by Rick Blechta
“Oh, this is good,” Elen said. “We better hope that some reporter isn’t following us. I can just imagine the headlines.”
Even though she was joking, we both looked around warily. No one took any notice of us.
“Well, the longer we dawdle out here, the more suspicious it looks. Besides, there’s also a boarding house on the third floor. That would look even worse.”
Pushing open the door, we found ourselves in what must have formerly been a carriageway into the central courtyard, much like the building where Elen had had her apartment. To our right, an open staircase led up.
Hugo’s place was on the top floor, and once past the second floor sex shop, the building was actually quite genteel and well-cared for with plants on the landings and fresh paint.
Roderick answered our knock. His eyes also had a rather glazed over look. In the background, we could hear someone banging away on a piano.
“Hugo is trying to wrestle Rachmaninoff into submission,” Roderick told us with a strained smile. “Problem is, his hands are too small—but he won’t believe it.” As Elen passed through the door, he stopped and gave her a small hug. “How are you holding up?”
“About as well as can be expected,” she answered with a wan smile.
I guessed that Elen had already turned to Roderick for support.
After showing us to the living room, all modern furniture, garish rugs and abstract paintings, Roderick put out some coffee and pastries. After the food had been served, they both sat, looking at me expectantly.
“I had an interesting evening last night,” I began, “but before I get into that, I want to tell you about an idea, a way we might proceed.”
Roderick said simply, “Just tell us what help you need, old boy, and we’ll do everything we can.”
Elen nodded in agreement.
I took a deep breath. “What it boils down to is this: if we take it that Tory didn’t kill von Heislinger, then it has to be one of the other guests. Most of them we can strike off the list because they had nothing to gain, but what we’re left with is Schatzader, Montenegro or Terradella. All three of them have hit on me for that damned manuscript. With this trial breathing down our backs, we’re quickly running out of time to do something about it. If Schultz can convince the magistrate that Tory is mentally incompetent, and from what I’ve seen of her and what Elen and the examining doctor have told me, it might be a pretty easy thing to do, her trial could be over pretty fast—if the prosecution agrees.”
“Then it’s obvious: to save time, we should each take one of them,” Elen said.
“I don’t think so,” Roderick pointed out. “We’re not the police, nor are we trained investigators. I doubt if we could turn up much.”
“Schultz then. He must have private investigators he uses.”
“There’s also Ertmann,” I said. “Why don’t I see if he’d be willing to help us gather more information?” Reaching into my shirt pocket, I pulled out the cassette that Doc Seidelmann had given me the previous evening. “But more important than what I’ve been talking about, you also need to know about this.”
Roderick took the cassette and put it in Hugo’s stereo. With the push of a button or two, Tory’s expressive playing filled the room.
Both my friends identified the music immediately.
Roderick paused the tape. “Where did you get this?”
“From the psychiatrist who’s examining Tory. This is her playing yesterday while under hypnosis.”
Elen said quizzically, “I thought that made you sleepy. Tory sounds anything but sleepy.”
Roderick started the tape again. As I’d done the previous evening, they listened to the end, completely spellbound.
Roderick summed it up completely with his one-word response, “Wow!”
Elen added, “I heard Tory play it when we arrived back in Vienna, of course, but not like that. It sounds as if she’s practised it for a month.”
Roderick turned to me, his expression still far away. “Then Tory can play again? She’s all right?”
I let out a long sigh. “Unfortunately, no. When Seidelmann brought her out of it, nothing had changed. There’s some sort of deep-down mental block. Something in her head is keeping her from playing. Seidelmann feels she’s punishing herself. This is a common sort of reaction to sexual abuse, but he doesn’t think what’s going on in her head is anything run-of-the-mill. Coupled with that, Tory seems unwilling to confide in him. She’s done all the tests he’s asked for and is pleasant, but hardly communicates past a superficial level. He’s certain she knows more about what happened to her than she’s telling him.”
“Does Seidelmann know what this music is?” Elen asked.
“No, but he did ask about it.”
“You know the story is going to come out sooner or later.”
“Hopefully not right away. It’s going to show Tory in an awfully bad light. Everyone will think she’s taken it—or worse yet—what she did to get it.”
“So what do we do next?
“I go talk to Ertmann,” I answered, “and then we’ll get to work on our three suspects.”
“I want to be just like her. Victoria Morgan is talented and beautiful and strong and not afraid to do what she wants, regardless of what people think. I feel she’s a great role model for younger women like me who want to strive to be the best.”
—Paulette Delong, Curtis Institute Percussion Student
Chapter 25
TORY
My head felt like a stubborn coconut someone was trying hard to crack open. As I lay in bed with my eyes shut, trying through force of will to make the throbbing go away, I took stock of the way the rest of me felt. The unaccustomed lassitude which had been dogging me ever since The Night, had if anything gotten worse. Normally, I suffer from an overabundance of energy, something that can drive everyone around me to distraction. My parents used to almost have to tie me into bed at night when I was little. I’d be up the next morning with the birdies, going out to feed and care for my pony, often serenading him with whatever piece I was working on.
Now? Nothing. My energy gauge was stuck firmly on zero. Doc Seidelmann had tried to assure me that this was normal and temporary, but so far, depression and fatigue seemed to be winning. Even playing Tristan for several hours the previous day had done nothing for me. Of course, with the way I was capable of playing at the moment, that was hardly surprising.
I was certainly thankful that I wasn’t rotting in a prison somewhere, waiting for my trial, but where I’d been dumped was still confinement. Looking out the window at the wooded hillside beyond only tortured me, so I kept the curtains shut. That also hid the bars. Going out into the grounds might be possible, but it would have meant taking Frick and Frack, and there was always the possibility that some enterprising paparazzo would be hiding in a tree somewhere, snapping away merrily. I knew only too well how horrible that type of shot looks splashed all over the covers of supermarket tabloids. I didn’t want to subject my loved ones to that.
My room was spartan with only a bed, desk, small wardrobe and the bathroom area, a toilet behind a low screen wall to preserve a bit of modesty. With mustard-coloured walls—a hue I detest—and a lone photo of the Austrian Alps, it was better than a cell, but not by much. If only I could play properly, I think I would have been able to bear being locked up for the majority of each day.
Seidelmann’s probing had shown me that I was more messed up than I wanted to admit, although that probably hadn’t been his intention. The worst torture imaginable was listening to the recording he’d made, knowing what it felt like to make music like that—and then not being able to do it on my own. I’d come very close to hurling Tristan at the wall until I realized with grim humour that I should have been throwing myself at the wall instead. Tris had no blame in this.
I’d lied to Seidelmann. My nightmares were growing steadily worse, more tortured (if that were possible). Little bits of what had actually happened to me at the han
ds of that devil had also begun emerging, although they were usually crazily mixed in with my dreams. Everything remained frustratingly intangible, but I now knew how much that shit, von Heislinger, had enjoyed abusing me, using my body in the most disgusting ways, and for some reason I hadn’t tried to stop him. I couldn’t understand that at all. As I’d already admitted to Seidelmann, I remembered feeling like killing him at the time. Why hadn’t I fought back while he was attacking me?
As bad as all that was, my inability to play had somehow become wrapped up in what my brain kept making me relive. Just before I’d woken up that morning, for instance, I’d had one where Rudolph said he’d leave me alone if I played a song for him. When I picked up my violin, all the strings had been removed and my bow had no hair on it. While I looked down at it, wondering how I could possibly be expected to play, cracks began appearing and Tristan literally crumbled to pieces in my hands.
I began whimpering as the bastard moved in front of me, naked and with a rampant erection. “You should wait to begin making noises, my dear. I have not started with you yet.”
My pounding head throbbed in unison with the memory of his thrusting body.
ROCKY
“Good day, Herr Lukesh. What can I do for you?”
Ertmann’s voice sounded carefully noncommittal as it came down the phone line. I hoped I hadn’t already used up all the good will I’d established by being understanding about Ertmann letting his daughter use Tory’s violin.
“It is said in certain quarters that your job with the Austrian government concerns the collecting of information. I need to know if I can speak frankly and completely off the record to you about something. I may also need to ask you for some additional help, help of a more active sort than you so generously gave me the last time we spoke.”
Ertmann thought it over, then asked, “What is it that you wish to discuss?”
“I wanted you to know...that I know...how my wife was enticed to meet von Heislinger, and I also have some information that even the police do not know.”
The Austrian took a long time to answer. “Are you free this afternoon, Herr Lukesh?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good. Then I would like to invite you to join my family for our midday meal. My wife is a very fine cook, and after an enjoyable meal, you can tell me what sounds like a most interesting story.”
“All right, if that’s what you’d like to do. How do I get there?”
“I will pick you up at your hotel at, say, half past twelve o’clock. Is this a suitable time?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Roderick raised his eyebrows questioningly as I hung up the phone.
“He’s agreed to meet with me, past that I don’t know. He sounded pretty wary.”
“You should be wary, too. After all, you’re planning to entrust him with some pretty valuable information. And don’t forget: Schultz warned us about him. It’s always a possibility he’ll pass on whatever you tell him right to the police.”
I checked my watch: 11:55. I needed to hightail it back to the hotel. It wouldn’t do to keep the man I hoped would turn out to be Tory’s guardian angel waiting.
As I threw on my jacket and began heading for the door, Roderick made his way over to the stereo, popping open the tape compartment. “Don’t you think you’ll be needing this?” he asked, expertly flipping the cassette across the room to me. Elen was smiling and shaking her head.
I went out, wondering what the hell else I was forgetting.
TORY
I sensed Seidelmann’s unease and distraction the moment I entered his office for my session later that morning. For the first time, he didn’t offer me anything to eat or drink, even though I was sure he knew that I’d only eaten a few mouthfuls of the breakfast served to me that morning. Then I noticed that his ever-present coffee carafe was also missing.
A wave of apprehension hit me. “Something’s happened to Rocky, hasn’t it?”
The doctor answered with a startled, “Why would you think that?”
“I don’t want any psychiatrist crap! Just tell me! Is my husband all right?”
“Yes, yes, he is fine. I spoke to him earlier this morning, as a matter of fact. He is hoping to be granted permission to visit you later today.”
I sat down heavily in my usual chair across from Seidelmann. “Thank God! When I saw you sitting there looking like that, I thought something terrible had happened. You seemed so unhappy.”
Seidelmann sighed heavily. “Something has come up which I need to discuss with you.”
“What?”
“There has been trouble about my letting your husband visit you without permission, but mostly about my letting you have your violin.”
I jumped up, although I felt like falling to my knees. “They can’t take it away! You have to stop them! Tell them whatever you need to. Lie. I don’t care! Just don’t let them take it away!”
“Tory! Please try to calm down,” he said a tad sharply.
I stormed around the room for a few moments, then sat again, crossing my arms. “Okay, I’m calm. Now talk.”
He took a deep breath. “I am withdrawing from my assignment to examine your mental fitness.”
“But why? Is it because I won’t tell you anything?”
“No, it is not that. There has been pressure to have me removed and someone else put in my place. I have agreed, but not for the reason you think. Herr Doktor Schultz will be here later to explain the legal aspects of this, but we have agreed that it is for the best that I withdraw.”
“What will happen now? I won’t have to leave here, will I?”
“No, no. It is my hope you will stay here until your trial begins. That is one reason why I am withdrawing. The ‘opposition’, shall we say, was pressuring me to submit my report earlier than they originally asked. There has been great public outcry, and by the police, as well. It is believed that Schultz is trying to get you declared unfit for trial as a way to avoid it. He has become infamous for his tricks on behalf of clients. That, and the fact that you are famous and, well, who you are, makes for a very great distrust.”
“And they want to move the trial date ahead?”
Seidelmann nodded.
“Can’t you stall them?”
“That is what is causing my dilemma. If I submit my report, I would have to admit that you are indeed fit to stand trial. This is why I contacted Herr Doktor Schultz and why I must withdraw. To make it simple, I would like to testify on your behalf, and I cannot do that while I am on the side of the examining magistrate. By withdrawing, I will be free to help you and,” he stopped and smiled conspiratorially, “possibly delay your trial to at least the date originally planned. There is a negative consequence, however. I will no longer be in charge of your stay here.”
“Who will they assign?”
Even though Seidelmann tried to keep his face perfectly neutral, I didn’t have to be that observant to see the distaste flicker across it.
“Herr Doktor Gruber. You will meet him later this afternoon.”
ROCKY
Ertmann was as punctual as his word. As I hopped into his car, he commented, “You do not seem to be the focus of as much media attention now, my friend.”
“Thank God for that!” I said, looking at the car parked across from the hotel. “Those seem to be the only guys left on the Morgan beat. The fickle eye of the media has turned elsewhere for the moment.”
“Do not be so sure those are journalists. I do not recognize them or their vehicle, and it is my business to know these things—as you pointed out earlier.”
“Who could they be then?” I asked, but I had my suspicions.
“It might be an interesting thing to find out, ja?” We drove another block. “You do not seem very surprised at what I said, Herr Lukesh. Perhaps it has something to do with what you wish to talk with me about and also what happened to your face and your ribs. It is not hard to tell you are hurting by the way you sit.”
&nbs
p; “You’ve got me there,” I admitted.
“Perhaps it is also a good idea that we make sure we are not being followed.”
Ertmann put his foot down on the gas, then made a quick turn at the next corner followed by several more turns and a run down a short alley. Old skills never die.
***
I pushed myself away from the table with a soft groan, my belly totally stuffed with Frau Ertmann’s fabulous cooking.
“You would like more coffee or perhaps another slice of Linzertorte?” my host asked with an eyebrow raised.
“I could not eat another bite, even with a gun to my head,” I told him. “And my thanks to Frau Ertmann for the best meal I have had in a long, long time.”
Ertmann’s wife, only slightly heavy, more grey than brunette but still quite pretty, smiled at me with her eyes gleaming, as her husband said proudly, “I told you that she is a most excellent cook, did I not? And a most excellent wife, as well.”
At this, the good Frau blushed. Across the table, Ertmann’s nineteen-year-old daughter rolled her eyes as nineteen-year-olds will when their parents get lovey-dovey.
Stefanie Ertmann would grow to be an exceptionally beautiful woman, but at the moment, there was still a lot of the childlike gawkiness about her. She hadn’t yet crossed that invisible line that separates youth from adulthood. She had, however, like both her parents, the body of a typical Eastern-European: somewhat heavy features, dark hair and dark eyes. She would struggle with her weight all her life, but right now her form was pretty darn pleasing. She probably had more than her share of hopeful beaus. But you only had to look into those eyes to know that inside lived an extraordinary person. Passion and intelligence blazed out with the intensity of a laser beam.
Knowing that I was also a musician, Stefanie had talked enthusiastically and knowledgeably about music and art, her agile mind flitting from one topic to another while her parents gazed at her, obviously bemused that they had given birth to such a prodigy.
