Kill Me (2 page)

Finally, I located the guy I would chat-up for the good of my company. He was middle-aged, but not in a sports car, jail-bait sort of way. He exuded confidence and authority without appearing bored or jaded.

“Hi, I’m Claire.” I said as I offered my hand to my chosen target.

He took my hand into his, firm but not too clingy.

“Claire,” he smiled, “I’m Stan. Can I show you around our booth?”

“Sure, lead the way.” I said, with a simple smile. I listened while he talked shop, extruding the virtues of his company.

He was the Senior VP in charge of Sales and when I heard that, I knew I had chosen wisely. At the end of his tour and talk, I smiled and waited a few moments to speak. I’d learned that a well-placed pause in conversation could do wonders to tilt things in my favor.

“Well, Stan.” I started, “You guys have a great little company here. Great product, friendly staff...” I made it a point to make eye contact at that moment for extra emphasis, then continued, “Solid branding. And you’ve managed to do well enough without any real marketing to speak of.”

Stan looked a little taken aback about that last bit, like he wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a well-placed dig. I didn’t give him much time to contemplate which way I’d meant it.

I drew a stark white business card from my pocket and held it out to him. The card held just my name in a trendy black font on the front and a web address on the back, which was coded to match customized proposals that were already online. As he took the card, I maintained eye-contact and smiled.

“If you want to be a serious player in the industry, have a look at the proposal I’ve compiled— the web address is on the back— and give me a call.” I half-turned while walking away, as if I really hated to be leaving, flashed a smile and moved on to my next target.

God, I was good at my job. Sometime, I felt too successful at it—a tad shady. But I wasn’t out conning people. My company treated its clients well and had fabulous ethics. We didn’t scam anyone or inflate pricing. So it wasn’t the company making me feel grimy. It was me, ashamed of my used-car salesman talents. Determined not to depress myself thinking about it further, I focused on the job I needed to do.

By mid-afternoon I had completed my rounds of the first-selected vendors, so I decided to relax for a few minutes. From Indie record labels hyping new talent to the makers of instruments and accessories for musicians, every aspect of the music industry was covered. I’d even passed by a few authors promoting their tell-all biographies of legends, flocked by a throng of underfed promotional models.

I was admiring the works of a Luthier based out of Houston when I saw the woman from my earlier bathroom embarrassment. She was talking to two dark-and-dangerous types a few booths up from me.

I forgot all about the exquisite hand crafted guitars in front of me as I watched her laugh delicately and place a hand on the taller man’s arm. It was just a quick touch, but I felt my pulse pick up as if she’d touch me instead. I rubbed my arm without thinking.

What the hell was going on with me today?

“Excuse me, Miss. Can I help you with something?” a voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

A kindly older man with calloused hands stood to my left and gestured to the rack of displayed guitars. “Care to see one up close, I could get it down for you,” he offered with an affable smile.

Torn between taking my eyes off the enchanting woman, and being angry with myself for losing focus yet again, I decided to channel my energy back into business. I hadn’t planned on pursuing another client for a little while longer, but I hadn’t planned on being waylaid by a strange woman in red high-heels either.

“Sure, I’d love to see that mahogany one with the abalone inlay, if you don’t mind.” I said.

For the next few minutes I focused all my attention on the little man with his finely crafted guitars. He was a master and I made a mental note to add special terms to his proposal. I saw it as doing a little charity work, so to speak—a good deed to counteract all of the generic winning-over of clients. Pitch delivered, I handed the man my card, noted the code and special-terms on my phone’s list, and wandered away from the booth.

One glance in the direction that I’d last seen the mysterious woman told me that she was gone. I was a little relieved and a lot disappointed, which just made me irritated with myself.

I checked my phone and noticed that I had a voice-mail from home. My daughter, Quinn, had left me a slew of “I miss you Mommy’s” and “When are you coming home’s” and I’m sure in her 8-year old mind I must have dropped off the face of the earth. Once again, I felt bad for having a job.

At the end of Quinn’s message, my husband of nine years, Pete, filled me in on what I’d missed in the twenty hours I’d been gone. Because apparently that was enough time for me to forget what a day in my own life was like.

The washing machine was on the fritz (more likely an excuse to leave all the laundry for me to do later), the cat had hacked up a fur ball the size of an iguana, and Quinn was only eating salads. Oh and when was I coming home again? I sighed and deleted the message, imagining the dirty clothes multiplying like rabbits, because that’s what they do when I’m not around.

I cut the connection to my voice-mail. I’d call them back while I changed for dinner at the hotel—I just didn’t have it in me at the moment. Struggling to tuck my phone in my blazer pocket, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and ran into one of the foreign-looking guys that I’d seen earlier with the mystery woman.

“So sorry!” I gasped, looking up into his chiseled face. It was blank, betraying no emotion, but in his deep-set green eyes I noticed the tiniest bit of surprise. And something else… maybe curiosity?

“Pardon.” He said in a buttery foreign accent, before nodding and walking swiftly away.

Well, that was a little rude. Or maybe not. What should he have done, bought me dinner? I ran into him, so why was I being all judgmental? And why in the hell was I suddenly starving?

As if on cue, my stomach growled loud enough that several people looked my way. I had a dinner meeting with the people from the fastest growing girl-centric instrument company SheRawks! — but I wouldn’t last until then. New plan: finish the rest of my drop-ins as quickly as possible and get a snack before the monster in my belly tried to eat a client.

For the next hour, I blazed through vendors from all different specialties. One minute I was chatting with high-adrenaline pedal affects makers and the next I was sipping a mild glass of Chianti with a Luthier that devoted so much time to his instruments that he only produced ten guitars per year and charged a fortune for his craftsmanship. Then it was off to compliment the makers of a hot new brand of rocker-inspired clothing, followed by conversing in stilted English with a concert promotions company based in Germany.

Things were going smoothly so far and I considered my first day a blazing success. Little did I know the rest of my day wouldn’t go at all the way I’d planned it.

Chapter 3

Finally done for the day, I began the long walk from where I’d ended up on the north side of the convention floor to the south-side exit. My feet throbbed harder with each and every step I took, my legs trembled like Jell-O and my head was beginning to ache.

Heels were out of the question for dinner later. That depressed me a little. I felt short in flats, frumpy even.

As I neared the midpoint of the convention hall, I heard the most exquisite sound coming from a paneled booth just up ahead. Whoever the vendor was, they had constructed an elaborate stall and covered the outer walls with mahogany framed prints of various stringed instruments. I approached the booth and circled half-way around before I finally found the door, hidden behind a heavy satin-backed lace curtain.

I didn’t see anyone standing outside, though I could make out several voices within. I felt weird about just walking in, like I’d be intruding. That was ridiculous of course, since
hello!
it was a booth at a convention. People were meant to go in and browse.

I hesitated a few more seconds trying to make my feet move. Then, the lilting music began again, and my feet no longer put up a fight.

Pushing back the curtain, I crossed over the threshold and had to keep myself from gasping. The booth was so much bigger on the inside. The floor was a marble mosaic tiled floor- the design reminding me of an old Italian fresco. I could have studied it for hours and still not have seen all the details.

The walls were lit by candle, which was absurd since they were probably made of plywood and draped with yards of dark blue silk. The low light must be playing tricks on my eyes. And my ears—no one was playing an instrument inside.

In the center of the room hung a modern drop-chandelier with three large crystal orbs. It dangled to within five feet of the floor. Arranged around this was a burnished leather curved settee in the color of cabernet. It was divided into four parts and spaced just far enough apart to form a circle with small gaps for passing through.

Several well-dressed people sat around the circle talking quietly, while another half-dozen mingled around the rest of the space. Looking at them made me feel severely under-dressed. Self-conscious, I scanned the room again.

The warm, glowing lights were placed every ten feet on the walls. Mounted in between the sconces was mahogany shelves, holding what were sure to be some of the most expensive antique stringed instruments I’d ever seen. Blood-red violins sat above pale blonde ukuleles. Gleaming guitars sat next to cinnamon instruments that I couldn’t begin to name. All were exquisite and they made me wish that I’d gotten my butt in gear and learned how to play the violin like I always said I would.

Frowning as I thought of the of many things I’d always wanted to do, but never quite got around to doing, I crossed to the far wall where one extra-old violin sat alone on a shelf. I could tell it was special, even without its singular placement and trio of spotlights. I leaned closer to read the brittle yellowed placard that hung on the wall to the left of the violin.

It said, “
Violino Rosso Incantato di Anima, circa Vicenza, 1713
” in careful flourished script.

Italian, of course. Another thing I’d never gotten around to learning. Now all I needed was just one more reminder of my skilled procrastination and the day would be complete.

“Shall I translate for you?” said a lyrical female voice from right beside me. It was the woman from the bathroom, standing so close that I could smell her lemony, spiced perfume.

She flashed me an easy smile and said, “Loosely translated, it reads The Enchanted Blood Red Violin, circa Venice 1713.”

She spoke with a heavily accented voice that was musical and passionate. Reaching up to stroke the priceless violin like one would a cat, she continued, “This violin speaks only to those that are worthy. And it has called to you.”

I had no idea what she was talking about and my face must have shown my confusion. The woman looked at me with scrutiny, hesitated for a moment, and then reached for the violin.

“Yes, we must play it.” She purred.

While she removed the violin from its perch and motioned to someone who quickly brought over a rosined bow, I struggled to form a coherent thought.

An enchanted violin? What did that mean; did it have a spell on it, one that let it talk? No, that didn’t sound right. She said it called to some, the worthy ones. Worthy of what?

Not that I believed in that sort of thing.

Why was I suddenly acting retarded? I realized that I hadn’t even uttered a word, and we’d nearly had half a conversation. I pinched myself and found my voice.

“But, I don’t know how to play.” That was all I could muster, but at least it was coherent and a complete sentence. My first grade English teacher would be so proud.

“Nonsense,” she said, taking a seat on the leather settee and waiving for me to sit.

Nonsense? Once again I was confused.

My body, on the other hand, thought it made perfect sense. I sat next to the woman without hesitation. We each crossed our legs at the same time. Then, I felt her slide closer to me, so that our legs touched. Her red shoe hung just a few inches over my black one. My heart rate sped up, but I did not pull away. Her closeness was a comfort, pulling me into the warmth of her nearness.

And then she started to play.

I closed my eyes and felt myself being swept into the ancient ballad, riding the flights of melancholia and drifting through the swells of euphoria. Without opening my eyes, I could hear the rest of the room fall silently away as she played on. Each note was beyond perfect.

My hearing grew more acute and I began to discern the smallest difference between the notes. The room smelled of lavender and the spicy citrus scent of bergamot— two opposing scents wafting through the air in a melody of their own.

After what seemed like an eternity, yet not nearly long enough, the music faded away and carried the perfumed air with it. I felt the loss viscerally, and placed my hand to my chest as if to comfort my broken heart. A single tear swept down my face.

I was only semi-aware of my surroundings as the music retreated further away, until I couldn’t be sure that I’d actually heard it to begin with. She placed a hand on my exposed knee, the soft coolness of her skin causing goose bumps to blossom across my flesh. She leaned in closer, her raven hair sweeping over my shoulder.

“Now, you play,” she whispered.

I looked up into her dark amaretto eyes and uttered, “But I can’t.”

“How do you know, if you don’t try,” she said.

Huh?
That didn’t make any sense, but then again neither did my reaction.

I held out my hand and she transferred the violin to me like one would a newborn baby. My hands shook as I pulled the violin and bow into position, mimicking as she had done only minutes before. I had no idea what I was doing, but somehow my actions felt natural and fluid as I lifted the violin into position and readied the bow.