Death of a Muse

by Joslyn Chase

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Cast of Characters

  Death of a Muse

  Thanks for reading

  Next Book

  Free Book

  About The Author

  Copyright Page

  DEATH OF A MUSE

  A David Peeler Mystery

  ________

  Joslyn Chase

  ___________

  This book is dedicated to everyone

  who’s ever struggled to overcome a disability.

  And that’s most of us.

  Cast of Characters at the Sylvan Manor Artist’s Retreat

  David Peeler - sculptor, and teller of the story

  Robyn Vaughan - concert pianist who enlists David’s help in solving the mystery

  Medora Marcsello - rival concert pianist and outspoken accuser

  Sondra Tiller - spoiled brat, talented painter, prime suspect

  Janet Johnson - Sondra’s companion, maid, quasi-slave

  Arthur Burgoyne - retired English teacher, turned playwright

  Patrick Donovan - best-selling novelist known for his tales of angst and squalor

  Marvin Edelman - world-class cellist and butterfly collector

  George and Gertie Metz - owners of the retreat, and the cat

  Muse - the resident cat

  If cats get nine lives, Muse had burned through eight of hers when our paths crossed. The cat and I were living our last, sharing the air like friends spooning up a shared dessert before the waiter brings the bill. We were checking out and nearly gone.

  I’d made a hash of the one life I’d been allotted. It changes you, having a bit of your brain sliced away. It had changed me in ways I didn’t understand, and I didn’t know how to live with myself anymore. Simple decisions, like what to wear or how to feel about stubbing a toe, judgments so casually and naturally made before the brain slicing incident, now loomed like mountains and life seemed more than I could handle.

  More than I wanted to handle.

  I went through the motions, tried counseling, yoga, detox diets and transcendental meditation. I even went on a desert trek to “get in touch” with who I’d become, but I was no closer to the answers, and no more settled in body and mind. My motivation to keep searching waned to a distant murmur, drowned out by crashing waves of despair.

  And then someone killed the cat.

  ~~~

  Gertie burst into wailing sobs when she saw her beloved Muse, stiff and twisted into a frozen snarl of fur. It brought everyone in the Sylvan Manor compound on the run. My cabin was closest to the furor, and I stepped onto the porch and watched Robyn spring by like a gazelle, her willowy hair streaming behind her, pale as a wisp of smoke.

  Arthur followed, lumbering by with an uneven canter, lips spread in a grimace, his steps punctuated by little grunts, while Medora puffed along beside him, her burgundy caftan rippling like a sail. I stood rooted, confused and uncertain what I should do, wishing I knew how I should feel under the circumstances. I heard Patrick clatter down the steps of the cabin behind me and turned to watch his easy lope toward the commotion. I took that as my cue and wandered across the patchy grass to join the circle of folk staring down at the matted coat and blue, protruding tongue of the unfortunate feline.

  I looked into the faces around me for clues about what to do next. Medora’s penciled eyebrows rose on her forehead like wings, and Robyn uttered a series of soft moans while patting herself on the chest. Sondra’s lips drew back in a sneer of disgust and Patrick, standing next to her, looked thoughtful and grim.

  Gertie buried her face against her husband’s chest, her shoulders shaking from the violence of her sobs. George’s arms curled around her protectively, his granite-hewn features shadowed with gloom. The gentle breeze that had graced the day stiffened, sending a flurry of pine needles over our gathered group like a rain of tiny arrows. Arthur fidgeted, scowling at the sky, and a flood of red washed over Marvin’s face, though I had no idea what that might signify. I felt blank.

  Gertie lifted her head off George’s shoulder and wheeled it around, a gunner looking for a target.

  “Somebody did this to my cat. Was it one of you?” Her voice rocketed to a squeaky crescendo. “Was it?”

  George drew her head back to his chest and patted her hair soothingly.

  “Muse got hold of some rat poison, Gertie. No one did this deliberately.”

  “I know someone who might have,” Medora said, her eyes burning across our little ring at Sondra.

  The girl gave an indignant snort, stepping back to glare at Medora.

  “It’s no secret I hated that cat. But I didn’t kill it.”

  Medora seemed to swell under her billowing caftan and Robyn put a cautioning hand on her shoulder. Medora brushed it away, intent on pursuing the point. She thrust her chin forward.

  “We’ve all heard you threaten to drown Muse or wring her neck. And now she’s dead.” Medora raised a burgundy-draped arm and jabbed it toward Sondra. “In front of your cabin, I might add.”

  “Keep talking, Medora,” spat Sondra. “I’ve got a good lawyer and I could use a nice cash settlement.”

  Marvin stepped in.

  “All right now, enough.” He dismissed the tiff with a wave of his hand, and turned to the bereaved couple. “Gertie, we’re real sorry about Muse. She’ll be greatly missed.”

  No one else spoke, and the circle broke into a jagged line, people drifting back into their own spaces. Medora led Gertie away to the lodge, one arm wrapped around her sagging shoulders, leaving George and Marvin to deal with the corpse and see to a grave for our departed Muse.

  I stood on the spongy earth, staring at my shoes and feeling stupid.

  ~~~

  Sylvan Manor is an artist retreat, a cluster of log cabins sprawled, like a handful of tossed pebbles, in the woods near the Hood Canal. An average 152 days of rain per year keeps the place green in a way that extends beyond grass and leaves, showing itself in persistent layers of moss, lichen, and a multiplicity of fungal growths. The grounds and cabins, though adequate for comfort’s sake, leaned toward the shabby. All the better in the eyes of most artists who resided there.

  Other than George and Gertie Metz, who owned the place, Muse had been the only permanent resident. The rest of us were transient, a mixed bag of writers, musicians, painters, and one sculptor. That would be me, David Peeler.

  Or rather, that had been me.

  If you ever have occasion to attend one of the famous cocktail parties hosted by Dr. Peter McBratney of Muncie, Indiana, you’ll be sure to notice the sculpture of children at play which sits inside the sweep of the curving staircase. That’s a David Peeler.

  And if you’re an opera lover in Chicago, you may remember the marble representation of Rossini which stands in the lobby of a downtown cultural center. Also a David Peeler. There are, in fact, seven David Peeler pieces scattered in semi-prominent places throughout the Midwest and one in New York City.

  I am still able to recall the joy, the zest and anticipation I felt while producing those sculptures. And the satisfaction, like a branch of spring buds, that was growing within me, nourished by my little successes. But like the phantom pain of an amputee, though I could feel it and remember it, I could no longer access that part of me. It had been severed by the surgeon’s knife.

  Twelve days after I’d placed an engagement ring on the finger of the woman I loved and intended to spend my life with, I had woken to a headache that wouldn’t go away. I ignored it, worked through it, keeping my attention focused on the stone and chisel. I ignored, too, the nausea and depression that came with it. I was too busy to give any heed to these irritations. I had a life, and it was blossoming just as I’d alw
ays envisioned.

  But when I began to have difficulty speaking and making my hands obey the commands my brain sent out, I ran to the doctor in a panic. I spent a week and a half decked out in a hospital johnny, undergoing tests and eating bland meals from trays molded of drab-colored plastic. Claire came to visit every day, and twice on Sunday. We craned out necks to catch the newscast on the television screen mounted high on the mint green wall, and I let her eat my jello. On those occasions when the nurses left us alone for long enough, Claire climbed up beside me in the bed. Those times were the best, and made everything feel alright.

  Until the test results came back.

  I had a brain tumor. A tiny growth in the spaces of my own head was causing my mind to misfire, giving me headaches, draining my energy, and wrecking my career. I went through another round of testing, and Claire and I were so relieved when we learned the tumor was benign and could be removed with relatively little risk. She held my hand and kissed me as they wheeled me into surgery.

  What happened after that is a blur of masked faces and needle pricks. The one impression that stands out clearly, as I remember it now, is the persistent odor of a bologna sandwich. I thought I could even detect the particular variety of mustard. I asked the doctor about it just before they put me under, and he laughed, assuring me there were no deli meats in the operating room. The aroma, he said, was a quirk of the tumor and soon would plague me no more.

  He was right.

  Although the tumor was small, it was lodged between the cortices of my frontal lobe and required the surgeon to remove tiny amounts of brain tissue. The effect should have been minimal, but I emerged from the anesthesia a stranger to myself.

  My behavior became idiosyncratic, my thought processes far different from those of my former self. I felt detached, flat and barren, as if the surgeon had removed my personality along with the snip of gray matter. My emotions no longer felt spontaneous, but something I had to put on and take off, like choosing clothing from a wardrobe of taupe, mud brown, and darkest black.

  After four months of the post-surgical David Peeler, Claire left me.

  I gave her little choice. I didn’t want to live with me, and I certainly couldn’t expect it of her. I pouted, sniped, and put on my best bad behavior, but the woman had remarkable forbearance. Even when I told her I wanted to hawk the engagement ring to pay the hospital bill, she stood by me. I resorted to ignoring her, living in the same apartment without giving her a word, or even a glance, as if she didn’t exist. Who knew three weeks of a little thing like that would be the straw that made her walk out?

  I was low, a swine, an artistic hack, and every reason I had for striving to be anything more was gone. Coming to Sylvan Manor was my last shot at salvation.

  And I was running out of time.

  ~~~

  Dinner was served in the lodge from 6 to 8 pm, and the evening following Muse’s death, it was a solemn affair. Gertie was absent, and the clink of crockery and silverware was unaccompanied by background music or sparkling conversation. The pork chops were burnt and the mashed potatoes were lumpier than usual, but no one complained. George had taken over Gertie’s cooking duties. Sondra and Janet were the last to arrive, and no one jumped to open a welcoming spot at the table for them.

  Sondra Tiller was a beautiful girl and a talented artist, barely out of her teens. She used materials such as fabric and leather in crafting her canvases, creating three-dimensional effects that are admittedly stunning. She was also spoiled and conniving. Her parents paid a lot to get her accepted into the program at Sylvan and their financial contributions included a fetch-and-carry girl named Janet to care for their daughter’s needs in the rustic wilds of the Hood Canal.

  Our Muse, as cats will, had taken fiendish delight in spending her time where she was least wanted. She’d often slinked through the window of Medora’s cabin, sending the allergic concert pianist into a fit of sneezing. Upon his arrival at Sylvan, Arthur the playwright had proclaimed a preference for dogs, and consequently, Muse would jump into his lap or twine herself around his legs at every opportunity.

  Sondra had exhibited a true hostility toward the cat and Muse loved to steal into her cabin and prowl among the canvases, knocking over jars of brushes, tracking painted paw prints across the hardwood floor. Sondra’s threats of retaliation were well documented and I could see that Medora’s accusations against her had grown roots among the residents. Sondra, too, must have felt the animosity. She bolted down her meal with expeditious fervor, dispensing dirty looks at anyone who moved in her direction, and dragged Janet away before the girl had a chance to pick up her fork.

  In the twilight hours after dinner, another screaming fit erupted from the direction of Sondra’s cabin, once again drawing an apprehensive audience. A fight between Janet and Sondra, it turned out. Or, more accurately, a tirade from Sondra who opened the cabin windows and hurled Janet’s possessions to the scrubby, leaf-strewn dirt.

  “Get out, you wretch. You’re fired. You hear me? Get out!”

  Janet fled the cabin, hugging herself and holding back tears. Robyn went to her while Medora stormed the porch, loosing a slew of Slavic curses to clash swords with Sondra’s clamorous shrieking.

  I stood on the sidelines, my hands pressed against my ears, and watched Robyn stoop to gather Janet’s things into the broken-latched suitcase.

  “You’d better come stay the night with me,” Robyn said. “Sondra will cool down by tomorrow, you’ll see.”

  Patrick tracked down a stray shoe and dislodged a pine cone from inside it before handing it to Robyn.

  “What sparked that explosion?” he asked.

  Janet blew her nose into a wadded tissue. “I only asked to see what she’d painted this afternoon and she took it as an accusation.”

  “Sounds defensive,” said Robyn.

  “Sounds guilty,” said Medora.

  I agreed. It seemed an overly sensitive response to Janet’s innocent question. Clucks of indignation and sympathetic murmuring floated on the night air as the knot broke up and people went back to their cabins. Janet followed Robyn, and the episode was over.

  In the morning, Medora was dead.

  ~~~

  The tranquility which George and Gertie cultivated with such care at Sylvan Manor was shredded by Muse’s death, Medora’s murder, and the subsequent police activity throughout the retreat. None of us were allowed to leave the compound and I sat in my cabin, listening to the tick of a decrepit grandfather clock and staring at the wood grained floor. A busy fly flew in through the open window, and showing no inclination to leave by the same route, buzzed and bobbed at the curtain until I thought I’d go mad.

  Medora had been strangled in the night. Choked out by a strip of fabric, the same sort of fabric used by Sondra in her works of art. Medora’s cabin was now marked off with yellow crime scene tape and I could see a pair of plainclothes detectives combing through Sondra’s studio. With Janet absent from the cabin all night, Sondra hadn’t a wisp of an alibi.

  I heard no strains of the cello from Marvin’s direction and no tinkling ivories from Robyn. A recent dinner conversation had revolved around the fact that Medora and Robyn, both concert pianists and housed in neighboring cabins, had relished this arrangement, motivated by a friendly sense of competition and the memory of music school days in a warren of basement rehearsal cubicles, each piano battling against the others to be heard. The competition, they’d admitted, was kept friendly due to the fact that Medora was a Romantic pianist, reveling in the passion of Dvorak, Debussy and Tchaikovsky, while Robyn specialized in the Classical composers, giving special attention to Beethoven, and supplementing her offerings with a sprinkling of Baroque. Should one encroach upon the other’s territory, they’d agreed with brittle smiles, the gloves would come off.

  Arthur, retired English teacher turned playwright, occupied the cabin across the path from Medora’s. Robyn had once confided to me that Arthur was secretly in love with the Czech virtuoso. It was
clear that he was deeply affected by her sudden and violent death and I felt certain no lines of witty dialogue were being crafted by his pen today. On the other hand, I imagined that Patrick Donovan, whose novels were fueled by squalor, dysfunction, and broken lives, might be pecking away at his laptop, keen as ants on a picnic.

  The question of the day, of course, was which among us was a murderer? And the unavoidable corollary, would the killer strike again? First Muse, and now Medora, with little apparent motive other than extreme spite on Sondra’s part, a circumstance the murderer might have bent to his advantage.

  However, I was more troubled by another question which refused to be subdued and which made the first two nearly irrelevant: Was there any point in waiting out the year?

  I rose from the shabby recliner and circled my worktable, trying to assess the sculptures there with an objective eye. I’d tried a variety of mediums—clay, granite and soapstone, hammered metal, mahogany—but to my eye they all seemed to fall a great deal short of what I expected from myself. They didn’t look like my work, and I had felt little connection to the pieces during the creation process.

  I could not come to terms with the irritating quirks and foreign thoughts and feelings I now experienced. I frequently embarrassed myself by blurting out unfiltered reflections and opinions that the former David Peeler would have kept private, and I seemed unable to stop myself doing nonsensical and inappropriate things. I’d brushed my teeth at the breakfast table last week because I’d asked Gertie to buy me a new toothbrush and she’d laid it by my plate. Before I knew it, I’d popped it from the package and started scrubbing away. I gathered some strange looks until Robyn gently took the brush from me and tapped it into my breast pocket, suggesting that I take it back to my cabin and use it after breakfast.