The Wicked Hour

by Alice Blanchard

  Natalie flashed her credentials. “Detective Lockhart. I’m here to talk about your roommate, Morgan Chambers. May I come in?”

  “Sure,” Samantha said, cinching her terry cloth robe tighter. She led Natalie into the living room—hardwood floors, bargain basement furniture, old-fashioned windows letting in lots of natural light. Mellow jazz was playing on the sound system. “What about Morgan? Is she okay?”

  Natalie took a seat on the sofa, while Samantha settled into a worn armchair. “I’m sorry to break the news to you like this, but Morgan passed away last night.”

  “Oh my God, no.” She shuddered. “Seriously? Morgan’s dead? How? What happened?”

  “We found her in Burning Lake this morning. We don’t have a whole lot of answers yet. That’s why I’m here.” Natalie studied the delicate tattoo on her wrist—yin-yang.

  “Oh my God, I’m devastated. She’s my best friend. We met during our freshman year at the conservatory.” She burst into tears.

  Natalie looked around for a box of tissues but couldn’t find any. She got up, went into the bathroom, found a box of Kleenex, took it out to the living room, and placed it in front of Samantha.

  “Thanks,” she said between sobs. “God, this is crazy. I can’t believe it.”

  Natalie sat down again. “I’m sorry for your loss, Samantha.”

  Sorry. For your loss.

  “What happened? Did she get in a car accident or something?”

  “No. We’re not sure about the cause of death yet,” Natalie explained. “We’re still in the process of retracing her whereabouts last night. Can you tell me a little bit about her? Fill in the blanks?”

  “Sure.” Samantha pressed a tissue against her reddened eyes. “Umm, where to begin … Morgan was awesome. Everybody loved her. She has a great sense of humor and she’s really smart. I was kind of in awe of her actually,” she said, tossing the crumpled tissue on the coffee table and plucking another one out of the box.

  “Did she have any enemies to speak of?”

  She made a face. “No.”

  “Take your time, Samantha.”

  “Everybody calls me Sam. No, I’m serious. She didn’t have a bad word to say about anyone. Who’d want to hurt her?” She stared at Natalie uncomprehendingly, then shook her head.

  “I know this is hard.”

  “Hard? It makes me feel kind of insane. I can’t believe it. We just texted each other yesterday morning. She said she was having a great time.”

  “Did she drive to Burning Lake alone, or was she planning on meeting someone there?”

  “She went alone, far as I know.” Samantha took out her iPhone and showed Natalie a text message from Morgan, dated yesterday at 8:00 A.M. “She said she was meeting lots of cool people. See?”

  Natalie read the text message: It’s a little creepy here, I guess, but really fun. The people are so nice. I’m feeling much better about myself already. She handed the phone back and asked, “What does that mean—she’s feeling better about herself?”

  Sam scowled as if it were obvious. “We both graduated from the conservatory two years ago, and Morgan’s big dream was either getting an orchestra gig or being a violin soloist. Most people don’t realize how ridiculously hard that is, but the truth is … very few people ever make it as violin soloists with their own concert tour, signed to a record label. Even landing a seat as second violin in an orchestra is next to impossible. It doesn’t matter how talented you are. The competition’s brutal. Hundreds of applicants from all over the country show up for one position. So whenever there was an opening anywhere in America, Morgan would spend her last paycheck traveling and auditioning, and it practically killed her.”

  “I don’t understand,” Natalie said. “There are no orchestras in Burning Lake.”

  “No, look. It’s hard to explain.” Samantha grew frustrated. “She was becoming depressed about her situation. She’d been training her whole life for one of two things—either a career as a soloist, or a job in one of the country’s best orchestras. That was her goal. She’d won all these awards in school, and everybody knew—they just knew she was going places … and when that didn’t happen, it crushed her. She couldn’t figure out what else to do with her life. You can’t teach without a master’s, and she was already behind on her student loans. She tried to write a Broadway musical once, but that fizzled out. She joined a string quartet last year, but they ended up playing mostly at funerals. That’s how desperate she was. Freelance sucks. Low pay, zero benefits, always scrambling for your next gig. It got to the point where she figured … nobody needs another fucking musician. We’re like a dime a dozen.”

  “So she had a freelance gig in Burning Lake?” Natalie asked.

  “Not exactly. She entered that music contest … you know, the Monster Mash?”

  Natalie nodded. Every year during the month of October, Burning Lake would hold a contest for the “spookiest” Halloween musical act as part of the festivities. This year, the Monster Mash contest had taken place last Friday evening in Percival Burton Park. It was a big deal. People would leave the bars to go watch. Natalie had been assigned to monitor the fairgrounds that evening, and so she had missed it, but in years past she’d enjoyed all the clever performances—things like the Ghostbusters theme song, “Season of the Witch,” “Time Warp,” “Werewolves of London,” and spooky classical pieces that captivated the judges.

  Now Samantha wiped her nose and said, “Morgan figured, if she couldn’t make it into an orchestra, then maybe if she won something like the Monster Mash contest, she’d be picked up by a record label or get scouted for being part of a cool concert tour. At the very least, someone in the audience would be taping it, and then maybe it would go viral and she’d gain some notoriety that way. She said it was her last shot.”

  “Last shot? Why?”

  “She was getting desperate.” Samantha’s eyes filled with tears again as she pointed at a glossy photograph on the coffee table. “That’s us last summer.”

  Natalie picked up the airbrushed headshot of the two roommates, Samantha and Morgan, posing with their violins, looking like radiant bookends. “So you play the violin, too?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But you said it was difficult. How do you cope?”

  Samantha leaned back and crossed her arms. “Through a combination of luck and busting my balls. I lowered my sights after graduation. I’m a part-time teaching assistant at the conservatory now and a fiddle player in a local folk band. Now admittedly, ‘fiddle player’ doesn’t have the same ring to it as ‘violin soloist,’ but I’m okay with that. I’m willing to compromise my dreams, whereas Morgan refused to give up. She wanted to be the next Jascha Heifetz. Period.”

  “So you compromised? What’s wrong with being a fiddle player?” Natalie asked, putting the headshot down on the coffee table.

  “Nobody wants to be a fiddler in a folk band, God forbid. It’s looked down upon in the community. But I’m earning a decent living, so fuck it.” Her face sagged. “Look, I’m in shock about this. I hate myself right now, because I sort of encouraged her to go down there in the first place.”

  “To Burning Lake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Natalie said carefully. “Don’t take that on your shoulders.”

  Samantha shook her head mournfully. “Yeah, okay,” she said weakly.

  “So what you’re saying is that Morgan figured that the Monster Mash contest was her best shot at fame and fortune?”

  “When you put it that way, it sounds pathetic. Look, ever since she was little,” Samantha said, “her father expected her to become a superstar, okay? There was no plan B. Can you imagine the pressure? It’s either become the next Lindsey Stirling or Sarah Chang, or forget it—right? And so her failures after graduation embarrassed her. She thought her father had given up on her, because now he’s pouring all of those same expectations into her little sister, and come to find out … Poppy’s looking more and
more like a superstar soloist. Just what Morgan had hoped to be. It was killing her.

  “So she had to face reality and get a job at the library, which she hated. It was draining and exhausting, and she figured if she was too tired to practice anymore, then she might as well quit. And so, just imagine,” Samantha said hoarsely, “after years of practicing five or six hours a day, and missing out on all the things you wanted to do … not being allowed to be a kid, not being allowed to act like a normal teenager. And then, after all that sacrifice and hard work, after graduating from one of the best music conservatories in the country … nothing happens. No stardom. No orchestra job. No help. No support. And the library gig was part-time. It didn’t pay shit. Her next step was a nightmare. She was thinking about selling her violin to pay off her student loans. Talk about hitting rock bottom. But Morgan couldn’t do that. She knew that it meant giving up on her dreams. So she figured she had to come up with a better solution.”

  “The music contest,” Natalie said.

  Samantha shrugged. “Last-ditch effort.”

  “Did she win?”

  “No.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I know.”

  Natalie wondered if losing the contest might’ve pushed Morgan over the edge. She wondered if they were indeed looking at a suicide, or perhaps an accidental overdose.

  “But she was a finalist,” Samantha said. “And there were only ten finalists up on that stage. She got to perform for an audience like she wanted.”

  Leaning forward, Natalie said, “Did it go viral? Her performance?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Was she serious about selling her violin if that didn’t work?”

  Samantha shrugged. “She talked about it. Most people don’t realize how much it costs to maintain your instrument. At least a thousand bucks a year. And her violin was worth thousands, so selling it could’ve helped her out financially. That’s a ridiculously difficult decision. You know, like … you’ll have to pry my violin from my cold, dead hands.” She cringed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out that way.”

  “That’s okay, I understand.”

  “I told her to start doing podcasts or open a Patreon account or a GoFundMe, but she’s a very private person. She was shy. Most guys mistook her shyness for confidence. They thought she was a snob. But Morgan wasn’t competitive in any way. She was just passionate about her music. You wouldn’t know it to look at her, but she was absolutely lacking in self-confidence. Her father really did a number on her.”

  “How so?”

  “All that pressure to succeed. He was a violinist himself, you know. A failed violinist. Those who don’t—teach. Right? My dad was more low-key. I didn’t have the same pressures as Morgan did growing up. Her father was focused on mega-success.”

  Natalie nodded, reminded once again of her old friend Bella. From a very early age, Bella Striver had shown a passion for music, but her father—himself a former child violinist—rarely praised her for her accomplishments. Corbin Striver would browbeat his only child into practicing longer hours and call her a failure if she made a single mistake. “You must sacrifice everything for this!” he would shout.

  Natalie took out her phone now and showed Samantha a picture of the silver necklace. “Do you recognize this?”

  Samantha leaned forward. “No. What is it?”

  “What about this tattoo? Do you know what this symbol means?”

  Samantha studied it, then shook her head. “I’m not into witchcraft. I don’t think people should mess around with that kind of dark energy.”

  Natalie put her phone away. “No jealous boyfriends? No enemies to speak of?”

  Samantha frowned. “She was dating a TA from the conservatory for a while. His name’s Josh Mendoza. He’s the kind of guy who would constantly undermine her self-confidence by setting impossible standards. Sort of like her dad. They shacked up for eight or nine months a few years back. Then Morgan dumped him and moved in with me.” Samantha shrugged, expressionless.

  “Do they still see each other?”

  “Just as friends. Once in a while.”

  “Has she seen him recently?”

  “Not that I know of. She didn’t mention it to me, anyway.”

  “Can I ask you a favor?” Natalie said. “Do you mind if I took a look around the apartment? I don’t have a warrant, but if you’d consent to it…”

  “Please do. If it helps, please take a look around. Her room’s over there.”

  “Thanks.” Natalie stood up and couldn’t help thinking about Bella again. Her friend had occupied very little space. She could be quiet and introspective, but once you got to know her, you realized how snarky and funny she was. She had her own ideas about life. For instance, she kept a plastic fork tucked in her pocket at all times, because you never knew. She used to play her violin in the broad open meadow behind her house in the middle of the night. She wasn’t afraid of the moonlit dark. She had a lucky hat, a light blue bucket hat that she wasn’t wearing the night she disappeared. Her violin, however, disappeared with her.

  14

  Natalie checked out Morgan’s small, square bedroom. There was a handmade quilt on the bed, plush slippers on the floor, a wrinkled jacket draped over a desk chair, several art prints on the wall—Chagall, Georgia O’Keeffe, Renoir. Wide old-fashioned windows with gorgeous natural light pouring in. An empty bag of potato chips on the bed. Books on meditation and mindfulness on the bedside table next to the cheap digital alarm clock—similar to Natalie’s. A closet full of Lilly Pulitzer and Alice McCall dresses, along with ASOS and Bershka pants and blouses, and a mess of Crocs, Vans, UGGs, and brogues on the closet floor.

  There was an old-fashioned music stand, a wooden chair, and a metronome set up in a corner of the room where she practiced. There were stacks of sheet music on the seat of the chair. Morgan’s violin and violin case were absent—Natalie wondered where they were in Burning Lake.

  On the IKEA desktop was Morgan’s laptop, but Natalie would need a warrant before she could check out the hard drive and email accounts. Still, Samantha had consented to a look around, so Natalie walked over to the antique bureau and studied the collection of lip balms, lipsticks, sunglasses, and earrings on the bureau top. Next to the plastic earring tree was a book on Wicca Morgan had checked out of the Chaste Falls Public Library where she worked.

  There was nothing more the room could offer her without a warrant, so Natalie drove across town to the Harrington Brock Conservatory to speak to Teaching Assistant Josh Mendoza. She stopped at the information kiosk, picked up a brochure about the conservatory, and got directions to Bishop Windsor Recital Hall.

  Students were bundled up against the chill as they hurried across the charming, historic campus to their various classes. According to the brochure, admission to the conservatory was a challenge—thousands applied annually for three hundred and fifty freshman spots. The faculty boasted an impressive list of classical and jazz legends, including Grammy and Pulitzer Prize winners. The hundred-and-fifty-year-old institution offered undergraduate and graduate degrees to hundreds of gifted musicians every year.

  The senior class orchestra was practicing for the Thanksgiving concert inside the rehearsal hall on the first floor. Natalie took an old-fashioned brass elevator to the third floor, where the soundproof rehearsal rooms were. The west wing of the building was reserved for the string instruments—violins, cellos, violas, basses.

  Natalie heard a tapestry of muted sounds coming from the practice rooms as she headed down the long green corridor, then paused in front of practice room 3-F and knocked on the door. A young man holding a violin and bow answered. “Hello!” Tall and rangy, he wore wire-rim glasses and a casual outfit of jeans, sneakers, and a green pullover sweater. His violin case was open on a chair seat, and his sheet music was propped on the music stand.

  “Josh Mendoza?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Sorry to interrupt.” Natalie introdu
ced herself, and he welcomed her inside.

  “I was just practicing my Brahms violin concerto,” he said with a smile. “Please, have a seat.” His face became animated as he produced a series of dark, edgy sounds on his violin, which soon gave way to a rapidly rising, energetic melody, his fingers dancing expertly over the strings. He fumbled when he came to the end of a musical phrase, then stopped playing altogether. He sighed with frustration. “Damn. I’ve been working on my major concerto repertory this year, and I keep fumbling over that one knotty capriccio.”

  “Do you mind if we talk?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He put his instrument away in its case and studied her over his wire-rim glasses. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Detective Lockhart from Burning Lake.”

  He attempted a smile.

  “Morgan Chambers passed away last night,” she said, watching him carefully for a reaction. “I was told you two lived together a while back.”

  His face emptied of blood. “Passed away? Are you sure?”

  “We found her this morning,” Natalie said with a nod. “We don’t have all the information yet. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh,” he said nervously. “Well, this is awful news.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to her, Josh?”

  He gave her an anguished look, then sat heavily on one of the metal folding chairs. “What happened to her?”

  “It could’ve been foul play. We aren’t sure. That’s why I need to ask you some questions. Where were you on Halloween?”

  His eyes grew deeply suspicious. “Why are you asking me that? Do you suspect me of something?”

  “It’s a standard question. Part of the investigation.”

  “Where was I? I was in Chaste Falls all weekend.”

  “Did you know she went down to Burning Lake for Halloween?”

  “She told me she was going to enter that contest … the Monster Mash. She was pretty excited about it.”