“Pleased to meet you,” the Mayor said perfunctorily, before turning quickly to the business at hand. “What’s the drill here?”
“Well, Mr. Mayor,” Burgess said, “we’ve set up a microphone outside the curtain. Mr. Petersen will introduce you. When you are finished, Mrs. Frost will speak briefly. You can introduce her or Arne can, as you see fit.”
“I’ll be happy to,” said the Mayor. “Always a pleasure to introduce Cynthia, even on a sad occasion like this.”
“Fine.”
“I have no set remarks,” the Mayor said. “I thought I would just say what an important person Mr. Holt had been to New York—winner of the Handel Medallion, et cetera, et cetera. But I’ll let Cynthia take care of the nitty-gritty. Does that sound all right?”
“Yes, Mr. Mayor,” Petersen said. “Cynthia can handle the details about Clifton.”
“What a sad event,” the Mayor repeated. “Absolutely senseless crime.”
As the Mayor talked, Cynthia noticed that he was looking over the heads of Arne and Moira to watch the spectacle of Veronica Maywood doing her warm-up exercises at the barre. Cynthia had seen Veronica warm up hundreds of times, but never with the energy she now displayed, bending her back forward so that her head almost touched the floor, then vigorously shaking her head from side to side in the utterly impossible position in which she had placed her body.
She has seen the Mayor, Cynthia thought, and can’t resist a little showing off. Once a ballerina, always a ballerina, Cynthia sighed resignedly.
“Would you like to meet Miss Maywood, who will be dancing after we speak?” Cynthia asked. “She is going to do a solo, called Requiem, that Clifton Holt choreographed in honor of Charlie Parker some years ago.”
“Yes, I would like that,” the Mayor said, showing a scintilla of enthusiasm for the first time.
The group moved over to the barre, and Cynthia introduced the ballerina to the Mayor.
“Quite a workout there,” the Mayor said. “I was watching you.”
Maywood demurred becomingly. “Just trying to get my old bones in shape for what’s coming,” she responded.
Jeb Crosby, the stage manager, approached. “We’re all ready if you are, Cynthia,” he said.
“Are you ready, Norman?” Cynthia asked the Mayor.
“Fine. Anytime.”
“Good,” Crosby said. “This way, folks.”
Crosby led them across the stage. At the side, a Steinway had been wheeled in. Kirk Drinan sat waiting at the keyboard, the Lennie Tristano score on the piano music rack in front of him.
Crosby held the curtain open and Petersen went out before the crowd. Cynthia hastily introduced the Mayor to Drinan, and then it was the Mayor’s turn to speak. After polite applause he began, and Cynthia heard him over the backstage amplification system:
“This is a very sad occasion for me. Coming here to pay tribute to a man who meant so much to the cultural life of this City. Clifford Holt …”
“Clifford!” Cynthia whispered to Moira Burgess. “Where did he get that from? We must have called him Clifton at least five times in the last two minutes!”
“I remember three years ago giving Clifford Holt the Handel Medallion,” the Mayor went on. “As I am sure you know, this is the City’s highest award for arts and culture. I was proud to select Holt for this honor, because I knew what he meant to the dance life of this City, and the world.”
“Dance life?” Cynthia said, backstage. “What the hell is that?”
“Now he has been struck down on our streets, by a petty crook with a long criminal record. One of the brightest lights in our cultural firmament has been blown out. But I say to you here tonight, this crime, this lawlessness, is going to stop …”
“My Lord, we’re going to get his crime-in-the-streets speech!” Cynthia said. And sure enough, the Mayor repeated several paragraphs from the stock speech on crime he had given over and over again in his campaign for reelection the year before.
The applause at the end of the Mayor’s remarks was less enthusiastic than at the beginning. As he came back through the curtain—having introduced Cynthia as “Mrs. National Ballet”—Cynthia quickly shook his hand, but did not offer any comment on his remarks.
Then it was her turn, and she spoke briefly, succinctly and eloquently:
“As the Mayor has said, this is a sad evening. One of the greatest choreographers in America, and the man who shaped the soul of this Company, is dead. We will always remember him and, fortunately, we will have many beautiful things to remember him by: the movies he made—the most wondrous musicals ever to illuminate the screen—and the brilliant dances he made for this Company and ballet companies around the world.
“I had the privilege of working with Clifton Holt since before our wonderful National Ballet was formed. We worked together, as artists and as friends, to get this Company started. We saw it grow and prosper; we saw its rank in the hierarchy of ballet companies soar upward.
“Clifton is gone, but his greatest memorial—this Company—remains. And I say to you tonight that it will continue, because of the exceptional legacy he has left to it, and also because of the dedication of all of us, from a faded old dancer like me to the newest member of the corps. National Ballet will go on, and it will go on as a creative, living memorial to the genius whose memory we honor this evening.
“I know the Company will continue to bring the most beautiful dance that can be created to audiences here in New York and around the country. We like to think, and I believe we are right, that dance, the ballet, is among the highest forms of civilized behavior. It is important, when there is so much violence around us, that such civilized endeavors flourish and prosper.
“I believe that the dance can save souls. And I like to think that someday, somewhere, at one of the Company’s performances, some young woman or man will be touched, and that another Clifton Holt—rather than a pathetic, desperate, outcast street killer—will emerge to inspire and enthrall us all.”
Cynthia, overcome with emotion, left the stage to ringing applause and fell into the arms of Arne Petersen, who was just inside the curtain.
“It was perfect, Cynthia,” he said. “Just right.”
“Thank you, Arne. It wasn’t easy.”
She then went to the center of the stage, where Veronica Maywood was poised for the beginning of Requiem. Cynthia embraced her, whispering into her ear the traditional and unlikely dancer’s word for good luck: merde. Then she darted into the wings just as the electric motor began reeling up the curtain.
Cynthia watched the ballet from the wings, with Luis Bautista at her side. It was less than five minutes long, but gave the solo ballerina scarce repose. The sad blues line of Tristano’s music seemed to be seamless, and the execution of the ballet required disciplined adagio dancing. It reminded Cynthia of some of Isadora Duncan’s quieter solos, but the movements were distinctively Clifton’s.
Requiem had not been done often, Cynthia recalled. Indeed, Clifton had retired it after one season. It had not been a popular favorite; good as it was, it was too heartrendingly sad to achieve audience popularity. Now Veronica Maywood was dancing brilliantly, with a ferocity of concentration that Cynthia found fascinating to watch.
When the piece ended, curtain call followed curtain call as the audience expressed a tribute both to Clifton Holt and to the ballerina who had inspired his best work. In between curtain calls, Cynthia congratulated the star performer again, this time embracing her. Other members of the Company, gathered in the wings for this last, secular requiem to their late Artistic Director, embraced her as well, many crying as they did so.
Clifton Holt had been laid to rest.
14
SUPPER
Cynthia Frost left the Zacklin Theatre with relief. She shivered slightly as she realized she was standing near the very site of Clifton Holt’s murder, but took comfort from Luis Bautista’s strong and masculine presence at her side.
“That was a nice tribu
te,” the detective said. “Holt must have been quite a guy.”
“In many ways he was, Luis,” she said.
“But pretty complicated, though.”
“He certainly was,” Cynthia said. “Did you see anything interesting tonight? Any clues?”
“I’m thinking about it,” Bautista said. “I seemed to meet, or at least I saw, a good many of the suspects.”
“Yes, I guess you did at that. Did you get any ideas?”
“Not really. But as I said, I’m thinking about it.”
“There are Reuben and Francisca,” she said, pointing to the entrance to the street. “Let’s go; I’m starved.”
Francisca and Reuben joined the pair, extending effusive congratulations to Cynthia.
“Where shall we eat?” Reuben asked.
“We could go back to the house,” Cynthia said. “I’ve got a cold chicken, if that’s enough to satisfy everyone.”
“You’re sure?” Reuben said. “Not to a restaurant?”
“No, really, I’d prefer it,” Cynthia answered. “But what about you two? It won’t be very exciting.”
“It’s fine with us,” Bautista said. “You’re a better hostess than any restaurant.”
“All right, you’re stuck,” Cynthia replied.
Bautista hailed a cab and the four set off for the Frost town house.
“Francisca, you come with me,” Cynthia said, once they were inside the Frost residence. “We’ll have supper ready in no time. What would you like to drink while you’re working?”
“Oh, wine, I guess,” Francisca said.
“Red or white?” Reuben asked.
“White would be fine.”
“Good. Same for you, Cynthia?”
“No. I want and need a martini after that ordeal. Not Gotham size, but a good strong one,” Cynthia said.
“Gotham?” Bautista asked.
“You know, my club,” Frost said. “Cynthia is referring to the indecent size of its martinis. And what do you want?”
“I’ll have a martini too,” Bautista replied. “Any size will do for me.”
Frost went about making the drinks as the women went to the kitchen. After delivering their drinks, he returned with martinis for himself and Bautista.
“Well, Luis, you met most of the cast of characters tonight,” Frost said.
“That’s what I told Cynthia. It was interesting.”
“I hope it wasn’t a mistake identifying you as a police officer.”
“I don’t think so,” Bautista said. “You didn’t have much choice anyway, the way they sniffed around to find out who I was. But don’t worry about it. After all, no one knows what we know about Jimmy Wilson. They may have thought it was funny, the Wall Street lawyer and the cop, but—”
“The hell with them,” Frost interjected. “What did you think of the rogues’ gallery?”
“Hard to say. Mrs. Turnbull was a pretty determined number, and her son looked like a Class A delinquent. But you can’t tell much from the way kids look these days.”
“True enough,” Frost replied. “But I didn’t like him yesterday and I didn’t like him tonight.”
“You said on the phone you could imagine him knowing Jimmy Wilson. I’ve got no doubts about that.”
“So we have a possible link between Andrea Turnbull and the murderer. What bothers me is, how could any of the other suspects have gotten in touch with Wilson?”
“That’s easy, Reuben,” Bautista said.
“I know you say that, Luis, but how would a respectable, or even famous, person like Arthur Mattison, or a naive little mouse like Teresa Holt, find a killer? Navikoff I could imagine, maybe. But even in his case I’m not sure I understand how it would work,” Frost said.
“Look at it this way, Reuben. Let’s say you’re at that club of yours, the Gotham. You have maybe one too many of their martinis and you get really angry at some other guy at the bar. You decide you want him killed. Okay? Crazy, but just bear with me. If you walk out of that club and go just a little bit further west than you usually do, and start asking around, in a bar or on the street, you could be in touch with a hired killer by the end of the day. Assuming you had the money, and assuming you didn’t get too eager, or indiscreet, and just kept cool. New York is a city of the greatest and the lowest, and all you gotta remember is that they exist side by side, about five feet from each other.”
“It’s very convenient to forget what you say,” Frost said, with a sigh. “But of course it’s true.”
“And besides, Jimmy Wilson was a special case. He was a junkie, but he was also a clever small-time peddler, with some pretty respectable clients. Since we started going through his records, and trying to contact those clients, there’ve been some red faces in some pretty high-up places. Nothing to hook him up with Holt’s friends yet, but young advertising executives and bankers—and even a lawyer or two.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me half the young lawyers at Chase & Ward are cokeheads.”
“No, but I’ll bet the percentage is a lot higher than you think.”
“I’m sure it is, since I would say it’s zero.”
“Then your firm is a very, very special place,” Bautista said.
The men’s conversation was interrupted by Cynthia.
“Soup’s on,” she said. “Let’s eat before we all faint.”
The group gathered at the marble dining-room table, the two couples sitting across from each other at one end.
“You forgot the wine, Reuben,” Cynthia reminded her husband.
“Good Lord, so I did.” Frost got up and quickly returned with a new bottle of Chablis and a corkscrew.
“You know, I can’t get over the Mayor’s getting Clifton’s name wrong,” Cynthia said, as they started eating. “We had been talking with him before he spoke and it seems to me every other word was Clifton, Clifton. Then he gets out there and calls him Clifford.”
“Maybe he’s shy,” Francisca said.
“Fat chance,” Cynthia replied. “He’s got an ego the size of the World Trade Center. I think it’s his staff. They must be morons not to brief him better than they do.”
“I’ve got a theory,” Reuben said. “We’ve known Norman one way or another for years. Knew him when he first got into politics. Back then, he made all the right moves. Met everybody, remembered who they were—and remembered their names. He’s worked hard for what he’s got—getting to be Mayor was not easy for him—and he paid good attention to details on the way up. But now that he’s where he is, and not going to go any higher, he doesn’t care anymore. He was just reelected with only that Republican brassiere maker running against him and, if he doesn’t screw up too badly, he can get reelected for as long as he wants the job. What’s the point of getting names straight if it doesn’t matter anymore?”
“Well, for one thing it’s polite and for another it’s slightly classy to come across as something other than a clumsy oaf,” Cynthia said emphatically.
“Norman the Nerd,” Bautista said.
“I’ve never heard that, Luis,” Frost said.
“Then you haven’t been around the police much. It’s his nickname in the Department.”
“It’s a shame,” Cynthia added. “He’s really a pretty good Mayor, but he must make the outside world think this is a city of shoe clerks.”
“I shouldn’t tell you this, but his bodyguard said he really didn’t want to come tonight,” Bautista said. “Hizzoner told him it would just be a bunch of rich women and their fag gigolos.”
“The nerve!” Cynthia exploded. “Imagine the Mayor of this City talking like that!”
“Besides, I believe they are now called walkers, not gigolos,” Frost observed.
“Reuben, sometimes you’re as bad as the Mayor,” Cynthia shot back. “The nice thing about the ballet is nobody gives a damn about people’s sexuality, on either side of the footlights. The audience is filled with plenty of perfectly normal people, a lot of them kids, and we
really don’t need Norman’s stupid social observations.”
“Well, it’s over, anyway,” Frost said. “Clifton has been suitably memorialized. Now all we have to do is find out who paid for his murder. How are we going to do that, Luis?”
The detective shook his head. “I’m going to put Francisca in charge,” he said, taking his date’s hand.
“No! No!” Francisca answered. “None of your cop stuff for me! I’ve got better things to do than that.” She squeezed Bautista’s hand as she talked. He disengaged it and turned serious as he spoke to the others.
“We’re working to get a break as soon as possible. God knows how long it will be before word gets around that Wilson was a hired killer. Rumors like that have a way of spreading and then showing up in print. But let’s hope we’ve got a little time before the perpetrator knows the secret is out. Our biggest hope is that we can trace the money; we should know about that tomorrow. Then, if we hit the daily double, we’ll find a record of the cash transfer that incriminates someone. We’re also checking each entry in Wilson’s little black book, trying to find a link not just to a dope sale but to the murder. But tonight, I got interested in two people.
“First is that Maywood woman. She’s one determined lady,” Bautista went on. “It may not make her a murderess, but the way she tried to get the Mayor’s attention backstage—that was real determination.”
“You noticed that, Luis?” Cynthia said. “You’re very observant.” She described for Reuben and Francisca Maywood’s gymnastic bid for attention in front of the Mayor.
“As I say,” Bautista said, “it doesn’t make her a murderess, but seeing her operate, I’d sure hate to cross her.”
“You really are shrewd,” Cynthia said. “Veronica is the most delicate woman imaginable on stage. And about as tough as they come off it. You must understand, Luis, that all ballerinas, if they’re any good, are tough, willful and demanding. But Veronica Maywood has always been right up at the top of the list in those categories.”
“You said you had two ideas,” Frost interjected.
Murder Takes a Partner Page 14
