Curiosity Thrilled the Cat (29 page)

“Good morning, Kathleen,” he said.

“Good morning.” I pointed at his work. “A window box?”

He nodded. “For Eric at the café. The bottom rotted out of the old one.”

The paint was a deep robin’s-egg blue. “I like the color.”

“That would be Susan’s idea.”

Exchanging social pleasantries was just putting off what I’d come to do. I cleared my throat. “Oren, could I talk to you about Gregor Easton?” I asked.

He studied the paintbrush for a moment before looking at me. “Yes,” he said. “I just need to put the paint away and wash the brush.”

He put a couple more strokes of paint on the end of the flower box, then put the lid on the can and stood up. “I’ll only be a minute,” he said.

I nodded.

“Why don’t you come in, Kathleen?” he said.

“All right.” I stepped inside the extension, which was obviously Oren’s workshop, and my mouth literally gaped open. All I could manage was a faint “Oh.”

The space was completely open, floor to ceiling. High windows on the back wall flooded the room with light. More windows on the end of the room overlooked a long workbench. On the other side there was a counter with a sink, and cupboards underneath. There weren’t nearly as many tools as I would have expected. Everything was neat, clean and perfectly organized.

But what dominated the room, almost forcing you to look, were the sculptures. An enormous metal bird, an eagle, I realized, as I moved closer, with a wingspan of at least six feet, was suspended in flight from the ceiling beams at the back half of the room.

I could visualize the feathers, the bird’s beak, its powerful chest muscles, even though the sculpture was nothing more than a metal framework. Somehow I could see the bird. Somehow I could see it flying.

Below, reaching probably eight feet into the air, was a bear, one paw raised above its head. Again, somehow I could see fur and claws and power in the curves of metal.

But it was the eagle that drew me. I stood below it, head thrown back, and just stared. Behind me I heard Oren turn off the water at the sink and in a moment he came to stand beside me. “Oren, this is incredible,” I said.

“My father,” he said.

We moved to the huge bear, which was even more imposing up close. I reached out a hand to touch it and then pulled it back. “It’s okay,” Oren said. “You can’t hurt anything.”

The metal was rough under my fingers. “Your father was incredibly talented,” I said. I realized these were the sculptures Rebecca and Roma had been talking about.

Oren nodded. “Yes, he was.”

I turned slowly to look at the other sculptures. Over by one of the smaller, abstract pieces stood a beautiful . . . piano? I wasn’t sure. I walked over to it. “This isn’t a piano, is it?” I said to Oren.

“No.”

“A harpsichord?”

He smiled. “That’s right.”

“You built this.”

He ducked his head. “I did.”

“You’re very talented, as well,” I said. I pushed my hands into my pockets, afraid I’d touch something I shouldn’t.

Oren hauled a hand back over his hair. “Thank you,” he said softly. He cleared his throat. “I have coffee. Would you like a cup?”

I nodded. “Yes, I would.”

The coffeemaker was on the counter by the sink. Oren pulled over a couple of stools, then poured a cup for each of us. There was a small carton of milk and a dish of sugar cubes on a tray by the coffeemaker. After we’d both doctored our coffee, he folded one hand around his mug and looked at me. “You want to talk about Mr. Easton,” he said.

“You knew him when he was Douglas Williams.” He nodded, took a drink from his mug and set it on the counter again. “The other day in your office, I tried to convince myself you hadn’t noticed that I’d recognized his real name.”

“You were both at Oberlin at the same time.”

He looked past me, nodding slowly again.

I fished in my pocket and pulled out the sheet of paper Owen had brought me, unfolding it on the counter between us. “That’s your music.” I flattened the paper with my hand. “Gregor Easton stole it.”

For a long moment Oren didn’t move, didn’t speak. Then finally he said, “Yes.”

The truth hung there between us. I wanted to reach out and somehow wave it away. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Oren looked past my left shoulder at the sculpture suspended from the rafters. “Kathleen, my father was incredibly talented,” he began.

I turned for another glimpse of the sculptures myself. “Yes, he was.”

“He was an artist. But all anyone saw him as was a carpenter.” Oren studied his own hands for a moment. “He was a good carpenter, but he wanted to be an artist.”

I nodded, unsure of where the conversation was going, but reluctant to stop Oren while he was talking.

He looked at me now. “I could play the piano when I was four. I was composing music when I was six. I created my own method of notation because I couldn’t read music back then.”

The piece of paper Hercules had found. I was right. It was a kind of code.

Oren picked up his mug and took a long drink. “I could—I can—make music with almost any instrument: piano, guitar, bass, mandolin. I can play that harpsichord.” He set the coffee back on the counter.

“A musical prodigy. That’s what they told my parents I was. Gifted. If I look at a piece of music just once, I can remember it and play it. Years later I can play it.” He wiped his mouth with one hand. “I was sixteen when they sent me to Oberlin. I’d long since outgrown all the music teachers in this area, probably in the state. I was auditing a seminar class Easton was teaching as a grad student. I dropped a piece of my music one day. I knew how to write music by then, but I was so used to notating my way that I’d kept on doing it.”

“What happened?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew.

“I explained how the notation worked. He offered to help transcribe what I’d written into conventional notation. There was too much music for me to do it by myself. By then I had stacks of compositions, but no one else could play them.”

I set my cup on the counter. “He took your music. Why didn’t you say something? Your notation proved you’d written everything. The university would have expelled him.”

Oren wiped his hands on his pants. “I don’t know if this will make sense to you, Kathleen, but I didn’t want to end up like my father.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

“No one knew I was composing music. To me, all I was doing was writing down what I heard in my head so it would go away. It was bad enough people were already beginning to see me as some kind of musical wonder. If they found out I was writing my own music, as well . . .” He didn’t finish the thought.

“My father wanted me to have the chance he never had—to be an artist. The thing was, I wanted what he had.”

I realized then what he was trying to tell me. “You didn’t want to be a musician.” I looked around at the tools and the work space. “You wanted to be a carpenter.”

Oren nodded. “So many people thought I had a gift. I thought it was a curse.” He played with his coffee cup, turning it in slow circles on the counter. “The funny thing is, he helped me.”

“Easton?”

“I know it sounds strange. Doesn’t it? I had a breakdown. He told my parents I wasn’t nearly as talented as everyone thought.”

“Oren, you know that’s not true. From what I’ve heard Easton was the one who lacked talent.”

He leaned toward me. “I didn’t care,” he said. “His saying I didn’t have much talent let me have the life I wanted to have.” He pushed the mug away across the counter. “It was years before I realized Doug Williams had become Gregor Easton. I was in a music store in Minneapolis and I heard my own music. Before that, I had no idea. And when I thought about it, I decided where was the harm? I didn’t want that life and he did.”

“Something changed,” I said.

Oren slid off his stool and walked over to the harpsichord. He ran his fingers lightly over the keys. “I was working at the theater the second day of practice after Easton got here. He was playing that piece you heard me playing the other day.” He picked out a melody on the keyboard. “It wasn’t . . . right. It didn’t sound the way it was supposed to sound.” He pulled his hands away from the keys. “I knew how that music was supposed to sound. When everyone was gone I sat down at the piano. I hadn’t played for many, many years. But someone was still in the theater.”

“Easton.”

“Yes.” Oren sat on the harpsichord bench. “He wasn’t a good person, Kathleen. He hadn’t come to help out the festival. He was looking for more music.”

“More of your music.” I leaned back against the counter.

“He told me the music should be given the audience it deserved.” He stared at the wide wooden floorboards. “The Stratton has had money problems for years. I told Easton I would give him the rest of my music and he could claim it as his own, but he had to give half of everything he made with it to the theater. He said we could work something out, but he’d have to see the music first to decide how many changes he’d need to make.”

Finally he looked up at me. “I’m not sixteen anymore. I knew he was lying and I told him so. I told him I was going to tell the whole world that it was my music, not his.”

“And?”

“And he laughed at me. Said it was my word against his, and who would believe a mental case like me?”

I wanted to smack Easton myself. “Lots of people would believe you, Oren,” I said. “All they’d have to do is hear you play.”

He smiled. “Thank you for saying that,” he said. “But I had—have—proof. I have all my original notation, all the work as the music evolved. The papers are in a safedeposit box in St. Paul. At least they were.”

“You saved everything?”

“I guess maybe I cared more about the music than I thought.”

My mind began to race ahead. “That’s why you missed meat loaf night. That’s why you weren’t at the Stratton the next morning. You went for the proof.”

Oren walked over to where I was sitting. He stood in front of me, hands jammed in his pockets. “I thought with the proof I could convince him to take the deal I’d offered. I’m sorry I wasn’t at the theater that morning. I’m sorry you found Easton’s body.”

“You didn’t kill him, Oren. You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” I stretched my arm across my chest to try to ease the knot in my shoulder, which had stiffened up while I was sitting.

“Your shoulder?” Oren asked.

I nodded. “It’s still a bit stiff,” I said. “Oren, have you told Detective Gordon where you were?”

He nodded.

“Did you tell him who Easton used to be? Did you tell him you knew each other?”

“I didn’t,” he said softly. “I like my life, Kathleen. I don’t want to lose what I have.”

I slid off my stool. “Maybe it won’t come to that. Maybe if you give people a chance they’ll surprise you.” I waited until he looked at me. “I think you need to tell Detective Gordon who Easton used to be.”

“Do you really think it has something to do with his death?”

“I do,” I said. “Oren, he met someone the night he died.” I flashed on the wound on the side of Easton’s head. “Someone was with him at the Stratton. Someone he knew. Someone he’d let his guard down around. Virtually the entire choir was at a birthday party at Eric’s. He knew someone else here besides you.”

Oren stared out the window for a moment. “Have you read
The Go-Between
?”

I nodded. “‘The past is a foreign country.’”

“I didn’t think I’d ever go back,” Oren said. “But maybe it’s time.”

I took a deep breath. “I think for Gregor Easton, the past was getting a little too close to home.”

I
thought it was Rebecca knocking on my door first thing Monday morning, but it was Detective Gordon standing on my back stoop, holding a jar of something in front of his chest. I wasn’t sure if it was a shield or a peace offering.

“Good morning, Ms. Paulson,” he said, smiling at me.

“Good morning, Detective Gordon,” I said. “Are you here on police business or have you come for breakfast?”

He had the good grace to blush a little. “Police business,” he said. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” I stepped back so he could come into the porch, and wondered if people ever said no when he asked to come in.

I led the way to the kitchen and turned around, back to the table and crossed my arms. “How can I help you, Detective Gordon?” I asked. I was pretty sure this visit had something to do with Oren’s visit to the police station the day before, but I wasn’t going to spot him any gimmes.

“First of all, this is for you.” He handed me a jar of jam. It was strawberry rhubarb. “I thought you might have changed your mind.”

The jam was a deep crimson in the jar, tart from the rhubarb, I imagined, and sweet from the berries. “Umm, thank you for this,” I said, finally remembering my manners.

“You’re welcome. Thank you for encouraging Oren Kenyon to come talk to us.”

“He told you that?”

“He did.” He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. “What he told us about Easton—Douglas Williams—saved us some time, so I appreciate having the information.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“Detective, you’ve probably noticed how much I like a good cup of coffee. In fact, I like a not-so-good cup of coffee, too. It’s no trouble.”

“Then yes,” he said. I got a cup from the cupboard and poured coffee for him, topping up my own cup at the same time. I set his on the table and pushed out one of the chairs as an invitation to sit down. Then I grabbed plates for both of us and set them on the table, along with a couple of knives and some butter.

“You don’t have to give me breakfast, Ms. Paulson,” the detective said. “Coffee’s fine.”