Auntie Lil was another story. She was a stout woman, certainly not fat, but no one would ever call her willowy. She had not changed shape or gained weight in forty years. Her body had found its equilibrium and, despite her fondness of food and Bloody Marys, had stayed at its most comfortable size. Unfortunately, her optimum physical shape was nowhere near that sought after in ballet. American ballet dancers were tall. Auntie Lil was medium height, at best. Ballerinas had small breasts and long, slender arms that could arc above their heads in graceful positions de bras. But Auntie Lil had developed large square shoulders and impressive biceps during her career as an assistant fashion designer. She still carried much of her bulk up high, giving her an awkward center of gravity. Finally, most dancers also had long, lean legs; Auntie Lil’s were like muscular sausages. Despite these obstacles, she was grimly determined to prove to herself that she could be a ballet dancer.
Too bad Paulette Puccinni did not want to help. “Face the barre,” she ordered the class. “Grasp it firmly. And listen carefully as we work on posture. It sounds simple, but it is not. Ready? Go!” She began to bark out orders as if she were a gunnery sergeant training a new crew. “Bend your body over the front third of your foot. Knee up and straight in back. Thighs out. Let me see those inner thighs. Lift up the abdominal muscles. Up, up, up. Lift the rib cage. Up, up, up. Relax the shoulders. Stretch the neck. Head erect.” She clapped her hands sharply on each command, the echoing sound in counterpoint to the impro–vised tune her accompanist contributed.
Auntie Lil tried to do as she was told, but with each sharp clap and each barked command, she felt her body rebelling as it was pulled farther and farther away from its natural center of balance. She ended up hunched over the barre, teetering precariously, all of her muscles clenched desperately inward.
“No, no, no, no, no! Exactly wrong. I told you it would not be easy.” Paulette made a beeline for Auntie Lil. “What is your name, dear?”
“Lillian Hubbert.”
“Class, watch as I help Lillian attain the proper posture.”
“Please,” Auntie Lil murmured. “You may call me Miss Hubbert.”
Paulette retaliated by pulling Auntie Lil’s shoulders back. “I said shoulders back,” she instructed firmly.
Auntie Lil obeyed, but every time Paulette pulled one of her body parts, the corresponding muscles on the other side of her body quite naturally followed. Auntie Lil felt she could be given credit for flexibility, but Paulette disagreed. After tugging Auntie Lil this way and that, the former ballerina finally gave up.
“The fundamental problem, Miss Hubbert,” she said, “is that your head is simply too big for ballet. It destroys your balance. But do carry on. Trying is better than nothing. At least you are getting some physical exercise.” With this parting shot, her eyes sought out a fresh victim. She steamed toward Herbert Wong before stopping short in surprise.
“Excellent! Excellent,” she cried, clapping her hands together like a trained seal who smells herring on the wind. “Class, we have here a natural. Look at that balance, note his regal carriage, note the straight line from the nape of his neck all the way down to the base of the spinal column. Bravo! Bravo!”
The class burst into spontaneous applause while Herbert posed like a dignified crane. Auntie Lil checked out her own contorted frame in the mirror and hoped the class would be over soon. She’d had enough time to evaluate Paulette Puccinni and Jerry Vanderbilt. She planned to show them no mercy and was anxious to get started.
The interpretive dance portion of the class was a little better. It also gave Auntie Lil an opportunity to observe Paulette up close. Swooping her way to the front of the long line of students swaying obediently behind their teacher, Auntie Lil evaluated Paulette’s physical conditioning. She knew that many years ago, Paulette had been a prima ballerina who had studied under George Balanchine. Rumor had it that she had walked away from the American Ballet Theater during one of his tempera–mental fits. She had then thrown herself into a yearlong sulk, compounded by excessive drinking and overeating. Eventually, she had been offered a new job training the corps at the newly founded Metropolitan Ballet But by then, her aging body and rusty technique were incapable of recovering from the months of abuse. Her dancing days were over. Some said she did not take the transition well. She was still quite strong, however, as Auntie Lil realized when Paulette single-handedly moved the piano back several feet to make room for a group interpretation of cattails waving in the wind. She pondered whether this fact was significant as she bent to the left and right, doing her best to convey the essence of cattailhood.
“Thank God that’s over!” Auntie Lil whispered to Herbert a half hour later in the reception area. They had showered and studied the upcoming class schedule while they waited for Paulette and Jerry to finish with a private lesson in the studio.
“I really enjoyed myself,” Herbert admitted. “I have always admired the deceptively effortless grace of ballet.” For emphasis, he bent his knees out and dipped low in a grand plié. Auntie Lil ignored him.
“Here she comes,” she muttered, nodding toward the studio door. A frightened-looking student scurried from the room and Paulette emerged soon after, her caftan billowing in a blast of air-conditioning.
“Miss Puccinni?” Auntie Lil said as she stepped forward to block her exit.
“Yes?” the dance instructor asked suspiciously, staring at Auntie Lil as if her street clothes obscured her identity.
“I am Lillian Hubbert. We just met in class.”
“I remember. Don’t feel bad, dear. You tried your best.” She patted Auntie Lil’s shoulder. Some people just aren’t built for the ballet.”
“I am not here to discuss my balletic abilities,” Auntie Lil answered quickly. “I am a board member of the Metropolitan and I am inquiring in an official capacity into the death of Bobby Morgan three nights ago. You remember, I presume?”
Paulette froze just as Jerry Vanderbilt came charging through the door behind her. He crashed into her and stopped in surprise.
“She’s on the board,” Paulette explained tersely. “She wants to ask us questions about Morgan.”
“I didn’t say that specifically,” Auntie Lil said. “But now that you mention it...”
The pair exchanged a glance. “Better be nice,” Jerry grudgingly advised Paulette. “She pays the bills.”
“What exactly do you want?” Paulette asked, drawing herself up to her full height. Her eyes blazed and Auntie Lil caught a hint of the fiery presence that had been her hallmark during her prima ballerina days.
“I just want to ask you a few questions in a very friendly way. Over lunch,” Auntie Lil explained.
“I never eat lunch, but all right,” Paulette agreed. “I can make an exception. But you’ll have to be quick. We have another class in two hours.”
Auntie Lil doubted that Paulette’s stout frame had missed too many lunches lately, but she played along. “Fine,” she agreed. “You must join Herbert and me for a salad. Perhaps you can be wicked and order the consommé.”
It was like eating lunch with a malevolent Abbott and Costello. Paulette and Jerry had the ability to finish each other’s sentences with extrasensory spite.
“Raoul Martinez was never a great dancer,” Paulette said when Auntie Lil asked her about the Metro’s artistic director. “Perhaps not even a very good one. He just rode the craze for dark, brooding men in the seventies. He was more of a—”
“Poor man’s dancing Errol Flynn,” Jerry finished. “Even starred in some Grade-C flicks back in Spain wearing tights and waving a sword.”
“He seems an excellent artistic director,” Auntie Lil said mildly. She was waiting for her foot-long chili dog with melted cheese and onions. It was a little much, even for Auntie Lil, but she had the urge to get even with Paulette for her earlier humiliations and she had a hunch this was one way to do so. The former dancer had rather wistfully ordered a large garden salad.
“He controls the compa
ny fine,” Jerry said enigmatically. “It’s the ones who are closer to home he has trouble controlling.”
This was hardly a discreet reference. The whole dance world knew that Raoul Martinez was married to the Metro’s aging prima ballerina, a temperamental woman who was named Lisette Casanova-Martinez. Their stormy relationship and public fights were legendary in ballet circles and had even ended up on the gossip pages of New York’s tabloids on several occasions.
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Auntie Lil murmured. The waiter was approaching their table with a well-filled tray. Her lunch smelled exquisite. The huge hot dog steamed with the delightful odor of a fair’s midway, causing Paulette’s nose to twitch in envy. She stared at the enormous platter of cholesterol-inducing goo with undisguised envy as it was set in front of Auntie Lil. Herbert had confined himself, as usual, to broiled fish and a salad. Only Jerry had joined Auntie Lil in enthusiastic gluttony—after all, he wasn’t paying—and was about to dive into a plate heaped high with fried seafood.
“Jerry can eat anything and never gains an ounce,” Paulette said, staring at the golden battered shrimp like a gull might eye the fried shrimp’s more alive brethren.
“Metabolism,” Jerry explained, crunching in contentment. The free lunch was putting him in a good mood. “If you’re really digging for the dirt on Morgan’s death, you ought to talk to Martinez,” he said helpfully.
“Among others,” Paulette added.
“Oh yes?” Auntie Lil waited to hear more. The synchronistic effect she had feared might work against her was working for her instead. Paulette and Jerry seemed to be in a race to cast aspersions on as many other people as possible.
“You mean the fight?” Paulette asked Jerry, raising her eyebrows. He nodded back mysteriously.
“What fight?” Auntie Lil demanded.
Herbert remained silent, watching his companions. In this way, he could pick up nearly as much useful information as Auntie Lil could with her mouth going.
“With Paulette here,” Jerry offered with a wicked smile.
Paulette looked grim. “I wasn’t talking about the fight with me. That was just a small misunderstanding. Besides, I wasn’t the only one he fought with during the six weeks of rehearsal,” she retorted, eyeing Jerry back.
The accompanist countered by thoroughly confusing the issue. “True,” he admitted. “Morgan did have a knockdown-drag-out with Martinez about the interpretation of the play and the demands he was making on his son, after he fought with Paulette here over driving his son too hard in rehearsal.”
“His son is not a dancer,” Paulette offered in her defense. “Never has been.”
“And he also fought with that know-it-all board member,” Jerry finished. “The one who is always lurking around the halls trying to run everything.”
“True,” Paulette agreed. “I thought he was the president at some bank somewhere. Doesn’t he ever actually go there and work?”
“Hans Glick?” Auntie Lil said. “Fought over what?”
Jerry and Paulette shrugged simultaneously, but Paulette spoke first. “Everything, I’d say. They argued all the time. Some ongoing thing. They’d meet in the halls outside the rehearsal rooms while I was trying to improve the poor boy’s technique. We could hear them arguing outside the door.”
“I play rather quietly,” Jerry explained. “Helps the mood, you see. They were arguing over contract negotiations. Couldn’t really hear the details, though God knows I tried.” He gave a bright smile and popped another shrimp into his mouth.
“I see.” Auntie Lil bit into her gooey hot dog, sending a waterfall of pungent chili tumbling off the other end. Paulette groaned and licked her lips as she watched Auntie Lil eat, unaware that she had moaned out loud.
“So he argued with Glick over the contract terms and with Martinez about the demands of his son’s role,” Auntie Lil said. “Was that all he argued about with either man?”
“What else would they argue about it?” Paulette answered too quickly and Auntie Lil knew she was lying. Especially when she exchanged a glance with Jerry. A signal had been sent and received.
“That’s all?” Auntie Lil repeated.
“What else?” Jerry echoed with a shrug.
“How badly did you argue with Morgan?” Auntie Lil asked Paulette.
Paulette flushed lightly. “We had harsh words a few times. He claimed I was trying to cripple his son.”
“But you convinced him it was the best thing for Mikey?”
“Hah!” Jerry shoveled a forkful of crispy clams in his mouth and munched with divine satisfaction. “She backed down when he threatened to have her canned.”
“Jerry!” Paulette glowered at him and her thin smile faded to an ominous frown. Her eyes gleamed as if she were searching her brain for equally incriminating information on him.
“Who do you think could have killed Morgan?” Auntie Lil asked quickly. If they began to fight with each other, all of their energy would go into the battle. She needed their attention for just a few minutes more.
“A lot of people,” Paulette and Jerry answered almost simultaneously. They burst into what they considered to be wicked laughter. To Auntie Lil and Herbert it sounded more like nasty cackles. The pair took mutual delight in the misfortune of others—and were none too kind with each other, either.
“A lot of people at the Metro?” Auntie Lil prompted.
Paulette nodded. “He had a colossal ego and he used his son to feed it. He’s made quite a few enemies in a few short weeks.”
Jerry nodded agreement. “But how’s this for a dark-horse-killer candidate?” He relished the nervous expression that flickered across Paulette’s face. “Surely you’ve noticed that Madame Chairman had the unreciprocated hots for our murder victim?” He raised an eyebrow for emphasis.
Auntie Lil’s mouth dropped open at a most unfortunate time, considering she was eating a chili dog. “Lane Rogers took a romantic interest in Bobby Morgan?”
“I don’t know how romantic it was,” Jerry admitted with a sly giggle. “It was certainly interesting.”
“I think when a woman reaches a certain age she should put such things behind her,” Paulette added, wrapping her caftan around her as if no man, by God, was going to gawk at her body.
Auntie Lil could not have disagreed more. She thought people should go on falling foolishly in love for as long as their breath held out. But she did not say anything except, “How could you tell her affections were not returned?”
“How could we tell?” Jerry asked. “Just look at her! The only person who would look at Madame Chairman’s body with any interest might be the defensive coach of the New York Giants!” He and Paulette shared a laugh.
“There must be more to it than that,” Auntie Lil insisted. “How did you know she was interested in him?”
“She followed him around,” Paulette offered. “Through the halls, trapping him in corners, saying she needed to discuss all sorts of trivial things. It was humiliating, really. I could hardly bear to watch.”
Auntie Lil knew full well that Paulette Puccinni could hardly have borne not to watch, but she held her tongue. “And you knew her affections were not returned because of...?”
“The way he would run into the men’s room and hide when he saw her coming was a dead giveaway in my opinion,” Jerry explained, deadpan.
It was hard to argue with that reasoning. “Why didn’t Martinez bar Morgan from the rehearsal areas?” Auntie Lil asked, switching tracks. “He seems to have caused quite a bit of chaos wherever he went.”
“Not enough guts,” Paulette explained. “None of us want to be unemployed by next season and it seemed obvious to us all that Bobby Morgan had an awful lot of influence with the board. After all”—this time it was her turn to stare at Auntie Lil—“he managed to have one of the finest dancers to come along in decades removed from her role.”
Auntie Lil was surprised at the honest indignation in Paulette’s voice. It seemed the first true ring of emo
tion she had heard from the woman. “You taught Fatima Jones?” she asked.
Paulette nodded. “I inherited her from the New School of Ballet. She came out of their public-school program. She already had her own style, but her technique lacked polish. I taught her everything I know. She’ll go further than I ever went.” She sighed involuntarily.
“You had quite a distinguished career,” Herbert offered gallantly. “It is high praise indeed to predict the young girl will surpass it.”
“Paulette is right. Fatima is better than any of our young dancers and already better than most of the principals.” Jerry shot a glance toward Paulette and an unspoken message was once again received. “Especially Lisette, Martinez’s own wife.”
“Lisette is way past her prime,” Paulette agreed. “If she had any pride, she’d hang up her shoes and go on to other activities.”
“And I bet she has a few in mind,” Jerry added with his by-now-familiar knack of not actually revealing the entire story yet managing to besmirch his subject with unspoken accusations.
Auntie Lil pondered this latest slur. She remembered that fidelity had been long rumored to be a problem in the Martinez marriage. She had always assumed it was Raoul who was the cause. Now she was not so sure.
“I’d talk to Emili Vladimir if I were you,” Paulette offered suddenly.
“Who in the world is that?” Auntie Lil asked.
“Rudy Vladimir’s mother,” Jerry explained. “The young boy who got bounced from his role so Mikey Morgan could take over.”
“I know Rudy,” Auntie Lil said. “One can hardly fail to notice him at rehearsals. He stands out, wouldn’t you say?”
“He is as nice as he is talented,” Paulette admitted in an uncharacteristic burst of generosity toward a fellow human being. “Obedient, very hardworking, very respectful of my authority and abilities.”
“Too bad you can’t say the same about his mother,” Jerry said, smiling innocently.
A Motive for Murder Page 6
