A Little Night Murder

by Nancy Martin

  Fred said, “It’s some of the neighbors.”

  “Freddie? What’s wrong with your voice? You softie, are you still all verklempt? Why don’t you go bake something and take your mind off everything?”

  Fred’s tears overflowed all over again, and he let himself out of the bedroom with a bang.

  I pulled a tissue from a conveniently placed box and held it over my nose and mouth to avoid breathing the smoke. I approached the bed cautiously and moved the tissue long enough to speak to Boom Boom. “It’s me, Nora Blackbird, Mrs. Tuttle. And my friend from next door. We’ve come to pay our condolences.”

  “Your what? Oh, right. You mean because of Jenny. Sorry, I can’t get up right now. This is my two-hour pheromone treatment. It’s part of my invigoration program. I’m getting in shape for the show. Building energy. I’m playing the starring role, you know.”

  Lexie crossed the room and opened a window.

  Boom Boom had elastic wraps around her chin, and both skinny arms were encased in towels that appeared to be soaked in some herbal liquid. Her bare blue legs were smeared with an ointment that gave her skin a ghastly sheen. Greasy socks did not disguise the bunions on her bony blue feet. In addition to the smoking pots, a humidifying steamer sat on the bedside table, directing a moist flow of damp air directly at her nostrils.

  In a chair beside the bed, her bored nurse sat leafing through a magazine. Higginbotham wore a pair of eyeglasses on a chain and a medical mask to avoid breathing all the fumes. She met my eye and shook her head, as if despairing of Boom Boom’s irreparably lost youth.

  The rest of the bedroom had been set up like a theatrical dressing room, dominated by a lighted mirror over a makeup table. Every other horizontal surface was cluttered with framed photographs of Boom Boom in her younger, pre-blue days. Sometimes she posed with famous people. A few of the pictures showed her with Toodles. But most of the photos were of Boom Boom herself.

  She had been very pretty in her heyday—a perky face with a keenly flirtatious gleam in her eye. There was a series of shots of Boom Boom in her single television role as the wisecracking wife in a comedy about a talking dachshund. For that role, she had been seen most often wearing an apron and rhinestone-rimmed eyeglasses. In one picture, she appeared to be clowning around—pretending to strangle the dog while laughing wildly. In all the pictures, her skin was perfectly normal.

  Lying on the bed, she was disconcertingly corpselike.

  “We’re very sorry about Jenny,” I said, trying again. “She was a lovely person. Everyone’s going to miss her.”

  “She was never going to be a star, but she was a nice kid. Too bad about her heart.”

  “How long did she have a heart condition?”

  “Always,” Boom Boom said promptly. “From the time she was little. Good thing all she ever wanted to do was play her piano. She played it day and night, all the time. Between her and Toodles, it drove me crazy. Never a quiet moment.”

  It felt a little strange to be talking to a motionless body stretched out on a bed, steaming with stinking chemicals. But I said, “Was Jenny playing the piano for your recent rehearsals?”

  “Sometimes, but that’s what Fred’s for. She was a pain in rehearsals. A real balabosta. Always making everybody stop and do things over. That’s no way to get a show up and running.”

  Lexie had taken her time looking at all the framed photos, but finally she spoke up. “Fred mentioned you’re waiting for a backer to come through.”

  “Fred should keep his mouth shut.” Boom Boom moved restlessly. “Him and Jenny—they’ve been bugging me for weeks about one thing and another. We need money for a director, to hire more dancers, to pay a costumer. Hell, I got a money guy, but he’s a little late, that’s all. He’s—right now, he’s in England. Probably going to those fancy horse races where the shiksas wear big hats. But he’ll be here soon.”

  “Meanwhile, Mr. Oxenfeld is financing the rehearsals,” Lexie prompted.

  “Yeah, Ox threw in the gelt to get us started, but he’s the stingy type. He takes care of the business side of things. He was a big help to Toodles.”

  “And a good friend to you?” I asked.

  “Naw, he wasn’t my type. I like ’em brawny.”

  A brawny man might snap frail Boom Boom like a dry matchstick, but I didn’t say that aloud. I couldn’t imagine her stepping on a Broadway stage in her condition.

  Instead, I said, “I understand you’ve been bothered by people who have read this morning’s story in the Intelligencer. About the photograph that was in Jenny’s pocket at the time of her death.”

  Another dismissive wave from the bed. “The people downstairs are answering the door and the phone. It’s not my problem.”

  “Do you know anything about the photograph?”

  “I never saw it,” Boom Boom replied. “It’s a kid, right?”

  “Yes, a small boy. Do you know who he was?”

  “Who knows? Every once in a while Jenny sent money to lost causes. You know, a few bucks here or there to help a poor kid in some backwater place or other. It was probably one of her charity things.”

  Lexie said, “The newspaper hinted there might be money coming to the boy in the photo.”

  “He’d have a hell of a job proving it. Say, maybe I should check about Jenny’s life insurance. Maybe I got some money coming!”

  Without glancing up from her magazine, the nurse made a disparaging noise with her lips.

  Boom Boom said sharply, “Higgie, shouldn’t you be organizing my pills or something? I don’t pay you to sit around on your tuches.”

  Higgie sighed and heaved herself out of her chair. She lumbered over to a dresser topped with a tray packed with pill bottles. She took the eyeglasses from the chain around her neck and perched them on her nose so she could read the labels on the bottles. Methodically, she began selecting various pills and lining them up on a plate.

  A doorbell gonged from the floor below.

  On the bed, Boom Boom stirred like an old dog that had caught a whiff of its dinner. “Hey, if that’s some reporters, I should invite them up here to talk about my comeback.”

  “Nora’s a reporter,” Lexie said.

  At that news, Boom Boom sat up and removed her mask. Behind it, her eyes were pink holes in her otherwise blue face. She stared at me with stunned interest. “You’re a reporter? Maybe you could get us some press for the show?”

  “Well—”

  “Absolutely,” Lexie said, nudging my foot with hers. “Nora’s column would be a perfect place to give you some buzz.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Maybe I could interview the cast?”

  “And me!” Boom Boom said. “I could tell you all about my career.”

  “Of course. And everyone else who’s been staying here to work on the show. “

  “Nobody else is very interesting. Hey!” Boom Boom snapped her fingers. “You want to come to the preview on Monday? We’re performing parts of the show for some money guys Ox has rounded up. You could take some pictures, maybe get us on TV?”

  “I’m with the Intelligencer,” I reminded her. “Maybe I could put you on our online edition, but I’m not—”

  Lexie said, “Nora will do her best to get you all the publicity she can manage.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Great! The preview’s on Monday. Don’t forget. Between now and then I’ll dig up some of my old scrapbooks for you.”

  Lexie and I went out into the hallway together and breathed deeply of the fresh air. We could have gone down the stairs then, but I paused on the carpet.

  Lexie cut her eyes toward the bedroom where we had found Jenny the day before. “What are you thinking?”

  “I wouldn’t mind taking another look at Jenny’s room. Boom Boom has given us permission to investigate, hasn’t she?”

  “I
nterview, yes. Investigate, no. But it’s a fine line, isn’t it?”

  Together, we crept into Jenny’s bedroom and eased the door closed. Immediately, I noticed that someone had removed the area rug on which she had died. It gave me a pang.

  But time was limited. Not sure what I was looking for, I began opening the dresser drawers. I found clothes—mostly beige. Same with the closet. A few hanging blouses and pants, a couple of sensible dresses—all arranged in descending sizes. She had obviously been losing weight for many months. I caught the faint whiff of mothballs. An assortment of old garden hats and beige handbags were untidily arranged on the shelf above the hanging bar. No photo albums.

  On the floor were two large boxes. I opened the top one and discovered it was full of music—large sheets of it covered with notes and scribbles.

  Lexie peered over my shoulder. “That’s a conductor’s score, with the composer’s notes, see?” She pointed at the scrawled words on the margin.

  “One of her father’s scores?”

  “I don’t know. Do you recognize the title?”

  “Lover, Sing Me a Tune.” The title didn’t mean anything to me. I dug down past it into the box and found more music. “Wedding Belles”; “I Love You for Always, My Dear.” The box was stuffed with pages of it.

  “Lex, maybe these are more undiscovered Toodles Tuttle songs!”

  “If so, the Tuttles have a gold mine on their hands. But look. His signature’s not on any of the pages.”

  I flipped through many of the large sheets. “No signature at all,” I reported.

  Lexie turned away to look through the things left on the bedside table. Over her shoulder, she said, “I remember more stuff being here.”

  “The police must have taken evidence.” I peeked into the adjacent dressing room, where I had rested after discovering Jenny dead. All of her prescription bottles had been removed. Someone had emptied the trash. All the energy drink cans were gone.

  Lexie opened the drawers of the bedside table, then flipped through the books that were stacked there. Something fell out of one of the books and fluttered to the floor. She bent to retrieve it. “Here’s an envelope.”

  I went to her side, and we looked at it together. Jenny’s name and address on one side, no return address, a forever stamp that had been processed by the post office. Figuring my fingerprints were all over the room already and that I had nothing more to lose, I took the letter from Lexie. “How many federal laws will I break by looking at this?”

  “Nobody would send a woman as pregnant as you to federal prison. You’d take up too much space.”

  “That’s comforting.” The envelope had been slit as if by a knife or letter opener. It was easy to slip out the letter and unfold it.

  Dear Miss Tuttle,

  How come I have’nt heard a word from you? I thought you said I could audition for your show, but you have’nt called? I think you and me both know I could make things tough for you, so how about coming through for me? Or else.

  The scrawled signature was none other than Bridget O’Halloran’s.

  “Oh, great,” I muttered.

  Lexie read the note over my shoulder. “Bridget knew Jenny? Before she died?”

  I stuffed the note back into the envelope. “Michael’s going to be peeved about this.”

  “Not as peeved as the police. Nora, this note sounds threatening.” Lexie’s eyes were wide. “Do you think . . . that Bridget could have murdered Jenny?”

  “How?” I asked. “Bridget arrived in the house just minutes before the body was found. And Jenny had been dead for some time.”

  “They could have met the night before Jenny was found, though, right? And maybe Bridget—did what? Slipped Jenny a poison? Or some drugs?” Lexie took the envelope from me and used it as a fan to cool herself. “This note implies a lot.”

  Reluctantly, I handed the book to Lexie, and she tucked the envelope back inside.

  My only hope to clear Bridget from the list of suspects was to keep looking. I headed for the upright piano. Since Jenny’s death, someone had taken the framed photo of Toodles and put it facedown on top of the piano. As if nobody wanted to see his smiling face anymore? I opened the piano bench. Empty. I closed the bench and sat on it, thinking. At that moment, I noticed the layer of dust on the piano keys. I touched one, and a sour note sounded from inside the piano.

  “Somebody will hear you,” Lexie warned, low voiced.

  “This piano is out of tune. And judging by the dust, nobody has played it for a long time.”

  She noticed my frown. “So?”

  “Everybody has told us that Jenny played the piano. But she obviously didn’t play this one.”

  “Maybe she played the baby grand downstairs?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “There must be a bunch of pianos in this house.”

  “Why do you want to know what piano she used?”

  My thoughts were jumbled, and I tried to make sense of all my impressions. “Things don’t add up, Lex. Fred seems to be the only one who’s sorry Jenny is gone, yet it looks as though somebody might have hit him. Why? And this Tuttle musical is going to be big and important, but the backer of the show isn’t anywhere to be seen. Why again? I was told Toodles would never have left unproduced music behind, but there’s scads of it here. Plus, Boom Boom is blue, for heaven’s sake, but nobody around here seems to notice! And we’ve heard how much Jenny played the piano, but if she wasn’t playing for rehearsals and she didn’t play in this room, where did she go?” I turned to my friend. “This house is exactly like yours. Where could we find another piano? The basement?”

  Frowning, she shook her head. “A basement is too damp for an instrument. And the attic is probably too dry. And the rooms in the service wing are all too small. Why are you so concerned about what piano she was using?”

  “I don’t know. I just— Everything seems muddled.”

  She said suddenly. “The folly!”

  “There’s a folly?”

  “The little building out behind the house. My great-grandfather and his brother loved classical architecture. Out behind my pool house, there’s a kind of miniature Roman temple. It’s where my mother keeps all the pool furniture in the winter.”

  I went to the window and tweaked the shade aside. I could see down into the back terrace, where the chorus line appeared to be taking a break. The dancers lounged on the serpentine stone wall, all fanning themselves with their top hats. Beyond the rehearsal terrace, I could see the rotunda roof of the folly as it poked up from behind a thicket of trees. It looked like the kind of place where vestal virgins awaited their fate.

  At my shoulder, Lexie said, “We’ll never get there without somebody noticing.”

  From downstairs, we suddenly heard angry voices rise.

  Lexie said, “If that’s reporters, I better make myself scarce.”

  I went straight to the door and listened before opening it. I recognized one of the voices. Bridget O’Halloran’s.

  Lexie and I left the bedroom as we had found it and hurried toward the landing. Cautiously, we peered over the staircase to the foyer below. Bridget was pushing her way into the house.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “You can’t come barging in here!” a girlish voice cried indignantly.

  “You can’t stop me, babycakes.” Bridget’s deeper voice carried easily from the front hall. “Where’s Mr. Oxenfeld? He said he wanted to see me dance today.”

  Tiny Poppy Fontanna stood squarely in Bridget’s path, creating a small but determined blockade. The diminutive dancer’s face was pink with anger, and her small frame vibrated with outrage. “Mr. Oxenfeld isn’t here. Besides, we are in the middle of rehearsal. You can’t interrupt.”

  “What’s the matter, short stuff? You afraid of a little competition?” Bridget cut around Poppy and stalked into the house, her heels clic
king sharply on the marble floor. She looked like an Amazon, dressed in a tight white skirt with a zebra-print blouse tied at her trim waist.

  “It would hardly be a fair competition,” Poppy said. “You’re a complete amateur. I have twenty years of experience on the stage.”

  Bridget swung around, eyes narrowing with raptor intensity. “I thought you were some kind of chorus girl. Now you want the lead role?”

  “Boom Boom is playing the lead,” Poppy snapped with pride. “I’ll be her understudy.”

  “Understudy? You mean the one who sits backstage and never gets to shine?”

  From above, I saw the gleam of ambition in Poppy’s face and knew she had two key things figured out: first, that Boom Boom Tuttle might make a grab for the lead role in her husband’s musical, and second, that Boom Boom was too old to actually go on stage. Poppy planned on opening the Broadway show herself.

  Primly, Poppy said, “I’ll do what’s best for the show.”

  Bridget made a rude noise and poked her long forefinger into Poppy’s chest. “What’s best for this show is me. Jenny Tuttle told me so herself.”

  Poppy was full of scorn. “When did you ever meet Jenny Tuttle? At a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike?”

  “She got out more than you think,” Bridget said. “On Friday nights, she was the first one at the bar at Del Marco’s Crab Paradise—where I was the headliner all last winter. She heard me do my set. Said I’d be great in Bluebird of Happiness.”

  “If that crazy story is true, how come you haven’t been rehearsing with us?”

  “Because Jenny said she had to keep her old lady happy for a while—until she raised enough dough to get the show off the ground.”

  “We don’t have the money yet. So you can shove off, lady.”

  Bridget gave Poppy a little push. “I’m here to claim my role, short stuff. So back off.”

  A red flush crept up the dancer’s neck, and Poppy batted Bridget’s hand away. “Jenny doesn’t have anything to say about this show anymore. Go back to your crabs.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Bridget intended to give Poppy’s poofy hair a derisive flick of her fingernail, but she must have flicked harder than planned. The hair suddenly bounced off and hit the floor, exposing Poppy’s bare head. Without her wig, only thin white strands of hair barely covered her pale skull.