Part 8 (1/2)
Ben Hampton looked at Auntie Lil in keen admiration. ”I couldn't have come up with a better solution myself.”
CHAPTER SEVEN.
T.S. had one big concern about Auntie Lil's visit with Reverend Hampton. ”Do you believe him?” he asked. They were sitting in a coffee shop near Lincoln Center, discussing their next move. T.S. had been surprisingly calm about foundation money going to help Hampton. The truth was, he had never wanted the money in first place and so didn't care where it went.
Auntie Lil nodded. ”Why would Ben Hampton jeopardize his career by killing Morgan? Fatima Jones is just one cause in a long line of causes. Unless a better motive comes up, I don't think he's our man. I'd like to go over to the Metro this afternoon and question some other people. Feel up to the trip?”
T.S. calculated his schedule for the day. He was supposed to meet Herbert at four o'clock to learn the fox trot and after that both he and Auntie Lil were meeting with Gene Levitt, the producer who had lost millions when Mikey Morgan backed out of his movie contract. Auntie Lil had arranged the meeting with her usual tact: she had called up and demanded it. If T.S. could come up with a plausible cover story to get away for a few hours for the dance lesson with Herbert, he might be able to pull it off.
”Well, do you?” Auntie Lil demanded. ”I can hear your wheels turning, Theodore.”
”I can do it,” T.S. said quickly. ”But will anyone be there?”
Auntie Lil nodded. ”They have cla.s.ses and rehearsals all afternoon. We'll be able to find someone.”
The first someone they found turned out to be Lisette Martinez, wife of the Metro's artistic director and long its prima ballerina. She was a self-conscious exotic beauty as she sat in the suns.h.i.+ne on outside steps near a side door to the theater, smoking a forbidden cigarette. She was wearing rust-colored leotards and a black sweats.h.i.+rt. Her legs were wound with strips of white cloth as if she were a Thoroughbred preparing for a race. Her hair whipped loosely in the wind. She was in her mid-thirties, but the physical toll of her profession had aged her beyond her years. Up close, her lack of body fat accentuated every wrinkle.
Auntie Lil perched on the steps below her and smiled. T.S. hovered behind his aunt. Lisette stared at the two of them without expression, her eyes flat and dark. She took a long drag of her cigarette and looked up at the sky.
”Should you be smoking?” Auntie Lil asked, trying to establish rapport.
”Who are you? My mother?” The ballerina blew a smoke ring that was instantly dispersed by the breeze.
”No. I'm a member of the Metro's board, looking into the recent death of Bobby Morgan.”
The dancer's eyes flickered. ”Raoul told me about you. So did Lane Rogers. She doesn't want me to talk to you. Which means that I will.” She stretched her legs in the sunlight and admired them, flexing them with feline grace. ”Who's he?” she asked, nodding at T.S. as she cataloged his charms.
”My nephew Theodore.”
The ballerina raised her eyebrows at T.S. in amus.e.m.e.nt, but he was too besotted to notice. She was a little haughty for his usual tastes, but Lisette Martinez had something all right. Fire seemed to flash from her eyes, her lips were incredibly expressive, and she had a way of holding her head and abandoning her hair to the wind that made T.S. think of silky strands spread across a bed pillow. She represented all things forbidden and exotic-and he was fascinated by her.
”We're here to ask questions in an official capacity,” Auntie Lil explained.
”Raoul will be thrilled,” the ballerina said, her sarcasm elegant in its subtlety. ”He's rehearsing the brats inside. Parents keep pulling their kids from the show so he's helping Pork Chop Puccinni train the new beasts.”
T.S. ignored the appropriate but nasty reference to the Metro's ballet master. ”The parents are afraid their children are in danger?” he asked.
Lisette smiled enigmatically. ”They are in danger. I've thought of killing a few of them myself over this past week.”
”Did you know Bobby Morgan?” Auntie Lil asked, watching in disapproval as Lisette lit up a fresh cigarette.
”Sure, I knew the late great Bobby Morgan. He put the moves on me pretty hard when we met about six weeks ago.”
”Put the moves on you?” Auntie Lil asked.
”He's the type,” Lisette explained. ”I was the most famous woman in the room. He had a biological urge to impress me.”
”What form did his efforts take?” Auntie Lil asked.
”Ambus.h.i.+ng me in the hall between cla.s.ses. Asking me to lunch. As if I ever eat. Bringing me flowers. Cheap ones. Telling me how much money he made. The usual.”
”Wasn't your husband offended?” T.S. asked.
”Raoul wouldn't have noticed if we'd fallen on him from the rafters,” she said. ”Which, come to think of it, Bobby almost did.” She took another deep drag of her cigarette. ”Raoul is not exactly Old Faithful, if you know what I mean. He's too busy to care what I do.”
”Yes, but...” Auntie Lil began. Her voice trailed off. She was routinely tactless, but not even she could decide how to charge in on what was a very delicate topic.
”My aunt is inquiring about all the press stories,” T.S. explained, correctly guessing Auntie Lil's thoughts. ”We often read that your husband has a jealous temperament.”
”That's just show,” she explained. ”Good publicity. Supports his reputation as a fiery artist. Raoul could care less who I see or what I do with them when I see them.” A strand of hair blew into her mouth and clung to one side of her generously made-up lips. T.S. watched in fascination as Lisette carefully picked the hairs free with a long fingernail.
Auntie Lil didn't know who she wanted to slap more: Lisette or Raoul Martinez. In fact, she became so lost in a fantasy about the lecture she would give them both that T.S. had to take over the questioning.
”How did Morgan act when you rebuffed him?” he asked.
Lisette shrugged. ”He didn't care. By that time, there were a dozen younger dancers hanging on him. Gold chains and lots of money look good when you're too young to know better.” She glanced at her watch. ”I have to get back in.”
The door behind her opened abruptly and Raoul Martinez stuck his leonine head outside. The sunlight momentarily blinded him, but when his eyes focused on his wife-and the cigarette dangling from her fingertips-his face flushed in rage. ”How many times must I tell you!” he roared. He burst through the door, s.n.a.t.c.hed the b.u.t.t from her hand, and ground it out beneath his foot. ”You must conserve every ounce of your energy,” he thundered. ”Why will you not listen to me? Do you want to continue to be a star or are you going to give it up for the sake of this poison?” Lisette sat calmly throughout the tirade, but both Auntie Lil and T.S. inched as far away from the bellowing artistic director as possible.
”Who are you?” Martinez demanded, staring at T.S.
”My nephew,” Auntie Lil said, wedging herself between the two men. ”He is helping me with my inquiries.”
”And who are you?” Martinez demanded of Auntie Lil, his anger blinding him nearly as much as the bright sunlight.
”A board member,” she said indignantly. ”Good heavens, I sit next to you every month.”
Martinez peered at Auntie Lil, his eyes blinking in the bright sunlight. ”Oh, yes. So you are. But don't bother my wife. She has work to do.”
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 a.s.s, T.S. complied and was acutely embarra.s.sed 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.