sweat of orchestras past was palpable. If this were a movie, she thought, the orchestra pit would suddenly be full of musicians in tuxedos, tuning up.

  Gawd, Wetzon, she told herself. It must be the rain. And Carlos was a wreck. In a couple of hours the gypsy run-through would end rehearsals in New York. Then everyone would load out for Boston. The scenery was already en route.

  A faint noise brought her eyes back to the pit in time to catch a glimpse of a brown creature with bright eyes and a long tail taking flight. Yuk. Yes, when a theatre was dark, there were problems with rats. Hell, even when they weren’t dark.

  She walked slowly up the inclining aisle. Some of the red velvet seats were up, others down. Scraps of candy wrappers lay on the grimy floor, along with a few abandoned programs. Running her hand over a seat in the center orchestra, not quite under the shelf of the mezzanine, Wetzon sat. Walt hadn’t bothered with all the lights in the house, so where she sat was dusky. The tip of her boot touched the side of an empty soda can, making a hollow sound. She bent to pick it up, but it was already on its roll down the incline toward the orchestra pit. No one seemed to have bothered cleaning the theatre after the last show folded.

  The familiar “ ... five—six—seven—eight ... ” came with fingers snapping rhythm. Dust motes beaded around the arc of light from the stage as Carlos worked with the dancers, changing a motion, a nuance, fussing.

  Phil rolled an upright rehearsal piano on stage, its innards and bare wood facing Wetzon. The nap of the seat’s upholstery crunched under Wetzon’s tan Burberry raincoat. The theatre was cold. A chilling draft leaching up from the floor. Walt was fiddling with the lights. On. Off. On. Off.

  “Five—six—seven—eight ...”

  Wetzon was weary. The sun hadn’t come out in over a week and the constant gloom depressed her. Her recruiting business was active, but she felt burned out, tired all the time. Smith was acting as she had in the early days of their partnership, making all kinds of decisions on her own, as if Wetzon were not her partner but an employee. And then there was her love life.

  A squeaky noise, like a giggle, came from somewhere in the dark.

  You may laugh, rat, she thought, swinging her legs up from the floor to the seat next to her. That was odd. She touched the seat. Damp. She rolled her head back to look at the ceiling, a concave dome containing a huge chandelier—covered with cobwebs, no doubt. Rain was coming through from somewhere. She forgot the rat and stood, her back to the stage. As she stepped out into the aisle, she noticed someone in standing room behind the last orchestra row.

  At that moment, Walt turned the house lights up. Whoever had been there was gone.

  The mezzanine had a sweet curve to it, trimmed with plaster cupids, nosegays, and garlands in goldleaf. A brass rail gleamed dully. And dangling from the rail was an arm encased in a cream-colored jacket.

  “Walt!” Wetzon’s knees buckled. She couldn’t take her eyes from the dark red rivulet running down the arm and splashing on the seat next to where she’d been sitting.

  “What the fuck?”

  Wetzon spun around. Walt had come to the edge of the stage, shading his eyes as he peered upward. Carlos and the dancers seemed frozen in mid-gambol. All stared over Wetzon’s head. “What the fuck?” Walt said again. Wetzon looked back at the mezzanine.

  Hanging over the brass rail was the upper portion of a body, the head a bloody pulp.

  2.

  Phil was the first to break. The ASM bolted up the aisle veering past Wetzon. On stage, no one had moved. The horror of what they were seeing was not processing.

  Wetzon started down the aisle toward the stage, then stopped. Phil’s thumping footsteps echoed through the musty house like phantom knocking. “Phil, wait,” she shouted, regaining her voice. “Someone—Carlos—Walt, call 911—Get the police here.” She swayed, nearly lost her balance, caught herself and scrambled after Phil, then, up the aisle, past standing room. “Phil, don’t touch anyth
ing!”

  At the top of the mez stairs, she skidded to a stop. The light here was spare. The place stank of death and all that went with it. And Phil had disappeared. She heard voices from the stage. Someone was sobbing. “Phil!” Her voice sounded thin, but this old theatre had superb acoustics, and her call carried through the empty house.

  Stomach heaving, her whole body began to quiver. She went back to the stairs and sat, bending her head to her knees.

  “Oh, God!” Phil’s voice. Then sounds of retching.

  So much, Wetzon thought miserably, for an uncontaminated murder scene. She heard stumbling behind her and, rousing, asked, “Is it Dilla?”

  Even in the poor light, Phil’s face was parchment. He’d lost his cap; perspiration mottled his forehead and upper lip. There was blood on his hands, and he reeked of vomit. “Christ,” he choked. “Christ, Christ, Christ. Somebody’s bashed her head in.” He staggered down the stairs, babbling incoherently.

  “Phil? Is it Dilla?” But Wetzon was talking to the air. Phil had disappeared once again. She rose and instead of heading down, edged slowly toward the center aisle.

  Blood tinged the rose-patterned carpet black all around the top of the stairs. It soaked through a stack of old Playbills that had been left behind the first seat. The carpeting on the steps down to the edge of the mezzanine showed a trail of black roses leading to a crumpled mass at the foot of the stairs. Shit, Phil had moved her.

  Wetzon pressed her lips together. There was so much blood up here, how could Dilla have gotten all the way down to the edge of the mez and half over the ledge? Unless she’d still been alive.... She bowed her head and backed away.

  “Birdie!”

  Turning abruptly, she almost lost her balance again, tottered over the top step and clutched at the wall; her hand was sticky and left a red smudge. Carlos was coming up the stairs. “Don’t,” she gasped. “It’s ... bad.” She went to meet him and together they walked down holding on to each other. Phil was crouched on the bottom step, his head in his hands. She had the dippy thought: He’d have blood on his head.

  “It’s Dilla, isn’t it?” Carlos had trouble getting the words out.

  “Who else would it be?” Wetzon brushed her hair out of her face, almost angrily. It was over a year since she’d had to cut her hair off after what she referred to as the-let’s-take-a-shot-at-Wetzon affair, and it was taking forever to grow long enough to put back in her old dancer’s knot.