Double Forté, page 10
part #1 of LeGarde Mystery Series
He flung his arms around her neck and laid his head on her shoulder. “I miss you, Mummy.”
Freddie sat at the table with Johnny on her lap and placed her forehead against his, looking closely into his big brown eyes. “I missed you, too, little man.” She kissed his forehead and smoothed his hair from his eyes. “You need another haircut, sweetie pie.”
He screwed up his face in dismay.
She laughed at him and hugged him close to her. “Maybe we can wait a little while, funny bunny. How about a butterfly kiss for your Momma?”
He nodded and leaned closer to her, aligning his eye with her cheek. He closed his eye once, then reopened it, allowing the long lashes to softly brush against her skin.
“Thanks, baby. Wanna finish your dinner now?”
“Okay.” He slid from her lap, and climbed back into his high chair.
“You're home early,” I said. I wondered how she'd handled the packed waiting room. It was only ten minutes past six.
“Yeah. I finally told them all to go home and that they could come back free of charge any time this week. They'd been waiting forever and I just about ran out of steam after the phone call from Harold.”
She took a large bite of lasagna, chewed it quickly, and followed it with a huge swallow of milk.
“So you know about Bob Perkins?” I asked.
“Uh huh. Harold called me. He's beside himself, imagining all kinds of foul play. He said Linda's off her rocker with worry. He's hanging out around her place for a few more hours until he can settle her down.”
A look of concern flashed across her face, but she quickly covered it. “I don't know what to think, Dad. I also heard about that madman Baxter. They never found him?”
“Not yet.” I got up and poured myself a cup of coffee. “Guess they're still on the lookout for him, but there was absolutely no clue, no trail at all. He just disappeared.”
She stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork and lifted it to her mouth. “Adam's still out there in his cruiser. I asked him in, but he said he's got the best vantage point from the field behind the barn. Said the second shift starts at midnight.”
I took another sip of coffee from my chipped WRLN mug. I'd received it as a gift when one of the Beethoven Sonata Series programs had brought in a substantial amount of cash to the station during a fund drive last year. Mrs. Pierce had tried to throw it out on numerous occasions, but I’d successfully rescued it and finally convinced her I wanted to keep it.
Johnny slid down from his high chair again and was pulling on my hand. “Opa, Opa, come on!”
I smiled indulgently at him and pushed back my chair. “Okay, buddy. Let's go play some Chopin.”
Chapter 24
Johnny followed me to our antique Mason and Hamlin upright piano in the great room. I pulled out the piano bench and slid onto the smooth wooden surface as I’d done thousands of times in the past. He pointed to the thickest book on the piano. “Dat, Opa. Dancin’ songs.”
I’d played all of Chopin’s little gems for Johnny over the course of his short life. The nocturnes, waltzes, preludes, and etudes were commonly chosen as our evening entertainment, but it was the mazurkas that had him hooked.
I felt a twinge of sadness when I opened the dog-eared book. This particular collection had been Elsbeth’s. I’d found the set of old books in an antique bookstore. Published in Paris by A. Durand & Fils in 1926, they contained excellent revisions of the ballades, impromptus, mazurkas, polonaises, and waltzes edited by none other than Claude Debussy. Each book was heavily bound with thick cardboard covers layered with brown and cream marbleized paper and sealed on the edges with papery thin leather. The titles were stamped in gold lettering.
I carefully opened one of the books, reading the inscription I’d written to Elsbeth. We’d both known that the set of books belonged in a controlled museum environment, but had chosen to use them as they were intended, rather than turning them into dusty old collectibles.
“Opa! Hurry! My foots are ready.”
I laughed out loud at the little tornado by my side, watching him hop from side to side, demonstrating his readiness. “Okay, Johnny.”
I turned to Opus 7, No. 6, and began to play. The day’s tensions trickled from my fingertips as they danced over the keys. Johnny dashed around the room, following his usual pattern of skipping in a large circle centered around the coffee table. Next, he twirled around, falling down repeatedly—deliriously dizzy.
The sweet minor tunes evoked images of Slavic peasants frolicking in the town square around a roaring bonfire. I secretly fantasized that Johnny’s love of music would transcend the generations and drive him toward the career his grandmother had never been able to realize. I finished the piece and flipped to the next, Opus 68, No. 47.
The music automatically flew from my fingers, and my mind wandered. A familiar feeling of loss returned. I imagined how Elsbeth would have adored Johnny. She’d died a year before he’d been conceived.
I continued to play for the next hour, realizing that sharing Elsbeth’s passion for Chopin would be one of the most precious gifts I could give my grandson.
When the last strains of the music faded in the air, Johnny climbed up and sat on my knees. He pushed a finger toward the music score. “P!”
“Yes, that’s the letter p, buddy.” I exchanged smiles with Freddie, who had just flopped down on the couch and kicked off her shoes. She'd been working with Johnny on his letters all week.
Johnny looked over at his mother, pride written all over his expression. “What dat say, Opa? P is for pig.”
I hugged his small shoulders. “That’s right. But there are no pigs here. P stands for ‘pianissimo’. It means to play the music softly and quietly.” I lowered my voice to accompany the words.
“Ohh—” His big brown eyes, fringed with long lashes, stared up at me.
I flipped forward one page to No. 48 and pointed to the page. Turning his attention back to the music, he pointed again. “F! Two Fs, Opa. What’s two Fs?”
I spoke louder to correspond with the definition. “F stands for forte. It means to play the music LOUD. Two Fs in a row mean double forté. That’s really, REALLY loud.”
He shrieked with delight, definitely in double forté, and jumped back down to the floor, rolling around and yelling. “Dubbew forté! Dubbew forté!” He shrieked and rolled farther until he finally bumped into the couch, where he grabbed his mother’s hand and pulled himself up to sit on her stomach.
He began to hop up and down on her middle. “Dubbew forté!”
She protested, laughing when he slid back onto the floor and ran around the room again. “C’mon now, honey. Give your Momma a break. You’ve got to settle down for bed soon.”
The phone rang, interrupting our pleasant moment.
Mrs. Pierce’s voice trilled from the kitchen. “Professor? Lieutenant Russell’s on the phone for you.”
I slid from the bench and started over to the phone on the desk. Johnny continued to frolic, and yelled, “Dubbew forté!” racing around my legs.
I leaned over and caught his whirling little body. “Johnny. Pianissimo.”
He looked up at me, nodded, and continued to run around the room, whispering loudly, “Pinanimo. Pinanimo!”
It was a tough word to pronounce for the best of us. I picked up the receiver. “Gus LeGarde, here.”
“Gus? It’s Joe Russell. I’ve spoken with the guys downtown. They want to question your brother-in-law. Can you send him down to the Conaroga station in the morning?”
I shuddered, remembering the time I’d spent in the small room with one-way windows after Elsbeth’s death. The questions had been endless. “Joe? I’d like to go with him, if you don’t mind.”
He paused for a split second. “Fair enough. Eight o’clock?”
“We’ll be there.”
Chapter 25
I sat with Joe and Detective Sweeney from the Rochester Police Department watching Siegfried from the wrong side of the observation window. I asked to be in there with him, helping, but of course they’d refused. They’d been questioning him for an hour and a half, with various detectives approaching from so many angles and with so many questions that he’d seemed very confused.
Graffiti was scribed into the surface of the massive oak table. For what seemed the hundredth time, I traced my forefinger around the letters of the name Bonnie that was carved into the tabletop. A cup of bitter coffee cooled before me in the brutally hot room.
Joe Russell sat to my left with Detective Sweeney. They studied my brother-in-law through the one-way glass.
“What’s wrong with that guy, anyway?” Sweeney said. “Is he a little touched, or what?”
He tapped his finger on his right temple and sneered.
I felt my ire rising as it had in high school when the juveniles of Conaroga had tormented my brother-in-law in the streets and in the schoolyard. I’d protected him then and had done so ever since.
“He’s not ‘a little touched,’” I said. “He had brain damage after a boating accident when he was twelve years old.”
Sweeney smiled at me again. “Brain damage, huh? Can he remember anything? Looks to me like he can’t remember squat.”
My cheeks flushed in anger. I leaned closer to Sweeney, my eyes hard and narrow. “Siegfried functions at a very high level. He drives, holds down a good job, pitches in around the farm, and is a trustworthy member of our family.”
Sweeney turned and stared at me for a long time. Sweat broke out on my brow, slid down my temples, along my jaw, and dripped down under my shirt collar.
“What relation is he to you, anyway, Professor? You seem pretty protective of him. You guys together?”
Before I could answer, Joe quickly explained. “Detective Sweeney, please. Siegfried is Gus’s brother-in-law. His deceased wife’s brother. Right, Gus?” He turned to me for confirmation.
I took a deep breath and consciously pushed the anger down. “Right. We grew up as friends, and then I married his sister.”
Sweeney pushed back on his chair and balanced on the two rear legs, picking his teeth with a wooden toothpick. The damned thing had been dangling in his mouth all morning. He bored his black eyes into mine. “Has he ever been in trouble before? Any penchant for violence?”
I stared at him, wondering why he was pushing so hard. In spite of my attempt to control myself, I spat out the words, returning his glare. “Siegfried is the gentlest soul you’ll ever know, Sweeney. His view of the world can be childlike, but that youthful attitude brings with it an innocence you probably haven’t seen or felt in a very long time.”
He picked again at his teeth, still rocking on the chair. His eyes continued to drill into mine. “So what happened to your wife, Professor? How’d she die?”
I felt the blood drain from my face, surprised he would ask me about Elsbeth. I hesitated for a moment, deciding to keep the real reason to myself. “She died in an accident.”
Joe glanced sideways at me. He knew I was lying, but he kept silent.
“Ah. Sorry to hear that,” Sweeney said with absolutely no sincerity.
He lost interest in me and turned his attention back to Siegfried.
I sensed fear in Siegfried’s voice, even though it was distorted through tinny speakers on the wall. I turned to watch him, and my heart went out to him when he put his head in his hands and began to speak German again.
Sweeney plopped his chair back on the ground. “What’s with his switching languages, LeGarde? Cute way to get out of answering questions, as I see it.”
I looked toward Joe for help. He didn’t see me. His eyes were riveted to the one-way glass.
“Listen, Sweeney,” I began. “Siegfried was born in Germany. He learned German first, and then English when he moved here as a child. After the accident, he completely reverted to German, losing all of the English he’d learned previously. When he gets nervous, he goes back to his native tongue. He can’t help it. It’s not a ruse to confuse you, trust me.” If I gritted my teeth any harder, they’d crumble.
“Is he Jewish, then?”
“Half.” I wondered where he was going with the questioning.
He slapped both hands flat on the table and leaned toward me. “Interesting. So what’s with the ponytail? Leftover from his hippie days?”
I realized he was trying to bait me to see if he could push me into blurting out some hidden tidbit that would help him solve the case. I forced myself to speak calmly. “You’re questioning his hairstyle? Is long hair against the law in your precinct?”
Joe’s lips twitched a little. He covered his mouth with one hand and coughed to hide the smile.
“Okay, Sweeney,” Joe said with authority. “Enough is enough. We’ve got the general idea, don’t we? Let’s stop harassing these poor people until we’ve got a body to worry about. The guy might’ve hooked up with some old girlfriend at a bar and could be staying with her, or fell and knocked himself out on the ice. We haven’t even finished our search of the local hospitals, have we?”
Sweeney shook his head. “Not yet, Russell. But there’s one thing that really bothers me.” He stood and leaned against the one-way mirror, staring with malice toward Siegfried.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“This guy says he dropped Perkins off at his office building and saw him drive off—”
“So?”
Sweeney turned toward us, hissing the words. “Then why is Perkins’s car still parked in his office lot?”
I swallowed hard, realizing this jerk actually thought Siegfried could have had a hand in Perkins’s disappearance.
Joe answered immediately. “Hell, he could’ve driven back to pick up something he forgot at the office. Maybe he met someone there after Siegfried left, and went for a drink. There are a thousand explanations that don’t involve the good man in the other room. If you’re not going to charge him, it’s time to let him go.”
Sweeney’s mouth tensed.
“I could call my lawyer if it would speed up the process,” I warned.
The detective shook his head, retreating. “That won’t be necessary, LeGarde. We just wanted to find out what happened Sunday night. Your brother-in-law was the last person to see Perkins, and we thought maybe he’d have a clue.”
I pushed back my chair and stood up. Sweeney pressed the intercom button and spoke into it, instructing the men in the other room to bring Siegfried out. We joined them in the hallway.
Siegfried’s face was ashen and the muscles around his mouth were tight. Joe followed us down to the coat rack and stood silently beside us while we got our coats. My concern for Siegfried deepened. His hands shook when he tried to zip up his parka. After a moment of struggle, he finally zipped his coat and looked at me. His expression resembled that of a wounded animal.
Joe cleared his throat and put his hand hesitantly on the giant man’s arm.
“I’m sorry you had to go through this, Siegfried. They just need to know what happened, that’s all. Thanks for cooperating.” He nodded at both of us. “We appreciate you both coming down and I’ll be in touch about Baxter. Soon as I hear anything, I’ll give you a buzz.”
Siegfried didn’t say a word. I thanked Joe for getting us out of there and walked with Siegfried back to the Volvo.
Chapter 26
I stepped on the clutch and turned the key, firing up the old four-cylinder engine. Shifting into reverse, I backed out of the police station parking lot.
Siegfried stared quietly out the window, looking drawn and worried.
“It’s still only nine thirty,” I said. “Would you like to get some breakfast?”
“Ja, okay.” He continued to gaze into the distance.
We drove in silence to the diner that had been around since the early 1950s. Clara’s parking lot was packed. I squeezed the Volvo between two pickup trucks and we headed inside to find a booth. The place was jammed. Every booth was filled and the stools around the counter supported a goodly portion of the townspeople of Conaroga. Farmers and old friends chatted with the waitresses and each other as we stood waiting patiently by the coat rack. Siegfried was silent.
An elderly patron waved to me. “Over here, young man!” She slipped into her long plaid winter coat and wrapped a flimsy scarf around her head. Siegfried and I hurried to the booth, waiting as she finagled her husband into his overcoat.
He looked embarrassed. “This old woman insists on buttoning me up like a two-year-old. C’mon, Yvonne. Let’s get the hell out of Dodge so these nice young men can get some breakfast.”
They ambled away, leaving a meager tip on the table.
Hattie, our favorite waitress, swished over to us and wiped off the table with a wet dishrag. “Morning men. Coffee?”
We both nodded. “Coffee would be wonderful, Hattie,” I said.
She stood beside us in her black pants, blue shirt, and short black apron. After sliding the order book out of her apron pocket, she looked at us expectantly. When Sig didn’t reply in his usual boisterous manner, she tossed me a questioning look. “Everything okay, guys? You need a few minutes?”
“Thanks. We’ll just take a look at the menu.”
She winked at me and hurried to the next customer. She knew we didn’t need the menu. We always ordered the same thing.
I slid the black vinyl folders out from behind the jukebox. “Sig.”
He lifted his startling blue eyes to mine. “Ja?”
I laid one hand on his. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
An expression of deep sadness poured from his eyes when he began to speak. “Danke, Professor. Alles ist okay.”
Hattie brought two steaming mugs of coffee and glanced briefly at each of us. She almost took the pencil out from behind her ear, but seemed to notice Sig’s expression and backed away. “Just holler when you’re ready, guys.”
I passed the stainless steel pitcher of cream to Siegfried, who picked it up and poured a generous dollop into his mug. He slowly stirred three teaspoons of sugar into the brew. “I have a bad feeling about Bob Perkins, Professor.”
