Murder Takes a Partner

by Haughton Murphy

  Next to Weiss was Peter Howard, a young man of thirty-two, pleasant enough to be with once one recognized that he had a very low energy level. He purported to do some sort of teaching at the New School—closer investigation would have revealed that it was a rather basic night-school course in “the contemporary novel”—and otherwise appeared to devote his time to NatBallet. He served on the Board at his mother’s request, his mother being a wealthy grain heiress so generous in her many benefactions that she herself could not with any efficiency serve on the boards of all the charities to which she bountifully contributed. Peter’s amiability and reasonable intelligence had been spotted early. He had been offered the presidency of NatBallet three years earlier and had accepted, on condition that his duties would be only part-time. Within this constraint, he was good value for the Company. Well liked by the dancers, he acted as an ombudsman between the dancers and Holt, and also between the dancers and the business side of the operation. He held “open door” office hours twice a week, and listened patiently to the real or imagined grievances of the dancers, musicians and other personnel who stopped by to see him. He appeared to enjoy his job as President and, were he willing to spend a trifle more time and a bit more energy in carrying out his duties, would have been a truly effective figure not only in terms of the Company but also in the world of the arts generally.

  “The meeting will please come to order,” Frost called out as the group sat down. “Jeanine, will you read the minutes from the January meeting?”

  The January meeting had been most routine, but Ms. Saperstein, reading Jocelyn Taylor’s crisp minutes, managed to raise and lower her voice dramatically and endow the description of the proceedings with false suspense, a little like Joan Sutherland singing “Three Blind Mice.”

  A motion to approve the minutes was carried, and Frost called on Ambassador Franklin to give the treasurer’s report. The Company was on budget, he reported, taking the group through the duplicated financial materials that had been distributed. Everyone knew that the extra rehearsal costs for Chávez Concerto, not yet reflected in the books, would probably change that; but box-office receipts were ahead of last year’s, as were donations. So a spirit of modest well-being pervaded the room as the meeting proceeded.

  Frost took advantage of this mood to move quickly to the next item on the agenda, which he knew would be controversial: the question of promoting three of the Company’s dancers. He called on Navikoff to make a report. (Since suggestions for promotions by tradition originated only with Holt—the Board was involved really only because of the increased salary commitments the promotions made necessary—it had seemed appropriate to name Navikoff the chairman of the promotions committee, since he was most privy to Holt’s thinking on such matters.)

  “Yes, Reuben, I’m happy to report,” Navikoff said. Frost, who considered himself quite expert on the subject, was sure that Navikoff normally wore contact lenses; to him the man’s not-quite-right turning of the head and slight hesitation in focusing were giveaways. Now, however, Navikoff was wearing outsize shell-rimmed glasses. Did the glasses contain real prescription lenses, Frost wondered, or were they simply a prop to enhance Navikoff’s “serious” (that is, non–pretty-boy) side? Frost did not know the answer, but he had a strong suspicion that the glasses were fake.

  “As you all know,” Navikoff began, “it is customary to make promotions from the corps to soloist at this time of year and to make promotions to principal as well. I’ve talked with Clifton about this, and to Arne Petersen, the Assistant Artistic Director. Grace Russell, who’s on my committee, and Bartlett Empson, who is too, have also talked to them. And on this basis, we are prepared to recommend making Hailey Coles and Nancy Baker soloists and Aaron Cassidy a principal.

  “Just to talk about them for a minute,” Navikoff continued. “Hailey is a charmer, as I think everyone here will agree. She’s only eighteen, but she’s been in the Company for two years now and she’s danced wonderfully everything that’s come her way, including the Sugar-Plum in Nutcracker. I understand she’s also rehearsing the lead role in Paganini Variations. Everyone thinks she’s great—long-legged, pretty and capable of both a seamless adagio and incredible speed. Don’t you agree, Bartlett?”

  “Absolutely,” Empson answered. “She’s got a way to go, of course, at her young age. But she reminds me of the young Patty McBride. Able to do just about anything, and with real spirit. She’s going to go far. So is Nancy Baker, for that matter,” said Empson, preempting Navikoff’s report. “She’s extraordinary in Clifton’s Cinderella and that Chopin piano ballet. I don’t like that one very much, but she’s been able to make something of the young girl’s part for the first time ever. You remember even Veronica never looked very good in it.”

  “Thank you, Bartlett,” Navikoff went on. “I guess that brings us to Aaron Cassidy. We now have sixteen principal dancers, though if you leave out Roberta and Sam, who are all but retired, it’s only fourteen who are active. That’s a low number—we had eighteen, remember, two years ago. Clifton feels very strongly that Aaron is ready. He’s tall, and he’s a wonderful partner, and he’s just what the Company needs. The ballerinas can only look good if they have good partners—and Aaron can make them look good.”

  “Does anyone have any comments?” Frost asked the group. Andrea Turnbull put up her hand at once and Frost called on her.

  “I don’t have any quarrel with the girls,” she said. “They seem all right to me. But I’ve said over and over again to anyone who would listen that Aaron Cassidy is simply not a first-class dancer. Handsome he is—very handsome. And that goes a long way with some,” she continued, pointedly. “But technically he is not up to being a principal dancer—or at least, that’s my judgment. Doesn’t anyone agree?” She looked around the table plaintively.

  “Andrea, there is no question that Aaron is not the finest dancer we have,” Empson said. “But I’m sure he’s going to get better. Don’t forget he didn’t go to our school, and he has a lot of little mannerisms that he has to unlearn. He’s got to learn to hold his shoulders correctly, for one thing. But that’s easy, and I certainly have no objection to promoting him now.”

  “Anyone else?” Frost asked.

  “If Clifton wants him, let him have him,” said Kenneth Franklin.

  “I agree,” said Jeanine Saperstein. “When one’s time has come, one’s time has come. We have to recognize it.”

  Frost ignored the secretary’s inanity. “Do I take it, then, that all three appointments should be made? Or should we vote on them separately?”

  “I move that we accept all three recommendations,” David Weiss said, with Monsignor Carroll offering a quick second.

  Frost took a formal vote by a show of hands. It was unanimous, except for Andrea Turnbull, who sat sullenly at her end of the table and refused to vote either aye or nay.

  “Very well,” Frost said. “Will you let Clifton know, Jack? I assume he’ll want to convey the good news right away.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Navikoff replied.

  “Mr. Chairman, can I ask a question?” Adelaide Simms called out from the other end of the room.

  “What is it, Adelaide?” Frost asked.

  “I think the appointments we’ve just approved are fine,” Simms began. “Aaron, Hailey and Nancy will all, I’m sure, do credit to the Company. But I’m troubled by one thing, Mr. Navikoff, and that’s the failure to promote Gerald Hazard. He became a soloist what—ten years ago? And I really don’t understand why he’s not promoted to principal. My own opinion is that he is one of the finest we have—he’s elegant, his technique is impeccable and it appears that he can do anything. I remember one night last season when he did the Bournonville variations, Clifton’s Jazz Café and the Corsaire pas de deux all in one evening. So just what is his status?”

  “I agree with you, Adelaide,” said Beth Allen. Mrs. Allen was a shy, unassuming woman with an intense interest in the ballet and quiet, confident judgment in what she saw.
She now overcame her shyness, for Adelaide Simms had struck on an issue about which she too felt strongly. “Gerald is an immensely valuable asset. He’s a quick study and can learn a role in no time. That program you mentioned, Adelaide, was a good example. The three boys who could do the first dancer in Jazz Café were all injured. Gerald learned it overnight and did a very creditable job—along with carrying the rest of the program. I think he deserves principal status.”

  “Sometimes I think we’d be better off with the New York City Ballet’s old system,” Jeanine Saperstein interrupted. “You know, no rankings, no principals or soloists. It would certainly save a lot of trouble.”

  “That’s a subject for another time, I think, Jeanine,” Frost snapped, annoyed at Saperstein’s irrelevant interruption. “I think you’re right to raise the question, Adelaide, and I think we should discuss it.” Both Cynthia and Reuben Frost agreed with the woman’s assessment. Gerald Hazard was an excellent dancer with only one problem: Clifton Holt did not like him. The question of Hazard’s promotion had come up twice before, but nothing had been done because of Holt’s opposition. He was sure the same would happen this time, but it seemed worthwhile to convey to Navikoff (and thus to Holt) the wide support Hazard had on the Board.

  “I know Gerald pretty well,” Peter Howard said. “I know he feels terribly frustrated about being stuck as a soloist; he’s talked to me about it several times. And while I know it’s not relevant to the issue, Gerald, unlike many of the dancers, does have family responsibilities—his wife and two little boys who are just about school age.”

  “He’s sort of funny-looking, don’t you think?” Ambassador Franklin asked.

  “He has red hair, Mr. Ambassador, if that’s what you mean,” said Adelaide Simms, a flaming (and natural) redhead herself, as the group laughed. “I’ve never found him so. Granted he’s not as handsome as young Aaron or Roy Irwin, for that matter. But there’s nothing especially unusual-looking about him. And he dances so beautifully that you certainly don’t notice any imperfections in his looks when he’s on stage.”

  “I was just asking,” said Franklin.

  “Does anyone else want to speak?” Frost asked. “Bartlett?”

  “I agree with Adelaide and Beth. Gerald is a real asset to us. And I also agree with Peter Howard that he might well leave us if he’s not promoted soon. But …” Bartlett Empson’s voice trailed off. He seemed about to say something, then stopped. He did, however, stare at Jack Navikoff, who now looked increasingly uncomfortable.

  “As chairman of the promotions committee, perhaps I should say something,” Navikoff said. “I’m impressed with the depth of support for Gerald you are showing, as I have been in the past. All I can say is that I will report this back to Clifton and perhaps we can review the bidding.”

  So there it was. An artistic issue had been discussed, but the Board had not forced the Artistic Director’s hand. And Jack Navikoff, Frost was almost certain, wouldn’t now force it either.

  Frost was about to ask if there were any other matters to be brought up when Maria Craig, one of the Company ballet mistresses, burst into the room. The look of distress on her face was evident. She looked around, spotted Frost, and went and whispered in his ear.

  “Oh, my God!” Frost called out. After some more whispering with Craig, he turned to his colleagues.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’d better adjourn. Clifton Holt has been stabbed outside the stage door downstairs.”

  3

  CONFUSION

  Frost’s announcement electrified his audience. Some of the directors sprang up and started shouting questions at Maria Craig; others slumped back in their chairs in a state of shock. Frost firmly grabbed Ms. Craig by the arm and propelled her toward the door, moving so fast that the other Board members were left behind.

  Still gripping the reluctant young woman’s arm—she wanted to stand still and elaborate on her dramatic tale—he led her to the bank of two large elevators normally used to take dancers to the stage level and decisively banged the call button. Again his companion tried to talk, but Frost’s stern look silenced her. An elevator stopped, its down signal ringing, and Frost pushed the woman into it ahead of him. As the door began to close, David Weiss and Peter Howard were running to catch it. Frost did nothing to keep the doors from closing.

  Once the elevator had started down, Frost turned to his companion and looked her straight in the eye. “What happened, Maria?” he asked with intensity.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Frost. I was standing in the wings talking to some of the dancers when Hailey Coles came in from the stage door. She was yelling, ‘Clifton has been stabbed! Get a doctor!’ Jeb Crosby—you know, the stage manager—was standing near us and tried to call for help from the phone at the side of the stage. He was shouting and cursing because the house operator didn’t pick up, but then he got through and I heard him asking for the police and an ambulance.”

  “But for God’s sake, what about Clifton?” Frost demanded.

  “Everybody was too stunned to do anything for a minute; we were all hypnotized listening to Jeb shout at the operator. Hailey snapped us out of it with her screaming. ‘We’ve got to do something—he’s bleeding to death!’ she kept shouting. Then Veronica Maywood, who was standing with me, yelled out and asked if he was dead. Hailey screamed again—she was quite hysterical by then—and said ‘No.’ Veronica and Aaron, who had also been standing there with us, ran outside. Then several people did. And that’s when I came up to get you.”

  The elevator doors opened and Frost found himself in the midst of an unsettling scene—some of the dancers and stagehands falling for a doctor and an ambulance, others shouting for the police. Many started gathering around Frost as he emerged from the elevator, his old-lawyer’s dignity in sharp contrast to the dramatic panic around him.

  “Jeb!” he cried, spotting the stage manager. “Have you called an ambulance?”

  “Yes, Mr. Frost. It’s on its way,” Crosby answered.

  “What about a doctor?”

  “We’ve called Edwards,” Crosby replied, referring to Martin Edwards, the company’s orthopedist, whose office was around the corner.

  “And the police?”

  “Yes, I just got through to nine-one-one,” Crosby said.

  Satisfied that the necessary had been done, Frost headed for the stage door. It opened onto a long, dimly lit alley that led to Fifty-third Street. He saw the outstretched figure of Holt about halfway down the alley, with Veronica Maywood bent over him. The choreographer was still wearing the clothes he had worn at the earlier disastrous rehearsal, and Maywood had frantically ripped open his shirt. The fiery ballerina was no longer talking about Mexican jumping beans; instead she was desperately trying to stanch the bleeding from what appeared to be a triangle of three knife wounds in Holt’s chest.

  Maywood moaned softly as she held her scarf over Holt’s chest. “Oh, Cliff, Cliff, no, no!” she cried. Aaron Cassidy and four or five other dancers stood by, watching helplessly.

  “Is he still alive?” Frost barked at the nursing ballerina. One could not tell from looking at Holt’s ravaged, blood-soaked figure or gaunt, alabaster-colored face.

  “Yes! But his pulse is getting fainter. Where is the ambulance?” Maywood shouted.

  As she spoke, a cacophony of distant sirens grew louder and, within seconds, the blinking red lights of not one but three police squad cars became visible. Four uniformed police officers—three men and a woman—came running down the stage-door alley, their hands on undrawn service revolvers. Two more officers followed them by seconds.

  “Okay, get back, everybody,” the first patrolman to reach Holt’s lifeless figure called out. He and a colleague pushed Maywood away.

  “Stabbing,” the first one said.

  “Yeah,” said his companion.

  Before they could do anything for Holt, an ambulance, its siren screaming, pulled into the narrow alleyway, upending a garbage can in the process. In what seemed
a matter of seconds the medics had jumped out of the ambulance and put Holt on a stretcher.

  “Tyler Emergency?” the police sergeant who had taken charge asked.

  “Right,” one of the medics answered.

  “Collins, you go with the ambulance,” the sergeant said, pointing to one of the other officers.

  The ambulance was gone as quickly as it had arrived. The sergeant then asked the crowd to move back into the theatre. Cowed and scared, they did so, observing as they went the other police officers securing the bloody area where Holt’s body had rested moments before.

  Once inside the Zacklin, the sergeant started asking questions. The group automatically deferred to Frost, who now stood next to the police officer.

  “All right, who’s in charge here?” the sergeant asked the stunned group.

  “I suppose I am,” Frost replied. He introduced himself to the officer, one Sergeant Peter Madden.

  Before he could ask the next question, Madden was interrupted by cries of “Sergeant! Sergeant!” from the alleyway. Two of the other officers burst through the door. “They caught the guy!” one of them said. “He walked right into the arms of two patrolmen around the corner.”

  “Good going. How did they get him?” Madden asked.

  “This gentleman here”—the officer who was speaking pointed to a visibly winded middle-aged civilian behind him—“was chasing the guy down the street, shouting that he was a murderer. The two patrolmen came around the corner just as the perpetrator was approaching.”

  “Sure they got the right guy?” the sergeant asked.

  “Yes, indeed, officer,” the civilian witness said, speaking with some effort. “I was coming out of the apartment house next door—I live there—and as I came along Fifty-third Street, I heard a strange sound from the stage-door alley—not a scream, but more like a painful groan. Next thing I knew, this young black kid came into the street with a knife in his hand. I could see a man lying in the alleyway, so I started screaming and chased the kid. He threw the knife in the gutter and then started running.