A Measure of Murder Read online

  “What are they doing?”

  “The Mozart Requiem—that’s why I auditioned. And I’ve been thinking: you should really audition too. Just imagine how amazing it would be for us to do it together! And I know you’d get in. You were always a way better singer than me.”

  “Hey, you were no slouch either. You made it into madrigals with me.” And then Allison giggled. “Remember when we went as Mozart and Salieri for Halloween in tenth grade?”

  “I sure do. You had that powdered wig and sparkly jacket, and I wore some kind of weird Mardi Gras mask and a cape. That was the last time I ever went trick-or-treating, after those grouchy people over on Woodrow Street told us we were too old to be asking for candy.”

  “Oh God—I’d forgotten about that! We were too old. And I remember we snuck some wine from your grandparents’ cellar afterward and got sick from a sugar-and-alcohol overdose.”

  Allison leaned back to allow Brandon, who had just arrived with our entrées, to set down her plate. A fillet of salmon, flame-red with charcoal-grill marks, was nestled between a mound of freshly made pico de gallo and two scoops of Spanish rice flecked with red-and-green bell pepper confetti. “Speaking of overdosing . . . Yum!” She cut a piece of salmon and then, retaining the upside-down fork in her left hand, speared the bite of fish and used the knife in her right hand to pile salsa on top.

  “We’ve become very British now, have we?”

  “It’s ever so much more efficient,” Allison responded, mouth full. “I mean, c’mon. Putting down your knife and fork after you cut a piece of meat and then picking the fork up again with the other hand just to be, what—genteel? And then you repeat the same laborious process with each bite? It’s ridiculous, when you think about it.” She smashed some rice onto the back of her fork with her knife, but on the way to her mouth, half of it fell off onto her lap.

  “Right,” was all I said.

  “Okay, so sometimes our system does work better than theirs.” She picked the rice grains from her napkin and popped them into her mouth. “So how often does the chorus rehearse?”

  “Monday and Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings.” Seeing her grimace, I hastened to add, “But it’s just for three weeks; it’s a short—but intensive—session.”

  “Well, I guess I could manage it. Classes don’t start up till September, so I actually do have some free time right now. And it sure would be fun to finally sing the Requiem with you.”

  “Awesome. It’ll be great!” But then I thought of that bearded guy who was one of the judges and his reaction to my audition. “If I get in,” I added.

  Chapter Two

  After Allison had gone home for some much needed shut-eye, I made my way back to the Gauguin kitchen. The head chef, Javier, was leaning against the long stainless steel table running down the middle of the hot line area, eating from a blue ceramic bowl.

  “Great salmon special tonight,” I said, then crossed the room to join him. Reuben and Kris, the two other cooks, were at the line tending to various sauté pans and sauce pots, but I could tell the dinner orders had dwindled and the rush was over. “What’cha eating?”

  “An order of sesame-ginger cucumber that got sent back. I guess they didn’t read the menu, and when they realized it had peanuts on top . . .” Javier shrugged and took another bite, crunching noisily on the thin, green spears. He finished the salad and set the bowl down in an empty bus tray. “You got a minute?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  I followed him upstairs to the restaurant office, where we did that little dance we often performed when we got there—deciding who would sit at Letta’s old desk and who would sit in the pale-green wing chair. Technically, Gauguin was now mine, since Letta had bequeathed it to me upon her death. But Javier was the one who really ran the place, especially all the chores pertaining to the back of the house.

  I nodded for him to take the sturdy oak chair behind the desk and plopped down across from him. “What’s up?”

  “Two things, actually. First, I wanted to figure out a time we could get together to talk about the autumn menu.”

  “Isn’t it a little early for that? It’s only the beginning of July, after all.”

  “Well, Letta always liked to change to the new menu in September, so it’s not really that far off. And there’s a bunch more to do than just coming up with ideas for the new dishes. You have to do research to find out what’s gonna be consistently available for the whole season, and then there’s all the food costing and recipe testing, and ya gotta come up with names for the dishes and write descriptions for each one for the new menu.”

  “Yeah, that does sound like a lot of work.” Grabbing my phone from my bag, I pulled up the calendar. “Let’s see . . . Tomorrow and Friday, I’m working at Solari’s.”

  “We could do it Saturday afternoon,” Javier said, “before I start prepping for dinner.”

  “Sure, that works. How ’bout we meet here around two?” I entered the event in my calendar and dropped the phone back in my bag. “So what was the other thing you wanted to talk about?”

  “Reuben gave his two weeks’ notice tonight.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah . . . Big bummer.”

  “How come? Did he get another job?”

  Nodding, Javier picked up the carved wooden tiki sitting on the desk, one of the many items scattered about Gauguin that Letta had picked up during her travels through Polynesia. “He’s gonna run the kitchen at that new Italian place in Capitola.”

  “You mean the one that charges twenty-five bucks for a plate of pasta primavera? Good luck with that. I doubt it’ll last out the year.”

  Javier turned the figure over in his delicate hands and then set it back on the desk with a sigh. “Well, that may be true, but it doesn’t help us with finding a new cook. Reuben’s been here almost six years. It’s gonna be hard to replace him.”

  “You have anyone in mind?”

  “Not really. I was thinking of putting an ad on Craigslist. I don’t suppose,” he added with a grin, “that you happen to know any experienced cooks looking to change jobs?”

  “Ha. My dad would disown me if I stole anyone from Solari’s. Besides, slinging spaghetti and making red sauce probably isn’t the best résumé for working here. But I will keep an ear out for any line cooks looking for a job.” I stood up. “I should probably be getting home. See you Saturday, if not before.”

  I headed downstairs and out the side door, then walked down the street to where I’d left my creamy-yellow ’57 Thunderbird. It had belonged to my Aunt Letta, and the sight of it still gave me a combination of elation and sorrow. Lowering my tall frame into the bucket seat, I pulled out my phone again. While checking the calendar for Javier, I’d noticed that Eric had left me a voice mail.

  “Hey, Sal,” the message said. “Just calling to let you know about your audition tonight. Okay, well, we all thought your sight-reading was a mite, shall I say, on the shaky side. But Marta was impressed by your ear—both musically and also with your Latin text reading. So, long story short, you made it. You’re in. She wants you to sing alto, by the way. First rehearsal is Saturday at ten AM. See you there, toots. And way to go.”

  Smiling, I dropped the phone back into my bag and fired up the T-Bird.

  * * *

  At 9:45 on Saturday morning, I pedaled my red-and-white Specialized Roubaix up to the door of the church hall where the Santa Cruz Community Chorus holds its rehearsals. A thick marine layer had moved in overnight, and my cycling jacket shimmered with beads of water from the dense fog that hung over our beach town.

  Dozens of people were crowded around a table set up just inside the door, but I managed to squeeze past them and wheeled my bike to the back of the hall, where I leaned it against an ancient iron radiator. Scanning the room, I located the choral director and, after removing my cycling cleats, headed over in my socks to where she was standing with a small group of singers.

  “Buon giorno, Marta,” I said,
and she looked up. “I was just wondering if it would be okay for me to leave my bike inside while we rehearse.”

  “Ah, Sally. Sí, certo!” she said with a smile. “I am a cyclist too, so I understand about how valuable bikes can be. You have your music yet?”

  I shook my head, and she pointed to the table by the door. “You can pick up the score over there. And make sure you get the extra sheets, too. You know what part you’re singing?”

  “Eric said I’d be an alto.”

  “Right. So you’ll be in one of the first three rows over there, where the woman in the purple top is sitting.”

  I thanked her and, turning to go, nearly collided with Allison. “Oh,” I said, turning back. “This is my friend Allison, who’s also an alto and is interested in joining the chorus too. Are you still looking for people?”

  “Absolutely. Why don’t you go ahead and sing with us today, Allison. And then if you can stay afterward, we’ll be auditioning any people who could not make it last Wednesday.”

  Allison and I stood in line for our music, I paid the class fee, and we then found seats in the alto section. “I wonder what these other sheets are for,” I said, flipping through the three pages stapled together, photocopies of music written out by hand.

  “It’s the name of one of the Requiem movements,” Allison observed, pointing to the title on the first page. “See? ‘Lacrymosa.’ They must be changes to the score.”

  Marta stepped up to the podium and tapped a pencil several times on the music stand in front of her. Those still milling about found their seats, and we all quieted down. A flash of movement caught my eye, and I turned to see Eric dart through the door and slip into a chair at the back of the bass section. His blond hair was wet and combed back, and he had on board shorts and a Santa Cruz Skateboards hoodie.

  “Welcome, everyone, to our summer session,” the director said. “Though with the weather this morning, it feels more like winter to a southern Italian like me. But we’ll get heated right up once we start singing, I assure you. Before we begin, some of you may be wondering about the extra music you received with your Requiem scores.”

  There was a rustling of paper as people pulled out the sheets we’d been given.

  “Well, as many of you are no doubt already aware, this Requiem as we know it”—Marta held up her score and waved it in the air—“was only partially written by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, for he tragically died after composing just three of the five principal sections of the mass for the dead. In fact, the only part he fully completed was the Introit, or Requiem portion of the first section.

  “Luckily for us, he had written out almost all of the four vocal parts as well as the figured bass for sections two and three, and he also left a few sketches and notes concerning the last two parts. But ultimately, it was left to others to finish the work after he was gone.”

  I elbowed Allison in the ribs and whispered, “Salieri did it after all!” prompting stifled laughter on her part.

  “Several people are associated with the completion of the Requiem,” Marta continued, “but the principal composer was Franz Xaver Süssmayr, who had worked closely with Mozart at the end his life. Some even believe that once Mozart knew he was dying, he called Süssmayr to his bedside to tell him how he wanted his Requiem to be finished.

  “There are several different versions of the Requiem currently in the repertoire, but the version we will be singing this summer is the one completed by Süssmayr. The true one, it turns out,” Marta added with a grin. “Because those extra pages you have? They are newly discovered music by Süssmayr for the Requiem, and our concert this summer will be one of the first performances of this previously unknown version.”

  At this point, the room erupted in chatter. I heard the alto to my left say something about Marta and a trip to Europe, and the woman behind me was talking about Prague.

  “Tell everyone how the new music was discovered,” one of the sopranos piped up.

  “Oh, I’m sure everyone already knows that story, Roxanne.”

  “I don’t,” said one of the tenors.

  “Bene, fine.” Marta hushed the room and flashed a quick smile, as if the whole thing were slightly embarrassing. “As most of you no doubt are already aware, it was actually me who found the music, in an antiquarian bookshop in Prague. But it was just pure luck; it could have been anyone who discovered it.”

  “No way,” said the alto next to me, keeping her voice low enough so only those nearby could hear. “It had to be someone who knew enough to recognize the value of the manuscript. It wouldn’t have meant diddly to me if I’d found it.”

  “Okay, everyone.” Marta clapped her hands for quiet. “Enough about that for now. Time to get singing. Today will just be a run-through of the Kalmus score without the new pages, and next time I’ll explain how they fit into the music.”

  She nodded to Nadia, who had taken her place at the piano, and we began our warm-up scales: do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do . . .

  * * *

  Halfway through our first run-through of the Requiem, we took a break, and I collapsed into my chair. “Oh God, I don’t think I can do this,” I said to Allison, fanning myself with my score. “I got completely lost during those really fast parts and couldn’t find my place again until the very end of the movement.”

  “Yeah, those melismas are a bitch.”

  “Melismas?”

  “You know, where you sing a bunch of really fast sixteenth notes all on the same syllable? E . . . le-eh-EH-eh-eh-eh . . . eh . . . i-son. That stuff.”

  “Yeah, right. That stuff. I gotta tell you, I’m not so sure I’m going to be good enough to pull this off. And I think it’s triggered another hot flash.”

  “You’ve started too?” Allison asked.

  “Yeah, last fall—after you left for England.”

  “That is so funny, ’cause I just started getting them recently, too. Must be because we’re such good friends.” She laughed, then patted my knee. “Anyway, don’t worry, you’ll be fine. It’s always hard the first run-though with new music. But I’m sure we’ll be going through more slowly next time, working out the hard bits.”

  “Easy for you to say. You seemed to just whiz through those me . . .”

  “—lismas. That’s only ’cause I’ve sung it before. We did the Requiem in my university chorus.”

  Eric came up from behind and slapped me on the back. “Well, whad’ya think so far?”

  I just put my head in my hands and groaned.

  “She’s having a bout of melisma-itis,” Allison said.

  “Nothing a little banana bread can’t cure, I bet.” Eric held out a paper napkin with several gooey brown slices on it, and Allison and I each helped ourselves to one. “People take turns bringing snacks each week,” he said, “and the donations we get for them, and for the coffee and tea our dessert team generously provides, go into the chorus fund.”

  “I’m not sure if anything can cure my obvious lack of musical ability. But then again, maybe a sugar rush will help with the fast notes,” I said, biting into the chewy bread.

  “You know,” Eric said, “there’s an online music-learning site you should try. It lets you sing along with your own part, and you can slow it down while you’re first learning the piece and then speed it up to the real tempo when you’re ready.” He wrote the name down on my score.

  “Thanks. I’ll check it out.” I finished my banana bread, and Eric offered me another slice. “No thanks. I’m good. I should save myself for our dinner tonight, anyway.” At Eric’s blank look, I added, “Remember? Nichole and Mei are coming down from the City for dinner at my place.”

  “Oh, right. I knew that. But it’s not gonna stop me from having seconds. I worked up quite the appetite this morning surfing.” He helped himself to another slice of bread and offered the last one to Allison.

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ve got to keep my strength up for my audition.”

  “Hey, did you see this morning’s st
age?” Eric asked. “It was—”

  “Don’t say anything!” I interrupted him. “I haven’t watched it yet!”

  Eric knew that I was a big fan of the Tour de France, which had started this morning, and that I would be DVRing the three-week cycling race every day for viewing at a more reasonable hour than its actual five AM start time (since California is nine hours behind France). And he loved to taunt me by pretending he was going to say what had happened in the race before I’d had a chance to watch it. He never did give it away but always succeeded in freaking me out, nevertheless—which of course was the whole point. It’s just nowhere near as fun watching sports if you know who’s going to win.

  Eric chuckled and bit into his banana bread, and as he and Allison ate, I checked out the activity in the room. I barely knew any of the people in the chorus yet, but it was already clear that the different sections tended to hang out together. Once the singers had gotten their food and drinks from the dessert table, a goodly amount had gravitated back to their seats to sit and talk with their fellow basses, tenors, altos, and sopranos.

  There was that poor baritone from the auditions. I was kind of surprised to see he’d made it in, but then again, Eric had always complained to me how hard it was to find decent men for the chorus, especially tenors. And then I realized that I hadn’t noticed the bearded guy, Mr. Van Dyke, this morning. Which wasn’t a bad thing, as far as I was concerned, but it was odd.

  “So what’s the story with that snarky guy at the auditions?” I asked Eric. “You know, the one with the prissy beard? He’s the section leader for the tenors, right?” Eric had been the only other guy judging the auditions, and since he was the bass section leader, I figured this had to be true.

  “Oh, Kyle?” Eric said, mouth full. “Yeah,” he went on after swallowing, “he can be a bit of a prig sometimes. But he’s a great tenor, so we all just put up with him.”

  “Well, I don’t see him anywhere. Is he gonna sing the Requiem?”

  “Sure. He was here earlier, so he probably just ran out to his car or something.” Eric glanced at the clock on the wall and then chuckled. “But he better get back pronto or Marta will not be pleased. She’s very strict about tardiness and attendance.”