“Then who was the other dancer?” Sigrid asked bluntly. “Which one of them wanted her dead? And why?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t
know!"
cried the young woman and her shaky composure dissolved into choked sobs.
Dismayed, Sigrid looked at her two assistants for help.
“I’ll get her a glass of water,” said Peters, cravenly fleeing for the door while Elaine Albee offered more tissues and soothing words.
The young woman was obviously too shattered to answer further questions at the moment, so Sigrid nodded when Albee suggested that they continue with Ulrike Innes another time.
Detective Cluett returned with Peters and as they escorted Innes from the office, Sigrid decided she could use an emotional break and called, “Send in Dr.-what was her name? Dr. Ferrell?”
Cluett paused in the doorway. “Oh, she left a halfhour ago, Lieutenant. Said she’d catch you later.”
Resigned, Sigrid rubbed her aching arm and said, “Very well. Let's have Helen Delgado, then.”
Chapter 7
Out in the auditorium, as the number of witnesses awaiting their turn to be questioned dwindled and the temperature became increasingly chilly, Roman Tramegra decided there was really no reason he should continue to sit alone on a hard cold pew, especially as he fancied there was warmth and company to be had elsewhere in the theater. Accordingly, he eased his bulk along the row, smiled encouragement at poor Sergio Avril, still huddled uncomfortably on a front pew, and when challenged by a uniformed officer stationed at the door which led backstage, said loftily, “It's quite all right, my good man. Lieutenant Harald has already questioned me to her complete satisfaction.”
Police activity on the stage was winding down as he passed along behind the wing curtains. Such as it was seemed to involve meticulous measurement with a tape rule, the numbers repeated to a young detective busy with a sketch pad.
Tramegra reached the rear hall just as a tearful Ulrike Innes emerged from the corner office. “Oh, my dear child!” he said and opened his arms to her.
At the sight of his familiar and sympathetic face, Ulrike pulled away from Peters and collapsed upon his broad chest, her sturdy body wrenched with sobs.
“There, there,” he soothed, patting her back with one hand while locating his handkerchief with the other. “I shall take care of her,” he told Peters and Cluett and, murmuring reassurance, guided the distraught girl into the bathroom where he washed her fece and smoothed her silver-blond tresses.
She stood as docilely as a small child, an unexpected turn of character, thought Roman as he straightened her black headband. Ulrike Innes had previously struck him as the troupe s most mature and self-sufficient member, without an ounce of temperament in her makeup. Completely and utterly devoted to Nate Richmond, of course, but with a tranquil, almost maternal devotion which did not disrupt the company and keep it on edge the way Emmy M ion’s artlessly bestowed affection had.
He soaked a paper towel in cold water, folded it in a long thin pad, and handed it to Ulrike. “Hold this across your eyes for a few minutes and the redness will soon go away.”
Mutely, she followed his instructions.
“I never cry,” she said from beneath the wet brown paper.
“Never.”
She took the towel from her face and leaned across the washbasin to inspect her eyes more closely. “All those questions. And that police lieutenant trying to make me say whether it was Eric or Cliff or Win who hurt Emmy-and suddenly it hit me like a twenty- pound sandbag that Emmy’s
dead!”
“I’m sure the lieutenant will understand,” Roman comforted her in his deep bass voice. “Come along to the green room now and I shall make us both a nice pot of tea.”
“Tea?” She looked into his hooded brown eyes and smiled gratefully. “That would be lovely.”
Lovely was not the word for the theater’s green room, however. For starters, the only things green were the door, which someone had enameled a bright keHy, and a dilapidated sleeper couch upholstered in a nubby emerald fabric so threadbare that the springs shone through in several places. Roman rather suspected that the couch, like the faded chairs and scarred tables which rounded out the furnishings, had been scavenged from a nearby sidewalk minutes before a garbage truck was due to haul it away.
Although Roman occasionally indulged in some discreet scavenging of his own, his taste was less democratic and he preferred to hunt along the Upper East Side where wealthy apartment owners threw out traditional oak and mahogany because they were switching to pickled pine and bleached chestnut, not because a spring had sprung or a leg had broken.
Happily, colorful cushions and photographs of the troupe framed in bright plastic strips made the big shabby room cheerful, and the corner devoted to culinary matters met Romans approval. Its tiny stainless steel sink was immaculate, the two-burner hot plate functioned perfectly, and the full-size refrigerator was a nearly new donation from the mothers of the Saturday-morning dance classes, concerned that their children's juice and milk should stay fresh and cool.
As Roman had hoped, it was much warmer there than in the auditorium and fully inhabited. Wingate West, Cliff Delgado, and Ginger Judson sat with mismatched mugs before them at a long narrow table near the refrigerator, while Eric Kee paced moodily back and forth. Gingers freckled face lit up as Roman and Ulrike entered and she swung her long legs down from the two chairs next to her to make room for them, but the other three barely acknowledged Romans greeting.
The older man was undeterred. “Do my ears detect a fading whistle from the kettle? Excellent timing! Sit down, fair Ulrike. Tea will be ready in a trice.”
He bustled over to the hot plate, turned the burner under the kettle to high, and was almost instantly rewarded with a stronger whistle.
Upon offering his services to the troupe, he had brought along his own china teapot and a tin of his favorite souchong. “Will anyone else join us?” he asked now, spooning the dark leaves into the pot.
Win West was drinking a concoction brewed from chamomile and rose hips, Cliff and Ginger were halfway through mugs of mulled cider, and Eric Kee shook his dark head impatiently. ‘Tm not thirsty.”
“Tea for you, sir?” asked Roman, raising his deep voice to reach the police officer seated beneath a wall phone next to the door. The officer held up a can of root beer to show that he d been taken care of. ‘Thanks anyhow.”
Even as he spoke, the telephone rang. Everyone listened expectantly, but they soon deduced that it was police business and not for any of them.
Roman poured boiling water over the loose tea leaves and brought the pot to the table, where its warm smoky fragrance permeated the air.
“Where's Nate?" asked Ulrike, watching Roman fill her cup.
“Next door,” said Ginger. “He said something about a roll of film. You okay?”
“Yes. Is Nate?”
“I'm fine, you're fine, he, she, it's fine!” snarled Eric Kee. “Everybody’s fine but Emmy.” He leaned across the table and glared into her pale oval face. “Who’s your choice, Rikki? Which one of us killed her?”
"Aw, c’mon, Eric,” said Win. “Knock it off.”
“Don't try to bully me, Eric,” Ulrike replied quietly. “I don’t know who killed her”
Cliff Delgado pushed his mug aside. “Then at least tell us who didn't do it.”
Ulrike looked at him blankly. “Excuse me?”
“Dammit all! I could see Ginger sitting mesmerized from where I stood, okay? But she says she only had eyes for Emmy. So what about you? You
must
have seen me.”
“Sorry, Cliff. The fence and the tree were in the way.” Her eyes met his unblinkingly. “I couldn’t see you or Eric. You know how dim the lights were then. I didn't see Win either, for that matter, and he was supposed to be directly across from me.”
Cliff’s dark blue eyes narrowed and Roman could almost see the workings of his mind as he considered and then brushed aside the question of Win's whereabouts with an impatient shake of his head. (And why he'd ruined such attractive golden hair with that hideously chopped, neo-Nazi crew cut was more than Roman could fathom. All Delgado needed was a dueling scar to complement his frequent sneers and he could have walked out of a dozen B movies from the early fifties.) “Quit worrying, Cliff,” said Ginger, toying with the end of her thick braid. “If you were there, Sergio must have seen you.”
“W…?” spluttered Cliff at the same instant as Eric's scornful, “Don’t try to act more stupid than you are, Ginger. Everyone knows that Avril’s blind as a bat behind those Coke-bottle glasses.”
“Of course, Eric. How brilliant you are.” The redhaired dancer looked up at him With a spiteful smile. “Everyone
does
know. And isn’t that convenient for somebody?”
Ulrike pushed back from the table and rose abruptly. “I’m going to find Nate.”
“But your tea-” protested Roman.
“Wait, Rikki,” said Win. “We’ve got to decide about tonight.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “Decide what? You don't think-?”
“Yes, folks, the show must go on,” Cliff said in a heavily ironic tone.
“You’re crazy! How can we dance with Emmy lying in» a“It's what she would have wanted,” Eric interrupted. “You know how hard she worked for this theater. We can’t let it go down the slop chute without trying to save it.”
They
had evidently discussed it before Ulrike and Roman came in and now they cajoled her with reasons and rationalizations.
“Tickets have been sold.”
“Emmy would have wanted it like this.”
“Do we lose what we’ve built up?”
“We can’t disappoint the children.”
“We’ll dedicate the performance to Emmy.”
“And the critics are
finally
coming.”
This last from Ginger.
“We don’t know that,” said Ulrike slowly. “It’s just a rumor.”
“Okay, so even if it’s a rumor;” argued Cliff, shrugging, “what happens if someone from the
Times
or the
Voice
does show up and we’ve canceled? How long do you think it’ll be before they ever come back again?”
A point well taken, thought Roman, but since his opinions were not solicited, he quietly stirred another spoonful of Wingate West’s raw honey into his tea. He had liked Emmy Mion, admired her talents, and found her brutal murder appalling. Nevertheless, while sitting out in the auditorium, alone with his thoughts, he'd been surprised to find himself so keenly regretful that the dancer’s death meant that his and Sergio’s collaboration might never be performed in its entirety. The nobler part of his character was shamed by such admission, yet little tendrils of hope uncurled in his heart as he listened to the dancers argue and realized that Ulrike was weakening.
“We don’t have time to restructure the dances,” she said, “and none of us has the stamina to go from the first one into the solo.”
Roman tucked his colorful ascot more firmly into the open neck of his safari shirt and cleared his throat. “What about young Orland? He’s watched your rehearsals often enough, I should think, and I've seen him do parts of the goblin dance with Emmy. They gave the Wednesday class a perfectly charming little preview. While it’s true he left early today-”
“David Orland was here today?” Eric Kee stopped pacing and an overhead light emphasized the pale golden tones of his face as the skin tightened over his high cheekbones. “When? And when did he leave?”
“Immediately after the performance began,” answered Roman. “Most unexpected, but I assumed he must have remembered an urgent previous engagement, for no sooner were the five of you onstage for the first dance than I saw him tiptoe out.”
As if they’d been waiting for that cue, Nate Richmond entered the room on the heels of an agitated young Hispanic who cried, “Nate just told me! My God! Who-?” At the sight of him, Eric Kee seemed to go up in flames. As Roman was to tell Sigrid later, it was as if a kung fu movie had suddenly exploded around him. Without even a warning curse, Kee launched himself with a midair kick to David Orland’s chest and knocked him heavily to the floor, then followed with a flying leap onto the newcomer s body to begin hammering him with iron-fisted blows.
“Stop it!” Ulrike shouted and tried to pull Eric off, but she was flung aside.
Though dazed, Orland recovered quickly and twisted his legs with enough leverage to flip Kee away so he could get in a few blows of his own. Chairs crashed and a small table was destroyed as they rolled and tumbled, each fiercely trying for the other s throat.
“Just a goddamned minute!” roared the startled policeman. He rushed forward and yanked Eric Kee from the floor while Cliff and Win held onto the enraged David Orland. “What the hell’s got into you?” rasped the officer, shaking the younger man as if he were a rag doll.
Kee was in better shape physically, but the officer had the advantage of forty pounds and twenty years of police experience in breaking up street brawls and the dancer found himself held in an unbreakable grip.
“He killed Emmy,” Kee gasped, his face flushed with rage, “You filthy liar!” David Orland lunged for Kee, but the others restrained him.
The police officer looked from one to the other. “You,” he said, nodding to David Orland. “Lieutenant Harald seen you yet?”