The Trouble with Talent

by Kathy Krevat

  It wasn’t clear whether he thought it was good or bad that I hadn’t.

  Then he gave a big dramatic shrug. “Sometimes, with men, it’s not a matter of liking someone, okay?” He obviously felt uncomfortable telling me this.

  Great. My dad wanted to talk to me about outdated gender roles, and worse, sex. “I know, Dad. You don’t have to say anything else.” Please don’t say anything else. “We’re good.”

  He nodded and patted my shoulder. “Okay. Just be careful with that one.”

  * * * *

  On Sundays, I usually tried to get as much of the office work for Meowio done as possible. I handled the accounting, paid quarterly taxes, updated files, and made sure the marketing being done by outside people was on schedule. Today, I felt out of sorts and too antsy to sit inside, so after a quick run and a shower I took a ride over to Benson’s house, back to the scene of the crime.

  The garage was still taped off with crime scene tape and the house looked smaller than I remembered. Of course, at the time I’d been filled with anxiety about apologizing to Benson and then filled with even more anxiety that we all might die.

  I walked around the garage and looked for the exit through the hedge that Norma had mentioned. The backyard was squishy from the rain the night before. Several feet inside the hedge ran a short wooden fence that circled three sides of the property. I opened the gate and as soon as I got close to the hedge, I could see the slanted path that ran through. It reminded me of Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter novels, minus the wands.

  I went through to the other side and thought about last week when I’d first arrived there, looking for Benson’s house. A BMW had been parked. Had the driver been trying to find Benson too? That didn’t make sense. A minivan had brought the next student. Perhaps the driver’s GPS had been messed up like mine and he or she was headed somewhere else entirely?

  I turned around and found a string that opened the gate from the other side. Once I was through the hedge, it was easy to get into Benson’s backyard. How many knew the somewhat magical way in?

  I decided to ask Steven if anyone stopped by the morning I was there, the same time the BMW was parked. If so, he or she knew the way in and out, just like the killer.

  I stopped at the grocery store and got home in time for one of Elliott’s guitar lessons from my dad. Musical competence had skipped a generation in our family, but Elliott was making up for it.

  “Can you show me that B chord again?” Elliott asked.

  Elliott stared intently at my dad’s fingers when he demonstrated. Then he bit his lip and stretched out his pinky finger, lightly making the same note. I knew he’d practice like crazy until he mastered it.

  “What’s the next song you’re learning?” I asked.

  “‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ by the Beatles,” Elliott answered.

  I tried not to read anything into that, but I was definitely going to ask my dad who chose it.

  I left them alone and texted Yollie. Can I ask Steven a couple of questions about that day at his lesson?

  Sure, but he was just about to start practicing, BECAUSE TABITHA CHOSE HIM AS A STUDENT! she texted back.

  CONGRATULATIONS! I texted along with emojis of balloons and champagne bottles. Can I call now?

  She texted back Yes, and I dialed.

  Steven answered his mom’s phone.

  “Congratulations!” I said. “That’s great news about Tabitha.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’m still kinda stunned.”

  “Well, you worked so hard and deserve it,” I said. “Thanks for taking the time to help me. I know you want to practice.”

  “No prob.”

  “Do you remember anyone else at Benson’s on the morning I picked you up?”

  “No.”

  “Did he act different at all that morning?”

  “No, except when he got mad at you.”

  Great. “No one knocked on the back door?”

  “Nope.” He was getting a little impatient.

  “You said he got a phone call. Any idea who it was?”

  “No, but Benson made his next student wait. I can’t think of her name now. She’s younger.”

  “You told me that you left your recorder behind. Did you listen to your recording from your lesson?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Any chance it taped what happened after you left?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “But I only listened to my music.”

  I got excited. “Can you listen to it and let me know if you forgot to turn it off? Maybe it taped his phone call. It could be a clue.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll let you know, but don’t get your hopes up or anything. I usually turn it off when I’m done.”

  I still had my hopes up.

  * * * *

  Zoey was still low-key on Monday. She missed her son terribly and worried about how many days of school he was missing, but she couldn’t risk Red finding him. Their nightly Skype video chats made Zeke feel better, but they made Zoey ache to hold him.

  And Red had begun driving by all of Zoey’s friends’ homes, gunning the engine of his car in the early mornings. Zoey was moving around a lot, “couch surfing,” as she put it and so far, she’d never been where he was causing trouble.

  “They are going to get tired of dealing with him and kick me out,” she said.

  “You are always welcome on my couch,” I said. “Or you can stay at Annie’s house across the street. She has a lovely guest room and loves to have people stay with her.”

  She shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m good. For a while anyway.”

  I waited for her to be immersed in a recipe to sneak away to talk to Quincy. He was the richest, most powerful person I knew, and he’d do anything to help the people he worked with. He had a particular soft spot for single moms since his mother had raised him alone.

  Feeling guilty, but not seeing a choice, I told Quincy what had happened in the parking lot, what Red’s devious plan was, and how I’d seen him at Saturday’s market.

  He stroked his beard, deeply concerned.

  “The worst thing is that he doesn’t even want Zeke,” I said, growing more indignant as I spoke. “He just wants to use him to get money out of Zoey.”

  “Have you told Norma?” he asked.

  “Zoey won’t let me,” I said. “But she also didn’t want me to tell you.”

  “I’m not sure what Norma would do, or recommend,” he said. “Once he gets the legal system working on his custody, anything could happen.”

  “Zoey’s worried that he can be charming when he needs to be,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “She said he’s an anchor on her life, and that they’re connected through Zeke,” I said. “That’s a chain she can never break.”

  He tilted his head, as if he had an idea.

  “Maybe you can get him a job far away from here,” I suggested.

  “Colbie, he’s dangerous.” His voice was mild, but I heard the reprimand.

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “I guess we shouldn’t inflict him on other people.” I slumped down in my seat. “Maybe she just needs to lay low until he loses interest again.” I really didn’t like that plan. I wanted to take action.

  Quincy shook his head. “Let me think on it.”

  * * * *

  My regular Monday lunch with Tod went according to a pretty tight plan. After working in the kitchen in the morning, I would arrive at his apartment at as close to one in the afternoon as I could. Anything outside of a few minutes difference caused him so much anxiety that I erred on the side of getting there early and waiting outside until it was time. I brought sandwiches from the Vietnamese restaurant around the corner: shredded pork for Tod and chicken for me. Both sandwiches included the typical cilantro, pickled carrot
s and daikon radish.

  While I waited for the right time to go upstairs, I glanced at my email and saw one from Norma that had the subject line Dead end on it. Was that cop humor? She let me know that Fred Hugo, aka Mad Dad, had a rock solid alibi for Sunday morning. He was a deacon at a local church and over fifty parishioners could verify that he was there all morning. So even though he had a lot of anger directed at Benson, he wasn’t the killer.

  Tod had opened his door and set up the table for our lunch. He was about my age, and just a few inches taller than me. With his brown hair and eyes and slight build, he could have played the sexy IT guy on any TV show, if he had any interest in acting at all.

  His apartment was warm and nerdy and wonderful, with an overstuffed sofa in front of a huge gaming TV and shelves full of books and Star Wars action figures, along with other science fiction memorabilia. He had surrounded himself with the things he loved, and created a comfortable nest. No wonder he never wanted to leave.

  His therapist insisted that our weekly lunches were helping Tod, and I was honored to be one of the three people he now let into his home, but sometimes his anxiety was so bad that his hands shook. I couldn’t see how that much stress helped anyone.

  We usually discussed the latest puzzles he was solving. He was addicted to puzzles of all kinds. Luckily, my investigations were some of his favorites, so he brought up Benson’s murder before we opened our sodas.

  “I looked up anything I could find about Benson Tadworth,” he said, enthusiasm lighting up his eyes. “I started before you even asked me.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But how did you know I was even interested in him?”

  “You and your friend were there, so I knew you might want to figure it out,” he said.

  I was about to ask how he knew that, since the police hadn’t released our names yet, but Tod found things online that he shouldn’t all the time.

  “There’s not much about Benson anywhere. He wasn’t very technical.” He said it like it was a foreign concept. “He just had that one Facebook page and a static website. And some nice SDHelp reviews.”

  “Static?”

  “He hasn’t changed it for five years,” he said. “It’s just his bio and how to contact him to arrange an audition.”

  “So you couldn’t find anything?” I asked.

  “Not much of interest except for a bunch of HOA complaints,” he said. “The president of the homeowners association in his neighborhood sounded really fed up with him.”

  He turned his laptop around to show me the HOA membership page. “How did you get—? Never mind.” I looked over the notifications that were sent to Benson. He never replied, on this page at least. “Whoa. They get a lot less professional as time goes on.”

  Tod nodded. “The president was pretty upset about the property not being kept up, especially the dead spots in the lawn.”

  I pointed to a message. “He seems to understand that Benson is just renting though.”

  “The owners of the house live in Europe. They rent to Benson, and the lease says it’s the tenant’s job to keep it in the same condition as it was rented,” Tod said. “But he wasn’t following through. According to the complaints, Benson dropped the gardener down to once a month instead of once a week. And the paint was chipping on the house.”

  “I guess I better go talk to this HOA president,” I said. “Maybe he takes his job just a little too seriously.”

  Chapter 11

  I met with oboe teacher Tabitha Higgins at Honey’s Bistro in Encinitas. As soon as I saw orange and raspberry pancakes on the colorful, handwritten menu on the wall, I knew I was getting a second lunch. Or breakfast. Or breakfast for lunch.

  Encinitas was a traditional beach town north of San Diego, and featured Moonlight Beach, one of the most popular beaches anywhere around San Diego.

  Honey’s was right in the middle of South Coast Highway 101, a street filled with quirky art galleries and ocean-themed shops. I parked a couple of blocks away and spied a guitar painted fun colors with tiny dinosaurs glued to it—definitely not for playing—and assorted mermaid statues, T-shirts and cute bumper stickers that said things like, Instant Mermaid. Just Add Water in store windows on the way. Surf shops were on every block.

  According to Yollie and Steven, Tabitha charged more for her lessons and took a lot less students than other teachers. She’d been the lead oboist at the North County Symphony for almost ten years and planned to be there for twenty more.

  I ordered my pancakes and soda at the counter and was given a number to take to my table.

  I looked up at each person entering the restaurant, but my eyes slid right past Tabitha as she walked in. I assumed the tiny woman in the hippy bell-bottoms, ballet flats, and pixie haircut couldn’t possibly be a world-class oboist until she stopped by my table. “Colbie?”

  “Hi Tabitha.” Even though I was average height, I felt like a giant when I stood up to shake her hand. This was the first time I felt like I should believe in fairies. Although the serious expression on her face wasn’t anything I’d expect to see on a fairy.

  She slid into the booth across from me and crossed one leg under the other with the ease of a teenager. Definitely a fairy.

  “Thanks so much for meeting me,” I said.

  The waiter brought her a mug and filled it with fresh coffee. “Hi Tabitha.” She must be some kind of special regular because everyone else had to order at the counter to get a mug and fill it from one of the huge urns along the wall.

  “Hi,” she said, staring at the coffee until he finished. Then she stirred in one Splenda, and carefully poured in creamer, stopping twice to stir and evaluate before pouring in more. Finally, she seemed satisfied and set her spoon down on her napkin.

  She looked up at me and I noticed her caramel-colored eyes. Such an unusual shade. “What would you like to ask me?” she asked, getting down to business right away.

  “I’m just learning about the whole oboe playing thing,” I said.

  She frowned, her mouth making a perfect sad emoji face. I must have sounded a little flippant.

  I rushed on. “I’m looking into Benson Tadworth’s death and I’d like to learn more about his life as an oboist and an oboe teacher. Like, why do you believe he chose to play the oboe?”

  “Because it’s a beautiful instrument,” she said. “It’s extremely challenging but when you master it, it’s like making magic.” Passion sparkled out of her eyes.

  “What kind of person decides to make their career as an oboist?” I asked.

  “It’s not a career, like being in banking,” she explained. “It’s an obsession. It truly has to be the one and only thing you can consider doing with your life, or you will not overcome all the obstacles.”

  The waiter brought my pancakes. “What kind of obstacles?” I took a bite, hoping she’d talk for a long time. Oh man, they were delicious, sweet enough from the orange pieces and ripe raspberries that they didn’t even need syrup.

  “First of all, you are blowing a great deal of air through a tube the size of a blade of grass. That’s extremely difficult even without making the correct notes. Then there are techniques you have to master like special breathing, double-tonguing, microtones, etc.” She waved a hand like she could go on forever. “And your entire performance depends on this tiny reed. You spend years working on your reed-making technique, but there’s no such thing as perfecting it. Even today, only thirty percent of my reeds are good enough to use and their effectiveness, which determines everything about my performance, is based on factors I can’t control, like the barometric pressure at the time of the concert.”

  “Then why take it on?” I asked.

  She leaned back and breathed deep, and her whole body seemed to fill up. She smiled. “Because when everything actually works and you make this beautiful sound that joins with the rest of the orchestra, it’s an
amazing feeling, like heaven on earth.”

  Then her food arrived—a salad with a large amount of seared ahi tuna on top. The dressing was on the side, along with a fruit salad filled with chunks of watermelon, cantaloupe, blueberries, and strawberries. She dipped her fork in the dressing and then stuck it through one piece of ahi and a bunch of green lettuce leaves.

  I waited for her to chew a bit before asking, “Do you think that’s why Benson chose the oboe?”

  She swallowed. “I didn’t know him very well, but I imagine that’s why we all chose it.”

  “I’d heard some things about his teaching style that I want to discuss.”

  Her face grew still, and then she turned back to her salad.

  “His teaching methods were a bit drastic,” I said. “For lack of a better word.”

  She nodded. “Yes. He believed in negative reinforcement more than positive.”

  “Did that cause problems for him or his students?” I asked.

  She finished chewing the bite before answering, giving herself a minute to think. “His methods worked for some students but not for others.”

  “Do you know of any students or their parents who hated him?”

  She shook her head. “Not one hated him. He did have some issues with parents and students who expected better recommendations than he provided. That caused a great deal of ill will.” She gave me a sharp look. “Not enough to justify murder.”

  I decided to step back from that discussion and come around another way. “What did you think of him professionally?”

  “He was a masterful oboist,” she said.

  “I don’t know how it works in your field,” I said. “But for example, why do you have your job with the symphony and he didn’t?”

  She straightened up and got a haughty look on her face. “I am a better musician.” Then she paused. “But he also had personality differences with a lot of people. And a big part of belonging to a symphony, to any group of course, is being able to get along with people.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  She sighed, knowing why I was asking. “No. Getting a position in a symphony is harder than getting to the NFL. So many pieces have to fall into place, on top of having the skill required. The right temperament is a big part of it. The right opening at the right time. People stay in their position for decades, which severely limits any opportunities.”