Free Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) by Annette Meyers Page A

the noise from the legendary composer’s piano. “You should join me now that you’re going through the blood rite of investing in a musical.”
    “Oh, puh -lease” Smith tugged at her arm. “You’re making a fool of yourself, and of me. What if he came out and saw you?”
    “He’d love it.”
    “Well, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to be here to find out.” She steered Wetzon across Second Avenue and back to their office.
    It was two-thirty. Max had worked his half-day and was gone. Three neat stacks of suspect sheets sat on his desk. Wetzon hung up her coat and collected the stack labeled Wetzon—Priority.
    B.B., who was on the phone, waved. The blinking button indicated someone was on hold. Wetzon went into the office she and Smith shared and set Max’s priorities on her desk next to the four phone messages on pink slips. One was from Laura Lee. And Alton. He’d be home Saturday morning and would call her then. If things went as planned, she would be in Boston on Saturday for Carlos’s opening. She had told Alton weeks ago and he’d forgotten.
    Wetzon picked up the phone and released the hold button. “Hi, this is Leslie Wetzon. May I help you?”
    “I ... oh ... Leslie? Oh, Birdie?” It was not Carlos but the voice was familiar.
    “Yes?” She straightened out her date book and plucked a pen from the pressed-glass spooner she kept pens and pencils in.
    “Hi, this is Phil? You know, Phil Terrace? From Hotshot?” Everything he said ended with a question. It was disconcerting. “Carlos wanted me to find out if you can meet him at five?”
    “Where?” She had told Susan Cohen, or Susan Orkin, as she called herself now, they could meet at six o’clock. That didn’t leave her much time.
    “The Polish Tea Room.”
    The Polish Tea Room was really the coffee shop of the Edison Hotel on Forty-seventh Street in the Theatre District. It had, over a decade ago, been dubbed the Polish Tea Room because the chef was Polish. “I’ve got a six o’clock, Phil. Do you think he can make it four-thirty? Is he rehearsing?”
    “We loaded out this morning. Carlos just wanted a couple of hours with the company and they’re finishing up now. I think four-thirty will be all right. I’ll call back if it’s not.”
    “Are you taking over as production stage manager, Phil?”
    “Temporarily, at least. I don’t know what Mort’s plans are.” Phil seemed slightly less tentative. He’d stopped ending sentences with questions. “I know the show backward and forward.”
    “Well, good luck then, and I’ll see you in Boston. I’m coming up for Friday’s preview and will stay through the opening on Saturday. Unless that’s changed.”
    “No. We’re right on schedule. I’ll tell Carlos four-thirty. Ciao.” He definitely sounded more confident. Knowing Mort, Phil would become production stage manager, and life, for Hotshot , would go on without a ripple.
    Wetzon sat down at her desk. Dilla’s death had left her on the verge of melancholy, and she had not even liked Dilla. A frisson of her pain and fear of the previous night intruded. She pushed it away.
    “I can’t get over Twoey,” Smith said casually to Wetzon’s back.
    Now what was Smith up to? “I give up. Tell me.”
    “Well, he just doesn’t seem like the same person.”
    Wetzon turned and looked at her partner. “There is life after Xenia Smith, you know.”
    “Very funny. That’s not what I meant at all.”
    “I’m sorry. What did you mean?” Wetzon’s voice dripped with sweetness.
    “Humpf.” Smith lowered her lids partway to see if Wetzon was mocking her, but Wetzon gave good cipher. “I just never knew he wanted to be a Broadway producer, or even that he had any interest in the arts.”
    “If you weren’t so wrapped up in yourself and the wonderful Richard Hartmann, mouthpiece for the Mob, and money launderer par excellence, you might have seen that Mark and Twoey both are interested in the Theatre.” One day soon, Wetzon