Murder Had a Little Lamb (10 page)

He didn’t respond. In fact, Nick didn’t say a single word for the rest of the evening.

Late that night, as he and I lay side by side in bed without talking, touching, or giving any other indication that each other was in the room, I heard Forrester’s words echoing through my head.

Pretty convenient
, he’d said about Nathaniel’s murder dropping the curtain on my wedding.
For someone who was looking for an excuse not to get married, I mean
.

Is it possible Forrester was right? I wondered, staring at the pattern on the ceiling made by the tree branches outside the window. Was I secretly pleased that something interrupted the ceremony, an event that was completely out of my control but which nevertheless turned out to be a good excuse to keep Nick and me from sealing the deal?

Perhaps more important, did my willingness to cancel my own wedding mean I’d never have the guts to commit to a do-over?

A
s I climbed into my van to drive to the Bromptons early the next morning, I felt as if a dark cloud had settled inside the vehicle. And I couldn’t make it go away simply by opening a window or turning on the AC.

It wasn’t only the tension between Nick and me that was responsible. True, the last twelve hours had been draining. The night had seemed endless, with both of us sleeping as close to the opposite edges of the bed as we could without falling out. Breakfast was no picnic, either, given the fact that we didn’t say a single word to each other.

But I knew that I was fooling myself by pretending I was angry at him. It was
me
I was angry at. Me and my inability to keep from hurting Nick, who I really,
truly loved. And it was all because of my own stupid fears.

I was in such a foul mood that when my cellphone rang, I answered without bothering to glance at the caller ID.

“Jessie? It’s Suzanne.”

I immediately wished I’d checked first. Not that I wasn’t in the mood to talk to Suzanne. It was more like I wasn’t in the mood to discuss my love life—which I suspected was exactly what she had called to talk about.

“Hi, Suzanne,” I greeted her halfheartedly.

“I called to see how you’re doing,” she said anxiously. “What a bummer, having to cancel your wedding just when you got to the best part, the part when you both say, ‘I do.’ Because of a murder, no less! You and Nick must be totally freaked out.”

“Freaked out definitely describes how I’m feeling right now.” I sounded as grim as that cloud still hovering in my van.

“So when are you going to do it?” she gurgled. “Get married for real, I mean?”

Is there anyone in the universe who isn’t dying to know exactly that? I wondered.

Aloud, I said, “We haven’t picked a new date yet.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Suzanne demanded.

“Suzanne, I promise that you’ll be the first to know,” I replied. “But right now, I have to get on the road or I’m going to be late for my first appointment. I’ll talk to you soon!”

“But—”

I hung up, feeling bad that I hadn’t told Suzanne about my new gig at the Worth School—or the reason why I’d suddenly taken an interest in shaping young minds. Or was at least pretending to.

With that thought in mind, I turned the key in the ignition. I resolved to spend the entire drive out east thinking about how to make my class run smoothly, instead of agonizing over the deplorable state of my love life—and the fact that all of it was my own darn fault.

It turned out that the prospect of returning to a classroom full of giggly teenagers wasn’t much less frightening on the second day than it had been on the first. Still, as I hurried down the hall in the Planet Earth building, I reminded myself that after a slightly rocky beginning, my initial foray into the world of molding minds had actually gone pretty well.

Think positive thoughts, I told myself as I breezed into the classroom, hoping that acting confident would make me confident.

“Morning, Dr. Popper!” someone greeted me.

“Hi, Dr. Popper!” piped up a second voice.

Another girl wandered into the classroom right behind me, cooing, “Hey, Dr. P!”

I instantly relaxed. What a difference a day makes, I thought, pleased that as one girl after another straggled in, they all greeted me and gave me a big smile.

They’d barely had a chance to sit down before one of them, a tiny girl named Annie who I remembered had two cats and a German shepherd, raised her hand.

“Dr. Popper?” she asked in a high-pitched voice.
“Before we start reading our lists of the five things every pet needs, first can I ask you a question?”

I held my breath, momentarily afraid that my worst nightmare was about to come true after all: that one of my students was finally going to broach the sensitive subject of my fashion statement.

“Of course,” I said coolly.

“I wanted to ask you about feeding people food to dogs,” she went on with the same eagerness. “Is it really as dangerous as I’ve heard?”

“That’s a very good question, Annie,” I replied, greatly relieved. “There’s been a lot written about that very subject, since it’s near and dear to animal lovers’ hearts. Offhand, I can name a few that are especially dangerous: chocolate, grapes, raisins, walnuts and macadamia nuts, salt …

“I’ve seen really comprehensive lists of dangerous foods on some of the better animal care websites, like the Humane Society’s,” I went on. “They’re generally in books on pet care, too. I’ll stop at the library the first chance I get and give you girls a full list. But for now, let’s talk about some of the foods you may have given your pets in the past and whether they’re safe.”

We were off. It was hard to remember how excruciatingly slowly the beginning of the first class had passed. On day two, the time whizzed by.

Before I knew it, class was over. As the girls began putting away their notesbooks and laptops, I came up with another homework assignment: writing a one-page essay titled “What I Love Most About My Pet.”

I’m getting pretty good at this, I thought with pride as the girls headed out of the classroom in twos and
threes, with a few of them stopping at my desk to chat about their pets.

I felt so good about how the class had gone, in fact, that I had to remind myself of the real reason why I was here at the Worth School in the first place.

As well as the mission I’d laid out for myself for that day.

Ever since Reverend Evans had mentioned Nathaniel’s close friendship with Claude Molter, the school’s music teacher, I’d racked my brain for an excuse to talk to him. After all, chances were good that someone who had known Nathaniel well would be able to provide me with some insight into who his other friends were, who his enemies were, and who in either of those two categories might have wanted him dead.

As I made my way over to the arts building, better known as the Center for Creative Self-Expression, I also looked forward to meeting someone as accomplished as Claude Molter. After all, Reverend Evans had positively raved about both his talent and the success he’d had in the world of classical music, which I knew to be highly competitive.

I was also intrigued by the fact that he was a count.

The arts building, as I couldn’t help thinking of it, was even more dramatic in real life than it had looked on the school’s website. It still reminded me of a gigantic linen napkin, loosely crumpled on the ground. But once I got up close, I saw that the white concrete that comprised the wavy exterior was covered in bas-relief sculptures of people doing artsy things, like painting, playing instruments, and dancing. Some
raised their voices in song, while others raised their arms to the sky.

I couldn’t wait to see what it looked like inside.

I wasn’t disappointed. The same flowing effect had been created by rounded but uneven doorways, curved walls, and free-form rooms and open spaces. The effect was disconcerting at first. I’d never been in an earthquake, but I had a feeling the experience wasn’t that different.

I followed the signs to the Music Wing, hoping I’d also encounter a few signs or even a roster that would help me locate Claude Molter’s office.

It turned out I didn’t need either. Not when music spoke louder than words.

It was violin music, so complicated and at the same time so passionate that I was drawn to the sound the way the sailors in
The Odyssey
were drawn to the song of the Sirens. The honeyed melody wafted through a closed door at the end of a hall that was inset with a narrow rectangular window.

When I drew near, I peered inside and saw the back of a slightly built man who wasn’t much taller than I was. His unusually small size made him look incapable of producing such a tremendous sound.

I hesitated before knocking, not wanting to disturb him. But then I reminded myself that holding back wasn’t going to do a thing to help me solve Nathaniel’s murder.

I rapped my knuckles against the door as gently as I could, braced for the likelihood that the interruption wasn’t going to be particularly welcome.

Sure enough, when the man turned around, he was
scowling. His surly expression didn’t do much to improve a face that wasn’t particularly attractive in the first place. It was exceptionally long and narrow, its strange shape highlighted by piercing cheekbones, thin lips, and a pointed nose that could best be described as beaky. His hair, black but strewn with gray, was a wild mane that gave the impression he’d been overly influenced by photographs of Beethoven.

Even though it was a warm summer day, he was dressed in a meticulously tailored gray suit. With it he wore a dark blue tie held in place by a gold tie tack in the shape of a musical note. In his hand he held a shiny, deep-red violin and a slender bow.

“Yes?” he asked impatiently after I took the liberty of opening the door and sticking my head in. “What is it?”

“What was that piece of music you were playing?” I asked.

“Tchaikovsky, of course.” His chin jutted upward in a haughty manner. “The first movement of the violin concerto.”

“It was absolutely beautiful,” I told him sincerely.

“I would expect my performance to be nothing less than perfect,” he replied. “After all, I first performed it with the Prague Symphony Orchestra at the age of fourteen.”

Excu-u-use me, I thought.

Aloud, I said, “I’ve heard it before, of course, but it never sounded quite as magical.”

Flattery was getting me nowhere. “Is there a good reason you interrupted me,” he demanded, “or was it
simply that you couldn’t resist the opportunity to educate yourself about the name of the
oeuvre
I was playing?”

I was tempted to counter with an equally caustic comment. But I did have a reason for interrupting him, one that dictated that I be as conciliatory as possible.

“I’m so sorry,” I gushed. “I can imagine that even someone as talented as you must require complete concentration in order to create something so amazing.”

He finally seemed to soften. I figured the reason was that while I’d lavished flattery on him since I’d opened the door, I hadn’t lavished enough. At least until this point.

“My name is Jessica Popper. I’m teaching a summer school class here.” I took a deep breath before continuing. “Some of the girls who studied with Mr. Stibbins were quite fond of him, and they asked me to look into the possibility of the school holding a memorial service. I offered to speak to you about whether you’d be interested in providing the music.”

“Why, of course,” he said without hesitation. “I’d do so for anyone who’s affiliated with the school, but I would definitely want to be included in this instance. Nathaniel and I were the best of friends.”

“Yes, that’s what I heard,” I said. “And I’d like to offer you my condolences.”

“Thank you.” His expression darkened. “It’s a terrible thing. I only hope it doesn’t affect our students too negatively. They’re so young … so innocent!
There are far too many things that happen in their lives that force them to grow up too quickly.”

I hadn’t really thought about that before. He was absolutely right. At the moment, however, it was Nathaniel who I was most interested in.

“It seems a little surprising that the two of you became friends,” I commented, hoping to draw him out. “Since you were both in different fields and all. After all, he was an artist and you’re a musician.”

“I see no inconsistencies there,” he insisted. “Especially in a place like this.”

“Like this—as in the Worth School?”

“Like this as in the United States.” With an irritated sniff, he said, “This part of the world is populated with so few true intellectuals. So few artists. But it was clear from the start that Nathaniel and I were simpatico. We had so much in common.”

“I suppose you were both lucky to have met each other, then,” I said. Doing my best to keep all traces of sarcasm out of my voice, I added, “Given the fact that you both found yourselves in such a cultural wasteland and all.”

“We did our best,” he replied with a sigh. “Nathaniel and I traveled into New York every chance we could to avail ourselves of the city’s meager cultural resources.”

Ri-i-ight, I thought. Meager cultural resources like the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Modern Art, the Cooper-Hewitt, the Guggenheim, the Whitney … not to mention the New York Philharmonic, the Metropolitan Opera, the New York City Ballet …

I had to remind myself that I wasn’t here on behalf of the New York City tourism bureau. I was trying to investigate a murder.

“Then you must be devastated,” I said.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Of course.”

I was struck by the overt lack of feeling—not to mention sincerity—behind his words when he added, “I must say, the timing was absolutely tragic. The man was so talented, yet he went unrecognized for so long. It’s horribly ironic that just when he was about to get the attention he deserved—”

My ears pricked up. “In what way?” I asked.