Murder: The Musical by Annette Meyers

Author:Annette Meyers [Meyers, Annette]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781936441273
Published: 2011-04-19T04:00:00+00:00

36.

“Mark?” Wetzon’s voice was hushed. “What’s going on here?”

The braying of a wounded animal issued from somewhere in the depths of theatre. Wetzon jumped. Ahead of her, the shadowy corridor was a maze of unexpected turns. The cry came again. Now voices seemed to be responding.

“It’s Mort—” Mark looked possessed; he was half-standing, about to take flight.

The stage door to Allen’s Alley behind the theatre was half-open; voices were coming from the alley. Footsteps thumped down the hall, accompanied by the braying, and the orange-haired woman appeared, her face a ghastly green. “Call the cops,” she gasped, swaying. “There’s a stiff in the smoker.”

Outside, the rumble of voices stopped. Phil Terrace burst through the door, brushing snow from his jacket. He took off his oversize cap and shook it out. His face was shiny, a kind of oily sheen mixed with melting snow, and his expression was expectant. “Leslie?”

He knows, Wetzon thought.

The doorkeeper was beginning to panic; her arms became uncoordinated wings. “It’s Mr. Hornberg. I saw his cap. Call the cops. Someone bashed Mr. Hornberg’s head in.”

Speechless, Wetzon looked at Mark. He knows, too; she thought. She stumbled to the phone, her hands shaking, and dropped the receiver. “You do it, Phil. Call 911. Someone’s murdered Mort.”

Phil gaped at her. “Huh?”

What was he waiting for? “Call the police. You must—” Wetzon took a ragged breath and lunged for the dangling receiver.

Moving swiftly, Phil placed himself between her and the phone. Cerberus of the orange hair screamed, “Call the cops!”

“What are you doing, Phil?” Wetzon demanded. “Are you crazy? Get out of my way.” Behind her, someone grabbed her shoulders. Her ankle protested.

Fran Burke was holding her. His wool coat glistened with unmelted snow. “Easy, girl.” Where had he come from? She pushed back at him. “Get out of my way, Fran. Someone—Mort—has been murdered in the men’s smoker. Ask her.” Wetzon pointed to the orange-haired woman. The orange-haired woman burst into tears.

“What’s all the screaming about?” Walt Greenow was standing in the corridor.

“Leslie claims someone offed Mort.” The hysteria factor drove Phil’s voice up an octave. He started laughing. “He’s too mean to die.”

“Call the police,” the orange-haired woman sobbed. “Call an ambulance.”

“Christ,” Fran said. “How are we going to get the show open?”

Walt frowned. “I’m going to have a look. Maybe you made a mistake.”

“I didn’t make a mistake.” Cerberus sat down in her chair, blubbering.

What had happened to Mark? Wetzon tried to free herself from Fran.

“Take it easy, girl. If Mort’s dead, our moving faster isn’t going to help. Maybe he’s not dead.”

“Oh.” Maybe he wasn’t. Fran was right.

Phil’s laughter burbled. “Smoked in the men’s smoker,” he said.

The laughter unglued her. She thought: Mort would die if he knew he’d come to his final rest in a toilet.

“Everyone wait here,” Walt ordered. He went off down the corridor.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Phil said. “No one can shoot off a gun in the theatre and keep it quiet.”

“Weren’t you outside?” Wetzon shook her head impatiently. “And anyway, how do you know it was a gun?”

He flushed.

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