by Rico, Lauren
Matthew leans close to me and whispers in my ear.
“I heard that when he got second place in a competition last year, he cursed the judges in Russian and stomped off the stage, refusing to accept the award.”
He nods and raises his eyebrows to confirm he’s telling me the truth. He’s trying to take my mind off of Jeremy. I give Matthew a small smile, and pretend he’s succeeding.
“Sorry, Brittany!” Lester Morgan says to the stage manager as he comes rushing through a side door. “How’s the house tonight?”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head.
“We better hope the fire marshal doesn’t come by,” she says.
He gives her a small laugh and looks around at the four finalists and the handful of stragglers like me.
“Well, this is it, ladies and gentleman. Good luck to all of you,” he says.
We mumble back an unorganized semblance of ‘thank you’ and he steps out onto the stage. I’m amazed by the dazzling starburst of flash bulbs that greet him when he takes his place at the microphone. Press from newspaper, radio, television and internet news outlets are practically swarming the stage. Lester holds up a hand.
“I’m so conflicted,” Lester starts out as the noise dies down. “This is a night of celebration. But it is also a night of mourning. With the loss of Calvin David Burridge, the Kreisler International Music Competition has been changed forever.”
There is a low murmur from the crowd.
“I would like to announce that starting with the next competition, four years from now, we will offer a special award.”
Suddenly a motorized screen lowers from the ceiling behind Lester. An image flashes up there. It is a rose-gold colored disc with a French horn embossed on it. It’s beautiful.
“Ladies and gentleman, I give you the Calvin D. Burridge Special Judges’ Prize. To be awarded at the discretion of the judges in honor of a musician who has displayed not only talent, but also a notable demeanor of professionalism, respect and honor. All traits embodied by Cal.”
The applause is almost deafening and the flash bulbs burst anew. Good for you Cal. You got your medal in the end. I’m just sorry you had to get it this way.
“Alright, without further ado, may I present to you the four performers that we consider to be among the best in the world at this very moment,” Lester says, rubbing his hands together excitedly.
“Please welcome Pianist Lucy Kim…Violinist Mikhail Fedoseyev… Horn player Jeremy Corrigan… and cellist Julia James.”
Matthew gives my hand a quick squeeze, plants a kiss on my cheek and steps back so he can watch.
There is thunderous applause, punctuated by ear-splitting whistles and calls of ‘bravo!’ throughout the immense auditorium as the four of us make our way on stage. The flashbulbs burst anew and I’m seeing spots in front of me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ve all waited long enough to hear the name of our winner so let’s get down to it, shall we?”
A chorus of “Yeahs!” from the audience.
A pretty young girl, who I recognize as one of the pages from the competition, comes on stage with a tray that holds three blue velvet boxes. Only three medals; someone on that stage is going home empty handed tonight. Lester isn’t kidding about getting down to it. He takes one of his infamous little envelopes out of his pocket and slips out a card from inside.
“Taking fourth place and an Honorable Mention… Mikhail Fedoseyev of Moscow!”
He extends a hand to the violinist who ignores it and stalks offstage in a huff. Lester shrugs comically and the audience laughs. He pulls out a second envelope.
“The Bronze Medalist for this year is… Miss Lucy Kim of China!”
Lucy pretends to be shocked that she has not been chosen. She starts to walk past Lester’s outstretched hand like Mikhail did, but then she doubles back to the stunned man with an impish smile. He wags a finger at her prank, and chuckles as the page hands him one of the boxes from her tray. He opens it and pulls out the bronze medal on its long blue ribbon and hangs it around Lucy’s neck. She turns and bows to an audience that is already giving her a standing ovation. When Lucy takes her place behind Lester, it is only Jeremy and I on the stage, standing side by side in front of all these people. God, I feel so tired. I just want this to be over. Please, just let this be over so I can go home.
“Well,” Lester says, pulling out another envelope. “The thing here is that once I tell you who the Silver Medalist is, you’re going to know immediately who the winner is. So, with all due respect to our second place musician, I’m just going to say that the Gold Medal, Grand Prize Winner of the ninth Kreisler International Music Competition is…”
There is a collective inhalation from the audience. We are all waiting.
Lester leans in close to the microphone and looks from me to Jeremy and back again.
“… Jeremy Corrigan, French horn!”
My heart sinks… and skips a beat at the same time. Oh my God. Is it possible I’m disappointed for me and happy for him at the same time? I step back out of the way, out of the spotlight, so Lester can put the gold medal around Jeremy’s neck.
Jeremy is brilliant in his affectation of surprise, humility and joy. I wonder, if I keep moving to the side of the stage, little by little, can I just disappear and go home without anyone noticing? I try it and scoot a foot. Then another. But my theory is blown to sad little pieces when I notice Jeremy noticing me. I see it then. He has no intention of letting me slink off the stage.
Jeremy holds up his hand to quiet the massive crowd, walks to the page and takes the last blue box. He opens it and pulls out the silver medal for all to see. Then he gestures to me and the clapping, catcalls and bravos start all over again. I’m frozen to my spot on the stage, helpless to move as he closes the distance between us until, finally, he’s standing in front of me, looking down. He hangs the silver medal around my neck and bends down to kiss me on the cheek, and to whisper in my ear.
“You are nothing, Jules. Nothing.”
Before I can respond, he grabs my good wrist and hauls it up over my head, as if he’s declaring me the winner of a boxing match.
Funny, I don’t feel like the winner. In fact, I feel as if I’ve just been sucker punched.
51
If you stand on the deck of the Bridgeport Ferry as it heads into the Port Jefferson harbor, you can get a glimpse of the houses tucked away on the bluffs overlooking the port. There’s an intricate network of private roads that takes you to those houses– if you know where you’re going. But for most people, that glimpse, as the ferry glides by is as close as they ever get to them. Tuckahoe is a small, unmarked drive that is easily missed.
Matthew directs the cabbie up and back through the single lane, tree-lined avenue to where it ends in a cul-de-sac. There is a driveway there with a carved, wooden ‘Private Property’ sign hanging from a post.
This is Matthew’s home, the place where he was living when his parents died. I suspect that this is the last place where he was truly happy. When his parents were killed in a boating accident, he wasn’t even ten years old. And, ironically, for as much money and property as his parents had, neither one of them was in possession of a single living relative. Not a cousin or an aunt or a great-grandmother. So he ended up spending the remaining years of his childhood, like me, in the custody of New York State.
“You wouldn’t know that no one has lived here for more than a decade,” I mumble as we look at the front of the immaculate property.
“Come on,” Matthew says, indicating I should follow him around the side of the house.
I’ve been here a few times before and I know what’s coming. Still, I’m never quite prepared for it. We walk along the flagstone path that leads around to the back of the house. There, laid out before us, is the massive lawn. We walk in silence to the far edge of the property, where there is a glorious view of the Port Jefferson harbor. A set of steep wooden steps, built into the bluff, runs down
to the beach several hundred feet below.
“I thought everybody lived like this,” he says softly from next to me.
I grab his hand and we turn our backs on the frigid blue water below, making our way to the back of the house. We pass the pool, empty and covered. Three Adirondack chairs are set out for maximum view of the sunset, though, they too, have seen better days after seasons of neglect. This place is eerie, like a graveyard for a life long dead.
He fishes the keys out of his pocket and lets us in the back door, where we are immediately met by the smell of dust and stillness.
“When were you last here?” I ask. “A year maybe?”
He shakes his head.
“More like two.”
Our footsteps echo loudly on the hardwood floor, as if the house is hollow. We make the rounds, opening closed doors to his father’s study and his mother’s sewing room. The den is lined with huge oak bookcases, which now stand empty, collecting dust.
“Come on, let’s go into the kitchen and get ready for Tony. He’ll be here soon,” I say, trying to coax him out of the distant place where his mind has gone.
Things are less musty in the huge kitchen, where the management company has laid out a spread of baked goods and a carafe of coffee. I fix him a cup and hand it to him. He sips distractedly.
“You know, maybe this was a bad idea,” I begin tentatively. “Couldn’t we have arranged to meet him in the city?”
He shakes his head as he sips.
“No,” he says once he’s swallowed. “He’s got an assignment out here somewhere. This was the easiest way to see him as quickly as possible.”
Tony Ruggiero is ‘That Guy.’ You know the one. The guy who ‘knows a guy.’ The guy who can get you anything, no matter how exotic, far-flung or illegal it is. The guy who can dig up the dirt; the guy who can get the job done. You don’t ever ask a guy like Tony how he does it, because you’re better off not knowing. He and Matthew’s father worked together years ago and he’s kept an eye on Matthew ever since. It’s Jeremy who he’s been keeping an eye on for the last couple of weeks, though. When Tony comes in, it doesn’t take him more than a minute to find his way to the breakfast bar.
“Sorry,” he says through a full mouth, “I’m starving. I came right from a stake-out. Been sitting in a car half the night.”
“No, please,” I smile, and hand him a napkin.
“What’s the firm got you working on these days?” Matthew asks.
“This one’s good. Industrial espionage. The client is convinced one of his employees is a mole for the competition. He’s right. What he doesn’t know, is that it’s the secretary he’s been banging for six months,” he says with a snort of laughter that sends crumbs flying everywhere. “Sorry,” he mumbles with embarrassment.
I smile. Tony is a character for sure. He can find out anything about anyone, anywhere. And now he’s here to tell us what he’s learned about Jeremy.
“So how you doing, Red?” he asks me. “I saw in the paper that you got second place in that big competition.”
“I did. But I’ve been better, Tony,” I admit.
“Jeremy did a real number on her,” Matthew pipes up. “That’s why I called you. I should’ve done it earlier.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “You really should have, Matt. This guy’s one serious piece a work. He’s got sealed records from before he was even a teenager. Some petty theft, breaking and entering. There was an assault charge involving a teacher...”
“Wait, what?” I say. “A teacher assaulted him?”
“No. The other way around. He assaulted a teacher. Apparently he gave the judge quite a sob story and got community service. The teacher got a fractured skull and early retirement.”
I’m speechless. How could I have not known this side of him?
“That’s nothing,” Tony is saying to Matthew. “By the time he was sixteen he’d taken up blackmail, embezzlement and grand theft auto.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t believe it. How could he possibly do all of those things and not be in jail? I think you’ve got it wrong, Tony,” I protest.
They are both looking at me a little sadly. As if I’m in denial and the big bad truth is going to whop me in the head at any moment now.
Tony sighs.
“He’s a smart motherfucker, Red. He knows how to cover his tracks. He also knows how to twist, spin and manipulate the facts to suit his purpose. I’ve never seen anything like it. And I’ve gotta tell you, I think Matthew here is right. I think he killed the other horn player. What’s his name?”
“Cal,” I say softly.
“Right, Cal. Jeremy had proximity to him. He also had access to the kid’s stuff, to his instrument. He was the first one to ‘help’ him on the scene. He was supposed to get the guy’s epinephrine pen, the one that was always in the horn case, only that night it wasn’t. At least that’s what Jeremy said.”
“You think he took it without Cal noticing?” Matthew asks.
Tony shrugs.
“Either that or he pocketed it instead of bringing it back out onto the stage.”
“Okay… so how would he have caused the allergic reaction then?”
“Well, according to the coroner’s report the autopsy showed a swollen throat, mucus in the lungs and other signs consistent with anaphylaxis. We know from Cal’s medical records that only one thing had that kind of an effect on him.”
“Nuts,” Matthew says.
“Nuts. But there weren’t any in his stomach at the time of his death. Still, his allergy was so severe that even contact with nuts, nut oils or nut butters could trigger symptoms.”
“So, Jeremy put it somewhere on Cal. Or maybe even Cal’s horn,” Matthew deduces.
“They’re saying the point of origin was his mouth.”
“His mouthpiece,” I whisper.
“What?” they say in unison, now staring at me.
I close my eyes for a few seconds, take a deep breath and just say it. Say what’s been on my mind for days now.
“I, uh… I think I saw Jeremy pocket Cal’s mouthpiece,” I say.
“Holy shit, Julia!” Matthew says as he hops off of his stool and comes to stand face to face with me. He puts his hands on my forearms. “Are you sure?”
“I wasn’t at first, but the more I think about, the more I’m certain of it. It was when he went backstage to look for the epinephrine. He took Cal’s horn with him. I think I saw him take the mouthpiece off Cal’s horn and replace it with one he had in his pocket. Is that crazy?”
A huge smile spreads across his face.
“No,” Matthew says, shaking his head excitedly. “No, you’re not crazy. He must have put something like peanut oil on Cal’s mouthpiece and then swapped it out with an identical one, a clean one, when no one was watching.”
“I was watching,” I say, looking down at my lap.
I can tell he’s readjusting himself to tone down his glee. I can’t be happy. Not about this. I loved this man. I’m not entirely sure that I don’t still love him
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Am I supposed to be?” I say, looking up and meeting his eyes. “I’m carrying the child of a killer. I was just this lovesick idiot who couldn’t see that he was playing me. I should have listened to you and Cal. You both warned me. You must think I’m such a fool,” I say, the tears building behind my eyes.
He pulls me forward so that I’m enveloped in his arms, my head resting on his chest.
“Oh, Julia, I never thought that for a second. Jeremy Corrigan is a brilliant manipulator. Of course you were out of your league with him. You can’t even conceive of the kinds of things he does to other people.”
I extricate myself from him and sit up, wiping my wet face with a napkin.
“So, now you really think he did it?” I ask them.
“Sounds like it to me,” Tony says.
“We’ve got to go to the police,” Matthew says resolutely. “Like now.”
“W
ith what?” Tony asks as he pours more coffee. “There isn’t anything, Matthew.”
“Of course there is. We just figured it out. Julia saw it.”
He takes a sip and shakes his head.
“No, all we did was come up with a theory. Without a smoking… mouthpiece… we can’t prove it. They’re going to say Julia is the ‘woman scorned.’ Besides, the Coroner is calling it an accidental death. That’s all the police need to close up their investigation.”
“But they can’t!” Matthew says indignantly. “We have to find the proof, we have to figure out the best way to take him down.”
“Take him down?” Tony snorts. “Matthew, I’m not trying to give you ammunition, I’m trying to warn you. This guy is the real fuckin’ deal. He’s a card-carrying, dyed-in-the-wool sociopath. You know me; I’m not one to walk away from a fight. But man, my advice to you here is to just let it go. If you push this guy too far and you don’t get him put away, you and Julia are in some serious danger.”
“Please, Tony. You’re giving the son of a bitch too much credit.”
With startling clarity, I realize he’s wrong. Jeremy is more than equipped to do what we’re thinking. I keep my thoughts to myself.
“Listen to me, Matthew,” Tony is saying. He waves his hands around in broad gestures for emphasis. “What you’re talking about here is opening up Pandora’s box, pulling out a can of worms and kicking it into a hornet’s nest. Just get the fuck out of his way. His own hubris will trip him up eventually.”
“I can’t do that, Tony. We have to go to the police,” Matthew insists.
“Haven’t you done that already?”
What? I give Matthew a long hard look and Tony continues.
“I mean, you called in an anonymous tip to the police, right?”
To my sheer amazement, he nods.
“Well, my friend, as it turns out, you weren’t the only one.”
Now it’s Matthew’s turn to look amazed.
“There were others?”
“A couple. One of them was someone at the Kreisler Competition, a judge named Louise Kutter. I tried to convince her to talk about it, but she’s too afraid of Jeremy. And that’s for your ears only. Understood?”