by Alexie Aaron
I was anxious to get home. I wanted to practice my alto clarinet to build some skills before the fall season. I had played the rosewood clarinet, and it was a beautiful instrument. But I missed my alto.
I didn’t sleep well, as I had a lot of bad dreams to deal with at night. My subconscious was well aware I had taken two lives with my own hands. It wasn’t something I found I could deal with on my own, and I had decided I would need to work it out with a professional. But right now I was in England and was determined to enjoy the remainder of my visit, so I pushed it back into a little dark corner of my mind until I could find the leisure to deal with it.
I did get to meet Bentley Hughes. He was a warm, helpful man surrounded by people who loved him. He withdrew his bid on taking over the music-publishing giant. Losing his best friend sobered his quest to rise to new heights at all costs. He sent to my home address a copy of every symphonic band arrangement he was presently publishing for the Coconut Palms community band as a thank you.
Mrs. Roberts and I spent an afternoon shopping. I never found out her first name - if she had told me, I didn’t remember it. She would always be Mrs. Roberts to me. Constable Cayne and his wife are presently vacationing on the money he made from selling a blow-by-blow account of the occurrences at Bathgate to the papers and the television gossip shows. Fortunately for me, the press only had the London footage of me leaving the hospital in the red dress, and I looked marvelous.
Noelle would finish her Masters, and then after that she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do. Peter had broken down her defenses, so he was part of the picture she would paint for herself. Lady Mary promised to look after her.
Michael’s aunt Diane made sure that I never had the opportunity to be near her nephew. After several failed attempts to see him, I wrote him a thank you letter for coming to my rescue. Miles was able to sneak it by the dragon lady. They left the hospital and England without a word. CSP Browning had delivered the letter from Maurice, but he really didn’t know anything beyond that they had received it.
Angie had not opened the letter from Maurice yet. She needed more happy times behind her before she would deal with it. I understood. I invited her to stay with us in Florida. She gave me a definite yes.
The biggest surprise I received happened on my last evening in England when Stephen Douglas called and asked me to join him for dinner. I went, just out of sheer curiosity. We met at the Spaghetti House near the college. We had agreed on dressing casual, and he looked very pale in the jeans that barely hugged his thin frame. His eyes lit up when he saw me. I couldn’t help smiling back. He had a large box under his arm topped with a large packing envelope.
He ordered wine, and after the first drink he talked a blue streak. He asked me questions about home, music and killing people, in that order. I complemented his playing and asked about what direction he might take after college.
“I just want to play. I’m learning to arrange music, but really I just want to play. Studio musician would be fine, but I fear I am destined to stand up and be gawked at.”
“I think you make more money the more people that gawk.”
He actually laughed at my bad joke.
“I have something for you. I made it myself.” He reached into the box and pulled out a scrapbook.
“Thank you.”
I opened the cover expecting to see a collection of his notices and pictures. Instead I was looking at myself. The scrapbook covered everything from the first blurb about finding the body in the bog, to the Queen introducing me to Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber. I leafed through the pages and was surprised that so much had been written about each of the incidents that I had been involved in.
“I had no idea there was so much.”
“I made two, one for me. Would you sign my book?” He was so excited he was shaking.
I opened his book to the first page that he left blank. He handed me a pen. I thought for a moment and wrote: To Stephen, whose musical performance is an inspiration to me. I shall never forget the night I heard you perform. I will hear it in my dreams for a very long time. Have a wonderful career and make the composers proud they decided to write music.
Detective Cin Fin-Lathen
I handed it back to him and he read it over and over.
“Is it okay?”
“Oh yes, please one more thing.” He motioned for the waiter to come over. He handed him a camera and slid his chair over. The waiter took two pictures and handed the camera back.
“I have one more thing for you.” He pulled out a musical manuscript that had been handwritten. “I have transposed some of Donald Williams’s work for alto clarinet.”
I looked at the music and reached over and gave him a big hug. I was careful not to snap any bones. I thought I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye but ignored it.
We ate dessert and parted.
This morning after I had checked my bags, Noelle, Peter and I browsed through the shops. We walked by a newsstand and there on the cover of Britain’s most colorful rag was a picture of me hugging Stephen. I wouldn’t say it was a large picture, just half the front page. They saved the rest of the space for the title: “AMERICAN DETECTIVE’S SECRET RENDEZVOUS WITH YOUNG MUSICAL PROTÉGÉ.”
I stood there a moment. Noelle and Peter were laughing. I picked up the paper, bought it and put it in the scrapbook I was holding.
As promised, I didn’t have any trouble at security with the Kernow Daa. I had returned to Mary’s home to have it blessed again, since I had taken it off. She wasn’t upset, and she knew I was coming. Mary just asked me to step outside while she “puttered around with it.” It didn’t seem as heavy as before when she clasped it this time. I thanked her for helping Father Michael. She shrugged her shoulders and said simply, “It’s what I do.”
It was tough leaving Noelle, but I needed to get back to my life in Florida. I knew she was going to be fine. I said my goodbyes to her and Peter and got on the plane. As I sat back in my seat I closed my eyes. I thought of the trip over and of Father Michael. I felt the seat next to me become occupied, and I slowly opened one eye.
“I’m back,” Father Michael announced.
“I don’t even want to know how you knew when I was leaving. And I don’t want you to even try to explain where you have been for the last month.”
“I’m flattered. I thought you must have been too busy rendezvousing with young protégés to notice.” He flopped the paper on my lap.
“Cute, very cute. I’m not going to explain that.”
“My my, you are mad at me.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“I went to Ireland to see an old teacher of mine. And then I went into a retreat. I had trouble dealing with all the mystical Cornwall things combined with my worries about my uncle’s passage out of this world.”
“Did you find solace?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good at least that’s one of us.” I leaned back in my seat satisfied.
“Don’t forget, you promised me equal time with Joyce. How long did it take you to read and understand ‘Portrait’?”
“A week,” I said cautiously. I didn’t like the way this was going.
“When I can clear my schedule I will call you. A week of religious instruction.”
“Thank God.”
“I am surprised to see you pleased enough to thank the Lord.” He sat up a little taller.
“I said thank God, because I was thanking God I didn’t read Ulysses!”
Father Michael nudged me, and I looked up to see a flight attendant coming down the aisle. He tapped his alb and smiled. The flight attendant stopped and leaned in.
“Excuse me, Detective Fin-Lathen, we have a couple of first class seats available, would you care to join us?”
“Yes, fine. Would you have two together for my associate and me?” I could barely contain myself.
“Yes, we do. Follow me.”
I picked up my things and walked a few feet and turned arou
nd.
“Perks, Father, perks.”
***
Death by Saxophone
A mystery novel by Alexie Aaron
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
~
Copyright 2012 – Diane L. Fitch writing as Alexie Aaron
In memory of Florence Smith and William Wells, two extraordinary musicians and friends.
To Janet and Ronald Hakala who wrote my first fan letter. Your support has meant a lot to me. I would also like to acknowledge the south Florida community bands, which I’ve had the pleasure of playing with, and listening to, for many years. Thank you for taking this alto clarinet player into your midst and showing me the best place to listen to a concert is on stage. Thank you to my dear family and friends who inspire me daily.
Performance
Carl picked up his napkin and announced to the table that he would have to leave them as he had an important concert. The band would not be able to start without him. He smiled as he pushed his chair away from the table, failing to see the relief of his hostess.
“I will send you a tape, so don’t be concerned about not being able to get tickets tonight.” He patted the shoulder of his wife explaining, “I have to put this one on Beverly. She should have been on the ball. I don’t what happened this time, maybe the menopause?”
Carl didn’t see the conspiring looks between the hostess and his long suffering wife because he was walking into the kitchen to instruct the Henderson’s maid for a desert plate to be made up for him of all the marvelous confections he would miss.
He left the kitchen and made his way down the hall. Easy conversation drifted from the dining room. He was a bit amazed, as he was sure that without his clever anecdotes the group would have nothing to talk about. His tuxedo lay over the bed in the guest room. He quickly donned it, trying twice to tie his bow tie. He gave up and tucked it in his pocket before leaving his dining attire scattered across the room. It didn’t occur to Carl that this was an imposition to his hostess, an embarrassment to his wife or would disgust the maid, who would have to assemble the clothes from lamp to floor, noting the odor that seemed to follow Carl everywhere.
Tonight’s performance was too important to miss. Carl drove like a maniac to the Avery Theatre, where he was sure the conductor was sweating bullets at his absence. He knew that he should have arrived a half hour earlier to warm up and tune with the others, but dinner at the Henderson’s was not to be missed.
Carl slammed on his brakes just in time to stop the Cadillac from becoming one with the loading dock. He gathered his equipment and ran up the ramp and stepped into the backstage of the theater.
The bright, Florida evening sun made the transition to the dim backstage almost impossible. Carl with both his arms full of his instrument case and other sundry musical aids bounced off stored backdrops, percussion equipment and music stands like a pinball. The path of least resistance led him to the back of the theater where, to his surprise, hands relieved him of his burdens.
“So nice of you...” he said, and before he could launch into an oration about how common courtesies were actually not very common, he was cautioned by a finger to his lips indicating that silence was required.
“You’re late,” a voice hissed behind him. His bow tie was withdrawn from his pocket and his top button secured before his helper began the arduous task of tying the silk.
“Ouch!” Carl exclaimed as he felt a pin prick. Did his wife leave a straight pin in his collar?
But before he could voice his complaint, his vocal chords ceased to function. His lungs pulled hard in his chest before stopping, and whatever air he had left in them eased out as his mouth was opened and his mouthpiece inserted.
“There Carl,” another voice hissed as his saxophone strap was placed around his neck and his instrument placed in his hands, “you’re ready for your last performance.”
Carl’s eyes took in the change of light as the curtain rose, and just before his brain could no longer compute the data sent, he heard applause. As life ebbed away, he assumed it was for him.
Chapter One
A scream pierced the air which caused me to turn my head towards the percussion section. Sally, to whom the responsibility of the Phantom of the Opera’s scream had been given, held up her hands in confusion. She waited, and as the right moment approached let loose a spine chilling shriek that left the earlier sound all but forgotten. I sat back, found my place in the music and continued to play along with the rest of the Coconut Grove Community Concert band.
As the music swirled around me I became caught up in Andrew Lloyd Webber’s wonderful arrangement. I smiled, remembering that just a few months ago I had been sitting in London’s West End watching a performance of this musical which our band was trying valiantly to honor. We were a motley group of former professional and amateur musicians, but we did rise to the challenge, and soon after our last note, the audience was on their feet applauding.
I would be a liar if I didn’t mention that some of them were on their feet to get the jump on the others, pushing past them to get at the free refreshments that were being served in the lobby at intermission. And in several cases a trip to the bathroom was in order. Our audience’s average age was in the seventies. This was senior citizen heaven, a cheap concert with free eats.
I carefully placed my alto clarinet in its stand and waited for the majority of my band mates to leave the stage before rising. They too had bathroom visits on their mind. Don’t get in the way of a man and his wonky prostate. Nothing good can come of that. I turned around and smiled at Art and Bernice, two of the oldest musicians in the band. I enjoyed the company of many of the players of Coconut Grove Community Concert Band, but one of these two clarinetists behind me was my favorite. I would be helping Bernice to walk over the wires and other hazards of the dimly lit stage.
Art and Bernice were fidgeting, staring at something on the black-painted wooden floor. Art, in his tattered tux he had purchased for the USO tour in Korea, was raising his feet as if he had stepped in gum.
I got up and walked over noticing a widening pool of a dark watery substance on the floor coming from behind the backdrop curtain.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
Bernice handed a handkerchief to Art before replying, “Cin dear, it seems that someone must have knocked over a bottle of water.
Art rubbed the wetness off his shoe, and as he did, the freshly starched kerchief turned red, blood red.
I snatched it out of his hand before Bernice could take in that there was blood pooling under their feet. I didn’t need anyone stroking out on stage.
“Is there a problem?” the gruff voice of the stage manager Miles asked behind me.
“Miles, be a dear and help Bernice and Art off the stage. There seems to be water or something here. We don’t want a replay of last year.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Miles growled as he held out his elbow to Bernice and shimmied his way out of the row of chairs and stands.
Art accepted my hand and raised himself, stepping over the puddle in front on him. “That weren’t water. It be blood,” he said, mimicking a pirate
“I hope you’re not right,” I hissed as I led him to the front of the stage where he followed Miles and Bernice to the break room. I waited until the trio exited, stage left, before I moved slowly towards the heavy, black sound curtain that kept the music flowing out into the theater while shielding the audience’s view of the cavernous back stage.
It swayed a little as a draft somewhere caught in its folds. I grabbed the edge and pushed it back slowly. This area wasn’t lit during intermission. Not many used this particular alcove as it was too far from the practice room and, more importantly, the refreshment tables. I hoped the spotlights would be enough to find the source of the poolin
g fluid.
I continued to push the curtain back until I was greeted by Carl, our first-chair saxophone player. “Carl?”
As I gripped the curtain for support, I took in the macabre image in front of me. I finally understood why there had been two screams in the Phantom of the Opera piece earlier. The first had come from this hideous tableau of death in front of me.
Before me suspended in midair, with the aid of a microphone stand through his chest, was Carl. My irrational mind wondered why anyone would go to the trouble of constructing a waxen image of the man in the first place, let alone have him holding his saxophone caught in a comedic pratfall. The evidence of the copper smell of blood congealing, along with the staring eyes and the pale blue skin, shattered the illusion.
Still trying to keep my happy little world together, I walked up to Carl and dared to touch his face. Cold, dead-cold flesh greeted my fingertips.
“Ew,” was all I let escape my voice box. Silently I screamed for a very long time.
I heard footsteps crossing the stage, and I moved to intercept the owner of the size thirteen’s plodding across the wooden expanse.
Miles was a tall man. Not bad looking if you enjoyed the lounge lizard look. He leered, ogled, or something in between, at me. It would occur to me later that he thought I was luring him backstage for a little slap and tickle. This would cause me to groan in revulsion for weeks to come.
I held up my hand to stop his progression. “Are you a fainter?”
“No, why?” he asked dryly.
“Because you’re a big guy, and I don’t want to get squashed,” I explained.
“I’m not a fainter. What’s the problem?”
“There’s been an accident.” I directed him around the curtain. He had lied. He fainted. I tried in vain to catch him, but he and I ended up on the floor with Carl looming over us like a Madame Tussaud’s figure.
