by Sarah Fox
“Oh no,” I muttered under my breath.
Abandoning my violin, I rushed after Bronwyn, hoping I’d be in time to prevent a disaster.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, I berated myself silently. I never should have told Bronwyn about my suspicions.
I dashed out the door and around the corner, but then came to an abrupt stop. Bronwyn and Janine were already facing off.
“Did you frame me for the theft?” Bronwyn demanded.
I grabbed her arm. “This isn’t a good idea.”
Although I tried to lead her away, she stood her ground, her eyes still fixed on Janine.
“What are you talking about?” Janine said.
“The brooch,” Bronwyn said. “Did you put it in my bag?”
“Of course not!” Janine narrowed her eyes. “Everyone knows you stole it. Trying to blame me is ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous if you’re the thief.”
“Now you sound crazy.”
I put my hand on Bronwyn’s arm again. “Guys, let’s not do this.”
They both ignored me.
“It wasn’t my fault you got bumped back to the second row in university, you know,” Bronwyn said. “Why do you blame me for the professor’s decision?”
“What are you talking about?” Janine’s words were laced with disdain.
“Isn’t that why you tried to set me up?”
“I didn’t try to set you up!”
“Guys!” I stepped between them. “This isn’t accomplishing anything.”
Bronwyn glared over my shoulder at Janine. “Tell her, Midori. Tell her why you think she’s guilty.”
Janine narrowed her eyes at me this time. “You started this?”
“I’m just trying to help Bronwyn,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “I know she’s not a thief so I’m trying to figure out who framed her.”
“So you randomly throw the blame on me?”
“It’s not random,” Bronwyn said. “Right, Midori?”
I let out a heavy sigh. “No, I didn’t pick you at random, Janine. I think the theft at the reception is related to thefts that occurred at a charity benefit a few weeks ago. The one your quartet played at. Some of the attendees had jewelry stolen, just like at the reception. You were at both events, you said yourself that you need extra money, and Bronwyn isn’t exactly your favorite person.”
“This is nuts.” Janine put her hands on her hips. “First of all, I’m not a thief.” She shot a baleful glare at Bronwyn. “Unlike some people.” She plowed on before Bronwyn could object. “Second of all, even if I’d wanted to steal from people at the charity benefit, I wouldn’t have had the chance. We musicians never mingled with the guests. We were either on a little stage in the corner or in a back room on our own.” She aimed her dagger-eyes at me. “Ask the other members of my quartet if you don’t believe me.”
I opened my mouth, but Janine continued on.
“And finally, if I was going to steal jewelry because I needed the money, why the heck would I put it in Bronwyn’s bag?”
“Revenge!” Bronwyn said.
Janine threw her hands up in the air. “Now you don’t even know what you’re accusing me of! Stealing for money or stealing to frame you so I could get revenge? Which, by the way, is ridiculous in itself. Like I’d waste my time on you.”
Bronwyn took a step toward Janine and I hurried to put a hand out to hold her back.
“Okay, this really isn’t accomplishing anything good,” I said.
A light bulb seemed to go on in Bronwyn’s head. “What about your new designer handbag?” she asked Janine.
Janine rolled her eyes in exasperation. “What about it?”
“If you’re short on funds, how could you afford it?”
“So you’re accusing me of stealing that too? It was a gift. From my boyfriend. You want to ask him?” she challenged, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket.
As much as I wanted to get the situation under control, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that wouldn’t be necessary.
“You know what? I don’t need to call him. Look at this.” She ran her thumb over the screen of her phone, scrolling back through text messages. A second later she thrust the phone toward me and Bronwyn. “See?”
I took the phone and held it steady so I could read the messages. The one at the top of the screen was from someone named Andrew. Presumably, that was Janine’s boyfriend.
Do you like your present? Andrew’s message read.
I LOVE it!!! Janine had written back. How did you know I wanted this bag?
I saw you admiring it the other day.
I can’t believe you remembered!!! And hot pink is my favorite color!!! I love you so much!!!
Janine had added a string of hearts after the last message.
I handed the phone back to her, not bothering to read any more of the messages.
“So you didn’t steal the bag,” Bronwyn said. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t steal the other things.”
“I’m not so sure,” I said before Janine had a chance to react.
“Who else would want to frame me?” Bronwyn asked.
“I don’t know.” I took her arm and gently pulled her a step back from Janine. “But I think we might be barking up the wrong tree here.”
“I’ll say.” Janine shot more daggers at us with her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was only trying to help Bronwyn. I never meant for things to get out of hand.”
“Whatever,” Janine said, her voice full of contempt. “Just don’t you dare go spreading any more lies about me.”
With that, she turned on her heel and marched off down the hallway, away from the musicians’ lounge.
Beside me Bronwyn seemed to have deflated, her anger replaced by defeat. “You really believe she’s innocent?”
“She seemed genuinely surprised by the accusations,” I said. “Maybe she’s just a good actress, but I have a feeling she’s telling the truth.”
Bronwyn’s shoulders sagged. “I’ve made things worse, haven’t I? She’ll probably tell her friends I accused her of being a thief and then everyone will hate me.”
“Everyone will not hate you,” I said firmly. “And we’re still going to figure this out.”
Determined not to contribute to her sense of defeat, I didn’t add that I had no idea how we would do that.
Chapter Sixteen
FORTUNATELY, NO ONE else in the orchestra seemed to catch on to the fact that there’d been a confrontation between Bronwyn and Janine out in the hallway. Janine wouldn’t even look our way when she returned to the musicians’ lounge a few minutes later, but at least she didn’t seem to be spreading the tale of Bronwyn’s accusations. Not yet, anyway.
I hoped the whole fiasco would blow over in time and that the tension with Janine wouldn’t cause any more problems. I still wanted to kick myself for sharing my suspicions about Janine with Bronwyn. Clearly that had been a mistake. But what was done was done and all I could do now was move forward and hopefully not cause any more unrest among my fellow musicians.
Although there was still a chance that Janine was guilty and had lied to me and Bronwyn to protect herself, her denials had a ring of truth. If I really felt it was necessary, I could always track down the other members of her quartet and check the veracity of her claim that she hadn’t had access to the guests at the charity benefit. But at the moment, I wasn’t sure I’d bother. I had a feeling it would be a waste of time.
The fact that I still couldn’t prove Bronwyn’s innocence troubled me, but I knew I’d have to put the problem aside temporarily. Maybe after a good night’s sleep I’d have some fresh ideas about how to help her. In the meantime, I needed to get my instrument and head for the stage.
Once I was settled in my seat next to M
ikayla and had tuned my violin, I noted that Ernest was present on the stage. That led me to wonder how much Detective Salnikova and her colleagues had looked into him as a murder suspect. I was curious to know if they’d uncovered the reason for Ernest’s hatred for Mr. Major, but I knew that wasn’t something Salnikova would share with me. If I wanted to know the reason—which I did—I’d have to find out for myself. I wasn’t sure how I would manage that, though. Ernest wasn’t about to spill the beans to me when he wasn’t even willing to admit that he’d authored the note I’d retrieved from the trash.
After the concert drew to a close and everyone on stage retreated toward the musicians’ lounge, I considered trying to talk to Ernest again, in case I could get something more out of him. But he studiously avoided me, always sticking close to others so I couldn’t catch him alone. Eventually I gave up on the idea of speaking with him that night and joined Mikayla, Dave, and several other musicians for a post-concert drink, hoping to enjoy myself far more than I had earlier that evening.
On the way to a nearby pub I considered filling Mikayla in on what had happened between Bronwyn and Janine, but we were walking in a group and I didn’t want the others to hear about the incident. In the end I decided to tell her about it another time and made an effort to put all my worries aside for a while.
When we arrived at the pub it was fairly crowded, but our group managed to find two free tables to claim. Once we were all settled I ordered a strawberry daiquiri and sipped at it while enjoying the upbeat conversation with my colleagues.
While we chatted I discreetly observed Mikayla and Dave, noting the way they interacted with each other. When everyone else became absorbed in a discussion about the upcoming hockey season, I tapped Mikayla’s shoulder to get her attention.
Leaning closer so only she could hear me, I said with a smile, “Dave’s absolutely crazy about you.”
Her eyes lit up and she glanced at her boyfriend. “You think so?”
I nodded. “Definitely. I can tell by the way he looks at you.”
She smiled brightly. “I might be crazy about him too.”
I matched her expression, but then my smile faded as my thoughts drifted to JT and how I wished I could have with him what Mikayla and Dave had together.
Mikayla must have mistakenly thought Aaron was the source of my sadness. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’ll happen for you too. I promise.”
I tried to smile again, not wanting to pursue the topic any further. Fortunately, Mikayla steered our conversation in a different direction.
“Any word on the murder investigation?”
“Not really,” I said, the lively chatter around us keeping our conversation relatively private. “I haven’t heard anything new, but I think the poison might have been in Mr. Major’s flask, and any number of people could have put it there. Several people had a motive to kill him, including members of his own family who will gain financially from his death.”
“Wow.” She brushed one of her corkscrew curls out of her face and took a long sip of her cocktail. Then she looked at me sharply. “Hey, how do you know all this?”
“His grandson is one of my students.”
“Oh, right. Wow,” she said again with a shake of her head. “So the police have no idea who did it?”
“I don’t think so.” I still didn’t mention my own suspicions about Dr. Beaufort. As certain as I was that he was at the very least guilty of breaking and entering, I wasn’t eager to damage his reputation.
Luckily, Mikayla didn’t press me for more information. Dave pulled her into the conversation he was having with the rest of the people at our table, and I joined it as well. My drink was more than half gone by the time I caught sight of a familiar face across the pub.
Ernest.
He sat in a booth along one wall, taking occasional gulps of his drink while deep in conversation with Raul, one of the PGP’s oboe players. A minute or so later, Raul got up and headed for the men’s room, leaving Ernest alone. When I looked a little closer, I noticed that Ernest had an empty glass next to his half-full one. I couldn’t help but wonder if the alcohol he’d consumed had loosened his tongue at all.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I told my friends as I got up from the table, taking my drink with me.
I made my way across the pub and slid into the seat across from Ernest.
“Midori.” He blinked startled eyes at me from behind his thick glasses.
“Hi, Ernest,” I said with a smile that I hoped would put him at ease. “How are things?”
He grabbed a paper napkin from the table’s dispenser and patted at his forehead. “Fine, fine.”
“Have you had any more involvement with the police?”
His eyes grew bigger behind his lenses and he glanced around to make sure no one had overheard. “Must we talk about that?”
I leaned my arms on the table and lowered my voice. “It’s that note of yours, Ernest. It makes you look suspicious.”
“I didn’t kill Archibald Major,” Ernest said in a forceful whisper. “I’m not a murderer.”
“But you’re not sorry he’s dead?” I guessed.
“Absolutely not.” Anger gave his voice a sharp edge. “As I said in my note, I hope he rots in hell.”
He’d finally admitted to composing the note. I’d never doubted that he had, but in my eyes the admission moved us forward a step. Hopefully I could keep us going in that direction.
“But why?” I asked. “How can you have so much hatred for someone you’ve never met?”
Ernest crumpled the paper napkin in his fist. “I never actually met him, but I’ve been aware of him almost my entire life.”
I waited, hoping he’d elaborate. He craned his neck to survey the pub. I followed his line of sight and spotted Raul emerging from the washroom, but he ambled off toward the bar rather than in our direction.
Ernest took a sip of his drink and scowled into his glass, but after a few seconds had ticked by, he spoke again. “Archibald Major caused my mother’s death.”
“Your mother’s death?” I asked, confused. “How so?”
He rubbed his nose and closed his fist around the paper napkin again. “They went to the same high school. My mother was fifteen to Major’s seventeen when he got her pregnant. When she told him she was going to have his baby, he denied that it was his, even though she’d never been with anyone else.” Ernest sniffed and dabbed at his perspiring forehead with the rumpled napkin. “He started spreading terrible rumors about her, saying that she was, well . . .” He cleared his throat. “ . . . loose, if you understand me.”
I did understand.
“She went to live with her aunt in Edmonton to get away from it all. She considered having an abortion or giving me up for adoption, but in the end she decided to raise me on her own. That required sacrifices, of course. She never finished high school and worked herself to an early grave at minimum wage jobs. And all the while, Archibald Major was sitting there in his mansion with all his millions.” Ernest glowered at his drink before swigging back the last of it. “The bastard.”
I stared at him as surprise and sympathy intertwined inside of me. “You’re saying Archibald Major was your father?”
“In a biological sense, yes. In every other sense, absolutely not.”
Wow. Jordan’s mom and uncle had yet another half sibling. I wondered why Major hadn’t mentioned Ernest in his will like he had with Frances. But maybe he’d never accepted that he was Ernest’s father. Or—and this wouldn’t have surprised me—maybe he didn’t remember Ernest’s mother’s name and couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it.
I pushed those thoughts aside. “Your mother told you the entire story?”
“Only once I found her crying while reading a newspaper article about Major’s latest financial success. I was only fourteen at the tim
e, but I could tell she was deeply upset. It took some prying, but I eventually got the story out of her.”
I sat back in the booth, the weight of his narrative settling on my shoulders, heavy and poignant. “I’m so sorry, Ernest. How terrible for her. For both of you.”
“Yes, well . . .” He picked up his glass before realizing it was empty. He set it back on the table and shoved it aside.
As bad as I felt for him and his deceased mother, I couldn’t ignore the fact that his story gave him a motive for wanting Major dead. Revenge was a powerful driving force, and if Ernest’s hatred for the man had festered for so many years, perhaps it had finally exploded in one deadly release.
“If you’ve known about him since you were fourteen, why write that note for him now?” I asked. “You’ve been in the orchestra for years. You must have known for a long time that Major was one of our benefactors. He’s even been at the occasional reception in the past.”
“That wasn’t the first note,” Ernest admitted. “I’ve left a few others for him over the years, usually on his car windshield, which was where I planned to leave the most recent one. Perhaps it seems like an odd thing to do, but I wanted him to know that there was someone out there who knew what he was truly like. I didn’t want him as my father, I didn’t want his money, but I needed to do something.”
I supposed I could understand that, but I found it sad that Ernest had allowed Major to take up so much of his life with burning hatred. Maybe I would have done the same in his shoes—I didn’t know—but it was still sad.
“I despised the man,” Ernest said in a low voice. “But I swear to you, Midori, I didn’t kill him.”
I regarded him from across the table for a long moment, looking straight into his eyes. “I believe you,” I said eventually.
And I did.
AFTER MY SOMBER but enlightening conversation with Ernest, I wasn’t in the mood for hanging out with my friends any longer. As soon as I’d finished my drink, I said my goodbyes and took a taxi home to my apartment.
