Jon Talton - Powers of Arrest

“No, Cheryl Beth. I like you a lot. I have ever since I met you. No game.”

“You’re mighty forward.” She exaggerated her accent.

“I didn’t mean…”

“Relax, Will. I’m kidding you.”

“Right.” His voice relaxed.

“Maybe you don’t even like the symphony. You probably use that line to get girls because you know we usually have to drag men to concerts.”

“Yep, that’s me. Be ready tomorrow night and you’ll find out.” His cadence changed. “Tomorrow’s going to be hell day, I’m afraid. I don’t think I told you that my ex-wife has remarried and finally has her big house in Hyde Park. I went over there tonight to talk to my stepson. He’s in trouble. He was on the river Saturday night with some other kids and they found Kristen Gruber’s boat. He went aboard and saw her body. Lord, I wish he would have called the police then.”

“Oh, no.”

“I told him he’s got to go tomorrow and tell what he knows.” The phone line made a lonely buzz, then, “Even though he’s not my biological son and things the past few years have put more distance between us, I feel for him like he’s really my son.”

She managed, “I know you must.”

“Money’s not a problem in his life. Far from it. So different from when I was growing up. But somehow the money is making things worse for him. So I’m not so much worried about the blowback on me tomorrow, and there will be. I’m worried about him. He’s so isolated and…I don’t know. You try your best to raise a child, but you finally realize that you can’t live their life for them, that they aren’t you. They can’t be saved from all the mistakes you had to make. Inside, there’s this individual soul that’s going its own way, for better or worse. I’m rambling, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “Try to be good to you. I worry about you.”

“I’ll try. When do I get to learn some of your secrets, Cheryl Beth Wilson?”

She forced herself to speak. “Maybe I don’t have any. Maybe I’m only a simple, small-town girl from Corbin, Kentucky.”

“I doubt that.”

“Then stick around. Sleep tight.”

“You, too.”

After he hung up, she sank into the water and smiled and sobbed.

Will looked very debonair-yes, that was exactly the right word-sitting across from her. His charcoal pinstripe suit looked new, and his crisp white shirt was set off with a purple tie that had a subtle pattern. She was feeling the shortness of the black dress she was wearing, her legs encased in sheer black stockings, but he definitely noticed and complimented her twice about how good she looked. “Smashing,” was one tribute; rather like “debonair.”

It was wonderful to be out with him, and especially in one of her favorite places, the Palm Court at the Netherland Plaza Hotel downtown. She gloried in its long, spacious, art deco expanse. She always expected to see Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers at another table. The rich, dark wood of the walls alternated with elaborate golden sconces and frescoes running up into the roof. The first time she ever saw the place, it looked like a combination of an ancient pagan temple and a glamorous setting from an old movie. The bar in the center of the room was right out of the 1930s and a pianist was playing jazz on a grand piano. They both appropriately ordered gin martinis.

It seemed like the right nightcap to the classical evening. Cheryl Beth also adored Music Hall, even though she hadn’t been to the symphony in two years. To live in Cincinnati was to be immersed in music, from the symphony and chamber orchestra, to the Pops and the May Festival’s choral extravaganza, which was coming right up. And Will had not disappointed. He had great seats in the orchestra section with as perfect sound quality as she had heard there.

As always, the stately old building seemed to levitate with an exciting glitter on a concert night. She didn’t really know much about classical music. She knew what she liked, what transported her. But from the day she had arrived in Cincinnati, the symphony had been part of her self-improvement program, to lift herself out of the small-town South.

Will, surprisingly, did know classical music. Now he talked in that calm, sexy voice about the night’s program, about the history of Beethoven’s King Stephen Overture and the Second Piano Concerto. But he wore his knowledge easily. His face was relaxed and happy.

“Beethoven turned the piano into the monarch of romantic instruments,” he said.

“You play, don’t you?”

He gave a dismissive shrug. “I wouldn’t call it that, now. It’s hard to sit properly at the keyboard after my surgery and impossible to use the pedals… And I’m lazy and now I’m a little afraid of the thing. But I would much rather have been a pianist than a cop.”

“Really?” This surprised her.

He smiled. “Who knows?”

“You wouldn’t have to carry that.” She indicated the small walkie-talkie radio sitting on the table next to his drink. “Maybe you’ll play for me sometime. I’ll sit next to you and stabilize you.”

“Maybe I will.”

“I thought the tribute to the cellist was very moving,” Cheryl Beth said. “So much has happened this week that I had forgotten about that.” She shivered slightly, and not only from the cool air on her legs. So much violence had been visited in a few days.

Tonight’s program had been modified to include a piece dedicated to the murdered musician, with the cello solo played by a tall, willowy blonde. Although the program’s listing of her accomplishments made it clear she was at least fifty, she looked much younger, with Nordic features and flawless fair skin.

“That was Stephanie Foust,” Will said. “She was Jeremy Snowden’s teacher and mentor.”

“She said he could have gone to Julliard, but chose to stay in Cincinnati and study at CCM. If he hadn’t stayed, he might not be dead. It’s so sad. She seemed really on the edge of losing it. But she did a beautiful job.”

Will nodded. “Rachmaninoff’s Vocalise arranged for cello and orchestra. It’s such a hauntingly beautiful melody. She chose well.”

“It almost made me cry,” Cheryl Beth said.

“I think it did the same to her. Remember the final statement of the theme, which actually occurs in the orchestra. Stephanie was playing a counter-melody. It closes the work in the upper stratosphere.”

“I remember. It was magical.”

“But if you listened closely, she was so spent, so devastated, that she missed her entrance to the final repetition of the melody.”

Cheryl Beth hadn’t noticed.

He said, “She recovered in time… Most people wouldn’t even hear it. Sorry, I sound pompous.”

“You don’t!” Cheryl Beth said. She was rapt listening to him. “I love to learn about this from you.”

“I’ve heard the piece many times. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Well, thank goodness the police got the guy.”

Will’s face was thoughtful. “They think they did.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” Will gave a smile short of sly. “Only a feeling I have.”

She reached over and took his hand. The abrasions from his fall were healing, but she wasn’t examining him, only wanting the closeness.

“There’s so much to you, Will Borders.”

He gave a self-deprecating shrug.

“The symphony president thought so. She specifically came up to you at intermission to thank you for your help. All those important people were watching her and wondering who we were. A cop and a nurse.”

Will chuckled. “Notice how she avoided Dodds, even though he was no more than twenty feet away? He wasn’t deferential enough to the symphony, which is a high crime in Cincinnati, so I had to go over and smooth ruffled feathers.” His eyes brightened. “Here’s a secret.” He leaned in closer, still holding her hand.