Death in a Major (15 page)

Determined not to contribute to her sense of defeat, I didn't add that I had no idea how we would do that.

 

Chapter Sixteen

F
ORTUNATELY, NO ON
E
else in the orchestra seemed to catch on to the fact that there'd been a confrontation between Bronwyn and Janine out in the hallway. Janine wouldn't even look our way when she returned to the musicians' lounge a few minutes later, but at least she didn't seem to be spreading the tale of Bronwyn's accusations. Not yet, anyway.

I hoped the whole fiasco would blow over in time and that the tension with Janine wouldn't cause any more problems. I still wanted to kick myself for sharing my suspicions about Janine with Bronwyn. Clearly that had been a mistake. But what was done was done and all I could do now was move forward and hopefully not cause any more unrest among my fellow musicians.

Although there was still a chance that Janine was guilty and had lied to me and Bronwyn to protect herself, her denials had a ring of truth. If I really felt it was necessary, I could always track down the other members of her quartet and check the veracity of her claim that she hadn't had access to the guests at the charity benefit. But at the moment, I wasn't sure I'd bother. I had a feeling it would be a waste of time.

The fact that I still couldn't prove Bronwyn's innocence troubled me, but I knew I'd have to put the problem aside temporarily. Maybe after a good night's sleep I'd have some fresh ideas about how to help her. In the meantime, I needed to get my instrument and head for the stage.

Once I was settled in my seat next to Mikayla and had tuned my violin, I noted that Ernest was present on the stage. That led me to wonder how much Detective Salnikova and her colleagues had looked into him as a murder suspect. I was curious to know if they'd uncovered the reason for Ernest's hatred for Mr. Major, but I knew that wasn't something Salnikova would share with me. If I wanted to know the reason—­which I did—­I'd have to find out for myself. I wasn't sure how I would manage that, though. Ernest wasn't about to spill the beans to me when he wasn't even willing to admit that he'd authored the note I'd retrieved from the trash.

After the concert drew to a close and everyone on stage retreated toward the musicians' lounge, I considered trying to talk to Ernest again, in case I could get something more out of him. But he studiously avoided me, always sticking close to others so I couldn't catch him alone. Eventually I gave up on the idea of speaking with him that night and joined Mikayla, Dave, and several other musicians for a post-­concert drink, hoping to enjoy myself far more than I had earlier that evening.

On the way to a nearby pub I considered filling Mikayla in on what had happened between Bronwyn and Janine, but we were walking in a group and I didn't want the others to hear about the incident. In the end I decided to tell her about it another time and made an effort to put all my worries aside for a while.

When we arrived at the pub it was fairly crowded, but our group managed to find two free tables to claim. Once we were all settled I ordered a strawberry daiquiri and sipped at it while enjoying the upbeat conversation with my colleagues.

While we chatted I discreetly observed Mikayla and Dave, noting the way they interacted with each other. When everyone else became absorbed in a discussion about the upcoming hockey season, I tapped Mikayla's shoulder to get her attention.

Leaning closer so only she could hear me, I said with a smile, “Dave's absolutely crazy about you.”

Her eyes lit up and she glanced at her boyfriend. “You think so?”

I nodded. “Definitely. I can tell by the way he looks at you.”

She smiled brightly. “I might be crazy about him too.”

I matched her expression, but then my smile faded as my thoughts drifted to JT and how I wished I could have with him what Mikayla and Dave had together.

Mikayla must have mistakenly thought Aaron was the source of my sadness. “Don't worry,” she said. “It'll happen for you too. I promise.”

I tried to smile again, not wanting to pursue the topic any further. Fortunately, Mikayla steered our conversation in a different direction.

“Any word on the murder investigation?”

“Not really,” I said, the lively chatter around us keeping our conversation relatively private. “I haven't heard anything new, but I think the poison might have been in Mr. Major's flask, and any number of ­people could have put it there. Several ­people had a motive to kill him, including members of his own family who will gain financially from his death.”

“Wow.” She brushed one of her corkscrew curls out of her face and took a long sip of her cocktail. Then she looked at me sharply. “Hey, how do you know all this?”

“His grandson is one of my students.”

“Oh, right. Wow,” she said again with a shake of her head. “So the police have no idea who did it?”

“I don't think so.” I still didn't mention my own suspicions about Dr. Beaufort. As certain as I was that he was at the very least guilty of breaking and entering, I wasn't eager to damage his reputation.

Luckily, Mikayla didn't press me for more information. Dave pulled her into the conversation he was having with the rest of the ­people at our table, and I joined it as well. My drink was more than half gone by the time I caught sight of a familiar face across the pub.

Ernest.

He sat in a booth along one wall, taking occasional gulps of his drink while deep in conversation with Raul, one of the PGP's oboe players. A minute or so later, Raul got up and headed for the men's room, leaving Ernest alone. When I looked a little closer, I noticed that Ernest had an empty glass next to his half-­full one. I couldn't help but wonder if the alcohol he'd consumed had loosened his tongue at all.

“I'll be back in a minute,” I told my friends as I got up from the table, taking my drink with me.

I made my way across the pub and slid into the seat across from Ernest.

“Midori.” He blinked startled eyes at me from behind his thick glasses.

“Hi, Ernest,” I said with a smile that I hoped would put him at ease. “How are things?”

He grabbed a paper napkin from the table's dispenser and patted at his forehead. “Fine, fine.”

“Have you had any more involvement with the police?”

His eyes grew bigger behind his lenses and he glanced around to make sure no one had overheard. “Must we talk about that?”

I leaned my arms on the table and lowered my voice. “It's that note of yours, Ernest. It makes you look suspicious.”

“I didn't kill Archibald Major,” Ernest said in a forceful whisper. “I'm not a murderer.”

“But you're not sorry he's dead?” I guessed.

“Absolutely not.” Anger gave his voice a sharp edge. “As I said in my note, I hope he rots in hell.”

He'd finally admitted to composing the note. I'd never doubted that he had, but in my eyes the admission moved us forward a step. Hopefully I could keep us going in that direction.

“But why?” I asked. “How can you have so much hatred for someone you've never met?”

Ernest crumpled the paper napkin in his fist. “I never actually met him, but I've been aware of him almost my entire life.”

I waited, hoping he'd elaborate. He craned his neck to survey the pub. I followed his line of sight and spotted Raul emerging from the washroom, but he ambled off toward the bar rather than in our direction.

Ernest took a sip of his drink and scowled into his glass, but after a few seconds had ticked by, he spoke again. “Archibald Major caused my mother's death.”

“Your mother's death?” I asked, confused. “How so?”

He rubbed his nose and closed his fist around the paper napkin again. “They went to the same high school. My mother was fifteen to Major's seventeen when he got her pregnant. When she told him she was going to have his baby, he denied that it was his, even though she'd never been with anyone else.” Ernest sniffed and dabbed at his perspiring forehead with the rumpled napkin. “He started spreading terrible rumors about her, saying that she was, well . . .” He cleared his throat. “ . . .
loose
, if you understand me.”

I did understand.

“She went to live with her aunt in Edmonton to get away from it all. She considered having an abortion or giving me up for adoption, but in the end she decided to raise me on her own. That required sacrifices, of course. She never finished high school and worked herself to an early grave at minimum wage jobs. And all the while, Archibald Major was sitting there in his mansion with all his millions.” Ernest glowered at his drink before swigging back the last of it. “The bastard.”

I stared at him as surprise and sympathy intertwined inside of me. “You're saying Archibald Major was your father?”

“In a biological sense, yes. In every other sense, absolutely not.”

Wow. Jordan's mom and uncle had yet another half sibling. I wondered why Major hadn't mentioned Ernest in his will like he had with Frances. But maybe he'd never accepted that he was Ernest's father. Or—­and this wouldn't have surprised me—­maybe he didn't remember Ernest's mother's name and couldn't be bothered to do anything about it.

I pushed those thoughts aside. “Your mother told you the entire story?”

“Only once I found her crying while reading a newspaper article about Major's latest financial success. I was only fourteen at the time, but I could tell she was deeply upset. It took some prying, but I eventually got the story out of her.”

I sat back in the booth, the weight of his narrative settling on my shoulders, heavy and poignant. “I'm so sorry, Ernest. How terrible for her. For both of you.”

“Yes, well . . .” He picked up his glass before realizing it was empty. He set it back on the table and shoved it aside.

As bad as I felt for him and his deceased mother, I couldn't ignore the fact that his story gave him a motive for wanting Major dead. Revenge was a powerful driving force, and if Ernest's hatred for the man had festered for so many years, perhaps it had finally exploded in one deadly release.

“If you've known about him since you were fourteen, why write that note for him now?” I asked. “You've been in the orchestra for years. You must have known for a long time that Major was one of our benefactors. He's even been at the occasional reception in the past.”

“That wasn't the first note,” Ernest admitted. “I've left a few others for him over the years, usually on his car windshield, which was where I planned to leave the most recent one. Perhaps it seems like an odd thing to do, but I wanted him to know that there was someone out there who knew what he was truly like. I didn't want him as my father, I didn't want his money, but I needed to
do something
.”

I supposed I could understand that, but I found it sad that Ernest had allowed Major to take up so much of his life with burning hatred. Maybe I would have done the same in his shoes—­I didn't know—­but it was still sad.

“I despised the man,” Ernest said in a low voice. “But I swear to you, Midori, I didn't kill him.”

I regarded him from across the table for a long moment, looking straight into his eyes. “I believe you,” I said eventually.

And I did.

A
FTER MY SOMB
ER
but enlightening conversation with Ernest, I wasn't in the mood for hanging out with my friends any longer. As soon as I'd finished my drink, I said my goodbyes and took a taxi home to my apartment.

By the time I climbed into bed, exhaustion had taken a firm grip on me and I fell asleep within minutes of resting my head on my pillow. In the morning I stayed in bed until almost nine o'clock, lazing about and enjoying the fact that I had the day off.

It was a nice change having two days off each week, one I intended to enjoy to the fullest. My plan for the day was to go out for a walk along the beach if I could find a friend who was free and willing to go with me. I wanted some fresh air and a chance to clear my head. My conversation with Ernest had affected me more deeply than I'd expected.

From watching him at the reception, I'd surmised that Mr. Major wasn't a nice guy, but now, with a clear picture of what he was like, I realized that was an understatement. How many lives had he negatively affected during his seventy-­something years? I didn't know, but I guessed the number was a high one.

No wonder he'd ended up murdered. He must have made enemies every which way he turned.

I hoped that some time at the beach would help to lighten my mood, but I tossed that plan aside as soon as I checked my phone and saw a text message from Jordan.

Found something! Want to come by and check it out?

My curiosity came alive, along with a spark of hope. I now knew Ernest's story and believed that he'd told me the truth when he said he hadn't killed Major. But I still didn't know Beaufort's story, and I wanted to.

Yes!
I wrote back.
In an hour?

His response came almost right away.

Sure. I'll be here.

Although I was tempted to ask him for more details right then and there, I decided I could wait. It wouldn't be long before I found out exactly what he'd discovered.

After munching my way through a piece of toast and washing it down with a cup of green tea, I took a quick shower and dressed for the day in jeans, a sweater, and high-­heeled boots. Since the music books I'd ordered for my students had arrived by mail the previous day, I grabbed the one I'd bought for Jordan and slipped it into my bag. Remembering that I needed to keep myself safe from further attacks from Kevin, I called for a taxi, and a few minutes later I was on my way to the Major residence in Shaughnessy.

It didn't take long to arrive at my destination in the posh neighborhood, which was good news for my wallet. As I paid the cabdriver and climbed out of the taxi, Jordan called out to me from the bottom of the driveway.