A Motive for Murder Page 7

  Paulette glared at him.

  “What?” Auntie Lil demanded.

  “Jerry is under the misconception that I am jealous of Rudy’s mother,” Paulette said coolly. “That was all many years ago.”

  “Hah!” Jerry demolished his fried flounder with unrestrained glee, spreading half an inch of tartar sauce on top of it first.

  “How do you know her?” Auntie Lil asked, hoping to get at the truth somehow.

  “She defected to the States in the late seventies when the Kirov Ballet was touring Canada,” Jerry explained helpfully, ignoring his companion’s warning stare. “Baryshnikov did the same thing. She didn’t make such a big splash, of course. She wasn’t that big of a star. But she did manage to displace a few well-known American dancers when Balanchine took her under his wing.”

  “Because he was infatuated with her!” Paulette spit out. “It was always the same story with him.”

  In other words, Auntie Lil surmised, Paulette Puccinni’s legendary tiff with Balanchine had probably been over his decision to replace her in some role with a relatively unknown Russian ballerina named Emili Vladimir.

  “What happened to her?” Auntie Lil asked. “Why haven’t we heard more about her?”

  Jerry shrugged. “She was a purist about the Kirov’s ballet techniques. Refused to adapt to ABT’s quicker style. Opened her own school downtown. After she had the kid.”

  “The kid?” Auntie Lil said.

  “Rudy,” Paulette explained. “She was pregnant when she defected.” She smiled in remembered satisfaction. “Old George only got a few months’ worth of dancing out of her. After the baby, she drifted into modern dance. One of those.”

  “Her husband’s death may have had something to do with it,” Jerry added. “He was supposed to join them here in America. I don’t know what happened.” He shrugged. “He got killed by the KGB or disappeared into Siberia or something. He was a dancer, too. Some people say she never had the heart to dance a pas de deux after he died.”

  “Romantic nonsense,” Paulette countered. “Having a baby rained her body, that’s all.”

  Auntie Lil fervently hoped that Herbert was listening carefully. These two collected grudges the way other people collected stamps. “But you didn’t actually see anyone suspicious or anything odd the night Morgan was killed?” Auntie Lil asked. “Nothing that could help us?”

  “I wasn’t even there,” Jerry said. “I prefer playing at rehearsal rather than performances.” In other words, he had not been chosen as principal pianist for this run of The Nutcracker.

  “I was too busy trying to supervise all those damn children,” Paulette said with a sigh. “I don’t know what possessed Raoul this time around. I didn’t have time to see anything. Besides, Morgan was on the opposite side of the stage from me. Not many dancers are on that side at that point in the performance. Most have just exited stage left. There are just a handful of technical crew stage right, actually, at the Act One break.”

  “If you talk to the tech staff, be careful,” Jerry offered. He pantomimed taking a slug from an imaginary bottle. “If you know what I mean.”

  Auntie Lil stared first at him and then Paulette. “No, I do not know what you mean,” she said firmly.

  “They drink,” Paulette explained. “Our tech crew is wetter than the Mississippi. Someone could have dissected Morgan under their noses and they wouldn’t have noticed unless the killer called for a spotlight first. Too busy trying to hit their cues while under the influence.”

  “They incriminated everyone but Mother Teresa,” Auntie Lil explained when she reached T.S. by phone an hour later. And that’s only because she was in Calcutta the night Bobby Morgan was killed.”

  “I am sorry I missed seeing you in tights,” T.S. told her. “You said exercise class, not ballet.”

  “Same thing,” she said, changing the subject. “Meet me and Herbert in midtown. I need your help.”

  “Where?” T.S. had spent the last few days reviewing back issues of Sports Illustrated and was no closer to understanding America’s fascination with sports than he had been to under–standing downtown’s fascination with modern dance. He was getting bored and ready to toss prudence to the winds. He suspected Auntie Lil was out somewhere in New York City having fun and now he wanted a piece of the action.

  “Meet me and Herbert at the Museum of Radio and Television Broadcasting,” she said. “We’re going to take a trip down Memory Lane.”

  “Thank you for coming. There are over one hundred episodes of Mike and Me,” Auntie Lil explained. “I can’t possibly watch them all.”

  “Why are we watching them in the first place?” T.S. asked, rather sensibly, he thought.

  “I can’t quite explain it,” Auntie Lil admitted. They were waiting at the counter of the museum’s archives while the clerk located the requested tapes. “It’s the way Morgan was pushed center stage after being killed. It was such a mocking gesture. I thought perhaps we might get a clue to his character if we looked at the tapes.”

  “If you want a clue to Bobby Morgan’s character,” T.S. said, “consider the fact that he named his son after his own fictional character. I think that’s creepy. Think of the pressure that went with the name.”

  “Yes,” Auntie Lil agreed. “That’s why everything begins with this. It formed the basis for Bobby Morgan’s personality for the rest of his life. Besides, I don’t know what else to do. We can’t question anyone at the Metro today. There’s no one there.”

  T.S. nodded agreeably. This would be better than football, at any rate. “Talked to Lilah about the murder?” he asked casually.

  “No, dear. I told you, she’s been busy in meetings.”

  The old familiar doubt gnawed at the edge of his stomach. How could one person have so many meetings? Was she avoiding him? He looked up to find Herbert watching him quietly, as if he could read his mind.

  “I have a plan,” he whispered to T.S. “I will tell you later.”

  T.S. nodded, mystified.

  “Here you go—six years of Mike and Me. Enjoy.” The clerk pushed a stack of videotapes over the counter and nodded to a bank of carrels against one wall, each equipped with a combination television and VCR. Auntie Lil divided the stack and they headed off to review their assigned episodes.

  Compared to his son, Bobby Morgan had been an unlikely-looking child star. Part of this may have been due to his career’s time period. The early seventies had been an odd time for American style. In episode after episode, Bobby Morgan had been plagued alternately with a shag haircut, bushy Afro, improbable sideburns, and, finally, a disco do that made him look positively ludicrous. His clothes were even less attractive, though no different from his cast mates’: bell bottoms, tight knit shirts, circus stripes, suspenders, floppy hats, and platform shoes. But not all of his awkward appearance could be attributed to the costuming. Bobby Morgan had evolved undeniably from an appealing child in the very early episodes into a gawky, acne-plagued teenager desperately trying to be cute by the final shows. It was easy to see why his popularity had faded. It was even possible to feel sorry for him and to sympathize with his attempts to relive his child-star days through his son.

  The plots were no different from those offered by more modern sitcoms. Bobby Morgan’s character had been called Mike, the later inspiration for his real son’s name. The fictional Mike lived in a modest middle-class home in Brooklyn with his Irish-butcher father, ditzy Italian mother, bullying older brother, and adorable little sister. Each week the show was told from a different character’s viewpoint, using a voice-over technique to explore that character’s relationship with Mike. Most of the shows revolved around Mike’s propensity to get into trouble: Mike tying his scoutmaster to a chair while trying out knots during a Boy Scout meeting then accidentally locking him in a closet as a fire broke out; Mike sneaking into the circus because he had no money for a ticket and inadvertently being swept into center ring with the clowns during a routine; Mike pretending to drive h
is family’s parked car and releasing the parking brake, triggering a preposterous ride downhill through what seemed to be nearly all of Brooklyn.

  Everyone watching the well-preserved tapes had different reactions to these situations. Auntie Lil was irritated by the canned laughter and renewed her vow never to watch television. T.S. was annoyed by the precociousness of all the child actors and embarrassed because he had actually dressed in pants approaching bell-bottoms during those same years. Herbert was scientific about his observations and scrutinized the interplay between the fictional family members in an attempt to pick up clues about Bobby Morgan’s real personality. In the end, no one had the stomach even to contemplate watching all of the episodes in order.

  They fast-forwarded through many of them and, after four hours of nonstop watching, finally threw in the towel.

  “Anything interesting?” T.S. asked, bleary-eyed, as they rode the elevator down to Broadway.

  “The actor who played his older brother on the show looks familiar,” Herbert offered. “Andrew Perkins. Did he go on to movies?”

  T.S. shook his head. “I didn’t recognize him.”

  “I did,” Auntie Lil agreed. “He must have grown up to be someone.”

  “Unlike Bobby Morgan,” T.S. offered.

  Auntie Lil nodded in agreement. “His son looks nothing at all like him,” she said. “The boy must take after his mother.”

  “Good point,” T.S. said. “And where is his mother anyway?”

  “The funeral is Wednesday,” Auntie Lil explained. “She’ll be there with her children, I am sure.”

  “That’s a whole day and a half away,” T.S. joked. “What are you going to do until then?”

  “Go see Myron Silverstein,” Auntie Lil said promptly.

  “Who is Myron Silverstein?” T.S. asked, knowing he was taking the bait.

  “Bobby Morgan’s old agent,” Auntie Lil explained. “The one who got him the job on that wretched show. While you were fast-forwarding, I was reading the credits. I am not content to let bygones be bygones just yet.”

  5

  The next morning, Auntie Lil could rouse neither Theodore nor Herbert by telephone, a most unusual situation that triggered a suspicion that they were up to something. But she pushed this thought aside in favor of finding Bobby Morgan’s former agent. Six phone calls later, she located the right Myron Silverstein. His office was on Fifty-seventh Street around the corner from the Stage Deli.

  The address sounded better than it looked. Myron Silverstein may have made a fortune off Bobby Morgan in his gravy days, but he was coping with hard times now. His office was barely bigger than a pantry and smelled of bourbon and kitty litter.

  Silverstein was only slightly more uplifting. He was a pudgy man, well into his sixties, with the desperately weary air of someone who has not yet begun to save for retirement—or even his quarterly estimated tax payments. His few remaining strands of gray hair were combed across his mottled scalp in an ineffectual attempt to hide widespread baldness. He wore a blue suit and a green tie that featured an embroidered version of a moth-eaten Oscar statuette. The top of the statue’s head was ragged where he had rubbed it. Small threads of gold sprouted from its scalp like a cowlick, making the icon look more like Alfalfa than Oscar.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked Auntie Lil in a gravelly voice, eyeing her as if she were an actress at an audition. “I handle mostly kids, you know.”

  She carefully averted her eyes from a mangled cigar that poked from the ashtray like an enormous leech. “I understand you used to handle Bobby Morgan,” she said, after explaining who she was and why she was there.

  “That was a long time ago,” Silverstein explained. “He was my last big meal ticket, if it isn’t obvious from this dump I’m in.”

  “It’s very cozy,” Auntie Lil said, fooling neither one of them with her bravado. “You heard the details about his murder?”

  The old man nodded. “Sure. Didn’t everyone? Talk about going out in style. Sad ending, to what would have been an entire sad story. Except for all the money he made off his kid, of course. Would have liked to have had a piece of that action.” He fiddled despondently with a pencil, daydreaming of far more successful days.

  “How long were you his agent, Mr. Silverstein?”

  His face scrunched into a ball, as if the concentration required to think that far back in time was excruciating. “About four years,” he finally said. “I discovered him back in 1969, in some crappy production the Metro was giving. We found a lot of our kids in the performing arts in those days. It’s still a good training ground for a professional career, though the parents don’t have the patience to let their kids wait that long anymore. They drag them in my office at two years old these days. Can’t talk, can’t read, can’t hardly walk, but they’re gonna be a star. At least the parents think so.” He shook his head in disgust. “Bobby Morgan wasn’t as good-looking as your typical kid star, but he had confidence. Plus it turned out that he could learn lines just by looking at them. He had a photographic memory—the real thing. Amazing, really. He didn’t get the part right away though. Almost lost it to another kid. But in the end, they gave him the part because he was could learn lines faster and was easier to work with plus they decided the other kid was too old. Wrote the other kid in as the older brother instead.”

  “That was Andrew Perkins?” Auntie Lil asked.

  Silverstein nodded. “Yeah. Came out of the Metro School, too. I tried to sign him along with Bobby, but that bastard Cy Cohen beat me to it. He’d represented the kid in some minor roles. I lost out again about four years later when Morgan wouldn’t renew his contract with me. His parents decided to manage him themselves. Spent all his money, is what I heard. By the time the kid left the show, he didn’t have much left. Enough to get through college is all. Violated the law, but what are you going to do? Throw your own parents in jail? They died a couple years later anyway. Car wreck.”

  “Yet Bobby Morgan turned around and did the same thing to his own son,” Auntie Lil pointed out. “When he took over managing his career.”

  Myron Silverstein stared at her. “I definitely would not say that Bobby Morgan did the same thing. His parents may have robbed him blind, but Bobby Morgan was a great agent for his kid. Listen, I know what they say in the press. That Morgan was greedy, that he was reliving his career through Mikey, that he was a real ...uh, backbreaker. Producers hated him. Directors hated him. Everyone hated him. That’s mostly true. But he was a damn fine agent and a smart manager of his kid’s career. Mikey Morgan gets more per picture than any other child star in the history of Tinseltown. And why shouldn’t he? He’s a living, breathing gold mine for the studios. If his father hadn’t been related to him or been labeled a failed child star himself, people would be singing his praises and lining up to be his other clients. I can’t fault Bobby professionally.” As he leaned forward and examined the cigar, Auntie Lil fervently hoped that he would not actually put the soggy lump in his mouth. “He was pretty good as a kid actor, too,” Silverstein added. “He made that sitcom stand out from the other crap on television. It’s a shame he grew up to be so awkward, but that happens, you know. All part of the business.”

  “How did he take it when the sitcom got dropped?” Auntie Lil asked. “It was a long time ago, but it could be relevant to his murder.”

  Silverstein shrugged. “Not good. He knew his acting days were over. Hollywood and television can be pretty cruel to kids, even the stars, when they outgrow their cuteness. But Bobby knew it was coming. Same thing had happened to Perkins, the kid who played his older brother. He’d been written out of the show a couple years before. And the same thing happened to the girl who played his little sister once the show was canned. She made one unsuccessful movie before she developed these huge kazankas for her age. And her career as a kid actor was over.”

  “Do you know what he did between the time his show was dropped and he became known as his son’s manager?” Auntie Lil asked.
The missing pieces of Bobby Morgan’s life intrigued her. She wondered if the clue to his murder lay somewhere in those forgotten years.

  Silverstein shook his head. “Not really. Lived in California for a while, I heard. Married a girl when he was too young. Didn’t work out. Tried to get some acting jobs. No dice. Tried producing. Tubed out. Married again. That broke up a couple of years ago. Every now and then he’d call the kid who played his little sister and touch base. I tried for years to get her another acting job and she’d always let me know about it whenever she heard from Bobby.”

  “What about Perkins? Did they keep in touch?”

  The agent shrugged. “Doubt it. They didn’t get along. Perkins never got over not getting the lead.”

  “Does he live in California now, too?”

  Silverstein shook his head. “Naw. I think he lives here in New York somewhere. Heard he became a broker or a banker or some sort of Wall Street exec. He got married and divorced same as Morgan. No surprise there. Professional casualties, that’s what I call old child stars. Life never gets easier once you’re done as a celebrity. Marriages fail, people forget you, they get angry that you’ve changed, dreams die out…” His voice trailed off sadly and Auntie Lil was struck by what seemed to be genuine compassion in his voice for his former clients. “Some of ‘em can’t take it. They end it early, know what I mean?”

  Auntie Lil nodded, though she felt strongly that Bobby Morgan had not hanged himself in the middle of a performance of The Nutcracker although, god knows, she’d had the impulse a few times herself. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Bobby Morgan?” she asked Silverstein.

  His mouth dropped open again. “You’re kidding, right? Because that particular A list would be a long one. Start with the heads of all three major studios, throw in a couple of producers, a financial jerk or two.” He stopped and raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. “But you might look into a guy named Gene Levitt. Morgan pulled his kid from a movie Levitt was making after the contracts had been signed. This was about two months ago. Without Mikey Morgan, Levitt lost his backing. And his shirt. Word is that his company is going under. He lost millions in preproduction expenses because of Morgan. I’d say that’s a pretty damn good motive for murder.”