by Kathy Krevat
“Can you give me an example about his temperament?” I asked, remembering that he threw a book of music when he became irrationally upset with Steven.
She took a breath. “There are many examples, but the one people talk about because it was so egregious, was the worst. Benson had an opportunity to play with the San Clemente Philharmonic Orchestra, along with one of the best oboists in the country. It was a celebration of Bach and the event was sold out. During the Sonata in C Major for Oboe and Continuo, something went wrong with Benson’s reed. Normally, the oboist would do his best, or quickly replace it, but Benson became so upset that he stood up and Left. The. Stage.”
She shook her head as if it was the worst betrayal she’d ever heard of.
“And that affected his ability to work with another symphony?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Was Benson good at getting his students into the right college?” I asked. “I’d heard some were disappointed.”
She hesitated. “To a certain degree.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have to explain something. As an oboist, his reputation was his hoard of gold.”
I nodded.
She turned to her purse and pulled out a small plastic envelope that she opened to get an eyeglass cleaning cloth. Then she meticulously cleaned her glasses before putting them back on her nose. She took the time to refold the cloth, tuck it back into the plastic envelope and back into her purse.
I thought about all of the little eyeglass cleaner cloths that were running around my car and office, but I could never find one when I needed it. Maybe I should be more like Tabitha.
“Last year, Benson wrote a glowing recommendation letter for a student who was not as exemplary as he gave people reason to believe. From the rumors I heard, the student had a deal with him that he would use the recommendation to get into college, but he wouldn’t audition for any of the schools’ music programs.”
“Why would a college admit a student based on music but not make sure he played?” I asked, confused.
She leaned forward. “It showed that he or she had exceptional talent, commitment, follow-through, and lots of other skills that would make him a good student.”
“Okay,” I said. “Why would a student who loved to play agree to that?”
“To attend a good college.”
“So you heard that Benson gave a student a better recommendation than he or she deserved.” I was repeating everything she said, but I was trying to figure out why it was significant. “Why would Benson do that?”
“From what I heard, the student went against their agreement once he got into the university. When he auditioned for the school orchestra, it was clear to the artistic director that he wasn’t as talented as Benson’s letter claimed.”
“So Benson hurt his reputation, or his hoard of gold, for this student,” I summarized.
She nodded.
“Do you know why?”
She frowned. “For money, perhaps. The student’s family is quite wealthy. It’s not unheard of. Some people believe that he’s done it before this and the students followed the agreement not to audition. Then no one would be the wiser.”
“Would you do it?” I knew asking such a question was taking a risk.
“Of course not,” she said. “Besides the integrity of the issue, Benson severely hurt his ability to help his other students get into that school. The orchestral director would never trust him again. If word got out, other colleges wouldn’t admit his students. Then he’d stop getting students. It would result in a terrible cycle.”
“How did you hear about this?”
“Our world is quite small. And very gossipy,” she readily admitted
“So it was short-term thinking on Benson’s part,” I said.
She nodded.
“Could he have desperately needed money?”
She shrugged. “That’s really all I know about it.”
“Can you tell me the student’s name?”
“Oscar Jenkins, as in Jenkins Industries.”
The name stunned me. Jenkins Industries was a business consulting company that was big enough to put its name on a local community center. I couldn’t imagine any family members having a difficult time getting into college. They could just buy a library or something and their kid was in.
I decided to stop beating around the bush. “Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill Benson?”
She shook her head. “Part of me feels like you’re grasping at straws by looking at his oboe life. Perhaps you should focus on one of the more common reasons. He was quite the ladies’ man. In college, he slept with the entire piccolo section.”
About a thousand dirty piccolo jokes went through my mind, and I had a hard time not laughing.
Something must have shown on my face because she said, “Yes, he endured a lot of comments about the size of his ‘piccolo.’”
“And he was still a ladies’ man?” I asked.
“According to the gossip, he was even worse,” she said. “I don’t know how he finds the time. Our schedules are so constrained by our jobs. It’s easier to date another musician.”
I thought of something she could help me with. “How could I find out about his students, including those he may have let go?”
She thought for a moment. “I believe his Facebook page has his recital programs.” She brought up the app on her phone. “Here.” She turned to show me. “You can see his past events going back years.”
I took her phone and made the words larger. The program listed students and the works they’d be performing. I made a mental note to dig deeper.
“Any reason you can think of that someone would be angry enough at Benson to kill him?”
She took the question seriously. “I don’t know anyone specifically, but you have me thinking. I love playing the oboe more than I enjoy anything. I’m sure there are others like me. If Benson got in the way of them doing their life’s mission? Maybe that could make them angry enough to kill.”
Chapter 12
I got stuck in traffic in two different construction zones on the way home from Encinitas. Luckily my dad had made an omelet for Elliott, so I went up to change for the PTA meeting.
I took a few minutes to check out Benson’s programs as Tabitha had suggested. The list of orchestral pieces the students were performing made me realize how little I knew about music. These kids had conquered pieces that I’d never even heard of by Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart.
Then I noticed that A&D College Consulting was the sole sponsor of Benson’s last three recitals. Why would a college consulting company sponsor Benson’s event?
If they were a sponsor, they had to know something about Benson. I needed to talk to them.
A&D’s website was straightforward. They helped “Ambitious and Dynamic” students get into the college of their choice through SAT training, essay development, and organizing students’ application schedules.
I clicked on the staff bios. Except for the owner, Ian Luther, who might be over thirty, all of the consultants were recent graduates of exceptional universities—Harvard, Yale, University of California, Berkeley, and more. All had helped an impressive number of students get into exceptional colleges in what had to be a short time in their career. Could those numbers be real?
They had three tiers of pricing, including “Specialized assistance with fees that varied.”
It was time for me to find out what A&D could do to help my son get into the college of his choice.
Making an appointment with the owner wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. The admin answering the phone really wanted me to meet with one of the consultants instead, and I had to hold firm. Finally, she put me on hold and came back with an appointment on Wednesday afternoon. I said, “That works,” and ran out the door.
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br /> Halfway to the elementary school, I heard and felt the “whomp-whomp” of a flat tire. Shoot. I dug through my wallet for my AAA Roadside Assistance card and called. Luckily, a tow truck would be able to help me in less than half an hour. Maybe I could still make the meeting. At least it wasn’t raining.
I called my dad to let him know what was happening. “And don’t remind me that you taught me how to change my own tire. I totally forgot and that’s why I have AAA.”
“I won’t,” he said. “I also taught you how to change your oil.”
“Ha-ha.” I hung up.
Soon, the driver pulled up behind me and I got out of the car to greet him. “How ya doin?” he asked. “Yep, that’s flat.” He felt around and pointed out a screw pressed into the rubber. “You need to take that in and get it repaired as soon as possible, like tomorrow. You gotta donut?”
“Yeah,” I said. “In the trunk.”
We worked together to pull it out and he expertly removed the tire. “Well lookee here,” he said, and pulled what looked like a piece of electronics from the bottom of the car. It had a small antenna sticking out of it.
“Is that thing a tracker?” I asked, once I got past the idea that he was pulling off something essential to my car’s engine.
He handed it to me. “Sure is. I seen these things before, but bigger than this,” he said. “You owe somebody money or something?”
“What?” I was stunned. “No.”
“Jealous ex?” the driver suggested.
I considered and immediately disregarded the idea of Richard tracking me. “No. Nothing like that.”
He looked at me like he didn’t believe me. “Well, you got some kind of trouble if you’re driving around with that thing on your car.”
My heart started racing and I set the tracker on the ground. Who the heck would be tracking me? My first thought was to call Norma, but instead I dialed Tod.
He answered right away. “Hi, Colbie,” he said, sounding cheerful. “How are you?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, while I watched the tow truck driver putting the donut on. I explained about the tracker.
“Can you send me photos of all sides of it?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Call me back when you know something.” I hung up and did as he’d asked, taking photos from all sides. I used my sleeve instead of putting more of my own fingerprints on it, hoping the police would be able to figure out where it came from. I sent the photos to him and waited a minute to make sure they arrived. My phone was sometimes flaky about photos.
I was about to call Norma when Tod called me back. “You found something already?”
“Yeah,” he said. “The bad news is that it’s a very sophisticated, very expensive GPS tracker used primarily by the military.”
“What the hell?” I asked. “Is there any good news?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s used primarily by the American military.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” I asked, my voice getting loud.
“Well,” he said. “At least you’re not being tracked by an international spy or something.”
I shook my head. “I have to call Norma.”
“I’ll send her what I found out,” he said. He’d met Norma when we were both suspects for a murder a few months earlier and they’d become friends too.
“Not yet!” I said. “She won’t be happy that I called you first. I’ll let you know when.”
“Sure thing,” he said. “I’ll see what else I can find.” He hung up.
The driver went back to his truck to fill out the paperwork and I looked at my car as if it had changed into something foreign.
I called Norma and explained what the driver had found.
“Did you touch it?” Her voice sounded serious.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “The driver was wearing work gloves, but I wasn’t. I dropped it pretty fast, though.”
“Where are you?” she asked.
I told her.
“Tell the driver to stay put until I get there,” she ordered.
“Sorry,” I said to the driver when he returned with my AAA card. “The police are on their way and they want you to wait here.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That makes sense. Let me call it in. They’re probably going to have me tow this baby to the station anyway.”
Great. My car was now evidence. I stared at the photo of Trouble in her chef’s hat that was plastered along the side of my little Subaru. How was this possible?
Then I looked down at the tiny piece of equipment at my feet, wondering if it had something to do with Benson. But how could an oboe teacher be involved with the military?
* * * *
The tow truck driver was right. My car had to be taken in for evidence. Norma gave me a ride home and wasn’t helpful at all with providing any information or making me feel better. She was deep in her thoughtful mode and just kept responding, “Hmm,” when I said anything. She was obviously not listening at all.
She came back to the present when we pulled up in front of my house. “I’ll make sure you get your car back as soon as I can.”
I wasn’t sure if I believed her. Her commitment to solving the murder outweighed my inconvenience for sure. I didn’t invite her in, the sight of my house making me feel like curling up in a corner with some tea and Trouble on my lap. I had enough of this intrigue stuff.
My dad was in his recliner, beer in hand, when I came in. He asked, “How was the PTA thing?” and I realized I still had time to make the end of the meeting.
Shoot. I so didn’t want to leave, but if I didn’t go tonight, I’d have to wait until next month’s meeting. I put off telling my dad about the tracker and just asked if I could borrow his car.
He gave me a funny look, but said, “Sure,” and threw his keys to me.
On the way, I called Quincy. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “What’s going on?” I tried not to call him outside of business hours so he knew it was important.
“Do you have any contracts or dealings with the military?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Not for any big reason. I just usually stick to businesses that deal with the general public. Why?”
I explained about the tracker on my car and he seemed stunned. “I can’t imagine why someone would do that to your car.”
“Yeah, it’s not like it was mistaken for another Subaru with Meowio Batali Cat Food all over it.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Wait. Are you investigating the Benson murder?”
* * * *
I was happy to see that a handful of cars were still in the Sunnyside Elementary School parking lot when I arrived for the PTA meeting. I parked close to them, walked up to the front door and pulled on the handle.
It was locked. I held my hands up to peer through the window. The inside was dark.
Damn. I missed the meeting.
I went back to my car and heard voices from around the back of the building. I kept walking around the school and then I smelled something.
Pot.
Without thinking, I peeked around to see who was behind the school smoking pot. And was surprised, gobsmacked actually, to see a bunch of PTA moms sitting on the green lunch tables, passing around a joint. Holy cow! I almost couldn’t believe my eyes.
I could tell they were PTA moms by their Sunnyside Elementary School sweatshirts, the clipboards and folders they’d tossed on the tables, and the piles of wrapping paper samples for the fall fundraiser.
“Uh, hello,” I said, coming out from behind the corner. “I’m looking for Freddie, the PTA president?” I couldn’t help but end on a question mark. Even Miss Manners wouldn’t know the proper etiquette for this situation.
“I’m Freddie.” She said her name in two distinct syllables,
obviously feeling very relaxed.
Another mom waved a hand at her. “Our fearless leader.”
I gingerly moved closer and introduced myself. “I’m wondering if I could ask you questions about Benson Tadworth.”
“Sure,” she said. “His penis was—”
I interrupted her as her friends broke out into laughter. “No, not anything like that. Just like, what kind of person he was.”
“Are you a reporter, ’cause this,” she waved around the joint, “can’t go in the paper.”
“No.” I gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Definitely not a reporter, and I think that’s fine. Really.” I did not sound convincing. When did I turn into such a goody-goody? “Can you tell me anything about him?”
She made a scoffing sound and handed the joint to another mom. “Other than he was a class A douchebag? Not really.”
“That’s what I heard,” I said to encourage her. “But the other person didn’t give me any details. What made him a, you know, that.”
“I’ll have to introduce you to the We Hate Benson Tadworth Facebook group,” she said, her dreamy voice at odds with what she was saying.
“A Facebook group? That’s cool,” I said, cringing inwardly at my suck-up tone. “How many members?”
She shrugged elaborately. “Twelve?”
“Wow, he really must be a…a jerk. What did he do to piss off that many women?”
“What didn’t he do?” she said. “He met us all online, pretended to fall in love with us, convinced us that he was sincere, and as soon as we were hooked on him, he ghosted us.”
“Like, never responded to your texts?” He really was a jerk.
“Yeah,” she said. “Blocked us too.”
“Did anyone confront him?” I asked.
“It took us a long time to realize we weren’t the only ones,” she said.
“Hey Freddie,” one of the other moms said, “I gotta get home to my little urchins.”
