Murder Melts in Your Mouth

by Nancy Martin

  In the window above the flowers hung the frame of a cello, advertising the shop on the first floor. I rang the bell and waited at the black lacquered door.

  The intercom crackled. “Yes?”

  “Daniel?” I said. “It’s Nora Blackbird. May I come up?”

  “Nora! Sure. I’ll buzz you in.” His melodic voice sounded pleased to hear me. “Come right up the stairs.”

  A bell clanged, so I pushed the door wide and stepped into the cool darkness of the vestibule. To the left was the door leading to Daniel Schansky’s instrument repair and resale shop. Straight ahead, the staircase rose to the second-floor living quarters. Sunlight shining through the beveled facets of the fan-shaped window over the door cast thousands of sparkles on the stairs, giving the impression that heaven awaited above.

  Daniel’s mail lay on the floor, having been pushed through the slot by the postman. I bent and gathered the envelopes into my hands and headed up the heavenly stairs.

  I arrived on the landing in time to catch Daniel buttoning a white shirt around his incredibly toned upper body.

  “Sorry,” he said with a grin when I gave him a kiss. “Eric and I are going out for an early dinner. I just got out of the shower.”

  For a forty-something, Daniel looked more like twenty-something. His long brown hair was pulled into a wet ponytail that accentuated the sensual planes of his dramatic face. His jeans were neat as they encased his long, long legs. His gnarled bare feet were thrust into flip-flops. A former ballet dancer, he still had the tall, lean grace of his previous profession.

  On the worktable at the large front window lay the pieces of a viola. The instrument’s delicate neck had been broken, and I saw long-term, major surgery was in progress. The tools of Daniel’s meticulous work were neatly lined up on a folded cloth. An assortment of varnishes sat in a straight row along the windowsill.

  The living room was airy and spacious, yet cozy with personal touches. Beside the worktable hung a sepia portrait of Daniel’s grandfather, a Russian immigrant who had been a first-class violin maker. An old, framed poster dominated another wall, depicting Daniel himself lifting a ballerina into the spotlight. Around the poster, someone with more humor had dragged a pink feather boa and some Mardi Gras beads.

  In front of the white marble fireplace, a pair of creamy sofas faced each other, separated by a glass coffee table artfully cluttered with books, seashells and casual photographs in silver frames. The wooden floor gleamed warmly. The walls glowed with a pale blue green, the color of sea glass.

  Through an archway, I could see the long dining room, with a massive table situated on a tasteful Turkish rug, an ideal spot for dinner parties. Beyond that room lay the gourmet kitchen, where a collection of pricey copper pots hung in descending order of size from a ceiling rack.

  “This is a nice surprise, Nora.” Daniel finished buttoning his shirt and accepted his mail. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “Not since I gave you my old cello to sell. Thanks again, by the way. I really needed the money.”

  He smiled shyly. “Sorry I couldn’t get more for it. But I found it a good home—a student at the Academy, in fact.”

  “It wasn’t worth much. And it was hardly the kind of instrument you usually deal in.”

  “But well loved, and that counts sometimes. Please sit down.”

  “I shouldn’t stay if you’re on your way out.”

  “Nonsense. It’s a pleasure to see you.”

  I perched on the arm of one of the sofas. Daniel leaned against the worktable.

  Head bent, he glanced through the envelopes in his hand and winced at some of the return addresses.

  I pretended not to notice by lifting a small, framed photo from the collection on the coffee table. An attractive man with a gray crew cut smiled mischievously at me from the picture, his arm thrown across Daniel’s broader shoulder and the pink boa curling around his neck. I said, “Is Eric around?”

  “He just left to go back to the shop. Last-minute flower delivery to a longtime customer, and he had to show his replacement exactly where the flowers needed to go.”

  “His replacement?”

  Daniel smiled at me over the envelopes. “Eric’s taking a leave of absence in a couple of weeks. Training the new manager has been very trying.” Daniel dropped his bills onto the worktable and tried to forget about them. “Shall I call his cell phone and tell him you’re here?”

  “Oh, no, I just wondered if he was at home. You know he’s one of my favorite people.”

  Daniel smiled again. “And mine.”

  “I don’t mean to keep you from your dinner date,” I said. “But I have an odd question I was hoping you might answer.”

  “I can try. What’s up?”

  I’d thought of Daniel on the train. But now—sitting in his lovely home—I felt awkward. I decided there was no use beating around the bush, however. “You know Hoyt Cavendish died yesterday.”

  Daniel’s mouth tightened. “Yes, I heard that.”

  “You—look, Daniel, I know I could be prying. But I’m trying to help a friend who’s mixed up in Hoyt’s death, and I—”

  “The morning paper said his death was suspicious. I understood that to mean he might have killed himself. Or was he murdered?”

  “I think it must have been murder.” I observed Daniel’s expression. “You don’t seem to be surprised.”

  The former dancer crossed one leg over the other, still leaning against his worktable. “No, I’m not surprised. Curious, perhaps, about who else might have been angry with Cavendish. Mind you, I have an alibi.” His smile was fleeting. “I was with a client all afternoon, tuning a temperamental viola.”

  “I’m sure you don’t need an alibi.” Cautiously, I asked, “But—were you angry with him?”

  “Frustrated,” Daniel corrected. Out of habit, he picked up one of the curved pieces of a broken instrument from his table. “And getting more angry with every passing day.”

  “Every passing day? I’m sorry, I don’t want you to reveal more than you’re comfortable saying, but—”

  “I had nothing to do with his death,” Daniel said with a shrug. “So I can speak as freely as I choose. In fact, I expect the police will show up here eventually. Hoyt owed me money. Quite a lot, in fact.”

  “For the violin he gave away?” I guessed.

  Daniel’s eyes widened. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t really. But I wondered if you might have been involved in acquiring that particular instrument for him. You’re the foremost broker in the city now that Armand Gruyet is gone, so I assumed you helped Hoyt.”

  He brushed off the compliment with a gesture. “Cavendish came to me in the winter. Brandi Schmidt introduced us, saying he wanted to make some kind of splashy gift in the arts community. I knew the orchestra was trying to help Kiki Ling locate a really good instrument, and I had heard from a contact in Vienna that a violin was available.”

  “So you brokered the deal?”

  “Yes, and did some refinements on the violin. Nothing major. Frankly, I’m not in that league yet, to go fooling around with a priceless instrument.”

  “But Hoyt didn’t pay for the violin?”

  Grimly, Daniel sighed. “He paid the owner in Vienna half of the purchase price, in two installments. But he had been dodging the rest of the bill for weeks. It’s a considerable amount—nearly a million dollars. I’m embarrassed, because my reputation is at stake, you see, and I certainly can’t afford to pay it for him. Hoyt never made good on his promise to pay my fee, either. Which is a pain, because Eric and I were counting on that money.”

  “On a violin of such caliber, your fee must be enormous.”

  Daniel shook his head. “I wasn’t going to make a killing on a charitable act. But I figured I should at least be reimbursed for my expenses. I traveled to Vienna to pick up the instrument myself. And my time is worth something, too. Eric and I are going to Spain for a few months, and we owe quite a larg
e deposit on a house there. But Cavendish never got around to paying me.”

  “Maybe his estate will settle all his accounts,” I suggested.

  “Soon, I hope. I hear he also owes the opera a significant chunk of the money he pledged to them last year. He’s been making sizable donations all over town.”

  I thought about what I’d learned and asked, “You said Brandi Schmidt brought Hoyt to you?”

  “Yes, they’re both on the board of the Music Academy. I was asked to talk to donors about making mutually beneficial contributions. Instead of giving money, some donors find it more advantageous to give cars or property that can be sold for cash, or investments that can be liquidated at a better time. I spoke about giving instruments instead. Win-win for everyone. Hoyt was interested in giving a violin, and I thought he wanted a fat tax deduction.”

  The Byzantine rules of tax breaks for charitable donations had long since confounded me. But I wondered about Brandi Schmidt. She probably knew a lot of Philadelphia’s extensive community of philanthropists, considering how often television personalities were asked to be honorary chairs for events and to emcee everything from charity galas to fashion shows. What did it mean?

  For a moment, I stewed about how I could learn more about Brandi’s relationship with Hoyt.

  “Nora?”

  I realized I had been allowing my thoughts to ramble. “Sorry. Do you know Brandi well?”

  “Only a little.” Daniel composed his face into a suspiciously neutral expression. “But not just through the Music Academy. When she first came to town, she joined the Gay, Lesbian and Transgender Coalition. Eric and I were active before the politics got so crazy and the organization imploded. She left before we did. We assumed her bosses told her to cool it.”

  I hadn’t known of Brandi’s sexual orientation. But, then, it was hardly a subject I went around asking people.

  “Do you know anything about Brandi’s personal relationship with Hoyt Cavendish?”

  “Personal relationship?” Daniel frowned. “Did they have one?”

  “To hear her tell it, yes.”

  “How can you be sure? Her vocabulary is so tangled up sometimes—well, that’s unkind, isn’t it? I didn’t see any signs of affection between them, if that’s what you mean. In fact, my observation was that Hoyt disliked her intensely.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “They were cold with each other, that’s all. Hoyt was an icicle.”

  I had another question on the tip of my tongue, but just then Daniel’s partner, Eric, came through the downstairs door and sang a greeting. I heard the jingle of a dog leash, and their brindled greyhound came bounding up the stairs, happy to be home.

  The dog poked his snout under my skirt. Apologizing, Daniel seized his collar and hauled him away.

  Eric arrived wearing a tank shirt and shorts that showed off his toned body and various tattoos. He carried the rhinestone dog leash and a sheaf of lilac branches.

  “What a wonderful fragrance!” I hugged Eric. “Congratulations. I hear you’re off to Spain very soon.”

  “It’s a dream come true, sweetie pie.” Eric was much more animated than his subdued partner, and he bounded across the living room to drop the dog leash in a box marked Butch. Over his shoulder he said, “Did Daniel tell you why we’re going?”

  “No,” Daniel said. “Not yet.”

  Eric laughed. “We’re staying in a house next door to my cousin. She’s having a baby next month.”

  He sent a merry glance at Daniel, who sighed with feigned weariness and said, “Tell Nora the rest. You’re dying to.”

  “We’re adopting the baby! We’re going to be dads!”

  “I’m terrified,” Daniel confided. “But Eric’s totally gung ho.”

  Exuberantly, Eric led the way to the cheery kitchen, where he filled a glass vase with water from the tap. “Oh, don’t be silly. Daniel will be a brilliant father. He’s the conscientious one. We’ll stay in Spain for a few months until we think we’re ready to fly solo as parents. Can we invite you to the adoption party?”

  “Of course.” I helped unwrap the lilacs from the paper. “I’d love to come.”

  “Bring a present,” Eric commanded as he tucked the flowers into the vase. “Maybe something in the heirloom category, like a random silver spoon. Or something you’ve used yourself and swear by. Don’t you have experience with poppets?”

  “Babies? Not much.”

  I chatted with the two of them for a few more minutes, but keeping in mind their dinner plans, I soon bade them good-bye.

  As I went down the stairs, I couldn’t help thinking about Emma and her unborn child. When had the whole concept of family turned so topsy-turvy? All I wanted was a baby of my own, and it seemed I was the only person with empty arms.

  On the sidewalk outside, I briskly pulled myself together. No wallowing. I checked my watch. I had plenty of time to meet Crewe at the convention center as long as I didn’t keel over during the hot walk. The tall buildings around me blocked out the sun as it dropped lower in the sky, but the heat still radiated intensely from the broiling pavement.

  I managed to keep up a steady amble, but once I ducked into a Talbots store to cool off a little while pretending to check the sale rack. Plenty of other overheated women were doing the same thing.

  Sufficiently refreshed, I went outside, and under the red awning I called home.

  “Hey, Aunt Nora,” Rawlins said when I identified myself. “Whassup?”

  “I thought you had to work.”

  “I’m at work right now.”

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Hey, I’ll take any phone call that isn’t Regan. The busy signal will drive her nuts.”

  I laughed. “Okay. Was everybody alive and well at the farm when you left?”

  “Def Con Zero—perfectly quiet. Grandma was still upstairs with the weird guy. I don’t want to know what they’re doing, but I think I heard a cocktail shaker. Anyway, Grandpa’s cool with it. He’s with the twins right now. They’re digging a fire pit.”

  “A—? It’s not too close to the house, is it?”

  “No, it’s out in the field. They want to set off fireworks from it on the Fourth of July. Grandma’s planning a big party.”

  “Of course she is. And she’ll use the national holiday as an excuse to make it more extravagant than ever.”

  “Sounds bitchin’ to me. Think Mick could get us some fireworks? The real stuff?”

  “Don’t count on it, Rawlins.” Michael seemed hell-bent on the road to self-destruction already, and buying illegal fireworks for minors seemed like an unnecessarily risky side detour. I began to wonder if I could get my hands on some tranquilizers instead of pyrotechnics. “How was Lucy?”

  “She and her imaginary friend were tormenting Henry.”

  “Henry’s still there?”

  “Yeah, he’s cool. We’re all cool, Aunt Nora. You’re as bad as Regan. Stop with the worrying.”

  “Okay, Rawlins. Thanks for the update.”

  “Anytime.”

  I closed my cell phone. Ready to make the final assault on the convention center, I took one of the narrow side streets, walking hurriedly past alleys that were crowded with overflowing Dumpsters. Certainly a less tourist-friendly glimpse of the City of Brotherly Love. A rear exit for one of the city’s parking garages had been blockaded by union workers protesting the use of scabs during the parking strike. But the heat had chased away picketers. Instead of human protesters, a giant, inflatable rat stood in protest, its humming motor keeping it full of hot air.

  I passed the rat and crossed Broad Street, then cut up some side streets.

  At the stroke of six, I found Crewe waiting for me in the shade of the overhead walkway. A throng of people streamed past him into the convention center. In the traffic jam on the street, we heard a squeal of tires and a crash. I turned around to see a TV truck up on the curb, having barely missed hitting a busload of tourists. Imm
ediately, four taxis pulled every which way and blocked the street. Typical convention center gridlock.

  Crewe’s first words were, “Have you heard from Lexie?”

  “Good heavens, she’s not still with the police?”

  He looked grim. “She must be. I’ve tried her cell phone a dozen times, and there’s no answer.”

  “She hasn’t been arrested, has she?”

  Crewe shook his head. “If she had, somebody would have called me from the paper.”

  “Should we skip the Chocolate Festival, Crewe? Go over to the Roundhouse to check on her instead?”

  “The police won’t let us see her. I already tried.” Crewe took my arm and guided me into the busy convention center. “Maybe we can be more useful to Lexie here. I should find Jacque Petite, but I understand he’s been skipping all the Chocolate Festival events, for some reason. The organizers are going nuts.”

  He pointed at an immense poster that showed the famously cherubic face of Jacque Petite, a Food Channel chef who had become world famous for his almost sensual use of chocolate in various kinds of cooking. His cookbook had lingered on best-seller lists for months, and his packaged chocolates were selling nationwide. It was impossible to look up at his broad smile and warmly knowing, chocolaty eyes without smiling.

  Only Crewe was immune. He said, “There’s somebody else I think we should talk to here.”

  “Who?”

  “Elena Zanzibar. She’s launching some chocolate spa-treatment products at the festival. If we get lucky, we might get a shot at questioning her about what happened yesterday.”

  Along with an enthusiastic crowd, we went up the escalator to the entrance of the convention center’s large exposition space. The intoxicating scent of chocolate wafted over us as we arrived in the doorway of a chocolate lover’s paradise. Crewe and I were swept under a huge Zanzibar banner that stretched over the doorway. Two smiling hostesses in golden aprons offered us trays of Zanzibar spa samples. I dodged a spritz of a chocolate-scented perfume.

  Dozens of other exhibitors were lined up in long, crowded rows, displaying every imaginable form of chocolate. Flags advertising famous chocolatiers hung from the rafters. Small purveyors of artisan chocolates gave away samples. People rushed inside, eager to start tasting the goodies. I saw one dazed and happy woman leaving the building, her arms weighed down with huge shopping bags full of chocolate.