Her Own Drum

by Ali Franklin

  They were all in for a surprise tonight. On most nights during the school year, students would grab extra bread from the cafeteria and offer it to the ducks after dinner. With no students on campus, the ducks would have to find their own snacks for the next couple of weeks. But Ryan knew that a couple of kindhearted groundskeepers made sure the ducks had all the seed they needed each morning. She wondered if the ducks knew how good they had it.

  Ryan’s car was just on the other side of the Van Zandt Center for the Fine Arts, the huge complex that housed the music and musical theater departments as well as the dance and drama programs. It included a full-size performing arts space suitable for ballets and operas as well as classrooms, faculty offices, and rehearsal rooms. The building’s design had been chosen from hundreds of submissions and paid for through years of fund-raising efforts. The towering white walls of the exterior were fashioned from chopped native Texas stone. The design was reminiscent of the sweeping open expanses of the Texas landscape, with small hills and canyons interrupting the facade at irregular intervals. It was a gorgeous building and she never tired of looking at it. Not for the first time, Ryan counted working at Haverwood as a blessing.

  Ryan’s phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a text from Clara Boxer, a student who had graduated over the weekend.

  Doc, I had something

  delivered to your office

  this morning.

  Hope you got it.

  Thanks for everything.

  Graduating students often sent their professors cards or gifts. The fact that this gift had been delivered to the office made Ryan wonder if it was alive; flowers or plants were common. If it was a gift from that category, Ryan should get it tonight. She would not be teaching any music classes this summer and would seldom be in Van Zandt.

  Veering toward the door of the building, Ryan heard footsteps behind her. She whirled around. Coming toward her from the walkway next to the humanities building was Blake Cooper, a campus patrol officer.

  “Hey, Blake. How are you tonight?”

  The young officer smiled. “Surprised to run into you. I thought Jimmy and I would be the only ones out tonight.” Jimmy Conrad was another patrol officer who frequently worked night duty. Ryan had worked with both officers on many a late-night skirmish over the past five years.

  “I’m just on my way home now,” said Ryan. “I’m going to stop off at VZ to get something out of my office.”

  “Want me to come in with you?” asked the patrolman.

  “No need. I’ll just be a minute.”

  The officer wished her goodnight and Ryan turned back toward the building. She went in through the west entrance, the one with high walls that reminded her of the canyon near Amarillo where she hosted the orientation leaders’ training retreat each spring. She took the stairs to the second floor and started toward her office near the middle of the hallway. This end of the hall was comprised of faculty offices. The other end held rehearsal spaces of various sizes. She passed another poster for the “CAMpus MUSical ExtravaGANza” and groaned as she realized she was humming “God Bless the USA” again.

  She reached an office door that sported a huge three-dimensional butterfly made of lilac-colored construction paper. The wingspan was broader than the width of the door. The body of the butterfly was outlined in gold and green glitter and fuzzy red antennae reached toward the top of the door frame. A message was painted across the butterfly’s wings in wide white strokes. On the left wing were the words, “Fly, my dears!” On the right, “Be free!” Various students had added their signatures and penned brief “good-bye” messages in the remaining open space of the huge wings.

  Ryan smiled and shook her head. Teddy always provided larger-than-life messages for her students. In fact, her best friend seemed to have a larger-than-life everything. She was a campus and community icon. As talented as anyone Ryan had ever known, Teddy could have worked anywhere (Yes, even on Broadway, Ryan thought). But she was thrilled to teach at Haverwood and help students become their best selves. In the tradition of great teachers everywhere, Teddy was working on The Great American Masterpiece in her spare time. Ryan was certain it would be a true work of art. Eventually. She smiled again, glad her friend seemed re-energized to finish her musical this summer.

  Teddy also had a relationship to be envied. She and her partner, Summer, had meet in college more than twenty years ago and been together ever since. They were completely devoted to each other, proud of each other, and totally in love. If it weren’t so perfect it would be utterly sickening. But it was pretty great.

  Ryan sighed. She had never had a relationship like the one Teddy and Summer had. She had dated plenty of women, but nothing had ever “stuck.” And she hadn’t dated anyone since…. Lost in thought, her fingers grazed the uneven bridge of her nose.

  She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and continued toward her office. She reached the door and unlocked it to find everything just as she had left it early last week, other than a small pile of what looked like greeting cards in the middle of her desk. The department secretary must have collected them from the students and placed them in here for Ryan.

  Good. No plants to kill this semester, she thought. She walked around to the other side of the desk and sat in her chair. She was glad to have this office in addition to the one in Glaser Hall. Though she usually taught only one or two composition or conducting courses per semester, using this office as a base for her work made it easier to switch from “dean mode” to “professor mode” when necessary. It also made it easier for music students to see her for office hours. Besides, VZ had been built for the future. It was so huge even the graduate students had offices.

  She walked to her desk and opened the card at the top of the little pile. It was from one of her most talented composition students. When they had last talked, he told Ryan he was going to move to Los Angeles to try to get work writing music for movies (”Remember Jack Black’s character in The Holiday? Like that,” he had said). Ryan thought that he had a real chance, if he could get his demos in front of the right people.

  Writing music was much like writing poetry or literature. Every student had a style, and after four or five years with a student Ryan could usually tell which pieces belonged to which composers in a concert. One of her dreams was to be sitting in a movie someday and to turn to the person next to her and say, “I know the guy who wrote this score.”

  She put the rest of the cards in her bag and turned to go. She double-checked the lock on the office door and started toward the east end of the hall. Exiting on that end of the building would put her closer to her car. She passed a rehearsal room on her left and one on her right, doors closed and lights out as expected. Then she came even with a large rehearsal room with double doors. Both were open.

  “That’s odd,” she said aloud. She stepped into the doorway, wondering if she should be concerned. She could call Blake and Jimmy, but it was probably just an oversight.

  “Anyone here?” she called. There was no response. She stepped inside and flicked on the light. The large room had chairs stacked against the far wall, as was usual during the semester. What was not usual was the set of timpani in the center of the room.

  The big, copper-bottomed drums sat as though waiting to be played. As far as Ryan knew, there hadn’t been any classes in the building since the final performances of the spring semester. And when the percussion instruments were put away, the big instruments usually went into the storage room connected to the back of the rehearsal spaces.

  About a dozen of the kettle drums were arranged in a large open square. Ryan had never seen them in that configuration, either in a concert or during rehearsal. It seemed strange that someone would position them in the middle of the room instead of putting them away. Everyone at the college was extremely careful about storing instruments after using them.

  She looked again. The head of one of the timps seemed “off.” Crooked. She walked over to the instrument and reached o
ut to touch the large white circle covering its top. The weight of her hand pushed it down into the body of the instrument. It stopped, connecting with…what?

  Ryan pulled the drumhead away and gasped. Cora DeLuca was curled in the fetal position inside the body of the timpano. A deep purple bruise ran as far around her neck as Ryan could see.

  “Cora!” Ryan grabbed Cora’s arm and prepared to help her out of the drum. The limb was cold. Really cold. And a little stiff. She let go of the arm and it dropped, settling half in and half out of the instrument.

  Ryan stepped back and ran her hands through her hair, breathing hard. She looked around the room in vain for something to help Cora. For a second she wondered if she should look under the heads of the other timps. Then she walked to the front of the room, picked up a trash can, and vomited.

  5

  Ryan sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall. After what felt like an eternity she wrestled her phone out of her shorts. She pressed a digit for speed-dial and waited. The call connected and she spoke.

  “Nick, come quick. The big rehearsal room on the second floor of VZ. Someone’s…dead.”

  Six minutes later, Ryan heard shouts in the hallway. She had locked herself in her office as she had been told. She stood behind her desk listening to the footsteps. Someone pounded on her office door.

  “Ryan, it's Nicki. Are you all right?” It was Chief Statton of the campus police.

  “I’m here. I’m okay.”

  Ryan heard a key in the lock and watched as Nicki came through the door. Even though it was after hours, the chief was in full uniform, her short blond hair perfectly tousled as always. Her green eyes were wide as she held her gun at the ready.

  Every few years or so there was a debate on campus about whether the campus police should carry real guns or tasers. Some students’ parents worried about sending their sons and daughters to a place where there were any weapons at all, while others wanted every person on campus to be armed. The open-carry laws in Texas meant that firearms were legal almost anywhere in the state for licensed gun owners. But as a private college, Haverwood was allowed to claim an exemption, and the Board of Regents had decided that only campus police officers were permitted to carry firearms on campus. Tonight Ryan was glad they had more than tasers.

  “Did you hear anyone else in the building?” asked Nicki. “We have to clear it before we bring in the emergency crew.”

  “No, no one. Nothing.” Ryan heard Blake and Jimmy moving down the hall toward them, unlocking office doors with their master keys and calling “Clear!”

  They heard a knock and Jimmy poked his head through the door. “Chief, this floor is clear. Patel and Smith are going to the ground floor. Blake and I are going up to three."

  “Understood. Y'all tell Patel and Smith to keep a lookout for the counties,” said Nicki. Her native Texas drawl seemed more pronounced than usual tonight. Jimmy nodded and disappeared.

  “Thanks for locking yourself in here,” said Nicki. “It was the safest thing to do. How do you feel?”

  “Okay. Tired." Nicki moved toward Ryan and supported the dean as she slumped back into her chair.

  “You're doing great,” said Nicki. “Think you can come back in the room with me? I want you to confirm it looks exactly the way you left it.”

  “I think so.” They walked down the hall together. Ryan was grateful to feel her friend's arm around her shoulder.

  “Tell me how you found her,” said Nicki.

  “I was on my way out when I noticed these doors open." She gestured. "I turned on the light to see if anyone was here. I didn’t expect to find—.” She pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from crying.

  Nicki walked to the room next door and brought in two chairs. She placed them just inside the classroom door.

  “Sit here,” she said, “and tell me if it looks like anything has been moved.”

  Ryan closed her eyes for a few seconds. Then she took a deep breath and looked around the room. “It all looks exactly the same as it did when I came in. The timps were arranged there. The head of the drum where….” she faltered. “The head was on top. I moved it. That’s why it’s on the floor.” She looked around. “That’s it."

  Nicki pointed to the trash can. "Did you throw up?"

  "Sorry."

  Nicki patted her arm. “It’s okay. Happens to a lot of people when they get a shock like this.” She looked at her watch, then took a step back. “I should get some pictures before the Sheriff’s guys get here. They’re probably going to take over and won’t want to share any information.”

  “Why can’t you be in charge?” asked Ryan. “You investigated murders when you were with the LAPD, right? That’s as much experience as the County Sheriff’s people have.”

  Nicki shook her head. "It’s better that they do it. They have access to all the resources they’ll need and the labs for tests, probably in Dallas. We don’t have any of that here. And I’ve never mentioned to anyone in the sheriff’s department there that I used to be LAPD. It’s not a secret, but it's never come up.” She pulled out her phone and started taking pictures of the room and the timpani. “Besides, if they underestimate me it will make it easier for me to keep track of the investigation.”

  She continued walking around the room and quickly zeroed in on the timp in question. Ryan could her the snap, snap of her phone’s camera app.

  “Have you ever played these big ol’ drums?” asked Nicki.

  “I have, and they’re called timpani.” Ryan smiled at her friend. “Just so you know when the ‘counties’ get here.”

  “Thanks.” The chief stood next to the timp where Cora lay. “I think I recognize her from campus. You say her name is Cora?”

  “Cora DeLuca. She’s a member of the music faculty. Teaches…” Ryan caught herself. “Taught percussion. You know, drums, marimba, shakers….”

  “Tell me about her. Does she have a husband? Partner? Kids?”

  Ryan shook her head and sighed. "I don’t know. I think she was family but we never talked about it. I think she was friends with Teddy. We should ask her.”

  Loud footsteps sounded in the hallway.

  “Sounds like the bosses are here,” said Nicki. “I’d better help 'em get started.” She pocketed her phone and walked out to greet the newcomers. Ryan heard muffled voices, then Nicki returned.

  “They said you should go to your office until they are ready for you.”

  “Fine by me,” said Ryan. Rising to leave, she almost collided with a woman who was talking on her phone while she entered the room. The woman scowled, pulled the phone a few inches from her ear, and turned to watch as Ryan walked down the hallway. Ryan no longer heard the woman talking and glanced over her shoulder. She was still staring at Ryan. What the heck?

  When she reached her office, she once again closed the door behind her and sat at her desk. If her favorite television shows were right, she was in for a long night. She looked around the room for something to do. She considered opening the rest of the cards from the students but decided she would save that for a happier day.

  A knock sounded at the door. “Dean McCabe, it’s Jimmy Conrad. May I come in?”

  “Of course, Jimmy,” she replied.

  The officer came in and closed the door. “They want me to sit with you to make sure you don’t call anyone to talk about the…what you found in the room. Sorry,” he said, staring at the floor.

  “It’s okay, Jimmy, I get it. I know everyone’s just doing their jobs.” She sighed. “Who was that woman on the phone in the hallway? She looked pretty intense.”

  “That’s the lead detective from the Sheriff’s office. She seems pretty by-the-book.”

  “Seems pretty ticked off,” said Ryan. “Maybe she’s mad about us ruining her evening.” She paused. “You’re sure no one else is in the building?”

  “We’re sure. Blake, Smith, Patel, and I checked. No sign of anyone or anything.”

  They fell into silence, both l
ooking around the room. Jimmy started walking around, looking at the framed pictures on the wall.

  “Is that…?” he asked, pointing at a small photo. He stepped back in disbelief.

  “Yeah. I played a couple tracks on his third album,” said Ryan. “He was a really decent guy. It was a shame about that car accident.”

  His jaw fell open. “Oh. My. Gosh. Who else do you know?”

  Ryan smiled. “I met a lot of people when I lived in New York. I was connected to a big recording studio and got called in whenever a band needed someone with my…particular set of skills,” she said with a wink.

  “Wow. I knew you were a musician but I had no idea you were good,” he said.

  “Hey!" she said, shooting him a mock frown.

  "Kidding." He moved to the large bookcase that covered the east wall. “Do you mind if I peek at your collection?”

  “It’s mostly music books,” Ryan said. “They might not be very interesting.”

  “Whoa!” Jimmy breathed, leafing through a magazine-sized volume. “Was this really signed by the Stones?”

  Ryan had received the book as a gift from a former student who had met the Rolling Stones backstage after a concert. Come to think of it, she had a few volumes like this one that might take Jimmy’s mind off of the problem at hand for a while. She smiled and walked over to the bookcase.

  “Here,” she said, grabbing more items from the shelves. “You might like these too.” She handed him a book about Journey signed by Steven Perry. Jimmy was not overly impressed. But he grabbed at the other item in her hand, a vinyl copy of INXS’s “Kick” album with a cover signed by Michael Hutchence.

  “Do you know how much this is worth?”

  Ryan smiled. “Sentimental value.”

  They went through each shelf of her collection, with Jimmy alternately frowning and asking, “Do you know how much you could get for this?”