A Motive for Murder

by Gallagher Gray

  In the silence that followed, the door to the conference room opened and a maintenance man the color of motor oil strode into the room. He held a spray can of WD-40 in one hand and a yellow cloth in the other. He was middle-aged and well built, his shoulders straining at his gray uniform. The silence that greeted his arrival did not throw him off at all. He simply looked at the group and calmly asked, “Someone called about a problem?”

  Auntie Lil sat abruptly and watched as Hans Glick described exactly where and how the maintenance man should minister to the squeaking chalkboard. Oblivious to this interference, the maintenance man efficiently banished the squeak, tightened a few bolts, and marched quietly from the room.

  “He heard you,” Lane Rogers hissed as the door closed behind him. She glared at Auntie Lil.

  “So you see,” Glick continued quickly, “it’s rather obvious, isn’t it? If Mikey Morgan will not dance on the same stage with Fatima Jones, he must dance with some other lucky young lady.” He drew a circle of chalk around the stick figure of the boy then pointed proudly to the nonsensical chart, as if he had just deciphered the hieroglyphic secrets of a lost pharaoh’s tomb.

  “Call a vote,” Lane said firmly. “So we can go on to other business. Mikey Morgan is a very talented young man and deserves this chance. I intend to vote yes.”

  “If you vote Fatima Jones out, the press will eat us alive,” Auntie Lil warned. “They’re sure to find out.”

  “However would they find out?” Lane asked, her gaze warning the assembled crowd. “Board business is confidential—or else.”

  Following this veiled threat, the vote was quick and overwhelming. Fatima Jones was out. Child star Mikey Morgan was in. And Rudy Vladimir was not even mentioned. Nutcracker rehearsals would begin the next day. Only Lilah Cheswick and, at the very last minute, the unpredictable Artistic Director Martinez joined Auntie Lil in voting to retain Fatima Jones.

  “You should all be ashamed of yourselves,” Auntie Lil said as the votes were recounted for the record. “Compromising the careers of talented young dancers to satisfy the greedy needs of a power-hungry stage father.”

  It was an insult worthy of Dickens, but Lane Rogers easily ignored it. “That’s settled,” she said crisply, consulting the agenda meticulously typed by the cooperative Ruth Beretsky. She decided on the next item of importance. “Let’s move on to the pending business of our opening night benefit,” she said. “Let me begin by saying that I cannot agree with Miss Hubbert that it would ‘be fun’ to make it a casino night.”

  “Where were you?” Auntie Lil demanded when she spotted T.S. waiting for her in the hallway after the meeting.

  “I could hardly burst into the meeting unannounced,” T.S. protested, firmly removing her grip from his arm. “I am not a board member.”

  “Why are you alone? Where is Margo McGregor?”

  “They couldn’t find her,” T.S. explained. “She’s out on assignment somewhere. I left a message telling her to get in touch. What happened?”

  Auntie Lil nodded toward the other end of the hallway, where board members stood clustered around a satisfied-looking Bobby Morgan. They were listening as he painted a Hollywood-star saturated premiere of The Nutcracker starring his son. “See that man?” she asked.

  “He’s hard to miss,” T.S. admitted.

  Bobby Morgan stood out in distinct contrast to the grimly thin New York socialites surrounding him. He was in his mid-thirties and of average height, but had the look of a man who has recently packed on excess weight and whose self-image and skin have not quite caught up to the change. Not even a deep golden tan could disguise the pallor of too many overindulgent late nights. He wore expensive designer clothing, no socks, and a pair of loafers that T.S. knew had cost him close to a grand. He had a thick mane of brown hair slightly grayed at the temples that was pulled back off his face into the requisite small ponytail currently in vogue with aging creative types. His features were oddly delicate given the chubbiness of his face, particularly his narrow, ruler-straight nose. He was gesticulating grandly as he entertained the rapt crowd. His remarks were punctuated by the occasional metallic glimmers the overhead lights sent spiraling from his abundant jewelry.

  “Let me take a wild guess,” T.S. ventured. “He’s from Los Angeles.”

  “He’s the father of some child star named Mikey Morgan,” Auntie Lil explained.

  “Never heard of him,” T.S admitted.

  “That’s to your credit, dear.” Auntie Lil patted his hand. “A few days ago, the Metro’s artistic director got a call from him. His name is Bobby Morgan. He offered his son as the lead in our upcoming production of The Nutcracker. But he made one stipulation: Fatima Jones could not dance opposite his son.”

  “Why?” T.S. asked. “Fatima is terrific. Even I can tell that and I don’t know a leaper from a leper.”

  “She is terrific, but because she’s black, Morgan was afraid the publicity over her participation would take attention away from his son. He acts as his son’s agent and manager, so what he says goes.”

  “That sounds incredibly selfish,” T.S. said. “Why does the kid want to do the part anyway if he’s a Hollywood hotshot?”

  Auntie Lil shrugged. “Lilah asked the same thing. Morgan says it’s because his son needs some legitimate stage credits and that he wants to prove to his old teachers at the Metro that he can do it. The boy was a student here a few years ago before the father took him to California. Not a very good one, either.”

  “And the board agreed?” T.S. asked.

  “Almost unanimously,” Auntie Lil said grimly. “Thanks to that human slug Lane Rogers.”

  On cue, Lane sailed past with Ruth Beretsky dutifully trailing after her. She paused at the edge of the group surrounding Morgan and waited to be recognized. When this tactic did not work, she extended a hand through the crowd, skillfully pushing aside less hefty members and planting herself firmly in Morgan’s line of vision.

  “Hello, Bobby,” she thundered. “It’s so very lovely to see you again. We’re delighted to have your son with us this season. Of course, you’ll join me at the head table during the benefit dinner?” She laughed girlishly and T.S. realized, with some horror, that she was attempting to be coquettish.

  Morgan’s smile was automatic and completely plastic. “Of course, Mrs. Rogers. I’d be delighted.” He took her limp hand and held it as if it were a sock he had just found on the floor.

  “That’s Miss,” she corrected him. “Please call me Lane.”

  “Call me nauseated,” T.S. muttered as Morgan beamed brightly back at her.

  “This is disgusting,” Auntie Lil decided. “Sucking up to people because they have poolside drinks near other people who star in bad television shows. What ever happened to culture? I’m going to blow the lid right off this disgraceful decision when I see Margo.”

  “Maybe not,” T.S. said firmly. “I think we need to discuss this in private.” He steered her down the hallway toward the elevators. “Where’s Lilah?” he remembered, peering into the conference room.

  “She had to leave early for another board meeting,” Auntie Lil explained. “She has quite a few, you know.”

  An anxious twinge took root in the base of his stomach. Was it his imagination or had Lilah been attending constant meetings for the past few months? He wondered if she ... but then, no. She would tell him if there was someone else. And yet ... would she? T.S. knew little about women, despite his fifty-five years. He should have worked less and played more, but what could he do now? He could only try to make up for lost time.

  “Theodore?” Auntie Lil asked. “What in the world are you gooning about?”

  “Sorry,” he said, escorting her into the elevator. He had no intention of telling Aunt Lil the truth. She pestered him enough about Lilah as it was. “It’s about this plan of yours to ‘blow the lid off,’ as you put it,” he said. “In this case, I think discretion really is the better part of valor. You could seriously harm the Metro with a sto
ry like this. I can understand using the press as a deterrent to head off the vote, but if they’ve already voted, maybe we would be better off trying to help Fatima find another role rather than trying to hurt the company.”

  Auntie Lil did not reply, and in her silence, he could sense her stubbornness rising like a beast from the depths. “Aunt Lil,” he warned, “I am very serious about this. I will take you to dinner and we will discuss it.”

  “Dinner?” she repeated hopefully. Food was the one sure way to get her attention. “Do I get to pick the place?”

  “Of course,” he agreed, knowing that, whether he liked it or not, she always chose their restaurants—and chose them well.

  “I’ll listen to what you have to say on one condition,” she decided.

  “What?” he asked warily.

  “You must accompany me and Herbert to The Nutcracker premiere next month and look properly outraged at how poorly this child star creature dances. You must complain loudly about it at both intermissions.”

  “Agreed,” T.S. said quickly as they reached the lobby. The outer doors opened on the spectacular sight of the Lincoln Center fountain shooting plumes of water high into the sky. The streams of liquid shimmered like gold against the New York City skyline. “I’d be glad to come with you and Herbert,” he added, smiling. T.S. was no fool. Lilah would surely be there, too. With any luck, he’d wind up as her date.

  2

  Auntie Lil may not have alerted the press about Fatima Jones, but someone else most certainly had. The day before the Metro Ballet’s premiere of their annual production of The Nutcracker, Margo McGregor’s biweekly column was devoted entirely to the subject.

  Auntie Lil knew she would be blamed for this. Her remarks at the board meeting almost guaranteed it. Yet she had followed T.S.’s advice and avoided Margo McGregor’s eventual call back. She pondered the best way to deal with the situation as she sat at the dining-room table in T.S.’s apartment high above York Avenue on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. She had consumed her customary hearty breakfast and was now in the process of eating her nephew’s while she waited for him to model his rental tuxedo. It had been altered for him at the store, but Auntie Lil did not trust their tailor. She intended to perfect the fit herself and had lugged over several pounds of supplies in anticipation of correcting a shoddy job. Now greater problems demanded her attention.

  “Oh dear,” she muttered, absently finishing the plate of Danish as she scanned the long article. Margo had included details of audition results that only an insider would have known. Who had leaked the incident and why?

  “What do you think?” T.S. entered the dining nook looking resplendent in his evening wear.

  “I think we’re in for trouble tomorrow night,” she muttered back, rereading the article anxiously.

  “What happened to the sweet rolls?” T.S. asked, noticing the empty plate.

  “You don’t need any sweet rolls,” she said quickly, hoping to head off his protests. “You are starting to fill out a bit, I notice.” Much to her chagrin, the tuxedo fit T.S. perfectly. The tailor had done a good job.

  “I am not filling out,” T.S. said, nonetheless checking his reflection in the glass doors that led to his balcony. He patted his tummy. He thought he looked rather trim in his tuxedo. He weighed the same as he had at thirty-five, thanks to sane eating and regular exercise. It would never have occurred to him to abuse his body. Everyone knew that the Hubberts were blessed with stout constitutions—and that they took no chances with their good luck.

  “Stop admiring yourself and come take a look at this.” Auntie Lil spread the paper out on the dining room table.

  WHO SAYS NO ONE KNOWS WHAT GOES ON BEHIND CLOSED DOORS? screamed the headline. Worse yet was the opening sentence. Auntie Lil read it out loud: “‘Was it old-fashioned racism or simply a contagious case of Hollywood fever? You be the judge. Regardless, the behavior of the Metropolitan Ballet board of directors in the matter of Fatima Jones can only be called misguided.’” She looked at T.S. from over her reading glasses. “Not exactly the kind of publicity the board had in mind.”

  T.S. locked eyes with his aunt grimly. His big night out with Lilah as his date had just taken a turn for the worse.

  The turn for the worse turned out to be more like a headlong dive off a high cliff. The next evening, as they approached Lincoln Center in Lilah’s limousine, they could hear angry shouting from a block away.

  “Trouble ahead,” Grady the chauffeur informed them. “Shall I go on?”

  “What in the world?” Lilah murmured. She was dressed in a simple gown of black that draped in soft folds from a diamond clip pinned over one of her shoulders. Her upswept silver hair complemented her healthy complexion. Her face gave off the well-weathered glow of a woman who spent a lot of time with her horses. T.S. thought her stunning and much preferred her naturally aged beauty to the artificial youth of many of the women in her moneyed circle.

  Auntie Lil slouched down in guilt, gathering her purple chiffon concoction over her knees. She tugged the voluminous folds of her gown around her ever-present matching trousers. Auntie Lil wore the world’s most elegant pantsuits but seldom touched a dress—unless she was creating it, of course.

  T.S. averted his eyes from Lilah and stared out the window. He had a good idea of what might lie ahead. Margo McGregor’s column could only have stirred up trouble; he was sure the angry voices were about Fatima.

  Only Herbert Wong—as oblivious as Lilah to the article published the day before—addressed himself to the problem. He rolled down his window and stuck his head out for a better look. “There is a large gathering of some sort at the entrance to the theater,” he announced. “I am reminded of the 1968 Democratic Convention.”

  “Slow down, Grady,” Lilah requested. “We’ll walk from here.” Unsure of the protesters’ politics, Lilah was wise enough to know that emerging from a limousine into an angry crowd would be as foolhardy as walking into a herd of migrating wildebeests.

  They approached Lincoln Center on foot, surrounded by the usual chaos of the cultural center near curtain time: cabs honked impatiently; buses roared by; frantic musicians clutching strangely shaped instrument cases dashed past, looking stricken; and well-dressed people laughed in groups, cheerful from their pre-theater drinks and giddy with the anticipation of beauty. This well-choreographed chaos took place against a backdrop of headlights streaming past and the twinkling lights of the Center’s well-lit atrium.

  The noise was even more cacophonous than usual thanks to a parade of fifty protesters marching in a large circle in front of the entrance to the State Theater. They jostled placards and shouted slogans as if they had been beamed down into New York City from another, more political era. Elegantly dressed patrons huddled in their minks and scurried fearfully on their way to the Metro’s premiere through the chanters. News cameras were being hastily set up to one side, triggering a flurry of related activity. As Auntie Lil and her entourage drew near it became obvious that the protesters were being led by a beefy black man in a snug blue suit whose white hair stood straight up from his head as if he had stuck his finger in a light socket.

  “Ben Hampton,” Auntie Lil whispered to T.S. “And they’re going to blame me for it.”

  The Reverend Ben Hampton was rapidly becoming as familiar a fixture in New York City as the Statue of Liberty. And, to some New Yorkers, he represented many of the same ideals. Using media savvy and a dubious diploma from a third-rate law school as his credentials, Ben Hampton had earned a colorful reputation as the leader of numerous (and not always wisely chosen) protests against social injustice. He did not always check his facts first and had been embarrassed in the past by staged scandals. But he weighed in often enough on the side of the angels—and uttered so many good sound bites—that many of New York’s poorer residents saw him as their champion, as a man they could go to when the system turned against them. In the past few years Hampton had organized successful protests against the closing of a swimming
pool in Harlem and several parks in the Bronx; unequal funding of neighborhood schools; a handful of alleged incidents of police brutality; and one spectacular case of statutory rape against a city-council member that turned out to be false and nearly cost him a lawsuit for libel. He was a fixture on the local news and a frequent guest on national television programs. Whether he was truly a reverend or had merely adopted the title was a matter of lively debate. The walls of his small office were papered in certificates from numerous organizations and a handful of churches, but few people had ever heard of any of them. Some politicians made the mistake of thinking he was harmless; others made the even bigger mistake of combating him in the press. No one could deflect a charge and turn it against an opponent better than the Reverend Ben Hampton. His emotional and thunderous countercharges seldom made sense, but they sure sounded good—and that’s what counted when you had all of fifteen seconds to capture the attention of the public.

  “It’s that man with the strange hair again,” Lilah said, echoing the sentiments of most of New York’s wealthy about the Reverend Ben Hampton. He mostly perplexed them: they could not understand his pulpit histrionics and they rather wished he would just go away.

  Herbert was beginning to catch on that Auntie Lil might have had something to do with the commotion. He gazed back and forth between the protesters and Auntie Lil, trying to puzzle out the connection. He was a patient man, however, and held his tongue. He knew Lillian would tell him when she was ready.

  Auntie Lil eyed the protesters nervously, though it was not outsiders she feared. She was sure Lane Rogers would come charging around the corner at any moment and accuse her of having leaked the vote details to the press.