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

Very into the moderns—Merce for a while. I heard she left the business a long time ago.” Merce was Merce Cunningham, perhaps the leading exponent of modern dance after Martha Graham.
    “Sonya’s a therapist now. She worked at the Pilates Studio and with Carola Trier, doing physical therapy, then she went back to school and became a shrink.” She looked at her watch. Five-forty. “Ouch, I’m going to be late.”
    “Me, too. Phil said he’d have a car pick up Sam and me here at five-thirty. What do you have? A broker?”
    “No. Promise you won’t say anything to anyone and I’ll tell you.”
    “Oh, man.” Carlos licked his lips and leered. “Delicious gossip. Wonderful! Send me off with something really disgusting.”
    She wagged her finger at him. “You’re bad. I’m going to see Susan Orkin. And at her invitation.”
    Carlos looked stunned, “How come?”
    “She called me. It turns out we were in college together. Only I knew her then as Susan Cohen.”
    “My, my, what a coincidence.”
    “Well, don’t you always say there are only fifteen people in the world?”
    “I do indeed. What does Susan Cohen Orkin want?”
    “I haven’t the foggiest.”
    “Hmmmm, scrumptious. That ought to be good for a dinner or two in Boston.”
    “Oh, listen, before I forget—”
    Phil Terrace entered the cafe from the street door, jumping like a hyper-jack, looking around.
    Carlos waved. “There’s Phil.”
    “Hey, Phil,” someone called. “Going to have a team in the league this year?”
    “Count on it.” He smacked his fist into his palm as if into a catcher’s mitt.
    “And I suppose you think you can beat us.”
    “Count on that, too.”
    Carlos got up and reached around for his bags. “What did you start to tell me, Birdie?”
    “Forget it. Go on. I’ll catch up with you in Boston.” Wetzon rose.
    “Hi, Birdie.” Phil wore a big smile and a cap just like Mort’s. It didn’t take long, Wetzon thought, greeting him, for everyone in the theatre to imitate Mort. Pretty soon, there’d be nothing but beards and caps. Phil took Carlos’s carryon outside to the car. He seemed fully recovered from the trauma on Saturday.
    “I take it he’s into the Broadway Show League,” she said to Carlos.
    “A real fanatic. He’s lined me up for center field.”
    “You? Oh, my God, that I have to see.”
    “You mock me. Just you wait.” He patted her on the rear. “Bye, pet. Give us a big kiss and wish us merde.”
    “Merde, my love.” She gave Carlos a big hug and a kiss. Then another. She felt chilled. “Be careful.”
    She received one of his sardonic winks, but it didn’t make her feel any better. She was scared for him, for herself.
    After Carlos left, Wetzon stared at the paper in her hand without focusing on the numbers. Maybe she ought to try to reach Sonya now. She went into the Edison from the coffee shop and found a pay phone. Sonya’s number was in her address book. She put a quarter in the slot and picked out the digits. She would leave a message on Sonya’s answering machine and perhaps there’d be a message from Sonya when Wetzon got home later. She listened to the ring, waiting for the machine to pick up.
    “Sonya Mosholu.”
    “Sonya! I’m glad I caught you.”
    “Leslie?”
    “Yes. Is this a bad time?”
    “No, you caught me between patients. How are you?”
    “Not my usual sparkly self. I need a consultation.”
    Sonya’s voice became instantly professional. “When can you come?”
    “How about tonight?”
    “Oh. Mmmm. Okay. How about eight o’clock?”
    “You’re on.”
    There, she’d done it. She hung up the phone feeling proud of herself. The phone box chung and clunked, and damned if her quarter wasn’t returned to her in the change well. It had to be an omen. She made a gun of her right hand and shot herself in the side of the head. She was getting more and more like Smith.
    When she dropped the quarter in her coat pocket, her fingers touched the paper with the