A Motive for Murder

by Gallagher Gray

  He grasped Lisette firmly by the elbow and pulled her inside, letting the wind blow the metal door shut in Auntie Lil’s face with a bang.

  “A charming sort of fellow,” T.S. said.

  “With a charming sort of temper,” Auntie Lil pointed out. “Come on. Follow me.”

  “Where are we going?” T.S. asked, following her around the building toward the southwest side of the complex.

  “I want to check out the Reverend’s story,” she explained. “And I need your help.”

  Auntie Lil’s idea of his help was to command T.S. to stand in the bushes at the rear of the complex, back turned to the pathway so he could simulate heeding the call of nature while she briskly walked past in varying degrees of hurry. Feeling like a complete ass, T.S. complied and was acutely embarrassed to find himself the object of eagerly fearful scrutiny by a group of gray-haired female tourists sunning themselves by the bandstand.

  “Hurry up!” he whispered fiercely as Auntie Lil jogged past for the third time.

  “Did that sound like a machine gun?” she asked breathlessly, returning to his hiding place.

  “No, it did not,” he told her, irritated. “Though a machine gun is starting to sound awfully good to me.” She missed the significance of his pointed stare. “What is the point of this?” he demanded.

  She gazed thoughtfully at the rear exit of the Metro’s theater. “I’m just trying to see if Reverend Hampton’s story makes sense. Can you see up the path while turned like that?”

  “Yes,” he said wearily. “And please don’t make me go it again. Those ladies already think I have the largest bladder in the history of mankind and all twenty of them are hoping I’ll expose myself next.”

  “But I haven’t yet sounded like a machine gun, have I?” she asked.

  “You’re wearing soft-sole shoes,” he pointed out. “If you weighed five hundred pounds, you wouldn’t make a tapping sound.”

  “Good point,” she said, forehead furrowed in concentration.

  “Better hurry!” a breathless voice interjected. A small blond woman scurried past with a hasty wave at Auntie Lil. She was a member of the Metro’s board, one of the silent majority. “You’ll be late.”

  “Late?” Auntie Lil asked after her.

  The woman checked her diamond-encrusted watch. “The meeting starts at three-thirty today,” she explained, hurrying around the corner toward the executive offices.

  “A board meeting!” Auntie Lil’s anger was instant. “They’re trying to hold a meeting without me!”

  “Maybe they tried to leave you a message,” T.S. said. “If you’d just get an answering machine like the rest of the world, these things wouldn’t happen.”

  “Nonsense. They are deliberately trying to exclude me and I intend to find out why.” She started down the path before he could protest. “You’ll have to meet that producer on your own,” she called back. “Call me later and let me know what you think.” She disappeared around the corner.

  At least he wouldn’t have to think up an excuse to cover up meeting Herbert, T.S. thought to himself as he hurried toward his clandestine dance lesson. The fox trot? Hah! If a fox could trot, so could he.

  Herbert was not afflicted with T.S.’s lack of self-esteem about romantic matters. When T.S. had confided that Lilah seemed too busy to notice him recently, Herbert’s take on the situation had been more objective and, most probably, more accurate: Lilah was working too hard. She needed a hobby. Women in her social class were taking up ballroom dancing again. If T.S. would learn to dance, then he and Lilah would have a hobby they could enjoy together, he pointed out. And T.S. might be able to lure her away from board meetings for an evening or two each week.

  Put that way, it was hard to argue, which was why T.S. was meeting Herbert nearly every day in a small rented studio on upper Broadway. Herbert had long been a ballroom dancer extraordinaire and often stepped out with Auntie Lil. “Your aunt attempts to lead at all times,” he had once confided. “But she is otherwise a fine and skilled partner.”

  They finished the lesson early so T.S. would be on time for his meeting with Gene Levitt. He hated being late for anything, a trait Auntie Lil did not share.

  “Do you think this producer has anything to do with the murder?” Herbert asked as they changed into fresh clothes with a masculine camaraderie that T.S. always felt was more like the movies than real life.

  “He has the best motive of anyone,” T.S. said. “Morgan ruined him professionally and financially. But I don’t know if he was even there that night. Do you want to come along while I question him? Auntie Lil can’t make it.”

  Herbert’s normally golden glow flushed slightly as he patted a knapsack full of neatly packed clothing on the bench beside him. “No. I have a ballet lesson to attend. I have caught the bug, it seems.”

  “I salute you,” T.S. said. “I suppose you’re wearing tights?”

  Herbert bowed modestly. “When in Rome, as they say.”

  Gene Levitt had fallen on hard times with the cruel swift–ness that only a career in the entertainment business offers. His company had been reduced to a small but clean cubicle in a shared office complex run by a desperate real-estate management firm out to turn a buck on an under-occupied skyscraper in midtown. The other cubicles were rented out monthly to accountants, public-relations consultants, money managers, and other entrepreneurs seeking success. Since it was after regular working hours, the shared receptionist had long since departed. Many of the offices remained well lit, however, as self-employed hopefuls struggled to make ends meet.

  Gene Levitt was clearly a soul on the way down. T.S. knew that he had, until recently, headed up a successful independent production company out of a studio in Hollywood. Now his kingdom had dwindled to eighty rented square feet of not so prime Manhattan real estate.

  “It’s not much, I know,” Levitt said. “What can I say?”

  He was a small man, trim and deeply tanned with receding black hair cut short and brushed back from a rounded forehead. He had babyish features that looked out of place on such a serious face. His button nose and pursed lips belonged on a cherub, not a Hollywood executive facing disaster. He held his energy close to his body, seeming to hover above surfaces rather than sitting and standing like everyone else. His suit was custom-tailored. T.S. guessed that his wardrobe would survive the bankruptcy better than other aspects of his life.

  “Have a seat.” Levitt nodded toward a small plastic chair pulled up near his plain wooden desk. “I don’t suppose you have money?”

  “I beg your pardon?” T.S. asked. He felt uncomfortable in his sweater and casual slacks. It made him feel disadvantaged to face a man in a suit without similar corporate armor.

  Levitt waved a hand nervously in the air. “Don’t worry. I know you’re here to ask me questions about that bastard Morgan. The old lady was pretty explicit about what she wanted on the phone. But I can’t help myself. Reflex action. Thought I’d give it a try. So do you? Have money?”

  “No money,” T.S. said quickly. “At least none I can get my hands on.”

  “Join the rest of the world,” Levitt said with a grimace. Smiling had long since disappeared from his repertoire. “That’s why I’m in New York. I’m here on the East Coast trying to raise money for a new venture.”

  “Having much luck?” T.S. asked politely.

  Levitt shrugged. “Movies are glamorous,” he explained. “And I have a pretty good track record. Two successful independent features, nothing to write home about, but they made a fair piece of change. A line of cheapo horror pics. They turned a good profit, too. Plus a couple of made-for-television ventures. I make my people money.”

  “Or did, until the last time around,” T.S. said.

  Levitt sighed and the energy drained from him like a deflating beach ball. His compact frame slumped and he stared at the desktop glumly. Until recently,” he admitted. “There’s no way around it. It was a disaster.”

  “What happened?” T
.S. asked, wondering if he should take notes. Sam Spade wouldn’t be caught dead taking notes. But then, Sam Spade didn’t have to report to Auntie Lil...

  “We’d signed Mikey Morgan to star in a big-budget feature. Our biggest yet,” Levitt explained. He picked up a fountain pen and jabbed joylessly at a blotter as he spoke. “We were lucky. We signed him before his back-to-back hits and got him on the cheap. Shooting was supposed to start last month in Hollywood on soundstages, followed by Seattle this month. We’d already contracted for the stages, put down a deposit, and invested a lot of money on location in Seattle when we got the bad news.”

  “The news being that Mikey Morgan was pulling out of the picture?”

  Levitt nodded. “That bastard father of his left me a message on my answering machine. Can you believe that? The guy is costing me nine million dollars and he can’t even tell me the bad news to my face.”

  “Wasn’t there a contract?” T.S. asked. “How could he break it?”

  “Sure there was a contract.” Levitt rummaged around in a lower drawer and withdrew a thick sheaf of paper, tossing it across the desk at T.S. “Here. Maybe you can find a use for it. It’s worthless to me.”

  “Why?” T.S. asked. He paged curiously through the document, amazed at the complexity of the terms and the petty conditions attached as riders. “Jellybeans?” he asked. “In five specified flavors at all times?”

  Levitt shrugged. “I hope the kid’s teeth rot. Soon.”

  “What excuse did Morgan use to pull out?” T.S. asked.

  “Claims he had a prior legally binding arrangement elsewhere that was running over schedule. It was a lie, of course. He was stalling for time so he could stonewall the film. He knew I put my investors together project by project and that they aren’t the most patient backers in the world. If he could have held out long enough, I would have had to fold the flick and go on to something else. If I took him to court, the kid would have been so old by the time the case came to trial that no one would have wanted him when we were through. Face it. He has another year or two of being cute and then it’s good-bye time. It’s already too late for me, of course. I’m ruined. I don’t know if Morgan knew how far we had extended ourselves with pre-production expenses, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had. He had a reputation of costing people money.”

  “You sound resigned to losing your shirt,” T.S. said.

  “I’m not.” Levitt patted down his pockets and located a pack of cigarettes. “But I’m prepared for the inevitable. Want one?” He offered the pack to T.S.

  T.S. declined but did not have the heart to ask him to hold off. The guy needed a smoke pretty badly if his shaking hands were any indication.

  “Morgan could have pulled his kid out a hell of a lot earlier,” Levitt admitted. “Before I’d put all that money on the line. Waiting until he did is what put me under. I gotta wonder if maybe it wasn’t deliberate.”

  “Deliberate?” T.S. asked. “Why would he do that?”

  Levitt shook his head. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing. I never met the guy before this project, never worked with the kid either. Best thing I can think of is that he didn’t like one of my investors. Or he just didn’t care. Or maybe he likes ruining people. Maybe it was some kind of weird revenge for his past failures. He didn’t like to be reminded of his days as a kid actor, I can tell you that.”

  T.S. was silent for a moment, considering the possibilities. “Did you ever work with Bobby Morgan when he was an actor?” he asked Levitt.

  Levitt frowned. “Hey, do I look old enough for that to you? I’m forty-one, for chrissakes. He and I were about the same age. No, I didn’t work with him way back when. I just wanted to work with his kid.”

  “Maybe he was afraid the salary you were offering Mikey would pull down his fees for other films?”

  Levitt shrugged. “Look, the kid was already lined up to get a fortune on two other flicks once he finished my film. He gets more than any other kid in the history of Hollywood and more than most leading men I know. He could have knocked out my picture and then moved on, raking it in while he could. I don’t think it was the money, but maybe it was. Maybe the father planned to wait a couple weeks then start the kid on one of the high-priced flicks instead of mine to cash in quick while the kid was still cute. I don’t know.” He finished his cigarette and went back to playing with the fountain pen.

  “Who were your investors?” T.S. asked.

  Levitt shrugged. “Some financial guys, representing a group of limited partners. Some old money attracted by the glamour. Plus a handful of industry old-timers, mostly producers out in L.A. and some aging film stars hoping to make money on the other end for once.”

  “And they all lost their money?”

  “I’ll say. But at least they kept their day jobs. Me, I’m ruined. I’ll be lucky if I can raise enough money for my nephew’s Christmas pageant after this.” He threw the pen down and ran his hands over his head. “Sorry. I’m kind of nervous right now.”

  “Nervous?” T.S. said. “Over the future?”

  “Over right now.” He glanced at the door anxiously. “They’re going to arrest me. I know it. They’ve already called twice. The cops.”

  “Arrest you?” T.S. said. “What for?”

  “What do you think?” Levitt stared at T.S. “Come on, who has a better motive than me? The guy ruined me. I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead. And I was there.”

  “You were there?” T.S. asked.

  “I was there,” Levitt explained defensively. “I came to opening night. I thought maybe if I could get Morgan alone at the party afterward, I could talk to him, get him to change his mind. Figured he’d be in a good mood. Instead, he decided to hang around backstage for a while.” He grimaced again. “They’re coming to take me away. I can feel it.”

  “Nonsense,” T.S. said. “Police don’t arrest you for nothing.”

  “Sure they do,” Levitt said. “Don’t you go to the movies?”

  At that exact moment a man and a woman dressed in nearly identical gray suits stuck their heads into Levitt’s office. “Gene Levitt?” the female half of the duo asked, shifting her gaze from T.S. to Levitt.

  “That’s me,” Levitt said wearily, raising his hands above his head as if he were about to be shot.

  “You don’t need to put your hands above your head, sir,” the detective explained as she flipped open a small leather case and flashed a gold badge. “We’re just here to bring you downtown for questioning. I assume you’re willing to cooperate?”

  “Here,” Levitt said, tossing a scrap of paper at a startled T.S. “Call this guy for me, will ya? He’s my lawyer. Make it sound like I got money, okay? Otherwise, he’ll never come.”

  T.S. took the crumpled note and watched in bewilderment as Levitt was led from the office wedged between the silent detectives. His figure disappeared into the darkness of the deserted reception area, leaving T.S. feeling vulnerable in the sudden silence. He felt very lucky to be who he was. Here was a man without hope, without friends, without even a lawyer who could be counted on unless big money was on the table. You could take your celluloid dreams and Malibu beach homes, T.S. thought. He’d stay right here in New York where friends were friends and fortunes took a little bit longer to slide downhill.

  He stared at the contract before him. Where had Levitt stored it? His eyes wandered to the double drawers anchoring the right side of the desk. If there was a contract, there was a file. If there was a file, it had the names of his investors in it. Looking around carefully to make sure he was not being observed, T.S. crept to the front of Levitt’s desk and tried both drawers. The bottom one was filled with contracts and schedules for the aborted Mikey Morgan movie. Paging through quickly, T.S. removed all of the documents pertaining to financial matters. He stuffed them under his sweater and guiltily fled the lonely office.

  “Why not take the papers?” T.S. thought to himself as he hurried out to the street to find a cab. “By tomorrow, they�
��ll just be sitting in a box in a precinct somewhere.”

  8

  Auntie Lil was angry. “I would like to know why I was not informed of this meeting,” she demanded. Lilah Cheswick was not present, leaving her without an ally. “And was Mrs. Cheswick notified?”

  “We attempted to call you,” Lane Rogers said stiffly. “I assumed you were too busy pursuing your investigative activities. As for Mrs. Cheswick, she seems a bit too busy to concern herself with our affairs these days.”

  Lane still looked pale and drawn, no better than she had at Bobby Morgan’s funeral two days before. Her hair was pulled stiffly back from her face in an untidy bun and her makeup was unevenly applied.

  “We did try to call you,” Ruth Beretsky began, but she was a timid woman and immediately withered under Auntie Lil’s steady gaze. “At least, Lane says she tried to call you.”

  “Ruth!” It was a bark more than a command, but it had its effect. Ruth fell silent. “It is a moot point, anyway,” Lane said smoothly. “As we are all now very well aware that you are here, Miss Hubbert, this emergency meeting will come to order.”

  “What is the point of this meeting?” Hans Glick demanded. His usually impeccable grooming was marred by a crooked tie. On him, it looked as out of place as a dog wearing a hat.

  “The point of this meeting is to ask you what financial standing the Metro currently holds,” Lane replied. “Specifically regarding our insurance coverage.”

  “Why is that relevant?” Glick asked, his voice faltering. “I will submit my usual monthly financial review next week.”

  “It is relevant because we are being sued,” Lane announced. A gasp ran through the room. “On behalf of his minor children, Bobby Morgan’s ex-wife has filed a multimillion-dollar lawsuit against the Metropolitan Ballet for insufficient security and other safety violations which contributed to the death of her ex-husband. I was served the papers at the Plaza in front of half of New York. You can imagine my mortification. I fired my maid for telling the process server where I was.”