The Unfinished Sonata

by K. D. McCrite

  Finally she said, “I’m assuming you need information from me about Malcolm Tyler?”

  “Yes,” Annie agreed, “and I’d love to know who wrote that music we found hidden inside the box.”

  “Ooo! I don’t blame you! Maybe that piece of music was written by some famous composer.”

  “That’s a slim possibility,” Annie said, “but I’m keeping an open mind. Ms. Hutchins, I know it’s a long shot, but I’m wondering if you might know to whom Malcolm Tyler sold his music boxes. If I can find out who used to own that music box, maybe I can track down the composer.”

  “You know, I think I can help you!” Violet said with such enthusiasm the phone nearly glowed. “It might take me a few days, but I know that my great-uncle kept a log of everyone he carved anything for.”

  “That seems rather odd to me,” Annie said. “What I mean is that, from what little I’ve learned, he was rather … um …” She paused, seeking the right word.

  “I think I know what you mean! It’s always seemed strange that he would do something so mundane and businesslike as keeping a list of his customers when he was so careless in other aspects of his life. But he was such a free spirit, so I suppose that means he didn’t feel bound by convention.”

  “Would you please tell me what you know about him?”

  Violet laughed lightly. “I don’t know very much. The family rarely mentioned him. I do know that he traveled all the time, but even then, he kept to himself. I wonder—can you be a hermit and an itinerant at the same time?”

  “Good point,” Annie said. “I’d never thought about that. Maybe ‘hermit’ isn’t the right word, though. ‘Eccentric’ might be the better term.”

  “Yes! I think you’re right. Malcolm hardly left any imprint of himself on anything other than his unique carving and wood-crafting style.”

  “Since he was so artistic, is it possible your uncle might have written the music we found inside the box?”

  Violet laughed. “I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t know. Truly, none of us in the family know much about him. Not to be callous, Mrs. Dawson, but I’m not so sure any of us has ever cared very much. He was such a black sheep—such an embarrassment to many of the relatives. But not so much to me, of course. I don’t embarrass easily. These days, we’ve all been so busy with our own lives, you know, and old family history seems like such a waste of time. That said, I think I might be able to help you a little. I just might know where those records are.”

  “That would be wonderful if you do,” Annie said, though she felt a deep pang for anyone whose legacy was ignored by their own blood.

  “Tell me what the music box looks like. That’s how he logged them into his ledger.”

  “I think the wood is chestnut, but I’m not sure. The carving is quite intricate, with lots of ivy, and there’s a heart on top with lovebirds in the center.”

  “My, that sounds like a lot of work just for a music box!” Violet exclaimed. “Well, Mrs. Dawson, I won’t promise you anything, but let me do a little inquiry. If you’ll give me your phone number, I’ll call you when and if I find something.”

  “Thank you so much. I look forward to hearing from you again.”

  After she hung up the phone, Annie flopped into her favorite chair and sprawled like a rag doll. To think she might actually learn the identity of the composer of that lovely piece of music warmed her heart. And wouldn’t it be nice if she also could find out about Olivia?

  Boots jumped up into her lap.

  “Hey there, kitty,” Annie said, tickling the cat under her soft, pointed chin. “Life is full of mystery, isn’t it?” She looked into the cat’s green eyes. “I wish you could tell me who Malcolm carved that music box for. Did that person write the music? Who was Olivia, and what does she have to do with anything? Was she even real?” Boots closed her eyes, stretched her neck, and purred with joy. “And here’s another quandary,” Annie told the contented cat. “What’s going on with Grady Brooks? What in the world did I say to him that caused him to make some momentous decision? And what was he deciding about?”

  She stopped rubbing the cat and stared at nothing on the opposite wall. Boots nudged her head against Annie’s fingers.

  When the telephone rang, its sudden sound startled Annie so much that she jumped and sat straight up. Boots, affronted by the gesture, leaped off her lap and strolled away, completely indignant.

  “Annie!” boomed a friendly voice she recognized the moment she answered the telephone.

  “Papa Dexter. How are you?”

  “I’m doing well, Annie, and I have good news for you.”

  She sat up even straighter.

  “It has long been my opinion,” she said, “that good news is always a good thing.”

  “I’ve often subscribed to that notion myself,” he said with a chuckle.

  “I have a bit of good news too, but tell me yours first,” Annie said.

  “All right. My good news is I fixed your music box.”

  “Really? You mean it plays now?”

  “Like brand-new. The comb that strikes the notes was missing, and the key was simply jammed. I unjammed the key and replaced the comb from an old broken music box I had here.”

  “Papa Dexter, that is good news! I am thrilled beyond words,” she said. “I can’t wait to hear it!”

  “Would you like to come out and pick it up?”

  “Absolutely! May I come now?”

  “You certainly may. In fact, I’ll put the coffee on and be waiting for you. And when you get here, share with me your good news.”

  Annie ran upstairs and slipped into a pair of khaki slacks and a sleeveless pale yellow blouse. She slid her feet into a pair of sandals, ran a brush through her hair, grabbed her purse and dashed downstairs.

  “See you later, Boots,” she called to the cat, who was stoically sitting in the middle of the hallway blinking at her.

  When Annie got to Papa Dexter’s door, the elderly man greeted her as warmly as an old friend.

  “Didn’t you bring Alice with you?” he said, peering over her shoulder.

  Annie bit her lower lip for a second and fought a tiny pang of guilt.

  “I was so excited that you fixed the music box I didn’t even think to ask her.”

  His blue eyes twinkled. “I think she’ll forgive you. Come in, my dear. The coffee is waiting … and so is the music box.”

  Inside his cozy home, he led her to the small dining table where he’d set out cups, small plates, and slices of yellow poppy seed pound cake.

  “Please sit, Annie. I’ll pour coffee, and you help yourself to the cake. It’s rather good.”

  She savored the first, lemony bite. “Did Alice MacFarlane make this?”

  He laughed. “No. I did.” He filled her cup, and then met her eyes. “A man who lives alone for many years can become a good cook, if he’s of a mind to do so.”

  He left the room, but returned a few moments later with the music box.

  “I know you didn’t come to Dexter Cove to merely sit and have cake. Here it is.”

  She dabbed her lips and fingertips with a paper napkin, and then leaned forward as the old man showed her what he had done.

  “It was just a matter of finding the right part and having the right tools,” he said. “And luckily an old clutterbug like me has an abundance of parts and tools.”

  “May I hear it?” she said, breathlessly, coffee and cake forgotten.

  “Of course! We’ll just wind it up and play it.”

  He gave the key a few deft twists and the delicate sound filled the room. Annie had heard the song only once before, but she immediately recognized the unfinished sonata for Olivia that Jason had played from the composition found in the music box.

  “My goodness,” she whispered, leaning forward even further, watching the teeth of the little metal comb strike each tiny note.

  Papa looked up, silvery eyebrows raised in silent a question.

  “Papa,” she said, her ey
es wide, “that is the music that was on the manuscript we found inside the box.”

  His mouth dropped open and he too, stared at the small movement winding down.

  “Are you sure?” he asked when the music fell silent.

  “Positively. Of course, it’s only a portion, but still …”

  The pair gazed at the music box, as if expecting something even more unexpected would reveal itself. Finally they looked up and met each other’s eyes.

  “Extraordinary,” he breathed.

  Annie nodded. “Very much so!” After another silent, stunned moment, she asked, “Papa Dexter, do you think Malcolm Tyler made the movements that went inside the boxes he carved?” she asked.

  He sat back and exhaled deeply, as if he’d been holding his breath for a long time.

  “I don’t know, Annie. It’s possible. I had always assumed he bought them from a maker somewhere, but maybe he did make them.”

  “If that were the case, then don’t you think he was the one who wrote the music?”

  He stroked his beard and gazed down at the music box again.

  “That’s very likely,” he said at last, “but I don’t know. There just isn’t much known about the man.”

  “His great-niece said he pretty much kept to himself.”

  He looked up. “You’ve talked to her, have you?”

  “Yes. I talked with her this morning just before you called, actually. And that was my good news for you.”

  “Please share.”

  “It seems the family doesn’t know a lot about the man,” she said. “Apparently his artistic bent was a source of embarrassment.”

  “Unfortunately, that happens all too often to artists born to more ‘earthbound’ families. The artists, musicians, and writers see the world through eyes different from the rest of us. A color, a spot of sunlight, a slight sound, a random phrase—all these things can spark something new within their minds, and they set about recreating it so the rest of us can share the vision.”

  She pondered his words.

  “Gram was like that. Her needlepoint was so unique that no one else has ever been able to duplicate it. The fact that she was able to envision the stitches, the colors, and the images before any of it existed simply boggles my mind. Or take Kate Stevens. She works at A Stitch in Time in town. She can create the most amazing crocheted items you’ve ever seen!”

  He smiled.

  “You have an appreciation for art.”

  “I do,” she sighed, “and not a lot of talent for it, I’m sorry to say. I love to crochet, but I must follow a pattern. I make lovely things that way, but to create something that hasn’t been there before …” She shook her head. “I don’t have that ability.”

  He reached over, and patted her hand. “There’s something to be said for following patterns too, my dear.”

  She smiled at him. “You’re right, Papa. You are exactly right.”

  He refilled her coffee cup, and then said, thoughtfully, “Something else puzzles me about this music box.”

  “Oh?” She sipped her coffee. “What’s that?”

  “That comb was deliberately broken.”

  Annie frowned and set down the cup.

  “How do you know that? Couldn’t it have just been damaged by someone playing the music too often, or winding the key too tightly, or even dropping it?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t believe so, no. Look here.” He pointed to the repaired part. “The comb is screwed in so it couldn’t just fall out. Besides that, the teeth were actually broken from the original piece. Look.”

  He took the little bit of metal from his shirt pocket. “See? The teeth have been sheered away. The destruction had to be deliberate.”

  Annie’s frown deepened.

  “Why would anyone do that?” she asked.

  “That’s a good question,” Papa Dexter said. “And why would anyone hide a music manuscript inside a box that was quite a trick to get open?”

  “Good point. And it is even more curious that the sonata inside was the same tune that the music box played.”

  They were silent for a time, sightlessly staring at each other, thinking their own thoughts about this newest twist on what continued to be a growing mystery.

  “Well,” Annie said after a bit, “I hope Violet Hutchins can tell me something, but to be frank, she really didn’t sound all that interested in the man.”

  “That’s too bad.” He fastened the two parts of the music box together and lifted it. “All you have to do is look at this and take note of how it was crafted to know that Malcolm Tyler was a genius.” He ran his hand over the carved flowers and the tiny birds—and then met Annie’s eyes. “You let me know what you find out, will you?”

  “I will.”

  She watched the old man continue to study the box, caressing it with his fingertips. He was such a dear person with such a unique personality, and she was grateful she had been granted the opportunity to meet him. Papa Dexter was someone she’d like to spend more time with and get to know better.

  “Papa,” she said, and he glanced up. “Are you busy Saturday?”

  He shook his head, giving her a smile. “These days I’m never very busy. Why?”

  “I’m having a barbecue at Grey Gables—an old-fashioned, down-home Texas cookout—and I’m inviting everyone I can think of. I’d love for you to come.”

  A smile creased his face and shone deep in his eyes.

  “Why, thank you! I’d like that. I don’t believe I’ve ever been to an old-fashioned, down-home Texas cookout.”

  “Well, it won’t be exactly like the ones we used to have back home, but it’ll be fun. Folks are bringing food, so it has turned into a potluck barbecue. There will be things for you to buy, if you’re interested—Princessa jewelry and Divine Décor, and some of Alice MacFarlane’s delicious baked goods.”

  “It sounds like a good time. In fact, it sounds like a real ripsnorter.” He chuckled. “You familiar with that term, ripsnorter?”

  “I’ve heard it. I think it means an extra-good time.”

  “You’re right. An excellent time, in fact. Say, uh, Annie, do you think … is there a possibility that Stella will be there?”

  “Stella Brickson?”

  He nodded, looking a little embarrassed.

  Annie smiled. “She said she would be.”

  He beamed. “Then you can count on me showing up!”

  14

  After Annie left Papa Dexter’s with the restored music box encased in bubble wrap and tucked safely on the passenger’s side floor of the Malibu, she stopped by the grocery store for several items. Instead of going straight home to Grey Gables after shopping, she went to Alice’s.

  “Annie!” Alice said, smiling big as she opened the door. “Come inside, I want to show you what I’m doing.”

  With the grocery bags in her arms, Annie followed her friend to the kitchen. She stopped abruptly in the doorway and gawked at the scene. She had never seen so many pans and baking sheets in one kitchen in all her life.

  Alice laughed at Annie’s stunned expression.

  “I call it controlled chaos. I had to borrow from everyone I knew. If I’m going to sell baked goods, I need to have a plan to get it all done. Over there will be my breads.” She pointed to loaf and muffin pans on one countertop. “There will be cookies, where those cookie sheets are.” She tapped a tower of round cake pans. “And here is where my cakes will be put together. You weren’t home, or I would have been at your door, borrowing.” She eyed the sacks Annie held. “What’s that?”

  Annie looked down at her burden, and then glanced around for an empty space to put down the groceries. She settled for a spot on the small dining table.

  “This is flour, sugar, baking powder, that sort of thing.”

  “Why, Annie!”

  “This bake sale was my idea, and don’t tell me you don’t need this stuff.”

  “I need them, of course, and I’ll use them. Thank yo
u! But, really, you—”

  “I expect to keep half of any unsold baked goods. I doubt there will be any, but if so, I want half of them. If there are none left, then you must make me a loaf of bread, a batch of cookies, and a pie.”

  Alice laughed and gave her a quick hug. “You got it! Thanks for being such a good friend, Annie.”

  Annie glanced around again.

  “You certainly have your work cut out for you. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Alice’s expression clearly conveyed gratitude.

  “I don’t think so, but thank you for offering,” she said. “I believe I have it all under control. I have my work areas organized, my baking times scheduled, plenty of ingredients, and all the utensils I need.” She smiled. “I guess the best thing for you to do is leave me to it.”

  “Are you throwing me out?”

  Alice linked her arm with Annie’s at the elbow and escorted her regally to the front door.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “Hmm. Then maybe you don’t want to hear the latest about the music box?”

  Alice gave her a look of mock outrage.

  “Where did you come up with such a misplaced notion as that? When do I ever not want to know the latest about anything, especially the mystery about the music box?”

  “Come to think of it,” Annie said, “never. The latest is this: Papa Dexter fixed it!”

  “He fixed it? You mean it plays now?”

  “That is exactly what I mean.”

  Alice clapped her hands. “Oh, I want to hear it!”

  “I’ll bring it to the Hook and Needle Club meeting tomorrow.” She took a step out the front door, paused and looked over her shoulder at her friend, and added, “You are far too busy to hear it now.”

  “Annie Dawson! I want to hear it now.”

  “See you tomorrow,” she called as she reached her car. She gave the indignant Alice a friendly little wave, along with an impudent little smile, and got in the Malibu.

  Sometimes, she thought, still smiling, the longer you wait for something, the more fun it is.

  Besides, Alice really did have a lot to do, and showing her the music box right then would doubtless lead to an hour or two of speculation and conversation, not to mention chitchat and casual gossip.