A Motive for Murder Page 19

  “Isn’t loyalty wonderful?” Auntie Lil said.

  Lane glanced at her sharply. “You don’t know a thing about loyalty,” she said.

  “I think I do,” Auntie Lil replied. “More than you will ever know. Now tell me why you’re blocking my inquiries into Bobby Morgan’s death.”

  “I believe the dead should be left to rest in peace,” she said piously, folding her hands together and shifting her gaze to the door of the conference room as if praying for an interruption.

  “Nonsense,” Auntie Lil said. “That man is not resting in peace. He was strung up like a prize turkey and put on display. Humiliated in front of an enormous audience. Quite a fate for a former actor, don’t you think?”

  “He deserved exactly what he got,” Lane burst out.

  “Oh?” Auntie Lil leaned across the conference table and scrutinized her foe. “If you don’t explain that remark, I will be forced to form my own conclusions.”

  “Form whatever you like,” Lane said abruptly. She rose and marched toward the door, plodding forward as gracelessly as an all-terrain vehicle. “I have an important luncheon engagement. This interview is terminated.”

  Auntie Lil watched her go, then heard the slam of an office door farther down the hall. Lane had chosen to barricade herself behind her corporate walls, where she felt safest. So let her, Auntie Lil thought to herself. She had found out the two things she needed to know most. One, she was still on the board, and two, Lane had taken a most definitely personal interest in Bobby Morgan and had been rebuffed. Hell truly hath no fury like a woman scorned, Auntie Lil reflected. Especially a divorced, proud, and lonely woman like Lane, who seldom put her heart on the line.

  She rode the express elevator back down to the lobby and reminded herself not to feel sorry for the woman. Lane wallowed in her own unhappiness, and this self-indulgence robbed her of the joy everyday life had to offer. Auntie Lil loathed professional victims. There were too many unwilling victims in this world more worthy of her sympathy. She would not waste her time on the self-involved.

  But she would waste her time on a cappuccino, she decided, especially if it allowed her to determine whomever it was that Lane planned to meet for lunch.

  The lobby of Bartlett Brothers had been an architectural wonder when first built. An entire wall was taken up by an artificial waterfall. Auntie Lil loved the sound of the water gurgling downward and the feel of the fine spray on her face. She ordered a large cappuccino and settled in at a small table to spy on the entrance. Half an hour later she saw Ruth Beretsky enter the lobby and start toward the elevators before hesitating as if deciding whether or not to turn back. Auntie Lil was out of her chair with the agility of a woman several decades younger. Abandoning her cappuccino, she waylaid Ruth before she could choose a final path.

  “What are you doing here?” Ruth asked in alarm as Auntie Lil grabbed her elbow.

  “I visited Lane and tried to talk to her,” Auntie Lil said. “She’s not talking.”

  Ruth removed her arm from Auntie Lil’s grip and rubbed petulantly at her elbow. “What’s there to talk about?” she said.

  Auntie Lil sighed, then seemed to change the subject entirely. “How often has Lane stood you up for lunch?” she asked a startled Ruth.

  “What? Why do you want to know?” she answered.

  Auntie Lil shrugged. “I just wondered. A relationship is an interesting exercise in power, don’t you think? The way the power shifts so subtly, from one person to the other, according to the tiniest of events. Like how one person is always treating a friend worse than they expect to be treated themselves. And doing things like standing up their friends for lunch. It’s a way of showing that you are the superior person, I think—and that your friend is someone who can be pushed around.”

  Ruth stared at her suspiciously. “So what?”

  “Ruth.” Auntie Lil put an arm around her shoulders and guided her away from the elevators toward the outer doors. “How long have you been Lane’s friend? How long have you endured being bossed around by her? Stood up for lunch? Kept waiting? Poked fun of to amuse her other friends?” As Auntie Lil talked Ruth’s back tightened, telling her she was on the mark. “I don’t want to tell you what to do, dear, but I will say that I do not treat my friends the way Lane treats you.”

  “She’s my mentor,” Ruth insisted. “She got me on the board. It was a coveted spot. She has helped me a lot in my career.”

  “She has helped her own career quite a lot, thanks to you,” Auntie Lil pointed out. “Who gets credit for those neatly typed agendas, for the comprehensive board reports, for the meticulous planning of all the meetings and functions?”

  Ruth was silent.

  “Come, dear,” Auntie Lil prodded her. “I know you’re the one doing the work. But she’s the one getting the credit.”

  “She made fun of me!” Ruth suddenly cried out, her hands clenching into fists at her side. She wore her trademark big bow at the base of her neck and it drooped forlornly, as if sensing its owner’s sorrow.

  They had reached the outer door. The sun shone brightly, forbidding unhappiness on such a fine day. “I know a wonderful outdoor cafe,” Auntie Lil said. “Do something different with your life. Stand Lane up for a change. Let me treat you to lunch. Here comes a cab now.”

  Ruth stared at the approaching taxi with the wide, grateful eyes of a maiden being rescued. Her glance darted to the elevators, then returned to the cab. “I will join you for lunch,” she said, waving the taxi to a halt with an extravagant gesture. “It will serve Lane right.”

  Fifteen minutes later they were seated at a prime sidewalk front table where Auntie Lil could watch the foot traffic in Greenwich Village go by. She had known the restaurant’s owner for years and had been a regular patron ever since it first opened its doors. That, combined with her overtipping, made her a favored customer.

  “They sure like you here,” Ruth observed as a waiter rushed to fill their water glasses. “Whenever I go out to eat with Lane, she bosses everyone around and pretty soon you can’t find a waiter anywhere.”

  “You must eat a lot today,” Auntie Lil decided, casting a disapproving eye on Ruth’s skinny frame. “You’re far too thin.”

  “I have a nervous stomach,” Ruth confessed. “I have a nervous everything, in fact.” She laughed in an uncertain manner as if she were trying on a new sense of humor and wasn’t quite convinced it fit.

  Auntie Lil smiled. “In that case, we’ll begin with black-bean soup.” The restaurant specialized in Cuban food, and before Ruth could fathom what had happened, Auntie Lil had ordered a three-course lunch for them both, complete with roast pork, avocado soup, fried plantains, and beans and rice. The sheer excess of this order made Ruth’s eyes widen; the bottled beer that quickly arrived made her relax.

  “I feel like I’m playing hooky from school,” Ruth admitted. “Look at me. I look ridiculous compared to the rest of the world.” She glanced down at her unflattering brown business suit, comparing it with the colorful dress of the Greenwich Village natives parading by. Though the air was cool, many still wore their brightly hued summer clothes and matching sandals.

  “What did you mean when you said Lane made fun of you?” Auntie Lil asked once most of Ruth’s first beer was gone. Given her weight and inexperience at drinking, it was probably enough to start her talking.

  Ruth blushed. “My mother and sister tell me she’s no good for me,” she admitted. “They don’t like Lane at all. They say she thinks she’s too good for the rest of the world. But Bobby Morgan, he didn’t think she was good enough.”

  “He rejected her?” Auntie Lil guessed.

  Ruth nodded happily and Auntie Lil wondered if, in some deep recess of her lonely heart, Ruth had harbored a flame for Bobby Morgan as well. “She was always throwing herself at him,” Ruth explained. “It was embarrassing in a way. But I liked seeing Lane embarrass herself,” she added defiantly. “All the other women on the board whispered about it. I overheard them
talking about it sometimes.”

  “This was during Nutcracker rehearsals?” Auntie Lil asked. “It went on for over a month?”

  “Oh no,” Ruth said, gulping the last of her beer. Auntie Lil signaled for more. “Much longer than that. Lane met Bobby Morgan at a charity ball that the Metro held in Los Angeles last year. She made a fool of herself that night. First of all, she had on a Grecian gown, one of those flowing white things, you know?” She draped a napkin over her shoulder to demonstrate. “I know I’m not Miss Fashion Sense, but Lane is kind of big and, well, hulking, to be wearing curtains draped over her body.”

  “Quite,” Auntie Lil said grimly.

  “Anyway, we went to the fundraiser together. It was very exciting for me. I had never been on the West Coast before. But when we got there, Lane kept trying to pretend that she wasn’t with me. I don’t know why.” Her face flushed slightly. “I thought my dress was much more appropriate than hers. It was a long blue gown covered with these little bows that—”

  “I’m sure it was lovely,” Auntie Lil interrupted. “Now, about Bobby Morgan?”

  “Lane met him at the fund-raiser and went crazy over him. I could tell you the exact moment it happened. Being her slave has its advantages, you know.” She gave a half grin. “I see everything she does. He kissed her hand when he first met her and she almost went through the floor. But he was just kissing her butt because she was chairman.” Ruth looked up in alarm. “Please excuse my language.”

  Auntie Lil dismissed it with a wave. “It paints an accurate picture. Do continue.”

  “He was sucking up to everyone he thought was important and people were sucking up to him right back. The celebrity turnout was sort of low. Bobby Morgan was about the biggest thing there. I guess no one is really into ballet out in Los Angeles. Not snappy enough, I suspect.”

  “No doubt,” Auntie Lil agreed.

  Ruth sighed. “I could tell he was just flattering all the women, but Lane took her compliments seriously. On the plane home, he was all she talked about. I got quite bored with it, you know. I wanted to sleep. Six months later, when Lane found out that Mikey Morgan wanted to dance in The Nutcracker, she got it into her head that it was all because his father wanted to be near her.” She gave a bitter laugh. “As if! For once, I wasn’t the pitiful one!”

  “What happened during rehearsals?” Auntie Lil prodded.

  “Lane made a regular fool of herself. Always hanging around the halls, trying to talk to him. It was easy because he was hanging around, too. She thought he was waiting for her. But one day I saw him with his arm around another woman, way at the other end of the hall.”

  “What did she look like?” Auntie Lil asked.

  Ruth shrugged and gulped at her fresh beer. “I couldn’t tell. She was tall and had long dark hair pulled into a bun. I only saw her from behind.”

  “Straight or curly hair?” Auntie Lil asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ruth admitted. “It was pulled back too tight. But she was a dancer, I think. She was tall and thin.”

  It didn’t narrow things down much. Of course the woman had been a dancer. It was a ballet company. “Were they an item?” Auntie Lil asked.

  Ruth shrugged again. “I didn’t hear if they were. But I did know then for sure that Bobby Morgan didn’t even care who Lane was, much less have a thing for her. It made me happy, to tell you the truth.” She looked at Auntie Lil as if daring her to protest her ill will. “I was sick of Lane and her theories about why they weren’t together yet. She was like a lovesick teenage girl. Only meaner.”

  “Meaner?” Auntie Lil asked.

  Ruth nodded miserably. Her soup arrived and she eyed it suspiciously.

  “That’s just avocado in a chicken broth,” Auntie Lil explained.

  Ruth took a sip and seemed pleasantly surprised. “Could I have another beer?” she asked.

  Auntie Lil signaled for more beer, wondering if she would have to pour the woman into a cab when they were done. “How was Lane mean?” Auntie Lil reminded her.

  “A couple of days before the opening night of The Nutcracker, I overheard her talking to Bobby Morgan in the hall,” Ruth explained. “They were at one end of the third-floor hallway, near the shoe room, and I was coming up the connecting steps from the second floor. I heard my name, so I stopped and listened.” Her voice dropped to a lower pitch and grew pompous as she imitated Lane. She was saying, ‘Bobby! How nice to run into you again. We seem to be on the same wavelength, don’t you think?’ He mumbled something and she gave this phony laugh and said, ‘That silly Ruth, you know, the ghost of a girl who follows me everywhere, poor thing. She doesn’t have a life and just worships me. I try to help her, but you know how it is. If you haven’t got it, you just haven’t got it.’” Ruth’s face threatened to crumple and Auntie Lil hastily pushed the fried plantains her way in an attempt to distract her. Ruth bit her lower lip and recovered. “She went on to tell him that I had seen him at the end of the hall with someone in the company and then she reminded him that fraternizing with corps members was a bad idea.”

  “What did Bobby say to that?” Auntie Lil asked.

  “He gave this really mean laugh—and I was glad—and said something like, ‘Unless, of course, I’m fraternizing with a board member, is that it, Ms. Rogers?’ He would never call her Lane, you know. He didn’t even want to be that familiar with her.”

  “What did Lane say to that?” Auntie Lil asked.

  “She got all stiff and offended and said something like, ‘I have no idea what you’re implying, Mister Morgan. No idea at all.’ Then she huffed off. I would have felt sorry for her except for the nasty things she said about me. She was making fun of me, her only real friend, just to try to look better for some sleazy, oily agent from Los Angeles who was getting fat and wearing too much gold jewelry. And then she expected me to be loyal and follow her every command—even after I told her I had heard everything!”

  Auntie Lil recalled the conversation she had overheard between Ruth and Lane at Lincoln Center. “You were at the meeting yesterday, weren’t you?” she asked Ruth. “When Lane tried to vote me off the board?”

  “How did you know about that?” Ruth asked. Her plate of food arrived and she dug in with gusto. Two and a half beers had stripped her of all assumed defenses and she was acting like a young girl.

  “I have my sources,” Auntie Lil said.

  “I didn’t think it was fair and I told her so,” Ruth said angrily. “She wants to ruin other people’s lives just because she hates her own. But it didn’t matter in the end. The board voted to keep you on. No one knew if you had anything to do with that Reverend Hampton mess. Most of the people said that without any proof, it was silly to even call a vote. Boy, was Lane mad. She wanted to replace you on the board with someone else.”

  “Who?” Auntie Lil asked curiously.

  “Emili Vladimir,” Ruth explained. “She’s Rudy Vladimir’s mother.”

  “Emili Vladimir?” Auntie Lil repeated. “It seemed to me that Lane didn’t like her when she interrupted the board meeting the other day.”

  “That was before Lane found out that Emili had been a famous ballerina in Russia,” Ruth explained. “They’d never met before. Now that Lane knows who Emili was, she wants to suck up to her. Which shows you how little Lane really knows about ballet. If she knew anything at all, she would have known who Emili was from the start.”

  “When did she come up with the idea to replace me with Emili Vladimir?” Auntie Lil asked.

  “She said something like it would be better to have Emili as a friend than as an enemy. I was sort of surprised that Emili even wanted a seat on the board. I thought she was too busy with the Freedom Ballet Company to care about us.”

  “Freedom?” Auntie Lil asked. “I’ve seen them at the Joyce Dance Theater. But they border on modern dance. Emili Vladimir is associated with them?”

  Ruth nodded. “She helped found it about six years ago, but she mostly choreographs and teache
s. She doesn’t like the limelight. It was sort of a big deal, that the great Emili Vladimir would turn her back on classical ballet. One of those nuances dance people get all excited about. Hey, these are pretty good.” Ruth gobbled down two more fried plantains.

  Auntie Lil watched in alarm, wondering if she would have to order another plate to satisfy her own preferred quota. “I think I donate money to Freedom,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Sounds like you donate money to everything,” Ruth observed. “That’s another reason they wouldn’t throw you off the board.”

  “Money can be useful,” Auntie Lil admitted. “Very useful, indeed.”

  If Ruth had needed help returning to her office, Auntie Lil might have gone straight home to ponder the inner workings of Lane Rogers’s weaselly mind. But since Ruth slammed the cab door shut and zoomed away in that singularly intent manner of drunks trying very hard to appear sober, Auntie Lil was left with most of the afternoon still at her disposal. What better way to spend it than taking a nice stroll up Hudson Avenue, which just happened to turn into Eighth Avenue, which, in turn, just happened to take Auntie Lil right by the Joyce Dance Theater? The woman at the box office knew her well, since it could be argued that Auntie Lil paid her salary in a roundabout fashion. She directed Auntie Lil to a rehearsal space in a warehouse building on Twentieth Street. She would probably find Emili Vladimir there.

  Many people have tried to articulate the difference between classical ballet and modern dance over the years, particularly the exact categorization of modern ballet—which often seemed neither here nor there. But Auntie Lil had no problem defining what set one apart from the other: it was the attitude. And it was a relaxed attitude that greeted her when she stepped out of the groaning freight elevator onto the main floor of the Freedom Ballet Company’s headquarters. The Metropolitan Ballet would never have tolerated the heaps of gym bags stacked in one corner, or the group of huddled dancers sitting cross-legged near the window, chatting while others worked out. Nor would the Metro ever have allowed the thumping bass beat that filled the room to contaminate its speakers.