Music is Murder, page 11
His wife, Billie, greeted me at the door with a hug. “It’s good to see you.” I knew she meant it. White haired, rosy-cheeked, and just a little plump, she glowed inwardly. Her smile would have made an insurance salesman feel welcome. Chatting happily, she showed me to Joe’s practice studio in the rear of the house.
He’d told me a builder had soundproofed it, and it overlooked a tree-covered hill with a little stream at the bottom, now frozen. With luxury like this, who wouldn’t want to practice?
“I’ll tell Joe you’re here,” Billie promised as she left.
I didn’t have to wait more than a minute.
“The prettiest girl in the flute section.” He gave me a hug.
The only girl in the flute section, there being only one flute part, and no longer a girl, but I didn’t argue.
Also white-haired, but tall, thin, and well-tanned from frequent tennis matches and traveling, Joe’s strong hug made me wince.
We chatted for a few minutes before he gestured to the music in my hand. “That looks like Olive’s part. Have any trouble finding it?”
I handed it to him. “Luckily, her sister hadn’t packed it and given it away yet. She let me have it.”
“Well, thanks for bringing it. You know how it goes. That’ll save a lot of hassles, plus a few bucks. A penny saved is a penny earned.”
Joe’s tight-fisted attention to details made him the best. “Glad to help out.” I paused, then brought up the reason I’d come. “Who’ll replace Olive?”
He’d turned and filed Olive’s part in a brown metal file cabinet. “Gardiner’ll do it. He already wants the part, so I appreciate you retrieving it.”
“Gardiner?” I was puzzled. “I figured he must have turned the work down before you hired Olive.”
It would have been logical. The established pecking order dictated that since Gardiner played first bassoon in the symphony, he should have first right of refusal on pickup work, like the musical. Ordinarily, extra jobs wouldn’t be offered to Olive unless Gardiner refused them or had done a poor job in the past.
Joe had opened another file drawer and began hunting through, but, at my comment, he paused, turned his head toward me, and glared. “You figured wrong.” He sounded unfriendly and hostile.
“But Gardiner played the musicals for so many years. Olive didn’t have his experience . . .”
No response from Joe.
“. . . and a lot of people found Olive hard to get along with . . .”
No answer.
I sensed I shouldn’t press the issue, but curiosity drove me. “. . . so why did you offer Olive the work before Gardiner?”
“Why do you care?”
My face warmed. I hadn’t expected a confrontation.
He grabbed a piece of music from the cabinet and thrust it at my chest. Without answering my question, he grabbed my elbow, moved me toward the studio door, and down the hall. In the tiled entryway, he opened the front door.
“I don’t understand, Joe. I didn’t mean to upset you. What’s wrong?”
Just then, Billie appeared.
“Emily!” She called my name just as Joe had almost pushed me out the door. “Do you have to leave already? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. I’d hoped to have a chat. I tried a new cranberry-oatmeal cookie recipe yesterday. I want your opinion.”
Joe’s continued pressure on my elbow made it clear he wanted me to leave.
“How ‘bout lunch tomorrow? We can talk,” I suggested.
Joe pushed insistently at my arm.
“Oh, that sounds wonderful.” Billie smiled broadly, oblivious to everything but her joy at connecting with me.
Joe turned to her. “Remember? We have that thing tomorrow.”
Billie frowned. “What thing?”
Joe huffed and lifted his eyebrows.
After a moment, Billie said, “I’m sure I don’t have any ‘thing.’ I must not have been invited.” She turned to me. “Where shall we meet? I’m scheduled to volunteer at the hospital in the afternoon. It should be somewhere close.”
After a hurried discussion, we agreed on The Articulate Artichoke at noon. Throughout, Joe kept forward pressure on my elbow. Now he pushed me through the doorway and slammed the door quickly, leaving me alone on the doorstep. What was going on?
Joe’s behavior puzzled me. Olive’s journals might shed some light on the whole situation. Her sister had to take the journals to the police, but I wanted answers. I’d study them now. Hopefully they’d explain Joe’s behavior, and her relationships with Red and Vince, too. I pulled into the parking area of a neighborhood park figuring I’d be undisturbed there and opened the first of them. Olive had chronicled every detail of her life. Gardiner predominated, but my name was mentioned often, as well as her professional engagements and relationships. Glad that Olive’s paranoid fear of having her deepest feelings read had made her hide her journals, I proceeded to . . . read her deepest feelings. Her paranoias and prejudices were well documented, as well as her humanitarian activities:
Sept. 20: Gave bassoon lessons at the elementary school ’til noon then had lunch with Emily at St. Pierre’s.
Oct. 11: Went to Emily’s for lunch. Golden kept us company. What a wonderful girl! I’ll look into getting a dog.
Nov. 23: Played a Thanksgiving gig with Chuck Holcombe and Phil Gray. Asked them to play my recital. They aren’t the best, but they’ll do. They both said they’d do it. We’ll only have a few rehearsals before the recital, so I’ll wait ’til closer to the date to schedule them.
Those entries were from the first journal, before Olive started chasing Gardiner. How she’d loved passing her passion for the bassoon on to kids. And St. Pierre’s had been one of our favorite restaurants. Wonderful pastries and great food, too. Called itself a patisserie. I smiled, remembering the good times we’d had there.
But then Olive changed. The changes were reflected in the journals. They were already beginning, toward the end of the first journal. The second journal, covering her last three months, was clearly different.
Nov. 5: Discovered Gardiner went out with Marcie Barstow. Pretty enough, but last stand viola? He can’t possibly see anything in her. Only one way to find out. I’ll call her tomorrow.
I vaguely remembered that Olive had told me about the phone call. Marcie must have figured Gardiner wasn’t worth the trouble of Olive’s cross examination. And it wasn’t hard to believe she and Gardiner didn’t hit it off. Whatever, they didn’t go out again.
Under the entry for Nov. 12 I found what I searched for, sort of.
Nov. 12: Joe and I talked about it and decided I should play the musical. It’ll be Cats this time. I’m so excited! I’ll be the only bassoon, so I’ll have a chance to show what I can do.
No clue why she would be playing instead of Gardiner. Oh, well. Keeping in mind that Patricia had to give the journals to the police, I read on.
Dates with Red Calloway and “Vince Mallone” had been part of a self-deluded scheme to make Gardiner jealous. Olive had met Vince through an online dating service. I had to smile at the account of their date:
Dec. 18: Went to Gardiner’s chamber music concert with Vince. Congratulated Gardiner afterward and talked for about an hour. I think he appreciated my comments. When we were done, Vince had left. Why didn’t he wait? White trash! It came out OK, though, because Gardiner had no choice but to take me home.
Bet Gardiner loved that.
I don’t know why I was hurt or surprised when I read:
December 22: Played a job with Emily today. What a joke. Her vibrato was so wide you could’ve driven a semi through it and not scratched the sides. No magic in that performance. How long before I can play with real musicians?
I remembered the job she had written about. Trios at a Christmas party. The party was noisy, the acoustics were bad, and we couldn’t hear each other very well. Under those circumstances she expected magic? I guessed it’s always possible to criticize. But now that Olive’s judgements had become personal, I better understood the crowds of people she’d offended.
January 19: Red Calloway hasn’t left me alone since I went out with him. Since Gardiner doesn’t care, I decided today that Red might as well be of use. I asked him to come over and help assemble my bookshelves. He was awful to me. He had a fit every time I made a suggestion, threw a box of screws at me, and finally came after me with a screwdriver. Imagine. He yelled, “You bitch! I’ll teach you to talk to me that way.” I had to lock myself in the bedroom ‘til he left. He’s lucky I didn’t call the police. White trash!
Those entries solved the mystery of Olive’s connection with Red and Vince. It sounded like Red had a violent temper. Had he killed Olive? I’d move him up on my mental list of possible suspects.
I glanced at my watch. Time to return the journals to Patricia so she could deliver them to the police.
The desk clerk at the Regis said Patricia had gone out, but I left the journals for her so she’d have them as soon as possible.
Turning the problem of Joe and his hiring practices over in my mind, I realized only Gardiner had the answers. Joe was hostile, Olive was dead, and her journals provided no clues. I’d have to visit Gardiner. An unpalatable course of action. I didn’t like the man and he didn’t like me. I didn’t see any alternative, though. He’d be more likely to answer questions face-to-face, where he couldn’t avoid me. I looked his address up on the orchestra roster I kept in the glove compartment of my car and headed for his place in search of a solution to the puzzle.
FIFTEEN
Friday, February 14, 2010, 11:30 AM
The grapevine said Gardiner was a night person who avoided mornings. But surely any decent person—not that Gardiner was a decent person—would be up by now. His house was a small white stucco in a neighborhood of immaculately groomed older homes. A flame-shaped entryway led to a covered patio. Evergreens as tall as the house echoed the shape of the entry and flanked the door, their scent welcoming me as I rang the bell.
Gardiner answered the ring in sweatpants and a robe, holding a steaming mug of coffee, heavy stubble covering his face. Handsome enough, with dark brown eyes, a cleft chin, plenty of dark hair, and just a touch of gray at the temples, he’d never appealed to me. The source of Olive’s fascination with him mystified me. Besides his unpredictable temperament, male chauvinism, and all the flaws Olive had recounted ad infinitum to me, he was a snob. He looked down his nose at me, a lowly second player, member of the rank and file, often ignoring me entirely, thereby losing points in my book. Our personal history, our one disastrous meeting outside orchestra, lowered my opinion of his morals and decency even further. I expected the worst. He might well be inclined to animosity. As I remembered how rude he’d been at orchestra just a few days ago, anger filled my chest. I couldn’t turn back now, though.
“Emily, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Feigned charm? I hadn’t expected to be welcomed. Instead of relaxing me, his friendly greeting alarmed me. I chalked it up to unpredictability or pretense and didn’t let my guard down.
“Hi, Gardiner. Can I come in for a minute?”
“Your wish is my command.” With a sweeping motion, he moved aside, permitting me to enter. “Welcome.”
I paused in the entryway. The chilly dimness of his house contrasted so starkly to the sparkling white exterior, the smell of the evergreens, and the warmth of the morning sun that I had to force myself to enter the living room.
He stroked the small of my back lightly, urging me inside.
His touch reminded me of his baser tendencies, and I arched away from it, hurrying toward a deep, leather-upholstered chair.
Wasn’t anyone else home? I’d thought Leanne would have moved in now that Olive was dead. I felt ill at ease, but I didn’t know any other way to explore Joe’s strange behavior.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” He paused in the middle of the room, brows raised quizzically.
“I just finished breakfast. Thanks anyway.” I planned to learn the information I wanted and leave as quickly as possible.
“Then, what can I do for you?” He settled on the couch, his left arm along its back, his right hand holding his coffee, and his left ankle over his right knee.
“I thought you might be able to help me figure out an odd experience I had.” Good job. Why in the world should this man want to help me? I paused, chewing my lip and wondering how to continue. “It’s Joe Burke.”
Gardiner shifted back against the couch cushions. “How is Joe?”
His sociable answer surprised and relieved me. Maybe this interview wouldn’t be as difficult as I had feared.
“Pretty mad. I asked him why he’d hired Olive for the musical instead of you.”
“So? Why shouldn’t he be angry? You have no right to pry.”
I cringed. He was right. But I wanted to discover the relationship between Joe and Olive, if any. I stuck with my question. “Why should he be mad?”
“I’d say that’s his business. After all, you don’t pay him. Your questions are interference. He doesn’t have to justify his decisions to you.”
Again, he was right. “I’m interested. I can’t ask Olive. Joe’s reaction seems so exaggerated. I just want to understand.”
“Too bad.” Without another word, Gardiner left the room.
The grandfather clock ticked in the hall. It had been eight months since our failed meeting, and I had never been to Gardiner’s home. This glimpse of his private life disconcerted me. A faded poster advertising a long-ended opera was the sole decoration. There were no photographs, no mementos, no plants. Just plain beige walls. I hadn’t suspected it would be so neat and impersonal. The silence grew longer. The clock ticked on.
The stillness of the room made me uncomfortable. Besides, even if Miss Manners didn’t recommend dropping in with questions, uninvited, before breakfast, leaving guests alone for so long without explanation was also not recommended. I went off in search of Gardiner.
I found him in the kitchen. He appeared to be frozen in the midst of pouring another cup of coffee, holding the coffee maker’s pot, lost in contemplation of the bland brown face of the cupboard above. He didn’t turn to acknowledge my entrance.
I walked up behind him and asked softly, “Gardiner?”
He jumped and coffee sloshed over the side of the pot. “I thought you were in the living room. Why are you here?”
“You were gone for so long I came to see if you were alright.”
“I don’t like people sneaking around my house,” he snapped.
The conversation wasn’t going well. It wouldn’t help to argue with him. Instead, I told myself the word “sneaking” commented on his feelings rather than my actions, and meekly followed him back to the living room, his coffee forgotten in the kitchen.
We settled ourselves as before, him on the couch, me in the leather chair, but now he leaned forward, alert, elbows on his knees, hands between them.
“What do you want from me?”
So much for his good humor. I had reason not to like the man. He made no secret of his feelings for me, either.
But, in the interest of finding information, I responded as politely as possible. “I hoped you’d tell me why my question upset Joe so. Why should he hire Olive instead of you?”
The silence that followed vibrated with unexpressed . . . what . . . anger?
I finally tried pleading. “Please, Gardiner. You’re the only one who can help.”
“It’s none of your business. Why is it so damned important to you, anyway?” He leaned closer, his hands balling into fists.
My irritation grew. He treated me like a naughty child, now and in all our interactions. His behavior infuriated me. “The question is, why is it so important to you that I don’t know?”
He didn’t answer.
Besides his personal dislike of me, his professional ego might be outraged. Was that reason enough for his hostility? Cooling a tense situation seemed the best way to get the whole story, so I took a deep breath and swallowed my antagonism. “Look, Gardiner, don’t be offended. Olive was my friend. Now that she’s dead, I hoped you’d help me. I want to tie up loose ends. I’m curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said, uninformative and unfriendly, almost threatening. “Why should I help any friend of Olive’s? She made my life miserable.”
True enough. I should have been smarter and not presented myself as her friend. But his statement served to remind me that he had the best reasons I’d so far discovered to murder Olive.
He paused. “I’m not interested in talking about her, or Joe either,” he said belligerently. “If you want to know about Joe’s concerns, ask him. I’m just glad to have Olive out of my life. Whoever killed her did me a big favor.”
He straightened and stood. I immediately stood, too, and left without another word.
Gardiner didn’t bother to show me out. How I’d love to prove he killed Olive. He certainly had the character for it. And I owed it to Olive to find her murderer. It was the last service I could do as her sometimes friend.
SIXTEEN
Friday, February 14, 2010, 11:45 AM
Idrove straight home feeling that Gardiner’s hostile manners were pursuing me. Golden distracted me with an affectionate welcome, jumping and barking as if I’d been gone for years, before she settled down for the obligatory tummy scratch. KC played her flute—scales—in the guest room, and savory aromas filled the air. My home hadn’t been this inviting since I’d lived with my folks. I felt tension from the confrontation with Gardiner melt away and my mood shift.
