The Mussorgsky Riddle

by Darin Kennedy

  “If we could confirm Julianna was seeing more than one person, it would certainly take the heat off Jason.” Trying to keep any trace of my own suspicions from my face, I ask, “Any idea who ‘H’ might be?”

  “Someone old enough to drive, I suppose. There are three hundred students in the graduating class and a similar number in the junior and sophomore classes. Probably a good fifty or sixty guys with an H in their name, assuming it’s not a nickname.” I rest my glass on the bar. “And assuming it’s a guy.”

  Sayles looks at me quizzically. “Paranormal investigator, huh?” She raises an eyebrow and smiles. “I’m guessing your train of thought pretty much starts outside the box. The Faircloth family has a winner in you.”

  “That remains to be seen.” I bite my lip. “Question. Have you ever seen Julianna hanging around with anyone else?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t know her all that well. I’ve only been teaching at this school for a little over a year and the juniors and seniors hardly ever set foot on the ninth grade hall.”

  “What about afterschool activities? You know, ball games, cheerleading?” The last image I gleaned from Jason’s mind makes an encore appearance. “The music department?”

  Her eye twitches. “She was on the cheerleading squad and I believe she was supposed to be one of the leads in the school play. Other than that, like I said, I didn’t know her all that well.”

  The chlorine odor swells in my mind. I’ve obviously pushed too hard, though I still have to fight the urge to ask her about Glenn Hartman. The likely identity of the mysterious “H” at the end of the note isn’t so mysterious with the insider information I’m privy to, but I decide not to tip that particular card. Now, if only I can convince Detective Sterling and his oh-so-pleasant partner to get a warrant based on my interaction with an imagined Cart Man, a hazy memory filtered through the consciousness of a jealous ex-boyfriend, and a found high school love letter.

  “I’m curious about something.” My fingers trail along the paper resting between us. “Why didn’t you take this note to the police?”

  “My main goal is to help Anthony and his family. Kid’s got enough hurdles to jump without his brother ending up behind bars. You can take the note to the cops if you want, but I wanted you to see it first.”

  I fold the note and slide it into my purse. “Anything else?”

  “Off the record?”

  “I’m no reporter, but sure.”

  “The police aren’t the only ones suspicious of Jason Faircloth. Students and teachers alike have been giving him a wide berth for weeks. Everyone just wants to put this whole thing behind them, and they’re looking for someone to blame.” She takes the last sip of her drink. “Look out for your client, Ms. Tejedor. You may be the only one who is.”

  I finish off my glass of wine and reach for my wallet as Sayles produces a twenty from her purse and hands it to the bartender.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Sayles.”

  “Please, call me Veronica.”

  “All right, Veronica. Call me if you find out anything else of interest. I’ll be in touch.”

  She heads for the ladies room as I make my way out of the bar and to the covered valet stand. Even in the short sprint to my car, I’m half-drenched. I swear under my breath for leaving my raincoat and umbrella at the hotel. I pull the door closed and shiver.

  “Lady Scheherazade?”

  I nearly leap out of my skin. My eyes dart to my right and there in the passenger seat sits Tunny. His brown eyes tired and hopeless, he looks at me as a drowning man looks at a life preserver.

  “Tunny?”

  “Don’t abandon us, Scheherazade. You’re the only one who knows. The only one who understands. Please help us.”

  “Help you? How?” I blink, and when my eyes open again, the gnome is gone.

  dial the first nine digits half a dozen times before I finally get up the nerve to let the call go through. The phone rings several times before someone answers, the voice confident, though a bit put out.

  “Hello?” The deep Boston-Charlotte hybrid accent comes through loud and clear.

  “Detective Sterling?”

  “This is Sterling. Who is this?”

  “Mira Tejedor. I’m guessing you remember me.”

  A sharp intake of air comes across the line. “Must say, I’m surprised. Day I’ve had, I’ve been thinking anything but pleasant thoughts.”

  Wow. Good memory. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Actually, I’m finally headed home after sixteen hours of paperwork hell. Can this wait?”

  “You’ll want to hear this. I may have uncovered another suspect in the Wagner case.”

  Sterling’s voice goes quiet. “Where are you?”

  Fifteen minutes later, Detective Sterling trudges into the lobby of the Blake, the clear fatigue on his face made all the more evident by the scent of stale bread wafting off him. I catch his eye and motion him over to my table in the hotel’s deserted dining area.

  “Ms. Tejedor.” There’s an edge to his voice, but I’m certain he wouldn’t have come if he didn’t think what I had to say had value. A cop who trusts my instincts. What a concept.

  “Detective Sterling. Thank you for coming.”

  “You said it was important.”

  “I’ve got a lead. It’s a little strange, but if you’ll bear with me, I’ll try to explain.”

  “I’m listening.”

  I spend the better part of half an hour detailing for Detective Sterling my work with Anthony. I touch on each of my experiences in the Exhibition, the progress made with each encounter, my run-ins with the witch, and eventually get around to my time with Hartmann the Cart Man. The incredulity on his face when I’m finished is colored with no small measure of curiosity, his peppery skepticism barely perceptible in the mix of emotions floating through the room.

  “Assuming I believe any of what you’re saying, let me make sure I understand. This Hartmann character you encountered in Anthony Faircloth’s mind had Julianna Wagner’s body buried in the field by his house, and his team of oxen plowed her out of the ground?”

  “At the direction of a witch standing atop an upside-down house. Yes.”

  The fact Sterling didn’t get up and leave ten minutes ago speaks volumes.

  “And you think somehow this man is the murderer.” Sterling leans in. “You know, out here in the real world.”

  “There’s something I haven’t told you. I sort of have a second witness as well.”

  “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  “Jason was pretty upset today. He asked me to touch his mind like I did his brother’s, find anything that might help prove his innocence.”

  Sterling’s lips form a thin line. “And you couldn’t turn the boy down.”

  “He’s desperate, Detective Sterling. He doesn’t know what else to do.”

  “And did you find anything?”

  I hesitate for a moment before pulling the paper Veronica Sayles gave me from my purse.

  “You tell me. I was talking to one of Anthony’s teachers about the case and she gave me this note she found. She knew I was trying to help the Faircloth family and thought it might help.”

  “What is it?” He takes the paper and unfolds it. His eyes squint as he reads the scrawled handwriting. “The note is signed ‘H.’ Who do you think that could be?”

  “Most of what I saw in Jason’s mind was like a kaleidoscope view of his life, but one scene in particular stood out. Kind of like a replay during a football game, if that makes any sense.”

  Sterling pulls in close. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

  I close my eyes and summon up the image. “Jason was at a party with Julianna and a bunch of other kids from their school. Everyone was drinking and having a good time.”

  “And?” His voice grows insistent. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “There was a man there with them, one of the
ir teachers.” I pause, considering my next words. “Jason gave me his name. Glenn Hartman.”

  Sterling’s eyes slip closed. “Glenn Hartman is Julianna Wagner’s music teacher. He was doing some voice tutoring for her a couple nights a week over the last few months. Bolger and I interviewed him a few days into the investigation.”

  My heart sinks into my stomach. “If what I saw was accurate, he was tutoring her in subjects other than voice.”

  “Interesting.” Sterling rises from the table and reaches for his phone. I grab his arm and motion for him to sit back down.

  “Hold on. Don’t go off all half-cocked. I’m more than confident in my abilities and I know what I saw, but don’t go arresting anyone with no more proof than a couple of psychic impressions from two brothers’ minds.”

  “You don’t understand, Ms. Tejedor. Glenn Hartman is already a person of interest. We’ve brought him in more than once despite the fact his record’s pretty much spotless. Bolger had a feeling about him, but nothing we came up with would stick.” Sterling strokes his chin, the corners of his mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown. “Regardless of the source, Mitch is going to like this news.”

  I meet Sterling’s gaze with a sheepish grin. “Bolger doesn’t like me very much, does he?”

  His grimace of concentration curls into a smile. “Bolger doesn’t like anybody very much.”

  He excuses himself and steps into the lobby to call his partner. Even from across the room, it’s clear from Sterling’s body language that Bolger is less than impressed with the source of the new information on the case. After a few minutes, Sterling strides back over and rests his phone on the center of the table.

  “Bolger wants to talk to you. Is it all right if I put him on speaker?”

  I shrug and motion to the phone. Sterling presses a button.

  “…more stupid psychic shit. How in the hell am I supposed to―”

  “Mitch,” Sterling says, “You’re on speaker. Ms. Tejedor is right here.”

  “Oh.” Bolger goes quiet. Briefly. “So, Ms. Tejedor. You think we’re after the wrong guy.”

  “I can’t be certain of anything, Detective Bolger. I told your partner what I saw. No more. No less.”

  “And you expect me to walk down to the magistrate and get a warrant based on some psychic acid trip? Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Watch your language, Mitch,” Sterling says. “Remember, Mira’s on our side.”

  First name basis. Interesting. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who catches the slip.

  “Oh, so now it’s Mira. Well, fuck me. Let’s pin a badge to her chest and give her a weapon and a patrol cruiser.”

  “Detective Bolger.” I try to keep my voice even, though he’s pushing one of my hottest buttons. “I understand it’s a bit of a stretch to accept, but―”

  “A bit of a stretch?” Bolger yells through the phone. “Watching soccer every time the fucking World Cup comes around so I know what the hell everybody is talking about is a bit of a stretch. Changing an investigation based on you playing “Psychic Picture Pages” with the Faircloth kid’s retard brother, that’s a fucking mile.”

  I keep the bile out of my voice. Barely. “You can ask Jason yourself if you like, Detective. It’s his memory I’m citing, or at least his perception of what happened.”

  The line goes silent for all of a second. “You want us to bring the Faircloth boy in for questioning again? I got no problem with that. As I showed you, the last text sent to Miss Wagner came from his cell phone. I’m curious, though. What’s your beef with Glenn Hartman?”

  “I’ve never met the man.” I glance at Sterling and shake my head, my lips turned up in a half grin. “Outside of Anthony Faircloth’s head, that is.”

  Even through the phone line, the explosions going off in Bolger’s head are almost audible. I imagine his gaunt cheeks turning as red as ripe pomegranate. Sterling does his best to maintain his grim facade, but the pleasant smell of fresh baked pound cake suggests he’s enjoying this more than he’s letting on.

  “We’ll make the call in the morning.” Bolger’s monotone says more than any angry outburst. “Feel free to let Mr. Faircloth know we’ll be in touch.”

  “Glad to.” I wink at Sterling. “Thanks.”

  “I’m not doing this for you, Ms. Tejedor,” Bolger adds. “Trust me.” The line goes dead.

  Sterling slips his phone back into his jeans pocket. “Sorry about that. Mitch has been a little on edge lately. He and his wife separated a couple months back and the fifteen hour days working this case aren’t helping the situation.”

  “You mean his personality isn’t always quite so… ‘sparkling’?”

  Sterling shakes his head. “Bolger’s a good man. Not much for thinking outside the box, but a good man.”

  “And what about you, Detective? What have you got waiting at home?” The momentary look of incredulity that passes his features has me wishing the words back into my mouth. “I’m sorry. I was just making―”

  “It’s all right, Mira.” His face breaks into a smile. “Umm. Let’s see. Half a pizza in the fridge and Season 2 of The Wire on DVD. You?”

  “I’m ashamed to say I’m already on a first name basis with the staff at the Wendy’s around the corner from the Blake. How many bowls of chili do you think a person can eat in one week?”

  “Seriously?” Sterling laughs, a deep throaty sound. “All the places to eat in this town and you’re giving Wendy’s repeat business?”

  I rub at my temple and smile. “I’ve been kind of busy.”

  “Do you like Indian?” he asks.

  “I’d drink a tikka masala milkshake if they made such a thing.”

  “There’s a little place on East that’s pretty popular. Any interest in comparing notes on the case tomorrow night over some tandoori chicken?”

  My cheeks grow warm. “Believe it or not, my social calendar is remarkably open.”

  “Swing by here and grab you after work?”

  “Sure.” I flash my best smile, even as my stomach ties itself in a knot. “Seven work for you?”

  “Seven.” He rises from the table. “See you then.”

  I fall back on my bed, the queasy feeling at my core intermingling with the warm ache of sheer exhaustion. I start the tub, getting the water to that perfect temperature just shy of scalding. Wandering to the mirror, I pull my top over my head and run my hands down my face.

  “What have you got waiting at home, Detective Sterling?” Mira in the mirror asks me with a disapproving stare. “God, what an idiot.”

  I wait for the tub to get half full and slip out of my skirt and underclothes. Stepping into the water, an image of a lobster being dropped into a boiling pot flits across my mind’s eye. I bite my lip and surrender myself to the bath’s steaming embrace. The stress of the day melts away as the water rises inch by delicious inch. When it threatens to spill over onto the floor, I turn off the faucet with my foot and slide my shoulders down the side of the tub till my earlobes just touch the surface. My eyes grow heavy and a moment later, I jerk awake as my nose goes under. I snort the water from my nostrils and pull my head above the water.

  “Not a good day to drown, Mira.” I grab a towel from the rack above me, roll it into a tight pillow and put it behind my neck. “Just a few more minutes, then back to work.”

  My yoga instructor always ends class with deep breathing exercises, always a welcome finish to what on her more sadistic days are basically hour-long torture sessions. Her voice echoes through my mind as I close my eyes, inhale as deeply as I can, and allow the steamy air to work its wonders.

  Breathe in.

  An image of Sterling’s even smile.

  Breathe out.

  Julianna’s body, half unburied in Hartmann’s field.

  In.

  Thomas Archer looking down on me as I come to from my latest venture into Anthony’s mind.

  Out.

  A minute passes. Or is it an hour? A century? I
struggle to open my eyes, but it’s like they’ve been stapled shut. I fight to move and can’t so much as wiggle a finger. My liquid cocoon goes lukewarm, then cold, then ice. I scream, and with a gasp, my eyes finally open.

  The scene that greets my eyes is anything but a tiled bathroom at the Blake.

  The room is dim, the walls covered with rich red wallpaper decorated with golden monkeys dancing madly hand in hand. A high-backed chair to my right is covered in burgundy velvet, its dark walnut feet carved into the paws of some great beast. To my left, a leather chaise stretches out in unabashed invitation. Multiple shelves of leather-bound volumes fill three of the walls, while the fourth opens onto a hallway lit by a flickering gaslight just visible from where I lay. I rise from the Persian rug dressed in the green sarong of Scheherazade the storyteller.

  “Hello?” I take a step toward the hallway. “Is anyone here?”

  Murmurs echo from beyond the doorway, an argument between two men. The first voice reverberates with rich bass while the second is a nasal whine that raises the hairs on my neck. Both are strangely familiar. Neither returns my shout as the argument rages on. With each step toward the door, the heated words become all the more distinct, as do the identities of the two men.

  I step into the hallway and find myself standing between bizarre versions of Sterling and Bolger. Their faces unmistakable, their attire reminds me of something from an old black-and-white movie.

  Bolger stands in a threadbare suit. A dark russet coat with holes at the elbows hangs off his skeletal frame. Orange pants stained with dirt and sweat cover his legs and his leather boots appear ready to fall apart.

  Sterling, on the other hand, is dressed immaculately. A fine waistcoat rests across his broad shoulders, the fabric a fine silk dyed a deep purple so rich it appears black. His boots, unlike Bolger’s, are flawless and polished to a high shine.

  Each of them wears a Jewish yarmulke, driving home the reason I couldn’t understand them before.

  They were speaking, or more accurately, shouting in Yiddish.

  Their argument forgotten for the moment, the two men turn toward me from opposite ends of the hallway and together in perfect English ask, “And who might you be?”