Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

smiled and she leaped into the air, clicked her heels, and came down on bent knees.
    Now it was Eric who looked sad. He pointed to his outlined teardrops under his eyes.
    “Once the mouth is painted on, the mime does not speak again,” David said, “until he’s out of makeup.”
    The Lumare Mimes’ engagement was at a senior center on East Sixty-seventh Street. They took the Lexington Avenue subway to the delight of most of the riders, as Eric smiled and flirted with every female, young and old.
    Taking care on the sand strewn steps, they came out of the subway, Eric and Jeff carrying a small whimsical pirate trunk. They walked single file on Sixty-seventh Street, one hand on the shoulder of the one in front. Shoveled snow lay in still white, crusty piles framing the sidewalk.
    A tall man with deep pouches under his eyes stood on the steps of an old building watching their progress. His smile almost drove away the mournful expression on his basset hound face. He crossed to a car in front of the building and bent to unlock his door on the driver’s side. Straightening, he watched them pass by.
    T.J. following Eric, Jeff’s hand on her shoulder, felt drawn to him. Her eyes caught his. He did a double take and she smiled her distorted smile. He didn’t move. He didn’t get into his car and drive away.
    Jeff nudged her, because she’d stopped. He nodded to the building from which the man had come. Carved in the stone above the door were the words: Twenty-first Precinct.

15
    T HE MAN with the basset hound face was a cop. And she had smiled at him. Well, a grotesque tease of a smile. But he couldn’t have recognized her. When they arrived at the senior center, she stole a second look back. He was still standing where he’d been, talking into a cell phone.
    Was she testing herself? Was she the kind of person who did dangerous things? Like getting involved with people who blew up planes?
    They were greeted enthusiastically by a authoritative black woman in a plum-colored knit suit, a cream and plum striped silk scarf around her neck. “I’m Midge Walton, the program director. We’ve been looking forward to your visit, and performance,” she told David, smiling at the troupe who responded to her with exaggerated bows and curtsies.
    It was a small, low stage, perhaps a step off the floor, with a pull curtain, which was now open. Folding chairs were arranged in rows and about half of them were filled with elderly people, some in wheelchairs.
    Jeff and Eric carried the trunk out onto the stage as if it held bricks, and the audience applauded when they set it down stage left after almost dropping it several times. Jeff mimed opening it but was unable to and was finally replaced by Eric who did so with a grand gesture. More applause. At once all the mimes, except T.J., crowded around the trunk. T.J. hung back, playing shy, eyes downcast, knees together, pigeon-toed, finger in her mouth. Almost automatically, she’d fallen in with the routine.
    The mimes began pulling things from the trunk. What looked like an old-fashioned phonograph, but was really cardboard. Eric mimed winding its handle and a kind of circus marching tune began to play. A belled jester’s hat with bells was claimed by Jeff; Zoey tied a piece of black tape, from which bells were suspended, around her waist and proceeded to flounce about the stage, magnifying her puzzlement about where the tinkling was coming from.
    T.J. edged over, still keeping her eyes down. They surrounded her suddenly, tied a ruff around her neck and thrust a tambourine in her hands. Then they all had tambourines. The music changed to a ballad and violins. They began acting out a love story. Mona, a married lady, loves Jeff, a dashing captain, and is determined to take him away from his true love—Zoey, as Columbine. Eric, Jeff’s friend, the sly buffoon Harlequin, pretends he’s Jeff and exposes Mona’s wickedness.
    And T.J., not quite knowing where she fit in the scenario, found a place for herself by reflecting her horror at Mona’s behavior and her amusement with Harlequin and her sadness over Zoey’s plight.
    The happy ending came to the accompaniment of tambourines. From a red velvet bag Harlequin threw showers of confetti. Then bows to the applause. T.J. looked out into the audience. To her horror, standing in the back was cop with the mournful face.
    “Grouch bag duty,” David told them, patting the drawstring bag hooked to his belt. “Get everything back