Rick Blechta - Orchestrated Murder

“And you know that from your high school music class.”

“Yessir. My sister played the cello.”

“You also said those sticks were used for playing the timpani. Again, certain?”

“Ninety-five percent.” Ellis hesitated. “Why are you asking this?”

“I just had a very interesting conversation with a member of the orchestra. I do believe the murderer was trying to tell us something-or, more likely, muddy the trail.” Pratt put his arm over Ellis’s shoulder. “You had a satchel in the back of the car when we drove over. Am I right in thinking it contains a laptop computer?”

“Yes, it does.”

“I’ll bet a young buck like you is pretty good with them.”

“They say I am.”

“Can you do a little research for me?”

“Like what?”

“I’ve got two names: Mort Schulman, who played timpani for the orchestra, and Annabelle Lee, who played cello. They’re both dead. Find out everything you can about them. Okay?”

Ellis’s face brightened. “Sure. I’ll get my laptop and go online as soon as I can find a place to sit down.”

Pratt looked at Ellis. “Spare me the technical mumbo-jumbo. Just get me the information.” As Ellis took off, Pratt called after him. “And I need it yesterday! Got that?”

The young detective waved over his shoulder as he crashed through the door at the end of the hall.

Finding himself alone for a moment, Pratt stepped into a nearby men’s room to mentally catch his breath. He’d barely been here an hour, and so far he’d just been responding to the situation. The chance for the success of this investigation hung on whether he could begin to direct where things were going. He knew he would take the fall if this investigation went south.

At one of the sinks, he splashed several handfuls of water onto his face, enjoying the way it refreshed him. Looking at his reflection in the mirror as he turned off the water, Pratt felt depressed. He was developing jowls, the top of his head was shiny rather than covered with thick hair as it had been, and frankly, he looked terrible. Somehow his life was still on hold since his wife walked out on him over two years earlier.

Out in the hall again, he saw Browne leave the rehearsal room with the detectives and the first group of orchestra members to be questioned.

Pratt fell into step next to him. “I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Certainly. I want to do anything I can to help in this crisis.”

“Tell me what you know about Mort Schulman and Annabelle Lee.”

“Tragic, both of them. Mort had frankly been getting old, and he was definitely overweight, but it was a shock to us all when he suffered his heart attack right after a concert.”

“I heard Spadafini had been riding him for several months. Did he have something against Schulman?”

“That’s news to me. Actually, I don’t attend rehearsals all that much. My job also includes working with the conductor, guest artists, hall staff and, of course, the board members. All I know is, Mort didn’t complain to me about Spadafini.”

“And Annabelle Lee?”

“A lovely girl and one of our best young talents. Her passing was such a loss.”

“Cut the public relations crap,” Pratt growled. “I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

Browne didn’t answer. He showed each of the detectives the rooms they’d be using. Pratt waited, arms folded.

“All right, Detective Pratt,” Browne finally said. “My job is to help keep this orchestra running smoothly. Spadafini’s murder is a complete disaster for us. I’m just trying to keep things going and minimize the fallout.”

Pratt bit back a sharp answer that it was a greater tragedy for Spadafini. “So tell me about the two of them.”

Browne sighed and looked down a moment. “There were rumors about Luigi and Annabelle-”

“I’ve heard it was more than rumors.”

“All right! They were having an affair.”

“Did Spadafini have a wife?”

“No. He said it would have cramped his Italian playboy lifestyle.”

“Was there anyone else in the orchestra Spadafini was involved with?” Browne sighed again. “Our new piccolo player.”

“Was that recent?”

The orchestra manager looked uncomfortable. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that this is what upset Annabelle so much.”

“Could it have driven her to suicide?”

“I…I don’t know. Perhaps.”

“I have one of my men checking on it, but you could help a lot if you’d tell me whether she left a suicide note.”

“Look, Detective, this would have been a huge scandal if it had come out.”

“Did she leave a suicide note?” Pratt repeated.

Even though they were alone in the corridor, Browne looked around before speaking. “I asked the maestro about it. He said there was a letter sent to his apartment. He told me he burned it without reading it.”

“Did you believe him?”

Browne sighed. “Would you have wanted to read something like that?”

“And he or you never contacted the police.” Pratt made it sound like a statement.

“There didn’t seem to be any point. The girl obviously jumped in front of the train on her own. Fifty people must have seen it.”

“Your conductor sounds like a heartless bastard.”

“He could be.” Browne looked away for a moment. “But he was a sublime musician.”

“That doesn’t excuse anything. You should have gone to the police with what you knew.”

“What good would it have done? It’s not as if Spadafini killed her himself.”

Pratt fixed the manager with a hard stare. “It sounds to me like you’re trying to excuse his behavior.”

“He ran his life by a different set of rules than normal people. If you want to know, he told me that Annabelle became demanding. She wanted to move in with him, regularize their relationship. She didn’t understand when he told her that this would never happen. He said he’d never led her on, made promises he didn’t plan to keep.”

“And you believe he was telling the truth?”

“How should I know? I wasn’t his priest!”

At the end of the corridor, the door opened and one of the uniformed cops came through it.

“Detective Pratt?”

“What is it?”

“The orchestra is getting hungry.”

Pratt looked at his watch: nearly twelve thirty. “I suppose we have to do something. They’re going to be here a while longer- unless someone confesses.”

Browne looked relieved as he said, “Occasionally, we have sandwiches brought in for long rehearsals. I’ll see to it.”

“One other thing, Browne. I need a list of all the orchestra members who are here today.”

“I’ll go up to my office and print it out.”

As he hustled off, the uniform said, “You asked me to tell you if we spotted anything interesting. There’s one woman who’s been sitting in the back. She seems more upset than most of the others. People keep going back to talk to her.”

“Let me guess: she’s the piccolo player.”

“What’s a piccolo?”

As the two men headed back to the rehearsal room, Pratt was thinking to himself, This is going to be a very long day.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” Pratt asked the short and very pretty young blond woman sitting in front of him. “I’m willing to hazard a guess that you play the piccolo,” he added.

He’d asked the uniformed cop to send the upset woman out to speak to him. Once she’d appeared, Pratt had taken her upstairs and found the backstage area where he knew they could talk without being disturbed. This needed to be handled just right.

She sat stiffly with her hands clenched in her lap. “Actually, I play piccolo and flute in the orchestra.”