by Lane Stone
The triangle cut him off.
A new voice joined in. “Why can’t he ask a—”
“That was the driving instructor,” Shelby said.
The triangle.
Shelby laughed first. Then Lady Anthea and Albert lost control. They wiped their eyes, again just alike.
“Ring that thing again and I’m coming down there!” I yelled at the phone. I leaned forward to stand, but I was laughing too hard to get up.
“I could have Officer Statler arrest—” John was laughing too hard to finish his sentence.
The next contretemps resulted from the oboist catching a reporter taking notes. Finally, they began and even made it to the end of the 1812 Overture. Cordy magnanimously gave them a five-minute break.
“What are we doing? It’s like she gave us a break, too,” I said. Every one of us in my family room had stood and stretched or moved about, such is the power of suggestion.
“I don’t guess we’re going to hear anything useful,” Lady Anthea said, “but the efforts to disrupt seem very successful.”
“I agree,” Albert said. “It’s just a matter of time before someone breaks ranks.”
John reached for my elbow. “I’m going to have to go.”
“Listen to this,” Shelby said. “It’s a text from Joey. The triangle player was in love with Nick Knightley. They were engaged to get married.”
“Hmm,” Lady Anthea said, nodding.
“We have our weak link,” John said. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.” I walked him to the door and we stood there.
“I was thinking about what you said about self-serving motives,” I said. “A motive to say someone was innocent when you didn’t think so, would be to keep him from being checked out. Right?”
“To stop anyone from looking too closely? We already know he was in prison.” He leaned over and kissed me sweetly on my forehead. “Okay. I’ll be talking to his parole officer in the morning when he comes for the memorial service and I’ll try to learn more. Maybe between him and the triangle player I’ll get a more complete picture. Now, I have to get back to the station.”
I reached for his arm to stop him from leaving. “You like Lewes, don’t you?”
“You’re here,” he said, leaning over me.
“Other than that? Do you like the town?”
“Better than I thought I would,” he said. “Why these questions?”
I reached up and closed the gap between our faces so we could properly kiss.
Chapter 34
“Before he got the job at the symphony the guy couldn’t tell a tuba from a trombone, but he sure did love listening to classical music,” Nick Knightley’s parole officer, Jake Granger, said, his Southern accent emphasizing the vowels in almost every word. The slightly built African-American man looked close to retirement age, but he wasn’t phoning it in. I liked him immediately because he had cared about his charge. “And smart as a whip. Just think, he was finally using that brainpower to get ahead.” He motioned to John, who was standing next to him, with his thumb. “I was telling the chief that I used to tell him he used his intelligence to be stupid.”
Lady Anthea and I had been standing on the porch of St. Peter’s Church, next to red doors propped open for the eleven o’clock memorial service, when they walked up and John had introduced us.
“I guess you’d have to be smart and stupid in equal measure to know how to commit internet fraud, but not how to keep from getting caught,” John said.
“What kind of scam was it?” I said.
“Ransomware, if you can believe that,” Granger said.
“We can believe it,” I said.
“We can?” John looked at me, squinting in befuddlement. The simple facial expression and simpler question brought a smile to Jake’s face.
He looked from John to me and chuckled. “So that’s how it is.” We were just that obvious.
I looked around to be sure no one could hear us. “That’s what happened to Cordy’s computer last year.”
“But he only started the job with the symphony orchestra, what, five months ago?” the parole officer said.
“This is what I meant by the Gordian knot of clues, with every damn one of them leading back to those musicians,” John said, nodding and rubbing his forehead.
“‘Turn him to any cause of policy, the Gordian knot of it he will unloose, familiar as his garter,’” Jake said.
Lady Anthea gave him a grateful smile, like she’d been starved for refinement, and for my benefit said, “Shakespeare, Henry V.”
“Sue, got any Elvis wisdom for us to give back to them?” John asked, with a laugh.
“I’m torn between ‘Devil in Disguise’ and ‘It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie.’”
“Look!” Lady Anthea’s hand flew to her pearl choker. She pointed at the sidewalk on the Market Street side of the church.
We turned to see the Potomac Symphony Orchestra musicians streaming out of Hotel Rodney and crossing the side street, led by an unsmiling Cordy Galligan. She and the other violinists held their instruments at their sides. They turned onto Second Avenue in front of the church. At the stone walkway leading up to us and the red doors, those carrying their instruments lifted them.
The sixteen women and two men violinists filed past us, two by two, playing without sheet music. We separated to make way for them.
“That’s ‘Is This Love’ by Bob Marley,” John said.
They were followed by the triangle player, Beaut Richards-Tinsman, and I saw she was crying. I looked over my shoulder at John and nodded. She was the one we’d pick off from the group.
* * * *
St. Peter’s Church had been founded in 1681 and the building was anything but ostentatious. I couldn’t imagine a more fitting place for Nick Knightley’s memorial service. Jake’s heartfelt eulogy hadn’t tried to make a saint of the young man or absolve him of responsibility for his criminal actions. He simply did not deserve to have his life ended the way it had. Without coming out and saying it, he conveyed his belief that Nick’s death was as significant as Maestro Nielsen’s.
The parole officer had left to return to Washington, DC and would return when the body was released. Lady Anthea and I sat in John’s office eating sandwiches. Beaut would be coming at one o’clock to talk to him. Natch, I hoped that included me.
“How was this morning’s rehearsal?” I asked. Albert had finally consented to walking to the community center in the subdivision, and she had walked him over and stayed. She was still, understandably, concerned for his safety.
“They are spent,” she said with a laugh. “Well and truly knackered.” She took a sip of lemonade and dabbed the corner of her mouth with the paper napkin. “Are you sure Nick Knightley didn’t kill Georg Nielsen? If he had the ability to put ransomware on a computer, could he have known how to make it look like he was not in Lewes when he was?” John shook his head. “But Bess denies calling him,” she went on.
“He was definitely in DC. He answered the call. And remember he was with Granger until around nine o’clock.”
“The man who killed Nick was holding my head under water,” I said. “The preliminary autopsy report shows that Nielsen was held under water. One killer. I can’t leave it alone or take the easy way out, any more than someone learning or performing music can take the easiest route.”
“I agree with you,” John said.
I polished off my sandwich and tossed the wrapping into the circular file beside John’s desk. “I hope Beaut can tell us if there was any connection between the two victims. Cordy says she doesn’t know how Nielsen got her composition. We know that her computer was infected with ransomware, and that was what Nick was in prison for.”
John pulled his chair closer to his desk and began typing on his keyboard. “Seems too much of a coincidence.”
“That would mean that Georg Nie
lsen and Nick Knightley knew each other, or had come in contact with one another,” Lady Anthea said. “I don’t see how that could be. Nielsen lived in London when he wasn’t in Denmark.”
“Remember Bess said that Roman had spent hours trying to unlock Cordy’s computer but couldn’t—but maybe he did! He could have gotten the identity of her hacker!” I said, getting more and more excited. “Or he could have stolen the score off it.”
“Why in the world would Roman Harper risk his reputation and his family’s well-being on something so sordid and unnecessary?” Lady Anthea asked.
John said, “So that Sue won’t accuse me of jumping to conclusions, I’ll email Jake to see if he knows if Cordy Galligan was one of Knightley’s victims.”
The intercom on his phone squawked. “Chief?” The receptionist sounded tentative. “You have guests?” It was a statement, but she’d made it sound like a question.
We three looked out into the lobby. Beaut was accompanied by Cordy Galligan, Bess Harper and Margo Bardot. Beaut was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that read, GOING FOR BAROQUE. Bess wore another expensive pantsuit and Margo was dressed for success. Cordy was again dressed in black, head to toe.
“We’re going to need the interrogation room.”
He met them and led them down the hallway, motioning for Officer Statler to join them. Before the quartet reached the door, Beaut jabbed a finger at Cordy and said, “I heard how you talked to Nick. You were dismissive, disrespectful, mean, and condescending to him.”
Margo countered, “And I saw him get mad at her.” As usual, coming to Cordy’s defense.
“Do you realize what someone with skills like Nick would do if he got mad at someone?” Bess asked. “It would not be pretty.”
“Typical!” Beaut snarled.
Officer Statler had made her way through the crowd of six women, four of them angry, and John. Lady Anthea and I had hung back listening, because if people see you standing right there it’s not eavesdropping. I reached for her elbow and winked.
John motioned for Officer Statler to go into the interrogation room, then held up a hand to everyone else. “Ms. Richards-Tinsman, go ahead. The rest of you I’ll be happy to talk to later.”
I nudged Lady Anthea forward. When she looked at me, I nodded to the much-used-of-late interrogation room. Then I yelled, “Well, I never! Ladies, let’s go!” As I dramatically swung around to leave I saw I was getting a confused look from John. He must have caught on, because when we got out onto the walkway Lady Anthea wasn’t with us. He had let her stay. I looked at Cordy, Bess and Margo. “Where to?” Without giving them time to respond, I asked, “Cordy, want to pay Marin a visit at Buckingham’s?”
“Yes!” she said. “Let’s do.”
“My car is over here,” I said, pointing to the left.
“Mine’s there,” Bess said. She pointed to a handicapped spot. I pressed my lips together to keep from telling her what I thought of that. Why was I surprised? It was completely in character.
Margo motioned for Cordy to join them, but when I looked at her, too, she followed me to the Jeep. I wasn’t sure how I’d managed it, but Cordy rode with me, the other two followed in Bess’s BMW and we drove up Savannah Road.
“For what it’s worth, I think Sonata by the Sea is beautiful and moving,” I said, trying to make conversation.
“It’s Symphony by the Sea, not sonata, which is written for a piano alone, or one other instrument and the piano. My work was written for a full orchestra. Baroque sonatas were somewhat different but today—and obviously my piece is contemporary—that is the difference between a symphony and a sonata.”
Ordinarily, my immediate reaction to being schooled in such a patronizing manner would have been to wish she was in Bess’s car. But two murders had been committed in my town and I wanted answers more than I wanted to put her in her place. “Gotcha.”
I drove on through town before trying again to start a conversation. “My Schnauzer, Abby has befriended Marin Alsop.” By that I meant my dog had been bossing hers around all week.
I thought about how she’d seemed so attached to the dog on Monday, but she hadn’t even asked about her since, nor had she visited. “You know, you’re welcome to drop by anytime to spend time with her,” I offered.
She nodded but didn’t speak. Suddenly puzzle pieces started moving into place in my mind’s eye. Starting with the last-minute boarding request, moving on to Bess’s daughter’s sneezing fit when we went to their house after the press conference. What was her name? Sophie. That was it. The girl obviously had allergies, but we hadn’t brought a dog with us. “Had you and Marin planned to stay at Bess’s house?”
“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. “Marin Alsop and I were coming on Sunday.”
“How bad are Sophie’s allergies?”
“Very.” Abby’s post-grooming kerchief had been in my pocket, so that would be very, very severe. Since Marin Alsop was being boarded, why wasn’t Cordy staying with Bess rather than at Hotel Rodney? The house was certainly large enough, even with Sophie there. If Cordy’s current sullen attitude was any indication, it was because she was pouting.
“I hope there were no hard feelings about you staying at the hotel instead of with Bess,” I said. I mentally patted myself on the back for putting all this together, but since it had nothing to do with the case, I needed to move on to something that did. “Georg Nielsen wasn’t in the States when he started passing your work off as his, was he?”
“No, and as I already said, I don’t know how he got it.”
“Was it on your computer?” I asked.
“Yes, and my computer was hacked, but I had a handwritten copy. Look, if you’re implying he hacked my computer, forget it. He knew as much about computers as that duke knows about conducting.”
“That little, huh?”
“Maybe less. He didn’t even know how to text.”
I laughed and the mood in the Jeep was a little lighter. “Is the final movement the most difficult?” I asked, making the right into Villages of Five Points. Bess and Margo were still behind us.
“No, not really. Why do you ask?”
“I got the impression it was from listening to you rehearse.”
I pulled into a parking spot and opened the door. Cordy hadn’t moved and she looked straight ahead. I got out and stood by the open door, waiting. Finally, she spoke. “I never finished composing the final movement. I started it but I didn’t get very far. Maestro Nielsen changed it and wrote his own final movement. It’s new to me, that’s why I play it with such hesitancy.”
“Which is why the rest of the orchestra stumbles over it,” I offered.
She smiled, like she was rewarding me for at least getting that right.
“Do they know that you wrote Symphony by the Sea?” I asked.
“No, I should tell them. I will, soon.”
Bess and Margo parked in the spot next to the Jeep’s passenger side. The four of us went into the Pet Palace.
Shelby was behind the desk. I breathed in the calm, the elegance and the dog smells that I loved so much. I told her that Cordy wanted to visit Marin for a bit. My first stop was my office to pet Abby. I returned to the reception desk and she followed, walking close to my leg. Buckingham’s usually unflappable assistant manager looked down the hallway for the second time in the minutes that I’d been back.
Abby kept an eye on me because of the short-nosed interloper. I leaned over and twirled one of her ears. “Are you my guard dog?” Little did she know that I was just as anxious for the symphony orchestra to leave Lewes as she was, though for a different reason.
“Marin Alsop is playing outside. I’ll call someone to take you to see her,” Shelby said, reaching for the phone to use the intercom.
Bess plopped her handbag down and began rummaging through it. “Cordy, I want to take care of this for
you since it’s all my fault your dog has to be here.” She said it like the Pekingese was in San Quentin, rather than a luxurious, if I do say so myself, pet spa. She pulled out a matching green leather wallet and from that extracted a black American Express credit card.
Shelby took it and said, “We don’t have her final bill yet for boarding and day camp. We’re giving her complimentary brushing and cleaning of the skin folds on her face every day, and extra TLC sessions to help with her stress. How about I charge five hundred for now?”
Bess gulped. “That’s fine.” She was definitely not a dog person, otherwise she would have been amazed at the free grooming services we were including. I expected a different reaction from Cordy, who stood there silent except for an appreciative whisper and smile.
As Shelby processed the charge, one of the nannies came up. “Which playground is Marin in?” she asked.
“The smaller one,” said the middle-aged woman, who looked like she could be a British nanny.
“Can you escort them to see her?” Shelby motioned to Cordy. “This is Cordy Galligan, her mom.”
I saw Bess and Margo exchange eye rolls.
“Sue, could I speak with you in private?” Margo said.
“Sure.” I motioned for her to come back to my office.
She sat on the sofa and I sat behind my desk. Her gaze drifted to the window over my shoulder. If anyone other than Margo Bardot was sitting across from me I would have thought she was getting up her nerve to speak, but it was her.
Finally, she said, “I have a confession to make. I told Nick Knightley how valuable a music score is, especially an original, unperformed composition. I fear that may have prompted him to hack Cordy’s computer and steal it.” So Cordy had told them she was the composer of the new piece.
“The timeline’s wrong. He wasn’t working for the PSO when her computer was hacked,” I reminded her. Surely she knew that.
“No,” she said. “You’re right.” She was, for once, speaking at normal speed. “You see, if he had the composition, my comment might have given him the idea to sell it to Maestro Nielsen when he came to meet with us.” Just like that she’d been caught in one lie and had flipped to another. Or was the last part true? No, it couldn’t be. Nielsen had sent the score to the librarian before he arrived.
