Show Business Is Murder by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

from his pocket and the blade sprang open. It could have been a mate to the one that killed Dole. “You don’t understand. If you’re not with me on this you’re against me. I can’t have you talking to the police.”
    â€œI already have, Rick. When I saw you waiting for me just now I suddenly knew you were Dole’s partner. He mentioned once that this roulette wheel stunt was better than sitting in a bird cage all day. But you were the only one I’d told that to, and your article for the magazine hadn’t yet appeared. He could only have heard about the bird cage from you.”
    He was shaking his head, playing with the knife. “You didn’t talk to the police. You haven’t gone near the phone.”
    â€œI didn’t need to. I simply neglected to punch in the code to deactivate the security system. The police should be here right about now.”
    The knocking came right on cue, and a voice called out, “Police! Are you all right, Miss Cirrus?”
    â€œNo I’m not, officer,” she said, hurrying to open the door before Rick Dodson could decide what to do. “I’ll tell you about it.”
    DODSON WASN’T THE sort to keep secrets. He waived his rights and confessed to the murder as soon as they got him downtown. Wanda slept all day Saturday and part of Sunday, then got up and thought about the future. Instead of heading for the airport, she had her costume dry cleaned and went back to Judd Franklyn’s wheel on Monday night. It may not have been art, but it sure was show business.

Razzle Dazzle
    ANNETTE MEYERS
    HE BEGAN EMPTYING the pockets of his suits methodically, collecting the scraps of paper, napkins, receipts, all of which he’d dropped, stored, left, forgotten but not, sometimes crumpled, one time or another in various pockets. He made several trips into the kitchen and only after studying each piece of paper did he put it in its proper place on the kitchen table. The order was important. It explained everything.
    â€œNo, it doesn’t, David.”
    Miranda stood with her brutal back to him, staring out at the fog that made their rooftop seem adrift. From the river came the nasal honk of a foghorn.
    â€œBut it does, love. You’ll see.” He’d done what he had to do.
    The kettle let out a shrill shriek, and he shut it down. He turned to Miranda. “I forgot to grind the beans.” But Miranda was gone.
    His glasses were stained. He took them off and held them under the faucet, rinsing. The water stained the porcelain a rusty color. He dried the glasses thoroughly and put them on again. He saw with such clarity now. It was amazing.
    Back to sorting. Here was the note on the flap of Sardi’s matchbook. Twenty-five. Silver . Where was his Mont Blanc? He went back to the bedroom. Miranda was in bed, pretending. He stood watching her.
    He’d done the right thing. Planned it down to the last minute, waited till Patrick left for school. She’d given him no choice. He had to put a stop to it.
    It was a while before David remembered why he’d come to the bedroom. His pen was in the inside pocket of the dark blue Hugo Boss. In the kitchen again, he crossed out “silver” and wrote “diamonds.” Diamonds for Miranda.
    MIRANDA. SHE WAS the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. With his legal pad ready, David stood in the dark theater in front of the orchestra pit beside Bob Fosse as the girl dancers auditioned for Chicago . Chita Rivera and Gwen Verdon were already set for the leads, so this was chorus. But it was not news that Fosse was a control freak, right down to the last bit of costume, to the understudies in particular because Gwen was no kid. She’d be out a lot the way she was when she was in Sweet Charity, and that was nine years ago.
    Bobby, Buddha-eyed, arms folded, watched as his assistant showed the first group of dancers the combinations, then stepped back and signaled