Part 15 (1/2)
”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 a.s.sociated with them?”
Ruth nodded. ”She helped found it about six years ago, but she mostly ch.o.r.eographs and teaches. She doesn't like the limelight. It was sort of a big deal, that the great Emili Vladimir would turn her back on cla.s.sical 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 fas.h.i.+on. She directed Auntie Lil to a rehearsal s.p.a.ce in a warehouse building on Twentieth Street. She would probably find Emili Vladimir there.
Many people have tried to articulate the difference between cla.s.sical 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 att.i.tude. And it was a relaxed att.i.tude 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 ba.s.s beat that filled the room to contaminate its speakers.
Emili Vladimir stood in the center of the immense floor. She was dressed in plain black leotards, legs bent out to the side and pelvis thrust forward as she instructed a muscular black male dancer on the proper technique to use when flinging his redheaded partner high into the air. Unlike ballet, which allowed for only the most carefully prescribed movements, Emili's brand of ch.o.r.eography apparently called for wild twirling and an abandoned tossing of the female into the air by her partner. Each time the dancers rehea.r.s.ed their series of steps, it looked-and felt-quite different from the time before. This immediacy was one reason why Auntie Lil preferred the more spontaneous modern style to cla.s.sical ballet.
After about fifteen minutes of practice, the pair had the athletics down to perfection and retired to a far corner of the room to practice timing and ancillary gestures. Emili Vladimir watched them go, then ran a hand through her wavy hair and retied it loosely with a scarf. She was drenched in sweat but still breathing easily.
”Natasha!” she called out, snapping her fingers sharply. ”Bruce, Marianne, Ralph, Trevor, and Sylvia: start from the top of the second movement. All the way through. Watch the pacing. You're dragging. Remember the half beat.” She clapped her hands to ill.u.s.trate as dancers obediently scurried into position and the music segued into a New Age conglomeration of waterfall-and-bell sounds. Satisfied with their initial efforts, Emili turned her back on her dancers and strode toward Auntie Lil with confident grace.
”How do you do, Miss Hubbert,” she said, extending a hand. It was dry and cool, despite her recent exertion. ”How can I help you today?”
”You remember my name,” Auntie Lil said.
”I remember everyone's name,” Emili answered, managing to make it sound somewhat ominous. ”Habit.” She had a mournful voice that dragged at the ends of words, imparting all she said with an air of regret.
”Are you aware of my role in looking into Bobby Morgan's death?” Auntie Lil asked.
”Yes, of course I am,” Emili answered, guiding Auntie Lil to an empty corner of the floor where they could not be overheard. ”You're dragging, Bruce!” she shouted across the room, and a tall dancer with thinning hair instantly picked up the pace of his rapidly pattering feet in response.
”So you are aware of what I am attempting to do?” Auntie Lil asked.
Emili picked up a towel that was draped over a heating pipe and wiped the sweat from her neck and shoulders. ”Let's not beat around the bush, as you Americans say,” she said slowly. ”You and I both know that the board must find his killer or the Metro will be finished.”
”You'd make a skilled board member,” Auntie Lil murmured, hoping to learn more about Lane's attempt to put Emili on the board.
”Perhaps. I have my doubts, however, as to whether I'd want a seat on the board. I have had enough politics to last a lifetime.”
”But would you truly be effective on the board?” Auntie Lil wondered aloud, hoping to provoke a reaction. ”I have heard that you and Paulette Puccinni are enemies. And she is the ballet mistress after all.”
Emili sighed. ”I am not her enemy. I am her excuse. She gave up a good, perhaps great, career to indulge a broken heart and a wounded ego. She blames me for her break with the American Ballet Theater. I had nothing to do with it. I have no emotion toward her except for pity. If she needs to blame me, so be it. Perhaps she could not live with herself knowing that she did not have the courage it takes to continue performing when your body begins to grow old. I could tell you much sadder stories than hers.”
Auntie Lil suspected that this last statement was an offer to digress and refused to take the bait. She had visited Russia in the early fifties on a fur-buying mission and had learned to spot the Russian tendency of laying a trail of red herrings as a way to deflect unwanted attention from personal topics. ”Did you know Bobby Morgan?” she asked instead.
Emili froze, the towel extended like wings on either side of her shoulders. She stared at Auntie Lil. ”Of course I knew who he was,” she finally answered. ”He was the man responsible for blocking my Rudy from dancing the parts he deserved. Fortunately, talent triumphed.”
”Did you ever talk to him?” Auntie Lil asked.
”I am in the habit of knowing my enemies,” Emili replied. ”Not consorting with them.”
”Did he ever speak to you?” Auntie Lil persisted.
”I do not recall,” Emili said. ”If so, I have forgotten.” She raised her eyebrows at Auntie Lil. ”Your method of questioning is rather reminiscent of the KGB. You make me feel quite guilty and here I have done nothing to arouse suspicion.”
In truth, she had not. But Auntie Lil could not shake the feeling that Emili was the key to some part of the mystery. Perhaps it was only her bearing, her obvious mistrust of others, or more simply, her foreign accent. It was nothing she could articulate, but she wanted to know more about the woman.
”You think I had something to do with his death,” Emili stated. ”Which proves you do not understand me at all. Come home with me tonight. I will show you something. And then you will understand.”
”Home with you?” Auntie Lil asked.
”Yes. Have you ever been to Brighton Beach? I will feed you stuffed cabbage. You can spend time with Rudy. And I will show you something that will prove that I could not have partic.i.p.ated in the death of another human being.” She turned her back on Auntie Lil to gauge her dancers' progress.
Auntie Lil thought the invitation over. It was singularly foolish to go rus.h.i.+ng off in the middle of a murder investigation to an unknown abode. Herbert and T.S. would be frantic with worry, she hoped. It would serve them right for abandoning her just when she needed them the most. Besides, she adored stuffed cabbage and she hadn't lived life to its fullest for more than eighty years by being timid.
”I'd love to come,” she said.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
Waiting for a phone call was juvenile, but sometimes it worked. Besides, it gave T.S. the opportunity to reach his friend Victor in the personnel department of Salomon Brothers. But despite their long friends.h.i.+p, Victor was evasive. Andrew Perkins had not exactly quit voluntarily, but then he hadn't been fired either. In these days of lawsuits on every corner, it was the best T.S. would be able to get out of his former colleague.
”You're not thinking of hiring him, are you?” Victor asked. ”I thought you were retired?”
”I am,” T.S. admitted. ”I'm just checking his references for some volunteer work with the Metropolitan Ballet.” That much was true, at least.
There was a silence on the other end of the phone and T.S. could feel his friend's professional facade cracking. ”Well, he's honest,” Victor finally said. ”But he probably wouldn't perform well under a lot of pressure. He had trouble coping with everyday stress during his final months here on the job.”
T.S. thanked his friend and hung up grateful that he had left the fast-paced world of investment markets and changing fortunes far behind. A translation of Victor's words from personnel lingo pointed to a probability that Andrew Perkins had suffered a nervous breakdown. He would not have been the first superstar bond salesman to have bailed from a gut-wrenching career in such a fas.h.i.+on.
When the phone rang around three, T.S. knew instantly that it was Lilah. Despite his inexperience with matters romantic, he had learned in the past few months to trust those unfamiliar tingles that his heart produced long before his brain kicked in.
”Theodore? I can't believe I got you in person.” Her voice caused a pleasant flame to ignite in his belly. He grinned idiotically at his cats.
”I've had the machine on for days,” T.S. admitted. ”That business with Reverend Hampton has the board up in arms. Everyone has been calling here looking for Auntie Lil.”
”Did she have anything to do with it?” Lilah asked.
”Of course she did. But she says it's all a misunderstanding. Where have you been?” He had not intended to be so direct, but her voice, full of delight at talking to him, gave him courage.
”Very busy,” Lilah said. ”I can't tell you the details right now. I'm sorry I'm being so mysterious. It's business and it wouldn't be ethical to talk about things before they're completed. Please forgive me. One day I will explain.”
T.S. was the king of keeping private matters close to his chest. But that didn't make him any less annoyed when others tried the same trick. ”Agreed,” he said with false cheerfulness. ”Will this keep us apart forever?”
”It better not!” Her laugh was rich. ”In fact, I was calling to see if you wanted to meet me for dinner tonight. Just you and me. It will have to be midtown, I'm afraid. I have a meeting with my lawyers before then.”