A Measure of Murder Read online

As we worked on the dynamics and phrasing of the beginning section, my thoughts kept wandering from the music to Kyle’s death. And his potential murderer. Glancing over at the bass section, I located Brian, who was scribbling notes on his score. When he’d come back into the kitchen after the fire the night before, the cook had acted completely normal, or as normal as anyone could act after such an event, in any case. But he’d made no effort to talk to me, nor I to him.

  And then when I’d run into him before tonight’s rehearsal, although Brian had asked me about the shape of the kitchen and when we might reopen, our conversation had not been what I’d call friendly. More formal and businesslike, I guess you’d say. Though that could have been completely my doing, since the sight of him—and that flame inked on his arm—now gave me the heebie-jeebies.

  Marta stopped talking and reached down for her water, and as she drank from the bottle, I was reminded of the Elixier throat lozenge I’d seen her unwrap while standing on the black plywood podium she was now atop again. Which sent my thoughts back to her as a possible suspect. Could Kyle’s death have anything to with that rumor about the new music festival? Was it possible that Kyle started the rumor, and then Marta shoved him out of the window when she found out?

  But according to Marta, someone was still apparently spreading the rumor even after his death. Maybe Jill was lying, and Kyle had told it to her, and she was now repeating it to people in the chorus. But if that was true, and if Marta did kill Kyle, then that would mean that Jill was now in danger, too.

  I shook my head. These crazy thoughts were starting to make it spin. Marta couldn’t be the killer; that was an absurd idea. Could Eric be right, that I was in fact overly obsessed with the director and that I was—as he put it—just “tripping”?

  Marta had now turned to work on the “Jesu, Jesu Domine” passage with the soprano section. “You’re not making it all the way up to that high F,” she said, cutting them off. “Let’s do it row by row.”

  “Flat,” the director said after Jill’s row of three sang the passage, to which Jill reacted with a blatant eye roll. Marta made no show of noticing and moved on to the row behind them. Should I warn Jill about my fears? Or would she just laugh at me?

  Next, we moved to the new ending of the Lacrymosa that Marta had discovered on that manuscript page in Prague. As she worked with us on this Amen segment, I tried to concentrate on the tricky alto part (which never seemed to come in on the same beat twice), but my thoughts continued to stray.

  Okay, let’s say it’s not true about that rumor. What if instead, Kyle’s death had something to do with the music we’re singing right now? As I studied our choral director, her eyes shining with pleasure as she conducted the fugue, an ominous possibility formed in my head: could Marta have composed this Lacrymosa music herself and then forged the manuscript she claimed to have discovered in Prague? After all, she must be a pretty damn good composer for one of her pieces to have been chosen for that prestigious festival in Chicago. And then I remembered Mei’s remark when she and Nichole had come to dinner at my house: Marta’s areas of expertise as a music student had been Mozart.

  I stared at my photocopy of the Lacrymosa music. Was it possible? Could someone get away with such a thing?

  After having us count-sing the fugue at a dirgelike tempo and then slowly work our way up to close to performance speed, Marta finally excused us for the night. By the end, my brain felt as if I’d spent hours studying for an exam in tort law—partly from the concentration it had taken to make it through that serpentine alto part but also because of the agitation I was experiencing as a result of my disturbing ruminations about the choral director.

  So I almost jumped out of my seat when a hand was laid upon my shoulder and I heard Marta’s voice. “Sally,” she said, “I was wondering if you’d like to go on another ride this Sunday.”

  “Uh . . . sure,” I responded.

  Stupendously stupid, perhaps. But I really did want to go.

  * * *

  Eric followed me out the door of the church hall with the announcement that he was feeling much better, and his cold had not moved into his chest as he’d feared it might. “You wanna go celebrate my robust health with postchorus drinks at Kalo’s?” he asked.

  “Sure, why not?”

  On the way over, I told him about the Gauguin fire but not about my suspicions regarding Brian. Since he and the bass were “buddies,” I felt sure that sharing this would only serve to set him off again, about how crazy the whole Kyle-being-murdered idea was. Plus, he’d no doubt point out that it was far more likely an accident—given all the open flames in the kitchen—than a deliberate act of sabotage by one of our line cooks. And I’d have nothing to counter this with, other than an odd expression on Brian’s face.

  Instead, I moved on from the fire to what I’d learned about Kyle’s will and Lydia. “So that seems to jump her to the top of the list, I guess. Doesn’t that guy in your office with the buzz cut always say that in murder cases, you should look at who profits from the death?”

  “That would be Nate. And yes, that’s generally a good place to start.”

  “Well, Lydia’s son certainly did with Kyle’s death. And now that we know that Kyle suspected he wasn’t his kid . . .”

  “Oh, come on. You saw him at the memorial service. That face? That voice? He’s the spitting image of Kyle.” Eric laughed as he zipped up his hoodie. “So does this mean you’re finally off that Marta-did-it fantasy of yours?” he asked, giving me a look that managed to simultaneously contain a smirk, an eye roll, and a raising of the eyebrows.

  “Hey, it’s not as if I want it to be her. Far from it,” I added, ignoring the questioning expression this last comment elicited. “But you of all people should understand that you shouldn’t allow emotions or preconceptions to get in the way of logic. The fact remains, I did find that Elixier wrapper in that room, and Marta’s the only one in the chorus I’ve seen with one of them.”

  “So what if it was hers? That doesn’t prove anything. She’s in that storage room all the time. And besides,” he said as we arrived at the bar, “assuming it was foul play, who says it’s someone in the chorus? You yourself just said Lydia’s now at the top of the list. Maybe she eats them.” He held the door open and—well aware of my feelings regarding such exercises of chivalry—shot me another smirk.

  Two of the chorus members from last week were already there, at the same table: Roxanne and the tenor, Phillip. But no Marta. “She’s not coming tonight,” Roxanne said when I asked about the director. “She mentioned something about having to call a friend in Italy before they went to work. It’s early morning there now.”

  Once we’d all ordered our drinks, Eric started gabbing again with Phillip about surfing. He is so damn predictable. If someone’s into either surfing or wine, Eric can spend an entire evening talking about that and that alone. Since I knew I’d lost him for the duration, I turned to Roxanne.

  “I’ve decided to audition for the Recordare,” I told her. “Or rather, I was kind of talked into it by my friend Allison, who’s gonna try out for the Benedictus. Will you be judging, like you did for the chorus auditions? ’Cause if so, do be kind.”

  Roxanne laughed, that deep rumble from the belly that had endeared her to me the first time we met. “Nope,” she said. “Marta decides the solos on her own. Which she kinda has to do, since a lot of the time us section leaders try out for the parts. But don’t worry. She’ll be fair and impartial.”

  Our drinks arrived, and I sipped my bourbon while Roxanne tried the aged dark rum from Martinique our server had recommended. “It’s good,” she proclaimed as the gal hovered by our table, waiting for her pronouncement. “Really smooth.”

  After the waitress had left, Roxanne took another sip of her rum and swished it around in her mouth like Eric would do with a fine wine. “This really is amazing,” she said. “Want a taste?”

  “Absolutely. I always want to try everything.” It was indeed delicious, r
eminding me more of a Cognac than what I thought of as your typical rum.

  “So I hear tell you’re investigating Kyle’s death—that you think there might have been foul play?” Roxanne’s question startled me, and I almost spilled her precious rum as I was handing the glass back to her.

  “Uh, well, Jill is actually the one who asked me to look into it. Not that I’m an expert or anything. It’s just because of what happened, you know—”

  “With your aunt, right,” Roxanne finished for me. “I read about it in the paper. So have you found out anything?”

  “I certainly haven’t unearthed a murderer yet or anything like that,” I said with a snort. “I’m just asking around about stuff and about Kyle, is all. And hey, since I’ve got you here, I can ask you questions, too. Like, were you friends with him?”

  “With Kyle?” Roxanne’s laugh was loud and sudden enough that Eric and Phillip stopped talking to turn our way, but they then quickly returned to their discussion of the previous winter’s Mavericks big wave contest up in Half Moon Bay.

  “Well, did you ever hang out, like maybe during the chorus trip last summer?”

  “No effin’ way,” Roxanne said, staring at her rum as she swirled it around in her glass. “I couldn’t stand the little prig. I don’t think I’ve ever spent time with him, other than for chorus-related stuff.” And then she looked up at me and frowned. “Wait. Am I one of your suspects? ’Cause even though I hated his guts, I’m really not the type to go out and off someone.”

  “No, you’re not a suspect,” I said, even though I realized she probably should be. “I only ask because someone told me they’d heard that during the chorus trip, you and Kyle were, uh . . . spending time together.”

  “You mean, like . . . ?” From her wide eyes and agape mouth, I gathered that what I had been envisioning was not the case. “Eeeeew,” she added and mimed sticking a finger down her throat to induce vomiting.

  Okay, so Eric obviously got this one wrong.

  * * *

  I awoke the next morning clinging to the edge of the bed, Buster’s sprawled-out body occupying the rest of the space. After shoving the inert dog over a few inches, I lay there awhile, thinking about my day ahead.

  First off, I had to practice that damn Recordare. Now that I’d promised Allison I’d do it, the prospect of another audition—not to mention the performance in front of a live audience—was giving me a case of the butterflies. Though at times, it felt more like pelicans dive-bombing in my gut than mere fluttering insects.

  And then I was working today’s lunch at Solari’s, after which I had a few hours free before going to dinner at Allison’s house. She’d asked me to bring dessert, so I needed to stop by the bakery on my way home from the restaurant. Though I do love to cook, I much prefer tasting and adding ingredients as I go, rather than having to do all the precise weighing and measuring called for with baking.

  But before anything else, there was coffee to brew. Throwing back the covers onto the startled Buster, I patted him on the rump and said, “Time to get up! The day’s a-wasting!”

  Unlike some noncanines I know, Buster’s reaction to being rousted out of bed was always a joyful bark and wagging of the tail. He followed me to the kitchen and, after being let outside to go pee, sat and watched as I ground French roast beans and poured water into the machine. While the coffee dripped, I fed the dog his breakfast and then headed outside to fetch the newspaper from the under the bushes next to the walkway.

  I took my time reading the paper as I ate a banana and sipped my coffee but finally decided I could put it off no longer. On to the Recordare.

  It was getting easier, and parts of the movement I already knew by heart. But my fear was that once I stood there at the audition (and the concert), the anxiety of the moment would prevent me from breathing properly, and the resultant lack of oxygen would in turn cause my voice to waver or break. Or worse yet, shut down altogether. Like what happened at my audition for the chorus. It’s a vicious cycle that is indeed truly vicious.

  I practiced for almost an hour, going over the alto part with the online piano to make sure I had all the notes right, then singing my part along with the song-learning website, and finally doing it with a YouTube recording of the movement. By the time I finished, I felt pretty darn good. Yes. I think I can do this.

  After taking Buster for his morning walk, it still wasn’t yet time for me to leave for Solari’s, but I decided to head down there early. I needed to talk to my dad, who I knew would already be in the kitchen getting the ragù started for tonight’s dinner. The new waitress, Cathy, seemed to already have a good handle on the menu and how we did things at Solari’s, so I wanted to see what Dad felt about her working more shifts so that Elena could start taking over more of my managerial duties. Although I ran the front of the house, he was still the owner of the restaurant, so I wanted him to at least think he was the one making the decision.

  I grabbed my purse, gave Buster a “bye-bye, be a good dog!” biscuit, and then headed for the T-Bird out in the garage. Popping a Rubber Soul CD into the player, I pulled out into the street and headed for the wharf. I made a right onto Bay Street and was “beep-beeping” along with John, Paul, and George, when I spotted a woman walking on the sidewalk with a little boy who looked a lot like Jeremy, Kyle’s son.

  Wait. Was that Lydia and Jeremy? As I slowed and cruised by, however, I saw that no, it wasn’t either of them. Just my mind playing tricks on me.

  But seeing the woman and boy got me thinking about what Robert had said—that Kyle wasn’t sure Jeremy was his son. Did Lydia know about his doubts? Because if she had found out, her logical next thought would have been that Kyle would do a new will, one disinheriting Jeremy. The perfect motive for a murder.

  And then I thought about the St. Christopher medal I had in my bag, which I’d been so carefully protecting in Nonna’s old handkerchief. What if it did in fact have fingerprints on it?

  I’d just reached the roundabout at the entrance to the Municipal Wharf, but instead of turning right to go down to Solari’s, I made a left, up Pacific Avenue. Toward the police station.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Since Detective Vargas had been the lead investigator on my Aunt Letta’s murder case, he was the SCPD officer I knew best, so I asked for him when I got to the station. Because they’d determined that Kyle’s fall was accidental, there was no “case” regarding his death and thus no lead investigator, and I figured I might as well talk to someone I already had a relationship with.

  But I also predicted he wouldn’t be too thrilled by my visit, given the interaction we’d already had about Kyle’s death at the church when he’d come out in response to the call.

  Vargas happened to be in, and after about five minutes, he came down to the lobby to greet me. “Ms. Solari. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Although his proffered hand was accompanied by a smile, it was obvious the smile was forced. I was right: he was not particularly pleased to see me.

  “It’s about that guy who died from a fall at the church downtown a couple weeks ago. Kyle Copman?”

  “Uh-huh,” the detective said with a nod. “He fell out of that broken window when he tried to open it. Tragic, that.”

  I cleared my throat. “Well, I’m here because I have some information suggesting that it wasn’t the kind of tragedy you mean—you know, a sad and unfortunate accident. That he might in fact have been pushed.”

  Detective Vargas took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes, as if trying to suppress the urge to simply show me out of the station with the firm directive never to set foot in the place again. “Okay,” he finally said with a slight shake of the head, “you better come upstairs.”

  I followed him into the investigators’ interview room, and we sat down, me on the small sofa, the burly detective sinking into an upholstered chair across from me. He picked up the pad of paper sitting on the end table next to his chair and removed a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket. “So what’
s this information you have?” he asked, clicking open his pen.

  “Well, there are several things. First off, I found out yesterday that Kyle’s ex-girlfriend, who—”

  The sound of a xylophone rang out from the detective’s pants pocket, startling us both. He extracted his phone, checked the number, and returned it to his khaki slacks. “Sorry. You were saying?”

  “Lydia is her name, Kyle’s ex. Since she’s a legal secretary, Kyle asked her if she could get one of the attorneys at her firm to draft a will for him. But here’s the thing: she ended up doing it herself and made sure it would be found invalid so that their son would inherit everything. And that’s not all. I found out from Kyle’s brother that Kyle wasn’t even sure that the kid was his son. And now that Kyle’s dead, the kid will inherit it all.”

  Vargas clicked his pen open and closed a few times. “That’s very interesting, of course, but if she did commit fraud, it seems like more of a civil matter than something for the police. Or maybe you should talk to someone in the DA’s office.” Was that a smirk?

  “But don’t you get it?” I asked. “If Lydia found out Kyle suspected that the kid wasn’t his, she’d be terrified that he’d get a new will done—one that would be valid this time—and leave the kid out altogether. So it makes perfect sense: once she finds out what Kyle thinks, she decides she has to kill him before he changes his will.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t have any proof that she actually did know his suspicions about the kid, right?”

  I shook my head.

  “Or, for that matter, that she even was at the church the morning he died?”

  “No . . . Well, actually, maybe I do have that. The other day, I went up to that room Kyle was in when he fell—”

  “You searched the room?”

  “Hey, it’s not a crime scene by your own definition, so what do you care?” This discussion was getting more and more frustrating, but I decided as soon as the words were out of my mouth that it was probably not a good idea to provoke the ire of your local police. “Sorry,” I said, and he just shrugged.