A Motive for Murder Read online

  A Motive for Murder

  A Hubbert & Lil Mystery

  Gallagher Gray

  (Katy Munger)

  Thalia Press

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  1

  The phone rang just as the New York Giants neared the end of a hard-won ninety-two-yard march. It was third down and goal to go at the Redskins’ three-yard line. The crowd was roaring with enthusiasm. T.S. wasn’t quite sure what all the excitement was about because this was the first football game he had ever watched. But the announcer sounded like he was being strangled, so T.S. was pretty sure that the Giants were doing well. He leaned closer to the television, hoping to decipher why the quarterback kept shouting numbers at his teammates and what that information might mean. Perhaps he was identifying the jersey numbers of opposing players that should be hit on the next play. In the background, T.S. noted the mechanical click of his answering machine as it picked up the call.

  “Theodore! Are you rotting your brain again?” Auntie Lil’s voice cut through his apartment, rising easily above the televised noise. In fact, it nearly shook the answering machine off the desk. Brenda and Eddie shifted in their feline sleep, no doubt dreaming of the booming loudspeakers at the ASPCA, where T.S. had brought them for neutering.

  T.S. ignored Auntie Lil with a vengeance. She was the reason why he was sitting in front of the idiot box in the first place, desperately clutching a can of beer in one hand and the remote control in the other. He had never in his life watched a football game or swigged beer straight from the can. But he had, that very morning, felt an overwhelming desire to touch base with the untapped resources of his middle-class, middle-aged soul by joining America in watching football. And it was all Auntie Lil’s fault.

  Any man would have crumbled. For the past few weeks, without respite, she had dragged him to one avant-garde dance performance after another. Last night had been the proverbial last straw. He had given up his favorite true-crime television show to accompany her to a premiere at the Joyce Dance Theater. There, surrounded by women who looked like men and men who dressed like women, T.S. had endured two hours of thumping atonal music and the unappetizing sight of twelve dancers—clad only in boxer shorts and black combat boots—stomping about a set that resembled a mental asylum for dangerous prisoners. Muscular men and women shrieked at each other, threw themselves against the fake brick walls that lined the stage, rattled plastic bars like actors in a bad B movie, and did no dancing at all that T.S. could discern. By the end of this night, his head was pounding and he never wanted to see another energetic movement in his life. He’d rather move into a retirement community for overweight couch potatoes first.

  The worst was yet to come. Last night, he dreamed he was incarcerated on Riker’s Island with a pink-tutued Hell’s Angel devotee for a cellmate. This hulking vision kept demonstrating a series of intricate ballet steps over and over while threatening to beat T.S. if he did not memorize the sequence perfectly. T.S. woke in a sweat and declared a moratorium on dance. He then dashed out to the corner deli and surprised the clerk by requesting a six-pack of Rolling Rock beer instead of his usual roll of chewable antacids. Surely a few sessions watching sports and swigging beer would restore him to normalcy.

  Unfortunately, the choreography on the field made no more sense to him than what he’d seen the night before. A player had broken through the human wall before him on the last play and was now prancing around the end of the field, wiggling his butt at his opponents while waving the ball at a riotous crowd. If you put him center stage at the Joyce Dance Theater, he’d get a standing ovation.

  “Theodore, I know you hated last night’s performance,” Auntie Lil announced over his phone machine. And I also know you hold me personally responsible. But you simply must pick up. This is a matter of life and death.” She paused dramatically. “I am talking about the ballet!”

  The field was in turmoil. The players were piled in a jumbled heap on top of a Giant who had tried to kick the ball. The two men in striped shirts were blowing their whistles wildly. Reluctantly, T.S. took his eyes from the screen and stared at the telephone. The ballet? Then he remembered: Auntie Lil had mentioned a board meeting for the Metropolitan Ballet today.

  The Metro Ballet was a fixture of life in New York City and one of the few charitable projects undertaken by Auntie Lil that T.S. endorsed. Ever since she had inherited a great deal of money, his obstinate but beloved aunt had suffered from an acute case of dance fever. She had endowed scholarships to budding Isadora Duncan reincarnations all over the United States. But she had also rescued the ailing Metro Ballet, effusing it with enough money to finish last year’s season and, quite literally, saving a dozen or more careers. She had been rewarded with a coveted seat on the board of directors, thanks, in part, to the influence of their mutual friend, the wealthy and well-bred Lilah Cheswick.

  The thought of Lilah made T.S. forget about football. His heart skipped a beat as he pictured the silver-haired object of his self-conscious attention. She would be at the Metro’s board meeting. His hand inched toward the phone.

  “If you don’t pick up, I will inform Lilah that you are deliberately ignoring me,” Auntie Lil announced with uncanny accuracy. “Despite the fact that I am your closest living relative.”

  She was merciless.

  She was also capable of carrying out her threat.

  “What is it?” T.S. demanded, trying to sound busy. “You’ve called at a bad time. The Giants are only minutes away from scoring the winning basket.”

  “Impossible,” she retorted. “Giants are football. Football players make touchdowns. This is more important.”

  “What is it?” he asked warily.

  “You must call Margo McGregor immediately and get her down to Lincoln Center. There is a disaster in the making, Theodore.”

  “What kind of disaster?” he asked faintly, knowing that, somehow, Auntie Lil was involved. Disaster was her maiden name and Chaos was her middle.

  “That pompous Lane Rogers and her weaselly cohorts are trying to vote Fatima Jones out of The Nutcracker,” Auntie Lil said, enraged. “Theodore, that Rogers woman is wearing a Chanel suit two sizes too small. It’s a travesty.”

  T.S. was not interested in this fashion faux pas. “What?” he asked. “Get rid of Fatima? They can’t do that.” Fatima Jones was a young ballerina who had emerged from the hopeful ranks of Auntie Lil’s inner-city scholarship program as a potential star.

  “They can and they will if we don’t stop them. Hurry.” Auntie Lil hung up without saying good-bye, a move T.S. anticipated. With satisfaction, he beat her to the punch.

  Football game forgotten, T.S. set to work dialing the offices of New York Newsday, beginning a long search for the whereabouts of their columnist Margo McGregor. Auntie Lil was right. It was a disaster. Maybe Margo could help.

  “We have no business interfering in artistic decisions,” Auntie Lil said crisply. “That should be left to the artistic director.” She folded her hands in front of her, a difficult move to pull off since they clenched into fists every time she looked at board chairman Lane Rogers. Lane was an unpleasant, hulking woman who invariably dressed in shades of plum and brown.

  “It is our responsibility to protect the ballet,” Lane countered piously. “We have a fiscal duty to make difficult decisions such as thi
s.” Her voice was peppered with dropped r’s to emulate a New England accent, one of her many affectations. The truth of the matter was that Lane Rogers was really Lani Kaufman from Yonkers—and Auntie Lil knew it because she had worked with four of Lane’s uncles years ago in the garment industry.

  The Kaufman brothers had been the finest cutting team on Seventh Avenue. All four had followed their niece’s social journey to Manhattan’s Upper East Side—via a name change and Seven Sisters school—with merciless and scornful enthusiasm. “Sol’s shiksa-in-training,” they called her, referring to their deceased brother Solomon, who had worked himself to death selling pocketbooks to put his beloved daughter through the college of her choice. Hiram Kaufman, the only brother left alive, still called Auntie Lil every year on the first day of the spring season to cluck over the year’s collections and to catch up on family gossip. Not only did Auntie Lil know that Lane Rogers had spent two weeks every summer for the last twenty years at a fat farm desperately sweating off excess poundage, she also knew Lane had been one of the first women in New York City to sign up for liposuction and that the entry sutures had gotten hideously infected. It gave Auntie Lil satisfaction to hoard these details and never repeat them. But Lane still sensed that Auntie Lil knew she was a phony—and she hated Auntie Lil for it

  “It’s our duty,” echoed Ruth Beretsky when Lane concluded her fiscal responsibility spiel. Ruth was a mousy board member who quivered fearfully whenever she spoke, as if an invisible stun gun were hovering about her body at all times. Or perhaps she lived in fear that Lane Rogers would start beating her about the arms and legs without warning. Auntie Lil would not have been surprised to see this occur. Scrawny Ruth was the perfect sidekick to Lane’s hulking presence. The omnipresent cloth bow that bloomed at the base of her turkeylike neck made her an even more obsequious target for Lane’s constant bullying authority. Why they were friends, Auntie Lil could not fathom, but she didn’t understand a lot of other things either, particularly the current fad for body piercing. Surely all those rings became snagged on one’s clothing and jewelry? She’d tried to ask a young man about it down on St. Mark’s Place just the week before, but he had walked right past as if he didn’t hear her. When you were eighty-four years old, this happened a lot. But not usually to Auntie Lil.

  “I fail to see how removing the most talented ballerina to come along in two decades will help our box-office receipts,” Lilah Cheswick pointed out. “Fatima Jones has natural talent, flawless timing, and a classic frame.” Lilah was the wealthy widow of a former Wall Street wizard and no slouch herself when it came to business matters. She had informally inherited a dozen seats on corporate and charitable boards when her husband died unexpectedly—and proved to be a far more capable and creative director than he had ever been.

  “She is certainly talented,” Artistic Director Raoul Martinez agreed in his dramatic basso. “And I must concur that it is inappropriate for the board to interfere with my artistic vision. After all, auditions have been held, the students expect the results to be released tomorrow, and we are competing with two other versions of The Nutcracker for the holiday crowds. I must be allowed to take chances, to paint new vistas—”

  “There he goes again,” Lane Rogers interrupted, rolling her protuberant eyes. “Mr. Artistic Vision himself.”

  The coterie of prominent wives who rounded out the board twittered dutifully at this witticism. They were so uniformly small and delicate that they reminded Auntie Lil of a flock of terns whenever they made noise.

  “Let me tell you what we should do,” board member Hans Glick interrupted in his clipped Swiss accent. A collective groan rose as the assembled group hunkered down for another lecture by Glick. Not a proposal was set forth, not a document typed, not a luncheon served, and not a ballet presented that Hans Glick could not improve on with his wisdom. He was pigheaded, long-winded, indecisive, occasionally right, and—most important of all—president of the Metro Ballet’s largest corporate sponsor, Swiss International United. “We should lay out the pros and cons of what we are facing and then our decision will be easy. I will show you.”

  He stood with a barely perceptible click of his heels and marched briskly to a wheeled chalkboard that stood near a window overlooking Lincoln Center. Auntie Lil gazed wistfully out at the twinkling lights of the early winter evening and wished that she was sipping drinks in the Rainbow Room, waiting for Herbert Wong to join her for a tango.

  Glick dragged the portable chalkboard to the head of the long conference table, frowning at the squeak emitted by its wheels. The slightest deviation from perfection, as defined by himself, could distract Glick to the point of incoherence. He chose a fat wedge of chalk and held it above the chalkboard, but paused in his impending lecture to pick up the telephone. He knew the extension by memory. “Send someone to the Conference Room immediately,” he demanded. “Tell him to bring a can of WD-40 and a Phillips head screwdriver. I will tell him how to fix the problem once he arrives.”

  He placed the phone back in the cradle and wiped his hands clean with a handkerchief before addressing the waiting board members. He began by drawing a huge dollar sign in the center of the board. “This is our objective,” he announced crisply, “and these are our options.” He drew thick chalk lines to the right and left of the dollar sign, labeling one side “A” and the other “B.” Under the letter A, he drew a tall box then sketched in small squares arranged in rows within its parameters.

  “What is that, please?” Artistic Director Martinez thundered, looking confused.

  Glick was offended. “That is obviously a New York City apartment house.”

  “Why?” Martinez demanded loudly.

  Glick ignored him and continued. “If we let Fatima Jones dance in the role of Clara, we will gain some publicity due to her unusual background,” he said. “But the demographics are not as profitable as Option B.” He drew the stick figure of a young boy under the B heading then added several rows of dollar signs at the boy’s feet. “Mikey Morgan is a box-office star. His movies brought in more than two hundred eighty-seven million dollars to his studio last year. His fan club numbers over eight hundred thousand young people in the U.S. alone.”

  “The only drawback being that he can’t dance,” Auntie Lil interjected.

  Several of the more silent board members looked aghast, as if she had violated an unspoken code of conduct. Auntie Lil hoped fervently that she had.

  Raoul Martinez was thoughtful. “It is true that he is not inordinately talented,” the artistic director conceded. “But he is coachable. When he was a student here, I spotted his promise.”

  “How odd,” Lilah Cheswick remarked, her well-bred Connecticut smile never faltering. “Just last week I read an amusing interview with Mikey Morgan that appeared in the Sunday Times magazine. He related several stories of being suspended and eventually thrown out of the Metro’s school. ‘Thrown out on my butt by this aging old greaser in tights.’ I believe were the exact words he used. He seemed to find it amusing from his current perch as a box-office star. I wonder why he wants to dance the role at all. I don’t feel comfortable with his stated motives.”

  Martinez shrugged dramatically. “I am an excellent teacher. I have confidence he can dance the role.”

  “Don’t forget that another young man’s career is at stake here,” Auntie Lil said. “If we vote no on Fatima Jones and Mikey Morgan steps into the role of the Prince, then what will become of Rudy Vladimir? He won the role of the Prince fairly.”

  “Rudy can easily dance a lesser role,” Martinez offered.

  “Of course he can easily dance a lesser role,” Auntie Lil said, irritated. “He could easily dance all the roles, for that matter. At fourteen years of age, he makes the rest of your company look like a tired troupe of vaudeville hoofers.”

  “Really, Miss Hubbert, I hardly believe you are qualified to comment,” Martinez retorted in a voice that had tamed many an unpredictable dancer. On Auntie Lil, it didn’t even make a de
nt.

  “I cannot believe that we are considering bumping these two young dancers from the show,” she said. “It is outrageous.”

  “We do not ‘bump’ our dancers,” Martinez said grimly. “And we are not putting on a ‘show’ in some barn like those cheap Mickey Mouse and Judy Garland movies.”

  “Maybe you had Mickey Mouse down in Mexico, but here in America it was Mickey Rooney,” Auntie Lil pointed out.

  “I am from Spain,” the artistic director explained grimly. “My family is of impeccable Hibernian descent.”

  Auntie Lil sniffed skeptically.

  Lane Rogers attempted to regain control. “The ideal choice, of course, would be to have both Mikey Morgan and Fatima Jones. Unfortunately, that is not possible.”

  “You mean that, unfortunately, we are being extorted by the young man’s manager father to get rid of Fatima,” Auntie Lil said. “And we demean ourselves by giving in.”

  “Now, now,” Hans Glick argued smoothly. “It is not extortion but a legitimate concern. If Fatima Jones were to dance, much of the publicity would be focused on her, taking away from the attention paid to his son. It is his duty as the boy’s manager to ensure his client’s career. We must not forget the young lady’s background.” He tapped his crudely drawn tenement building with the piece of chalk. “It will attract attention. The press love such stories these days.”

  Auntie Lil lost her temper. She stood and propped her sturdy frame on the table, leaning forward until her purple scarf fluttered in Lane Rogers’s face. A white curl escaped from beneath her matching hat and dangled between her large dark eyes. Her strong German face flushed a dangerous red as her wide mouth struggled to hold back intemperate words. “Will you stop referring euphemistically to ‘her background,’” she demanded of Glick. “It is a bit ridiculous for you to deny that your real problem is that Fatima Jones is rather obviously black.”