Downbeat (Biting Love)

by Hughes, Mary

  “Yeah, but it’s Logan’s turf.”

  Another vampire code word. I narrowed my eyes at her. “Which means what exactly? Logan’s king of Redfox Village?”

  She reddened, opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. “Hey, the Wicked Witch is cuing the tuning. Turn around and toot.”

  More strangeness. “Where’s Dr. Vilyn?”

  No one answered me and if I didn’t tune now I’d have to try to hear myself through the brass. I didn’t like the timing of Nixie and company showing up, but I blew air into my tube, fit the lip plate to my chin, “felt” the A and blew the note. It matched.

  I especially didn’t like that Julian and Dragan were locked in some kind of v-guy struggle. What if it spilled over into the orchestra? Dragan pulled the best music out of us we’d ever produced. No one, not even Julian, should get in the way of that.

  I went to the upper A; it also matched. Good deal. I staked my flute on my knee and turned to Nixie. “What exactly is going on? Because if you’re here to hassle Dragan—”

  “Settle.” She waved me down. “In case you haven’t noticed, Z-man is after you. We’re here to protect you.”

  “I don’t need protection. I’m an adult. Even if he were interested in me, which he’s not—” I glossed over the kisses, “—what’s wrong with a little vacation romance? Since this is a vacation for him.”

  She stared at me. “You’re kidding, right? Even you can’t be that blind.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Huh. I guess you can be.”

  The As died down. I realized the room was intensely quiet and turned front.

  Dragan was on the podium. Tall, lean, dark, his very grace sent a full quiver of hot arrows into my pelvis. My lips were suddenly swollen and needy again. Darn it. I hoped I could still play.

  “We shall start with the first movement of the Prokofiev.” He raised his baton, swept all eyes to himself, gave the downbeat, and we were off.

  Near the end of the movement he stopped us, his eyes riveted on me. “Flutes. Five bars after letter P, please.”

  My hands trembled. He’d said “flutes”, but five bars after P was a solo. Worse, it was way way high, with forked fingerings knotting bones like spaghetti noodles. I did my best but even with his music-pulling magic, I sounded like Inspector Clouseau bumping his car down a set of stairs.

  But Dragan’s head only tilted. “Stop. Play that note again. The high C# if you please? And hold it.”

  Was I out of tune? The only way to tune notes that high was with a vibrato so wide you could drop a bus into it. I hardened my tummy for extra support and tried to make it sound like flowers.

  The whole room rang around me, as if I were playing the note in a tiled bathroom.

  “Do you hear that? How extraordinary. This room is tuned to C#.” He smiled, not his seductive smile nor his challenging smile, but one of delight and discovery. It lit his whole face.

  Half of us combusted on sight, poof. The other half of us would die slowly of radioactive poisoning. But it would be so pleasurable.

  “Thank you, Raquel. Second movement, please.” He swept the baton up. And we were off again.

  When break came I was both tired and exhilarated. I’d put out more energy in that hour than in most concerts. And yet I felt marvelous.

  I had extra condensation from playing hard, so I took a moment to swab out my flute. By the time I rose, Nixie had disappeared. Julian was missing too, so she probably wasn’t lost.

  But no Nixie, no Julian, and they hated Dragan. I looked around, suddenly stiff with worry.

  Dragan was in front surrounded by Wendy and the Witchlets. My shoulders relaxed. Nixie wasn’t playing pincushion with him and a dozen pointy sticks. I took my flute and made my way to the drinking fountain.

  Peter was already there. “I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Dr. Vilyn. When Wendy cues the A she gives me a stink eye. I wonder where he is.”

  “It is unusual for him to miss a rehearsal.”

  “Because he’s protecting his chair from Wendy’s greedy hands. Or a wider portion of her anatomy.”

  As I bent to get a drink, my left ear was full of bright flirtatious chatter in the rehearsal room—and to my right, I saw a flash of movement.

  I jerked straight. A lean figure disappeared into the stairwell at the far end of the hallway. The last thing I saw was the flip of the tail of a blond braid.

  I frowned. Besides Luke, only a couple of students in the second violins had blond hair long enough to braid, both women. Those had definitely been man shoulders.

  What was Luke doing on that stairwell? It opened into the sanctuary.

  But we never went into the sanctuary, so I wasn’t following. I shook my head. As long as Luke wasn’t decapitating Dragan, it was none of my business, right?

  “What did he want?” Peter said as I held the drinking fountain handle for him to fill his shot glass.

  “Luke? I don’t know.”

  “I meant Zajicek, you doofus. What did he want Tuesday?”

  “Oh. Just some help getting around. No big deal. He’s staying in Meiers Corners while he helps Hugo out.”

  “Then why are you as pink as Easter peeps?”

  I released the handle to clap a hand to one offending cheek. “We’d better get back. We’ll be starting again soon. Dragan’s pretty strict about the ten-minute break.”

  “Dragan?”

  I looked helplessly at Peter, whose eyebrows had joined his hairline. “It’s complicated. And we’d really better get back.” I scooted, not waiting to see if Peter followed.

  I had to skirt the mob surrounding Dragan, which meant going around the front of the room. As I passed the podium I saw a broad-shouldered back bent over a long table in the far corner—its spine lined with a long river of blond.

  This time I saw Luke’s face. He was bent over Dragan’s briefcase and looked up an instant before I got close enough to see what he was doing. His eyes widened on me and he disappeared into the edges of the mob.

  I passed the table slowly. The briefcase sat open on it, Dragan’s scores, booklets in a variety of sizes from octavo to folio, tucked neatly inside. Nothing looked out of order. Thoughtfully, I went back to my seat.

  The Wicked Witch cued Peter to start the tuning for the second half. “Flat,” she barked, then simpered at Zajicek.

  While Peter tried A, A-sharp, A-flat and even variations on B to please Wendy (and finally settled on Fuckit-flat), a woman dripping furs and diamonds appeared at the doorway. Not Camille. I recognized the elegant French twist and toned body as Eleanor Rothsfield, a local patron of the arts. Probably human, and definitely rich. She supported a couple of first chairs, including mine. The Rothsfield Foundation had even loaned me money to buy my flute, although to be fair, I’d also had a honking big discount coupon.

  “Maestro Zajicek, a moment of your time?” Her voice was cultured, resonant and cut through Peter’s A with blistering ease. Even Wendy was rendered speechless.

  Dragan glided to Eleanor’s side, took her hand and bowed over it. The orchestra waited, breathless, to see if he kissed her fingertips. He didn’t. I was absurdly relieved. “Eleanor, my dear. I was hoping I might see you while in town.”

  She blushed becomingly. “Maestro, how gallant. It was hard to track you down. You’re not staying at the Avignon Francois Hotel.” She arched her brows in a question.

  “I’m not.” He didn’t answer her question, whatever it was. “What can I do for you?”

  She paused, searching for something in his eyes. Then she sighed. “To invite you to be honorary chairperson for the Habsburg-Karolina Society’s Grand Vienna Woods Ball next Saturday. It’s at the Avignon Francois. We’re expecting two hundred, the crème de la crème, you understand. All the best. We’ll have my son-in-law Tony’s private SWAT team for security. Tony L’s.” She pronounced it Toenails. “Frankly, with a name like that, he needs the business. But if you’re there, Maestro, we’ll get anoth
er hundred, including the Governor.”

  “Of course, Eleanor. It will be my pleasure.”

  “Excellent. And can we count on you to conduct the first waltz?”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way. But now I must see to my rehearsal.” He bowed over her hand again. Still no lip action, still absurdly pleased. “Au revoir.”

  “Until then, Maestro.” She smiled, a curl of ruby lips, and glided out the door.

  At the end of rehearsal, Dragan bowed with that old-world elegance which somehow managed to turn all our underwear into smoke, leaped off the podium and disappeared—not poof this time but gliding humanly fast out of the door.

  I dawdled disassembling my instrument, ears pricked and skin on alert. He hadn’t said a word to me during rehearsal, at least not spoken. Cuing, though? Whole ’nother story. His musical cues to the flute section were so hotly focused on me, his gaze caressing me so blatantly, that I almost went “boom” in my chair.

  As I swabbed my headjoint I forced myself to relax. Giving me hot looks didn’t mean he’d try to steal more kisses, or even expand his repertoire.

  But a woman could hope.

  Behind me, Nixie stood and stretched. “Damn, this was fun. First time in weeks I breathed air not percolated with baby poop molecules. That shit’s everywhere.”

  I packed away my flute. “Who’s taking care of Jaxxie while you and Julian are here?”

  “Everyone. The whole household…er, all the townhouse residents. They love handing her around—when she’s dry, fed and happy, that is. The instant she needs anything messy? Back she comes to Momma. Guess it’s time for me to head for the barn.” She turned, hoisted her carry bag onto her chair and tucked her clarinet away. She said over her shoulder, “You’re going straight home too? How about we walk you to your car?” She tossed it off as nothing with her tone, but her eyes were sharp on me.

  Well. That answered that. Dragan might be waiting to ambush me but it wouldn’t do any good—I had chaperones. I breathed a sigh of relief, colored with regret.

  Around us the place was clearing out. The percussionists were putting away gear but the brass and most of the strings had gone. I stowed my own case and music in my bag and stood. Meiers Corners’s violinists, Mrs. Malvenfarbe (which means mauve in German and who, in a fit of Cornersianship always wore purple) and Mrs. Krickente (tied her ponytail with a teal ribbon), gossiped by the door. Gossiping, talking about ordinary people doing ordinary things, chatting about other people’s scandals rather than going out and being scandalous themselves.

  Five minutes in the company of Dragan Zajicek would blow their minds.

  As the fraus left Nixie started for the door, clearly expecting me to follow.

  A tiny rebellious streak stirred inside me. “I’m not ready to go home.”

  “You’re not?” Nixie spun, surprise so obvious I wondered just how predictable I was.

  “No. Want to stop at Nieman’s Bar for drinks instead?” Nieman’s was the Corners’s favorite watering hole, with a clientele from a stripper grandma to off-duty police and everything in between; more, everyone was comfortable there in his or her own skin. I liked Nieman’s.

  She made a face. “Want to, yes. But can’t. Gotta get home to the rugrat, and another night of pacing the floor with her colic.” She sighed. “Poor punkin. She’s really hurting.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” My rebellious streak fizzled. “Of course we’ll leave right away.”

  Julian, carrying his cello case, met up with us at the doorway. We piled out into the short hallway leading to the stairs.

  Luke lounged against the wall outside the rehearsal hall with his viola. He wore a black leather jacket with a fluffy pink scarf; only someone so insanely handsome could carry off that combination. He drawled, “I don’t want to admit this, but Zajicek’s pretty good.”

  “Pretty good?” Nixie snorted. “Yeah, and a roomful of toddlers at bedtime is pretty loud.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Julian glowered. “However good he is on the podium, he’s still an asshole off. He cavalierly puts all our lives at risk.”

  “Pax, Julian,” Nixie said. “We’re not gonna go all fangirl on him.”

  He raised a black brow at her. “Says the woman who liked his fan page on Facebook.”

  “You saw that? My Suitguy.” She grinned at him. “You’ve made it to the twenty-first century! Now if I can just get you to understand tweeting—”

  Someone screamed.

  Julian’s head snapped up. His eyes went far away, as if listening with his whole being. “Upstairs.”

  “On it.” Luke spun. Suddenly his whole body exploded into a cloud of dust, which dropped to the floor and shot under the fire door.

  Adrenaline splashed hot into my system, revving my heart and sharpening details. I zoomed in on the worn spots of carpet under the door where the stream had disappeared.

  A second scream pierced my ears like a strident piccolo.

  “The sanctuary.” Julian’s voice was tight. “Both of you, stay behind me.” He strode past us, threw open the fire door and started up.

  We busted out of the stairwell into the narthex. No sign of Luke, but if what I thought about vampires was true, he’d have misted straight to the scream.

  Julian swept his laser blues around the empty vestibule, at the closed outer doors and arched doorway to the offices, finally flicking eyes toward the sanctuary. The center double doors and far side aisle door were closed.

  The near aisle door was busted to kindling.

  Chapter Eight

  Julian set down his cello case, strode to the shattered doorway and swept a recon. I didn’t see him often like that, measurable against something normal-person sized, and it struck me how big he really was. Dragan was like that too. In Dragan’s case I was awed and a little unnerved; in Julian’s case frustration mixed with my awe—I couldn’t see anything past him except for the corner of the big stained glass window.

  Nixie didn’t let that stop her. She rammed herself into the molecule of space between his ribs and the broken jamb. He gave with a huff and she scrambled around him. He snorted lightly, as if he found her both cute and exasperating, and followed her.

  I kicked in behind them both. “What is it?”

  “Another attack,” he said. “More successful.”

  At the front of the church was the chancel, a raised stage with a center altar flanked by two ten-foot banners on poles.

  One banner was streaked with blood.

  I followed the line of blood down with my eyes. Below it, on the steps of the chancel, lay the still, pale form of Dr. Walter Vilyn, our missing concertmaster.

  He was on his back, his feet on the top step and his head on the main floor. With his girth straining for the ceiling, he looked like an ocean liner pulled up in dry dock.

  Luke sat in the front pew. As I trotted up the side aisle behind Julian and Nixie, I saw a woman sat next to Luke, bent over. His hand rested on the back of her head, pressing it between her knees. I recognized Mrs. Krickente’s teal-tied ponytail. Mrs. Malvenfarbe sat beside her, face very pale against the cheery lilac of her fall coat, blue eyes stark and bruised-looking against her white skin.

  Luke looked up as we approached. “I called 911. They should be here shortly.”

  “Why aren’t you doing CPR?” I skirted the end of the pew, reviewing my training as I headed for Dr. Vilyn. First step, clear the airway. A red-flowered pink scarf wrapped his neck—it would have to come off.

  “Rocky, no.” Julian caught my wrist. “He’s gone.”

  I spun on Julian. “How do you know? You just got here.”

  “Look at his color. Look at the amount of blood on his chest. He’s already cooling.”

  I looked. I shouldn’t have. Even in the dim light I saw how he wasn’t peachy or even gray, but dead white. And his waistcoat was dark red and very wet.

  My ears started ringing.

  From far away Luke said, “Sit her down.”

&nb
sp; “I’ll get it.” Nixie’s hand guided me into the front pew. She settled next to me, her fingers clasping mine.

  Events blurred around me. An ambulance came, and a police cruiser, and then more people with cameras and gear bags. All the while Dr. Vilyn lay on the stairs like a broken toy.

  Two men in business suits came. While one paced a circuit of the sanctuary, stopping to worry various things with a pen, the other tried to separate us. Julian spoke to him in a dark, echoey voice until the man shrugged and led Mrs. Krickente to the back pew. Julian strolled back too. Five minutes later he returned and tagged Luke. Another five minutes later Luke returned and tagged Mrs. Malvenfarbe. Julian went to talk with the other suited man.

  Nixie poked Luke the minute he sat. “So?”

  Luke shrugged. It echoed Logan Steel’s graceful, nonchalant gesture but for a mindful overtone; he wasn’t on guard, exactly, but he took nothing for granted. I wondered what had happened in his life that made him so careful. “Nothing yet. Nothing definitive, at any rate. Apparently Vilyn was prone to ulcers, and Mrs. Krickente thinks he suffered from cirrhosis, so the vomited blood may be natural causes.”

  “I hear a but.”

  “But apparently there’s some irregularity with the placement of the body. And they can’t explain the smear on the banner.”

  I frowned at Dr. Vilyn laying on the stairs. “They told you that?”

  “No, of course not.” Luke followed my gaze and for a moment I saw his ethereal beauty as that of a tortured angel. “I read between the lines.”

  Mrs. Malvenfarbe returned, and the two fraus left, clinging to each other.

  And then it was my turn to be interrogated. My stomach filled with ice as I walked a side aisle that seemed much longer than normal. The detective sat in the second-last pew. I perched tentatively in the small space he’d left open, only to have him slide in, snugging me against the flat side of the pew. My heart kicked up a notch.

  “Your name?”

  “Rocky Hrbek. Raquel.”