A Measure of Murder Read online

  “It doesn’t mean all that much,” Eric said with a wave of the hand. “Basses are a dime a dozen. Good tenors, on the other hand—now they’re hard to come by. So if someone’s the tenor section leader, you know he’s truly talented.” He paused and stared down into his glass.

  “Like Kyle,” I said.

  “Yeah.” Eric nodded and then looked up with a devilish smile. “And I gotta say—ass though he may have been—it’s a damn shame to lose such great tenor. Just too bad he wasn’t a bass instead.”

  Chapter Five

  “No, no, no!” Marta cut us off before we’d even gotten through the second page of the Requiem. More than a few singers failed to notice she’d stopped conducting and continued on for a few bars, eyes glued to their scores.

  It was Monday night—our first real rehearsal of the piece—and I was once again standing next to Allison. According to Eric, she’d “killed” at her audition, which had been moved to right before tonight’s practice.

  Having just barely made it to rehearsal on time, I was still feeling amped up, and my stomach was complaining from the lack of any dinner. I’d been scheduled to get off work at Solari’s at five thirty, but Giulia had called in sick for the night shift at the last minute. Which meant that instead of getting to go home for a relaxing meal of leftover lasagna, I’d had to stay on the floor till six forty-five, when her substitute finally made it to the restaurant, and then race over to the church for our seven-o’clock rehearsal. Needless to say, I was not in the best of moods.

  Marta leaned her sinewy body over the director’s stand, and the steely look she gave us made me forget my rumbling stomach. “You must enunciate clearly every single consonant,” she said, putting a space between each word. “I want you to punch the opening, with a trill if you can manage it: Rrreh-quiem. And please, please, no American Rs. It’s a soft Latin sound, but some of you men are making it sound more like a Texas barbecue than a mass for the dead.”

  From the hangdog looks on certain of the tenors and the grins and nods from most of the women, I gathered this was not a new complaint from Marta.

  “And I don’t want all these loose Ts that I am hearing in the ‘et lux perpetua.’ You need to wait and put the T on with the ‘lux.’ Remember, it’s all about diction. We don’t sing words—we sing consonants and vowel shapes. Repeat after me: eeeh-t’lux.”

  “Eeeh-t’lux,” we intoned as one.

  “Corretto. This way the audience will be sure to understand what you are singing.”

  She was deadly serious, but I still couldn’t help giggling. “Sounds like Eye-talian to me,” I whispered, leaning in close to Allison. “I’m gonna eat some speecy-spicy mea-ta-balls.”

  “Shhh,” she hushed me. “You’ll get us in trouble.” And sure enough, Marta did frown and turn toward the alto section but thankfully failed to notice who’d caused the disturbance. Allison shot me an “I-told-you-so” look, and I refocused on my score.

  I’d always been like this in school. As far back as kindergarten, I was the one who got in trouble for talking to my neighbor or passing notes. Once even in law school, I’d been called out in front of the entire torts class by the professor for whispering to Nichole. I guess my brain just doesn’t have the filter that other folks possess—the one that allows you to wait until later to tell your joke or whatever.

  We started the piece over from the top and this time made it all the way to page six before Marta stopped us again. It was the dreaded “Christe eleison” bit—all those really fast notes. And wouldn’t you know it, it was our section who began the fugue.

  “Just the altos this time.” Marta raised her hands to conduct, and I took a deep breath, praying my voice wouldn’t stand out from the others. After listening to us fumble our way through the tricky melismas, she flipped back to the beginning of the section. “Okay, now we’re going to count-sing it.”

  I glanced at Allison, wondering what the heck that could mean, but she was concentrating on her music and thus missed my silent plea for help.

  All the altos around me began the fugue, but singing numbers instead of the text: “And two and three-ee-and-a four-ee-and-a one-ee-and-a two-ee-and-a . . .”

  Ah, got it. They were singing the beats of the measures. Clever. I joined in, but quietly, so no one would hear when I messed up. Which must have been about fifty times. But the technique did seem to help; it allowed you to concentrate on the notes and rhythm without having to worry about those pesky Latin words. By the time all four sections had done their count-singing separately and we were all singing the fugue together, I was starting to think, Maybe I can do this after all.

  As soon as break was announced, I headed straight for the snacks. A woman I now recognized as being a fellow alto and a guy I didn’t know were running the dessert table. As I approached them, I realized they were the other two singers the cops had wanted to talk to after the discovery of Kyle’s body. Huh.

  Selecting a snickerdoodle from the platter piled with sweets, I thanked them and pulled a dollar from my wallet to drop in the basket.

  “You’re the new owner of Gauguin, aren’t you?” the woman asked as I sampled the cookie. “And your family also owns Solari’s, right?” Since I didn’t know her well enough to answer with my mouth full, I merely nodded assent. “Cool! You wanna bring a dessert some time?”

  I hurried to finish chewing and swallowed. “Sure. I’m not a super-talented baker, but cookies are something I can definitely handle.”

  “I happen to know Sally makes a mean blondie,” Eric said, coming up to my side and grabbing a chocolate chip cookie from the tray. “Hey, nice necklace,” he added, indicating the shiny new tuning fork I had around my neck. “I like the neon-orange cord. Wait, is that a shoelace?”

  “Yeah, it was the only thing I could think of that I had on hand. I took it off an old pair of Converse high-tops.”

  “Rad,” said the man standing with the alto behind the dessert table, a tall, sinewy guy with a buzz cut and tattoos running down both arms.

  Eric introduced us. “I guess you probably already know Carol,” he said, “but this rascal here is Brian, a fellow bass. Brian, meet Sally, one of our new altos.” As the bass reached out to shake hands with me, I saw he had an orange-and-yellow flame inked onto the inside of his right forearm.

  “Brian’s also in the restaurant business,” Eric said, helping himself to a second cookie. “Or was, until recently. He was a cook at the Beach Street Bistro before it closed down last month.”

  “Oh yeah?” I brushed the sugar granules from my hands and studied him with heightened interest. That had been one of the best French restaurants in town. “You working anywhere else now?”

  He shook his head. “I decided to take a little time off before starting at a new place. But I was actually about to begin looking. Why? You got any openings at Gauguin?”

  “As a matter of fact, one of our line cooks just gave his notice. You wanna come down there sometime and meet with the head chef, Javier? He’s the one who’ll be doing the hiring.”

  We had just decided on the next day for me to introduce Brian to Javier when Marta clapped her hands to call us back for practice. I grabbed another cookie and chowed it down as everyone took their seats.

  Once we’d all quieted down, Marta motioned toward the soprano section and said that Jill had an announcement. Kyle’s girlfriend stood and faced the group.

  “I know a lot of you had known Kyle for a long time,” she said, and then paused to clear her throat. “So I wanted to let you know that his memorial service will be this coming Saturday, at three o’clock at Lighthouse Point. A group of us from the chorus will be singing the Bruckner ‘Locus iste,’ which was one of his favorites, and you’re all invited to join us if you want.”

  Could she have pushed him out the window? I wondered. Though Vargas and Eric—as well as Nichole and Mei—had all pooh-poohed my theory, I couldn’t get it out of my head that the way Kyle had landed didn’t jibe with a simple fa
ll. Since it had happened at the church the morning of our rehearsal, a member of the chorus seemed the likely suspect. Jill could have pushed him out during break and then snuck back downstairs into the hall without anyone noticing. And Eric was always talking about how murders were most often committed because of love or money. So she made perfect sense.

  Marta now stepped up to the podium, but I continued to study the soprano as she sat back down and received a hug from the woman next to her.

  “Jill and I have talked about it,” Marta said, “and have decided that our performance of the Requiem this summer will be dedicated to Kyle. And we’ll also be setting up a fund in his name to help young singers pay for things like voice lessons and master classes. So I encourage all of you to donate to it, once it’s up and running. Jill will have information on how to do so.”

  Jaw set, she nodded at Jill and then raised her hand, pencil poised to conduct. “Let’s sing, shall we?”

  Marta skipped ahead from the Requiem/Kyrie to number seven, the Lacrymosa. This is the achingly sad movement that is played in Amadeus as Mozart’s shroud-wrapped body is unceremoniously dumped into the paupers’ grave, with a shovelful of lime tossed on top.

  Only the first eight measures of the Lacrymosa, however, were completed by the dying composer, Marta informed us. “Süssmayr was left to finish it—twenty-two additional measures, the last two of which compose the Amen.” She held open the published score we were using and indicated the end of the movement. “Musicologists have long lamented that this abbreviated Amen section demonstrates the weakness of Süssmayr’s endings compared to what Mozart might have done if he had only had the chance to do so.”

  And then she smiled. “But they need lament no longer. For it turns out that Süssmayr did compose a longer, more—how do you say it?—fleshed-out Amen for the Lacrymosa, based on a fragment Mozart had written down before his death.” Picking up the photocopied sheets she’d handed out to us, she held them aloft like a prize. “And here it is. So I want you to cross off the last page of this section in your books and replace it with this new music. Adesso,” she said, turning to the accompanist. “Let’s sing the last nine measures that are in your scores.”

  The Lacrymosa as printed ended with a simple two-chord ending on the word “amen,” the first chord building up the tension, making the ear anticipate and yearn for what comes next. And then, sure enough, the final measure resolved the movement on a grand D-major chord, and every brain in the room breathed a silent ahhhhh. It’s a common device—routinely employed by musicians throughout the ages, including numerous modern rock bands I can think of.

  “Va bene.” Marta picked up the photocopied sheets. “Now we sing this one.”

  She took a slow tempo, in deference to the fact that we were all sight-reading—even those who had sung the Requiem multiple times. But I still pretty much stumbled my way through the alternate version. I could tell, however, that it was an intricate, lovely fugue, far more satisfying than the simple two-bar ending in our printed scores.

  When we finished singing, Marta was wearing a grin the size of the Amalfi Coast, and we all applauded. She bowed her head quickly and then waved us to quiet down. “Okay, bene. Now please stand,” she said, motioning us out of our seats, and we set to work hashing out the movement as a whole.

  After rehearsal was over, we were all packing up our music and belongings and chattering like preschoolers when Marta called us to attention once more.

  “Another thing,” she said just as Eric walked up and sat down next to Allison and me. “This coming Saturday, we will be doing octets on the first movement fugue. So pratichino tutti—everybody must practice and be ready!”

  There were loud groans all around, and I looked at Eric. “Huh?”

  “It means we’ll have to take turns standing at the front of the room, singing it two on a part—eight people total. I think over the years, Marta has learned it’s the only way to make sure everyone really does practice their music. You know, since you’re embarrassed in front of the whole chorus if you don’t.”

  I, too, groaned. “Great. You didn’t warn me about this when you talked me into joining.”

  “No worries,” he said with a patronizing pat to my back. “Just use that song-learning site I told you about and you’ll do fine.”

  I’m glad you’re so confident, I thought as we headed for the door. Because I certainly wasn’t.

  Eric and I were halfway across the parking lot when a woman came running up to us from behind. It was the soprano, Jill. We stopped walking to let her catch up, and Eric gave her a warm embrace. “I’m so sorry about Kyle,” he said with a squeeze to her shoulder. “You hangin’ in there okay?”

  “I guess.” She flashed a smile, but it was unconvincing.

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do, let me know, all right?” Eric introduced the two of us, and we shook hands.

  “I actually know who you are,” Jill said. “From being in the papers a few months back, you know, because of your aunt?”

  “Right.” This was not the first time someone had recognized me from the stories—and accompanying pictures—about the role I’d played in catching my Aunt Letta’s killer, but it always made me slightly uncomfortable. “Well, I’m sorry to hear about Kyle, too . . .”

  “Thanks.” Jill continued to stand there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other but not saying anything. I was trying to think of a way to excuse myself and head for my car when she finally spoke again. “There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about. Could I maybe buy you a drink or something?”

  Now this was weird. But I was intrigued. “Uh, sure.”

  “There’s a place just around the corner we could go to. I won’t take too much of your time. You’re welcome to join us, too, Eric.”

  I knew he must also be curious as hell, since he readily agreed. The three of us walked to the restaurant in silence, me wondering the whole way what she could possibly want to discuss. It was a Mexican joint, mostly deserted at this late hour, and we were shown to one of the red faux-leather booths. The waitress offered us menus, which we declined.

  Eric and I ordered our usuals—a Maker’s Mark on the rocks and a Bombay Martini—and Jill asked for a Margarita up, no salt.

  “So,” I asked once the waitress had left, “what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Jill sat up straight and laid her hands on the table, fingers splayed. “Okay,” she said, then sighed and slumped back down. “It’s about Kyle. The police are saying that he fell when he tried to open the window and it came loose.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said and nodded.

  “So in other words,” Jill went on after clearing her throat, “they’re treating his death as accidental.” She bit her lower lip and paused. “But here’s the thing: I don’t think it was an accident. I think he was pushed.”

  Chapter Six

  My immediate reaction was, Okay, so it wasn’t her after all. But this initial disappointment vanished as soon as it dawned on me that I’d discovered an ally—that Jill and I clearly shared the same theory. I shot Eric a “See? It’s not just me” look, and he shook his head and turned away.

  “That was exactly my thought when I saw him,” I said to Jill in an excited whisper. “Because of the way he landed. It just didn’t seem right, somehow.”

  “Well, there is that, I guess,” she replied. “But more important, there’s no way he would have opened that window in the first place. I was up in the room with him before he fell—”

  “You were?”

  “Yeah, but just for a minute. I ran upstairs at break to get some more scores for Grace, the music librarian, and Kyle was in there checking his phone. He always treated that room like his own private office.” Jill smiled, but it was a sad sort of smile, the kind where the expression in the eyes doesn’t match that of the mouth.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “that window had a big sign on it saying it was broken and not to use it. And Kyle wa
s always super cautious about stuff like that—about everything, really. He was a total stickler for any kind of rule.”

  Eric nodded in agreement.

  “Plus,” Jill added, “it was chilly that morning. Remember how Marta commented on it at rehearsal? And Kyle was perpetually cold. I can’t believe he would have opened a window that morning. He was the one who was always closing them wherever he went.”

  I thought back to the bearded man and how he’d had on a heavy sweater with a scarf around his neck during the auditions, even though the room had been warm and stuffy. And the morning he’d fallen to his death, he’d been wearing a tweed jacket and another scarf. It would indeed be odd for someone with his internal thermometer to have opened that huge window on a cold and foggy morning like that.

  “Okay . . .” I finally managed. “And you’re telling me all this because . . .”

  “Because I don’t know who else to talk to,” Jill blurted out and then burst into tears. The waitress arrived at this point with our drinks, along with bowls of chips and salsa, but, upon seeing the hysterical woman at our table, she backed away with wide eyes. I motioned for her to go ahead and bring them anyway; I was thirsty, dammit.

  The distraction afforded Jill a few moments to regain her composure, and by the time we’d gotten everything arranged on the table and had sampled the homemade tortilla chips and tangy chipotle salsa, she was able to continue.

  “It’s just that when the police told me they saw no evidence of foul play and that they were ruling his death accidental, I didn’t know what to do. I’m positive there’s something more to it than his simply falling when the window came loose. But there’s no way I could afford a private investigator, and I’d have no idea how to even begin doing something like that myself.” She turned to face me. “And then I saw you at chorus tonight. I’d read in the papers about how you solved your aunt’s murder—”

  “I didn’t solve anything,” I interrupted. “I just very stupidly almost got myself killed and in the process happened to expose the killer.”