A Measure of Murder Read online

  “Well, you may say so, but I read all about it and know there was a lot more to the whole thing than that.” Jill smiled and wiped her wet cheeks with a cocktail napkin. “So anyway, when I saw you, I got to thinking that maybe you’d be interested in looking into Kyle’s death.”

  “Right.” I scooped up a pile of salsa and leaned over the table to avoid spilling on my blue-and-white-striped jersey as I stuffed the loaded-down chip into my mouth.

  “No, really,” Jill said, reaching for her Margarita. “I’m serious.”

  Before I could finish chewing and swallow in order to answer, Eric cleared his throat. “Uh, I’m not sure exactly how to broach this without sounding callous, but assuming arguendo that it wasn’t an accident—”

  “Huh?” Jill’s glass stopped en route to her mouth.

  “That’s legal-speak,” I explained. “It means ‘assuming solely for the sake of argument.’ You gotta remember you’re talking to a district attorney.”

  “Oh, right.” She sipped her drink and nodded for him to go on.

  “Well, anyway, what I’m wondering is, what if he . . . you know . . . did it on purpose?”

  Jill gave a vigorous shake of the head. “No way. Kyle was the most risk-averse guy I ever met. There’s no way he would have killed himself—especially not that way, by jumping out of a window. And besides, I would have known if he’d been depressed or suicidal. He didn’t seem any different at all lately than he always was.” She continued to shake her head back and forth. “Nuh-uh. I just don’t believe it.”

  “Plus, that would still make the way he landed wrong,” I put in. “If he voluntarily jumped, he’d have been lying face down, not on his back like he was.”

  “Does that mean you’ll do it?” Jill turned toward me. “That you’ll investigate his death?”

  The pleading in her eyes was so intense, I had to look away. Staring instead at the velvet painting behind her of a brawny Aztec warrior embracing a voluptuous, scantily clad princess, I considered what she was asking.

  It did bother me about the position Kyle had been lying in after the fall and also what Jill had pointed out, about his never opening windows and being a risk-averse sort of person. Not only that, I thought as I sipped from my bourbon-rocks, but she was giving me the chance to prove both Detective Vargas and Eric wrong—an offer mighty difficult to turn down.

  “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for me to at least keep my ears open,” I finally said with a glance Eric’s way.

  Though he refrained from comment, he made little effort to hide his smile as he raised his Martini glass to his lips. Jill was also smiling, but unlike Eric, hers appeared to be from actual joy as opposed to mirth at my expense. And no doubt relief, as well, that she’d found someone who believed her. Just as I had.

  I helped myself to another tortilla chip. “But if I’m going to take part in this little investigation,” I went on as I dunked it into the bowl of salsa, “I think it would be good to have some background information. Like, for starters, what can you tell me about that room Kyle was in when he fell?”

  “It’s basically just a storage room now,” Jill said, “though it used to be more of an office—what they call a vestry, I think, in some denominations. I’m a member of the church, so I’ve been up there a bunch of times. They let our chorus keep stuff in there, like the coffee and hot water urns, music stands, scores and sheet music. Plus there’re church-related things, too. The Sunday choir’s robes, extra folding chairs, brooms and cleaning supplies, maintenance equipment . . .”

  I stopped her. “Is there a regular maintenance guy—or gal—for the church? Because it’s obvious that window frame was in really bad shape.”

  “Yeah,” Jill said. “His name’s Steve. He’s a member of the church, too, and does it for free. He works in maintenance up at the university. College Eleven, I remember him saying—’cause he made a dumb joke about ‘this one goes to eleven.’ You know, from Spinal Tap?”

  Eric laughed appreciatively at her imitation of Nigel Tufnel’s broad cockney accent, but Jill just rolled her eyes. “I guess it’s a guy thing,” she said. “Why’s it called that, anyway—College Eleven?”

  “I’m sure they’re just waiting for a big donor to name it after,” I said.

  “Oh. Well anyway, the maintenance guy, Steve, was actually Kyle’s tenant until recently.”

  “Really?” Now that was interesting. “Why’d he leave?”

  “Kyle kicked him out about a month ago so he could move into his house.”

  Now she even had Eric’s attention. “What’s the story behind that?” he asked.

  “You think maybe Steve . . . ? Oh, wow.” Jill frowned as she bit off a tiny corner of tortilla chip and then set the rest of it down next to her glass. If this was how she always ate, I could see how she maintained her svelte figure.

  “Well,” she went on, “Kyle had inherited a load of money last year from his uncle and used it for the down payment on a fixer-upper about a block from the ocean. He was looking for a tenant who could improve the place in exchange for some of the rent, so I introduced him to Steve. But then after Steve had done a bunch of work—installing new carpet, replacing ancient fixtures, painting, and stuff—the house looked so great that Kyle decided he wanted to move in, and so he gave him thirty days’ notice to move out.”

  “Lemme guess,” I said. “This Steve guy wasn’t too happy about that.”

  “No, he wasn’t. And he made a pretty big stink, too.”

  “Did Kyle have to get the sheriff to evict him?” Eric asked.

  “Nuh-uh, nothing like that. It took a while, but he did eventually leave on his own.”

  “Huh.” I’d been tapping my thumb on the table in what I now realized was the rhythm of the first movement fugue from the Mozart Requiem. “Did you happen to see him at the church on Saturday morning?”

  Jill shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Nevertheless,” I said, “I think we might have our first suspect.”

  * * *

  The first thing I did the following morning—after brewing a strong pot of coffee, of course—was pull up the song-learning website Eric had told me about and search for the Mozart Requiem. No way did I want to be the loser who blew it when we did the octets on Saturday. Clicking on the alto button for the first movement, I was pleased to discover that the part was mixed way louder than the others, making it obvious which was mine.

  I opened my score, hit “start,” and attempted to sing along. The beginning was easy enough, and I even remembered to do the “eeht’lux” bit, since I’d had the forethought to jot a note above the text. But as soon as the fugue section began, I suffered a rapid meltdown and was hopelessly lost by the middle of the third measure. I stopped the recording, found the button to slow down the tempo, and made a second try.

  A little better, but I was still stumbling my way through much of the section. Not only that, but my attempt to concentrate on the music was being continuously disrupted by the intruding image of Kyle’s prone body, blood trickling from his head across the cement courtyard. Had he been pushed? And if so, why?

  Forcing these thoughts from my brain, I restarted the movement from the beginning and made a third pass. Better. I tried again, and after finally making it all the way through the fugue without a mistake, I took a break and went to fetch a second cup of coffee.

  Buster jumped up to follow me into the kitchen and sat on the floor, his tail thumping the linoleum expectantly as I poured half-and-half into my mug. “Not yet,” I told him. “We’ll be taking stroll a little later on with Allison, but for right now, you’re gonna have to wait.”

  I try to avoid using the W word in his presence unless we’re actually on the verge of going outside, since hearing it tends to cause him to go into minor hysterics. But at the word “stroll,” I noticed a distinct cocking of the head and pricking of the ears, so I was probably going to have to come up with another synonym fairly soon.

  His head
drooped, however, when he saw that I was heading not for the leash by the front door but back to the study. With a dejected doggie sigh, he jumped onto the couch, curled up in a tight ball, and fell immediately asleep.

  I took a sip of coffee and then went back to woodshedding my Mozart.

  After another half hour of practice—during which I progressively sped up the recording closer to what I figured was performance speed—my head hurt, and I was exhausted. But I did feel like I was starting to get a handle on my part. Checking the clock on my laptop, I saw I had forty minutes before my walking date with Allison. Plenty of time for a quick early lunch.

  Solari’s is closed on Tuesdays, and the day is generally a slow one at Gauguin, so I tend to take it as my day off work. But because of chorus last night, I’d made that promise to Javier to come into the restaurant today to test recipes and start learning the ropes of the hot line. And Brian—the bass from chorus—was also meeting me there beforehand so I could introduce him to the head chef.

  So it wasn’t going to be much of a day off after all. But at least I’d get a little R and R and fresh air with Allison.

  I headed for the kitchen and pulled a hunk of Irish cheddar cheese and a packet of flour tortillas from the fridge. After getting one of the large, burrito-sized tortillas heating on the ancient cast-iron skillet that Letta had discovered at some garage sale, I set to work cutting the cheese and half an avocado into thick slices.

  The tortilla now hot, I flipped it over, lay the Irish cheddar on one side, and folded the other half on top to let it continue heating until the cheese was nicely melted and the tortilla a luscious golden brown. Finally, pulling the piping-hot sides apart, I layered the avocado on top of the gooey cheese and slathered it all with Tapatío hot sauce.

  Buster sat at my feet as I ate my quesadilla, his keen eyes tracking the food’s progression from plate to mouth and back again. Once finished, I set the dish on the floor, and he was so engrossed with licking off every gob of melted cheese that he failed to notice me take his leash from its hook and stand waiting at the front door. But as soon as the plate was clean, he looked up and came careening toward me, slipping and sliding like something out of a cartoon as he tried to gain traction on the hardwood floor.

  Allison was already at Lighthouse Point when Buster and I pulled up in the T-Bird. She walked over to where I’d parked. “Not bad,” she said, running her hand over its rear fin. People always seem to do this the first time they see the car. “Have you gotten used to it yet?”

  “Sort of.” Telling Buster to stay, I opened the door and climbed out. I then snapped on his leash and said, “Okay,” and he jumped down onto the asphalt. “It was really strange at first, driving Letta’s car. I’d always associated it so much with her. Almost like it was an extension of her personality or something. But I guess I’m finally starting to get used to it being mine.”

  “I can think of worse things to have to get used to.” Allison studied the shiny chrome and creamy-yellow paint job as I hoisted up the white ragtop and clicked it into place. The marine layer had not yet pulled back to sea, and I wanted to protect the car’s leather interior from the damp fog. Once I’d pulled on a sweat shirt and untangled Buster’s leash from around my legs, we set off.

  From the lighthouse to Natural Bridges State Park and back again is about four miles, a nice little workout. Before taking in Letta’s dog, I hadn’t been much of a walker, preferring the more cardio-intensive exercise cycling provides. But it’s not practical to take a dog on a twenty-mile bike ride, so of late I’d found myself doing a lot more walking than before.

  Which had turned out to be a good thing, actually. Not only is the path that hugs the ocean along West Cliff Drive one of the most beautiful spots on the globe, but I’d also discovered that meeting friends for a stroll up the coast is a great way to catch up and be social. And unlike meeting for drinks or dinner, you’re getting exercise and burning calories in the process rather than packing them on.

  Before starting our walk, Allison and I headed down to Its Beach to let the dog romp about. In the short time I’d had him, I’d learned that if I tired Buster out in advance, he’d be far less inclined to pull me along like some kind of sled dog during our walks.

  As we watched him chase a German shepherd into the surf, I told Allison about Jill’s request that I look into Kyle’s death and her reasons for suspecting it wasn’t accidental.

  “You going to do it?” she asked.

  “Well, I have to say I am intrigued. And the more I think about it, the more it pisses me off that the cops have ruled it an accident without even doing a cursory investigation.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Although Allison laughed as she said this, I appreciated her not telling me it was a crazy idea or trying to convince me to “just let the cops do their job.” Nevertheless, I decided to change the subject.

  “So the other night at Gauguin, you didn’t want to talk about your book. You willing to talk about it now?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Allison frowned and kicked at the sand with her heel. “I’m just frustrated that I wasn’t able to get more research done before coming home. There’s nothing anywhere near as good as the Bodleian around here.”

  “The what?”

  “The Bodleian. It’s the research library for the University of Oxford, and you wouldn’t believe how amazing it is, especially for my subject.”

  “Because he was the earl of Oxford?”

  Allison laughed. “People always think that, but Edward de Vere actually had nothing to do with the city of Oxford. The family seat of the earls of Oxford was in Essex, and my guy lived most of his life in London.” She picked up a ratty tennis ball half-buried in the sand and threw it for Buster, who immediately brought it back and dropped it once more at her feet.

  “Now you’ve done it,” I said. “He’s never gonna leave you alone now. C’mon, why don’t we go walk?” I leashed Buster, who reluctantly left the soggy ball behind and followed me across the beach. As we climbed the steep stairway back onto West Cliff Drive, I asked Allison, “Is that why you didn’t want to talk about the book the other night—because you’re bummed you had to leave England?”

  “Not entirely.” She stopped at the top of the steps to sip from her water bottle and catch her breath. “I’d also just gotten another one of those vitriolic e-mails I told you about before and was trying not to let it ruin our dinner.”

  Allison started down the path, and I tugged Buster away from the fence post he’d been sniffing and caught up with her. “What’d the e-mail say?” I asked.

  “It accused me of being an elitist snob, unable to accept that someone not of the privileged aristocracy could write anything as beautiful as Shakespeare’s plays.” She snorted and took another drink of water. “It’s really bizarre. I mean, it’s obvious from the language they use that the people writing these e-mails are at least somewhat educated. So how could they fail to grasp that the undisputed facts show that their guy simply could not have written those plays? Case in point: Did you know that when Othello, Hamlet, and Comedy of Errors were first published, none of their source materials had yet been translated into English? Yet this wool-and-grain merchant from Stratford—who spoke no foreign languages and never even traveled outside England—was somehow able to use them as the basis for his plays?”

  Allison’s pace had picked up as she got more excited, and I had to almost run to keep up with her. “You’re starting to sound like a lawyer, girl,” I said with a laugh. “With all your ‘undisputed facts’ and ‘case in point’ stuff.”

  “Takes one to know one,” she retorted, laughing in turn. “Even if you are no longer practicing. And hey, you did ask. Anyway, to get back to your original question about the book, the research is going pretty well. Right before we left, I was even able to get access to some of Oxford’s original letters and poems in a special collection the Bodleian has, which was pretty cool.”

  “Speaking of old documents,” I said
as we stopped again to let Buster sniff an enticing cypress tree stump, “whad’ya think of that new version of the Lacrymosa we sang last night?”

  “Oh, I thought it was extraordinary. Such an improvement over the version I’ve done before. And how amazing for Marta to have discovered the music. I mean, a manuscript find like that, one that helps solve a musical mystery from hundreds of years ago? It’s so incredible, and so rare. Man . . .” Allison shook her head as we waited for Buster to leave his mark on the stump.

  “It’s kind of like a movie plot,” I said once we’d moved on. “You know, almost as if we’re in a sequel to Amadeus.”

  “Right!” Allison said with a little shriek, slapping her knee. And then she stopped and pointed out at the water. “Oh, wow. Look at all the birds!”

  We stood for a moment and gazed out across the Monterey Bay. The seabirds were out in force today, bobbing about just past the surf and also soaring above us in misshapen Vs. There were so many—hundreds, perhaps—that the cacophony of their harsh squawking rose above the sound of the crashing waves.

  “You know,” I said after a bit as we walked on, “I’m almost embarrassed to admit this, but for a long time after seeing Amadeus, I believed the story was true. You know, that Salieri actually did commission the Requiem with the intent of claiming it as his own.”

  Allison giggled. “I know. Me too. And then years later, I find out that the truth is almost as strange, that some mysterious guy really did commission the piece and then try to pass it off as something he’d written.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “I forget his name, but he was some count or something, and he used to do it all the time—commission music and then play it at soirées and pretend he’d written the thing. But I gather it didn’t work out so well with Mozart’s Requiem, and he was found out almost immediately. Plus, it was all complicated by the fact that several different people had a hand in finishing the work after Mozart died. But his widow, Constanze, wanted to keep it secret that Mozart didn’t actually finish the piece, because she was afraid the count would renege on his payment, and she really needed the dough. So they’ve had to comb through the different versions of the manuscript to try to figure out who did what, since no one besides Mozart actually put their name on the thing.”