by Rico, Lauren
As I’m watching him wait for his big entrance, I notice Cal is even redder than before. He’s starting to sweat now– and not just a nervous perspiration, it’s pouring off of him in buckets. He actually mops his brow with the towel he uses to clean his horn. He coughs.
“Jeremy, I think something’s wrong with Cal,” Julia says, patting my arm.
“He’s probably just nervous.”
If I were him, I’d be nervous right about now, too.
He’s tugging at the collar of his shirt, unbuttoning the top button. He takes a swig from the water bottle next to him. All the while, Maestro Sutton leads the orchestra, unaware that there is something happening behind him.
“Jeremy, I think something is really wrong. Please go help him!” she implores.
I look around but there really isn’t anyone else in the audience. Which is exactly what I was counting on.
“Shit,” I mutter, getting to my feet and walking down the aisle toward the front of the house.
I know this concerto very well, and Cal’s entrance is coming up any second now. Three... two... one…
Maestro Sutton throws his downbeat toward Cal without even glancing at him. But Cal doesn’t come in. He’s leaning forward in his chair as if bracing for a crash landing.
“Cal?” I call out over the orchestra, which has continued without him.
He looks up briefly and I see he has a hand to the base of his neck. He doesn’t look good at all in fact; he’s starting to slump toward the floor.
“Maestro!” I yell as loud as I can, trying to be heard over the music. “Maestro, stop!”
The concertmaster notices me waving my arms and gets the conductor’s attention. He turns around, leaving the orchestra to slowly peter out, one section at a time as they realize something is terribly wrong.
“Quick! Someone call 9-1-1!” Sutton calls over his shoulder and jumping off the podium just as I vault up onto the stage. We reach Cal at the same time. He’s on the floor now, face-up, still clutching his horn.
Now that I’m up close to him I can see his lips are swollen and red hives are quickly dotting his entire face. His breathing is labored and his eyes are wild with panic and fear. I take the horn from his hands while the Maestro reassures him.
“Just stay calm, Cal,” he says soothingly. “Help is on the way. You’re going to be fine.”
“Maestro, I think he keeps an epinephrine pen in his horn case…” I say, getting to my feet and sprinting backstage, his instrument still in my hand.
“Cal, stay with me…” I hear the Maestro say.
I find his case and open it, already knowing what I’m going to find there. Nothing. I take the mouthpiece out of his horn and slip it into my right pocket. From my left, I produce an identical one and pop it back in to replace the other. Then I set the horn on the table by his case. When I turn to run back out on stage, Julia is standing there watching me.
Crap. How long has she been there and what did she see? Nothing. She looks too scared to process anything. I run past her, giving her a quick pat on the shoulder as I do. Never miss an opportunity to fuck with someone.
“Hang in there,” Sutton is saying as I return. “Come on. Let’s breathe together. In… Out… In… Out...”
“It’s not there,” I say, the faux alarm evident in my voice. I’m leaning down, peering at him from over the Maestro’s shoulder. Cal is staring up at me and his enlarged lips are turning a distinct shade of blue. Even in this moment I can see that he knows exactly what has happened. I wink at him.
“In… come on, Cal, help is on the way… Out… In…. Out…”
“Should we do CPR?” I ask.
“No, it’s not his heart… In, Cal. Breathe in. Cal….”
And then everything becomes perfectly still and quiet, there is no IN. His eyes have glazed over, open to the ceiling and unseeing. Cal Burridge is dead.
“No,” I say softly at first, just as I have practiced in my mind. Then I ratchet up a notch for effect.
“No... NO…!” I start thumping on his chest even though it is obviously too late. Someone tries to pull me away but I shrug them off. It isn’t until the paramedics come bursting in that I stand up and back away.
Julia is standing by, watching with a hand clapped over her mouth. She’s shaking her head.
“Jeremy... what... why…” she can’t get the words out.
But I can.
“He’s dead, Julia,” I say, trying to muster my most reverent tone.
She throws herself into my arms.
“He can’t be! What happened?”
“I think some kind of an allergic reaction.”
She’s looking up at me in disbelief, green eyes glimmering with tears that spill down past her lashes and make tracks down her freckled cheeks.
I pull her closer to me, against my chest and pat her back comfortingly. I rest my chin on the top of her head so that no one will see me as I smile into her hair.
42
It’s standing room only in the McInnes lecture hall being used for today’s press conference. As I take my place in a reserved seat down at the front, the number of people crammed in here surprises me. It’s certainly never this full for a music history lecture. Looking around, I spot Kreisler competitors, McInnes students and faculty. But, interestingly enough, the largest contingent appears to be made up of the print and broadcast outlets. I was expecting some media attention, but no more than an arts reporter or two.
The sad reality is that the arts get very little attention in the mainstream media. To some people, classical music is a dull, stuffy affair for rich, elitist snobs. So to see so much interest in what would normally be a single paragraph seems odd to me. Still, I suppose the untimely death of a “brilliant young musician, poised to take the arts world by storm” probably makes for good hair salon and doctor’s office reading. Maybe even a blurb in the section of People Magazine reserved for the lowly, non-Hollywood mortals.
Clearly, Lester Morgan is not expecting the blinding barrage of flashbulbs that explode in his face when he enters the room. He looks exhausted and shell-shocked by the events of the last twenty-four hours. The reporters are shouting questions at him before he can even get the microphone adjusted to his height.
“Lester! Was Calvin Burridge murdered?”
“Why was Cal Burridge killed?”
“Have there been threats against any of the other competitors?”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Since when did this become a murder? Okay, I know exactly when this became a murder– but when did it become a murder to them?
Obviously I’m not the only one stunned by this revelation. All around me people are turning and whispering to one another. Add that to the press’ outbursts and the room is suddenly a whole lot louder.
Lester closes his eyes for a moment and stands perfectly still. He’s silent as he waits. And waits. It takes a full two minutes for the reporters to realize that the man is not going to speak until they shut-up. So they do. Only when the room has totally quieted does he take a deep breath and nod to no one in particular.
“Good afternoon,” he says very quietly, very somberly. “I’m Lester Morgan, Director of the Kreisler International Music Competition.”
“Mr. Morgan, was Calvin Burridge murdered?” One reporter repeats her question from the back of the room, and the buzz starts up again.
Lester stares at the offending woman with a harsh gaze and waits until, once again, he can speak uninterrupted.
“First let me say that we are shocked and saddened by the untimely death of such a musical talent. Calvin Burridge was a well-liked and respected member of the musical community with great prospects for a successful future. He was this year’s Kreisler Medalist in the French Horn category.”
The last sentence comes out a little choked and Lester has to pause for a moment.
“On behalf of the competition and its organizers, I would like to extend my deepest sympathies to the family of Mr.
Burridge. I would also ask that you respect their privacy at this difficult time. What I’m here to address is the competition. After a lengthy meeting, the Kreisler Committee has determined that while Calvin’s award will stand, the concert will go on with the runner-up in the horn division, Jeremy Corrigan.”
At this point Lester gestures to me and I stand up and face the crowd behind me. My face is a study (literally) in respectful solemnity as I nod an acknowledgement. A few flashes go off and several journalists look ready to ask me questions but one look from Lester squashes that impulse. I sit down again and he continues.
“Jeremy has graciously agreed to perform in the horn slot tonight, as previously scheduled. And I note the fact that he’s willing to do this without a dress rehearsal. We are very grateful for his flexibility and willingness to ensure the Kreisler International Music Competition resumes without delay. Regardless of the gold medal winner at the end of the competition, Calvin Burridge will be memorialized in every program at every performance. He is and shall be permanently recognized as this year’s winner in his category.”
Even Lester’s powerful glare cannot keep the press at bay any longer. He’s assaulted by questions coming from every corner of the room now. He holds up his hands as he tries to be heard over the din.
“While I’m happy to answer any inquiries you have regarding the competition itself,” he says as loudly as he can without shouting, “I’m going to ask NYPD Detective Roberto Vasquez to take your questions regarding the events of last evening.”
A stocky Hispanic man takes Lester’s place in front of the microphone.
“Good morning,” he says, unable to get anything else out before the questions are flying at him.
“Detective Vasquez, what makes you think this is more than just an accident?” asks a reporter from the local NBC affiliate.
Vasquez doesn’t bat an eyelash.
“We don’t know that this is more than an accident. But the fact is that the timing, location, and circumstances surrounding Mr. Burridge’s death are a little out of the ordinary. Just to cover all the bases, our department would like to conduct a brief investigation.”
This guy is good.
“Will there be an autopsy?” a woman calls out from the third row.
Good question.
“It’s being conducted as we speak. The Medical Examiner should have a report for us in a few days.”
“What do you expect to find?” the woman follows up.
“I can’t speculate. What I can say for now is that it would appear Mr. Burridge had some kind of acute anaphylaxis.”
“Are you saying that someone may have poisoned him?” another reporter asks, and there is a sudden outburst from the entire press corps.
They are just yelling out questions now.
“Do you know when he ingested the substance that triggered the attack?”
Vasquez holds up his hand.
“Please, one at a time!” he’s saying over the din. “I’m not going to speak unless you all calm down.”
That gets the point across. The reporters settle down and then one voice speaks out loud and clear.
“Detective Vasquez, can you comment on the rumor that someone reported Cal Burridge’s death to the police as a homicide? And was there enough credibility there to cause you to open this investigation?”
What the fuck?
My eyes swing to the back of the room with everyone else’s. There’s a guy, probably in his twenties, standing with a microphone and portable recorder in his hands, waiting for the officer to answer his question. Now we all swing back to Vasquez. It’s like watching a freaking tennis match.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” Vasquez asks, squinting to get a better look at the reporter. There is something in the way he speaks those five words that conveys suspicion. Clearly the young man has hit on something, and clearly the detective wants to know how.
I’m holding my breath. I never hold my breath.
“I’m Aaron Adler, a reporter for National Public Radio,” he says, standing a little taller against the scrutiny of his colleagues.
Too late, Vasquez realizes he has given the press something to sink their teeth into. He didn’t deny it soon enough. In fact, he didn’t deny it at all.
“Look folks,” Vasquez continues as if the NPR guy never spoke. “I, personally, do not believe there was any foul play here. I’m just saying that we cannot immediately determine the events leading up to this young man’s death. Once we can do that, we’ll have a full report for you. That’s all I can say until that time.”
Vasquez steps away from the podium, and Lester returns to the microphone.
“Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen,” he says dismissively. The reporters are still calling after him as he and Vasquez leave the room together.
****
“Hey, man, good job in there!”
The NPR reporter looks even younger up close. He gives me a brief smile as I sidle up to him in the hallway.
“Thanks.”
“Seemed to me you got under his skin.”
He shrugs.
“I wasn’t trying to. I just wanted to see his reaction to the question.”
“Wow,” I say, sounding impressed, but feeling relieved. “So it was just a ploy to see if he’d trip up and confirm your theory?”
He’s impassive.
“You’re the other horn player, aren’t you?” he asks, suddenly recognizing me.
“Yeah, I’m Jeremy Corrigan. Cal and I were pretty tight,” I lie in my most sincere tone. “We’ve been playing together for years.”
“I’m sorry. I hear he was a great guy.”
Oh, yeah? Sure as hell wasn’t from me.
“He was. I’m really struggling with taking his place on stage tonight. There’s a part of me that wants to back out, but I know Cal would want me to represent him up there.”
He’s nodding at me with understanding but he’s not saying a word.
“Well, I’d better get going…” he says, throwing a messenger bag over his shoulder.
“Did someone…” I start my sentence and let it hang there.
“What?” he looks up with interest.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I … well, if someone really did hurt Cal on purpose, I want to do everything I can to help find the bastard. Did someone suggest it was intentional?”
I’m giving him my most impassioned tone as I lean in closer. This is like our little secret. To that point, he looks around and makes certain no one is within earshot.
“It wasn’t just one person who suggested it,” he says quietly.
Before I can respond he turns and walks away, leaving me looking after him dumbly.
And that’s when I spot her.
43
Louise Kutter doesn’t notice me as she walks out of the press conference, through the clusters of people chattering animatedly in the corridor. I start to follow her at a distance, as she makes her way to the lobby of the building, past security and out onto the street. From there it is easy to fall in behind her without fear of being seen.
Clip clop. Clip clop. Clip clop. She’s wearing tall, black boots with ridiculously high heels, which smack loudly on the pavement as she walks. A matching black leather duster just skims the tops of them and her long, dark hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail. All she needs is a riding crop and she could pass for a dominatrix in one of those sex clubs downtown.
I’m not surprised she decided to attend the meeting. After all, Cal was her pick, right? He was the one she fought the rest of the committee for. Oh, Louise, Louise; you really should be more careful about which horse you back in a race, or you might just lose everything.
I glance at my watch. Ten-thirty. With my big concert coming up tonight, I don’t want to spend all day following this chick around Manhattan. But I suppose I can spare just a little time for sweet Louise. Clip clop. Clip clop. Clip clop.
She turns south on Broadway towards the subway
station. I can’t let her get too far ahead now, or she might hit it just right and hop on a train before I have a chance to… to what? Who the hell knows, I’m winging it. I just know that something has to be done about this bitch before she can do me any more harm than she already has.
Louise clip-clops her way to the very end of the platform where she leans forward and peers down the tunnel, looking for some sign that the arrival of a train is imminent. I stick to the back wall, moving slowly, looking down at the ground but still watching her out of the corner of my eye. Around us, the platform is busy, but not insane. The majority of the commuters have already made their way to offices all over the city. There are a few nannies of various ethnicities with ironclad grips on their small charges. A group of about ten white-blonde tourists are clustered in one area, excitedly snapping pictures of one another and trying to decipher subway maps. I think they are Swedish. Or Danish. One of those cold countries filled with tall blonde people. And then there is Louise Kutter. One of the most prominent musicians in the country, as renown for her bitchiness as she is for her playing. Someone really should teach her a lesson. Today I’m thinking that someone might be me.
When you first see the lights of the subway down the tunnel you can’t really tell if it’s coming on the local or the express track. In fact it’s not until it’s almost upon you that you are really able to judge if this one is going to stop at your station or whiz right past you in the center track. This morning my money is on the local.
I’m only a few feet behind her now and she has no idea I’m even there. It would be so easy to just reach out my hand and brush my fingers against the smooth grain of that Italian leather coat. The metallic claps, creaks and groans are growing exponentially louder now as the twelve cars barrel toward us. Again, Louise leans out to look. Just can’t help herself, can she? The brakes are squealing so loudly now that no one hears her when she screams.
****
Louise is looking up at me in a stunned daze of fear and confusion.
