The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3 (27 page)

A
mystery
novel by Alexie Aaron

This
book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents either are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance
to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

~

Copyright 2012 – Diane L. Fitch writing
as Alexie Aaron

In
memory of Florence Smith and William Wells, two extraordinary musicians and
friends.

To
Janet and Ronald Hakala who wrote my first fan letter.  Your support has meant
a lot to me.  I would also like to acknowledge the south Florida community
bands, which I’ve had the pleasure of playing with, and listening to, for many
years. Thank you for taking this alto clarinet player into your midst and
showing me the best place to listen to a concert is on stage.   Thank you to my
dear family and friends who inspire me daily.

Carl picked up his napkin and announced to the table that he
would have to leave them as he had an important concert.  The band would not be
able to start without him.  He smiled as he pushed his chair away from the
table, failing to see the relief of his hostess.

“I will send you a tape, so don’t be concerned about not
being able to get tickets tonight.”  He patted the shoulder of his wife
explaining, “I have to put this one on Beverly.  She should have been on the
ball.  I don’t what happened this time, maybe the menopause?”

Carl didn’t see the conspiring looks between the hostess and
his long suffering wife because he was walking into the kitchen to instruct the
Henderson’s maid for a desert plate to be made up for him of all the marvelous
confections he would miss.

He left the kitchen and made his way down the hall.  Easy conversation
drifted from the dining room.  He was a bit amazed, as he was sure that without
his clever anecdotes the group would have nothing to talk about.  His tuxedo
lay over the bed in the guest room.  He quickly donned it, trying twice to tie
his bow tie.  He gave up and tucked it in his pocket before leaving his dining
attire scattered across the room.  It didn’t occur to Carl that this was an
imposition to his hostess, an embarrassment to his wife or would disgust the
maid, who would have to assemble the clothes from lamp to floor, noting the
odor that seemed to follow Carl everywhere.

Tonight’s performance was too important to miss.  Carl drove
like a maniac to the Avery Theatre, where he was sure the conductor was
sweating bullets at his absence.  He knew that he should have arrived a half
hour earlier to warm up and tune with the others, but dinner at the Henderson’s
was not to be missed.

Carl slammed on his brakes just in time to stop the Cadillac
from becoming one with the loading dock.  He gathered his equipment and ran up
the ramp and stepped into the backstage of the theater.

The bright, Florida evening sun made the transition to the
dim backstage almost impossible. Carl with both his arms full of his instrument
case and other sundry musical aids bounced off stored backdrops, percussion
equipment and music stands like a pinball.  The path of least resistance led
him to the back of the theater where, to his surprise, hands relieved him of
his burdens.

“So nice of you...” he said, and before he could launch into
an oration about how common courtesies were actually not very common, he was
cautioned by a finger to his lips indicating that silence was required.

“You’re late,” a voice hissed behind him.  His bow tie was
withdrawn from his pocket and his top button secured before his helper began
the arduous task of tying the silk.

“Ouch!” Carl exclaimed as he felt a pin prick.  Did his wife
leave a straight pin in his collar?

But before he could voice his complaint, his vocal chords
ceased to function.  His lungs pulled hard in his chest before stopping, and
whatever air he had left in them eased out as his mouth was opened and his
mouthpiece inserted.

“There Carl,” another voice hissed as his saxophone strap
was placed around his neck and his instrument placed in his hands, “you’re ready
for your last performance.”

Carl’s eyes took in the change of light as the curtain rose,
and just before his brain could no longer compute the data sent, he heard
applause.  As life ebbed away, he assumed it was for him.

A scream pierced the air which caused me to turn my head
towards the percussion section.  Sally, to whom the responsibility of the
Phantom
of the Opera’s
scream had been given, held up her hands in confusion.  She
waited, and as the right moment approached let loose a spine chilling shriek
that left the earlier sound all but forgotten.  I sat back, found my place in
the music and continued to play along with the rest of the Coconut Grove
Community Concert band.

As the music swirled around me I became caught up in Andrew
Lloyd Webber’s wonderful arrangement.  I smiled, remembering that just a few
months ago I had been sitting in London’s West End watching a performance of
this musical which our band was trying valiantly to honor.  We were a motley
group of former professional and amateur musicians, but we did rise to the
challenge, and soon after our last note, the audience was on their feet
applauding.

I would be a liar if I didn’t mention that some of them were
on their feet to get the jump on the others, pushing past them to get at the
free refreshments that were being served in the lobby at intermission.  And in
several cases a trip to the bathroom was in order.  Our audience’s average age
was in the seventies.  This was senior citizen heaven, a cheap concert with
free eats.

I carefully placed my alto clarinet in its stand and waited
for the majority of my band mates to leave the stage before rising.  They too
had bathroom visits on their mind.  Don’t get in the way of a man and his wonky
prostate.  Nothing good can come of that.  I turned around and smiled at Art
and Bernice, two of the oldest musicians in the band. I enjoyed the company of
many of the players of Coconut Grove Community Concert Band, but one of these
two clarinetists behind me was my favorite.  I would be helping Bernice to walk
over the wires and other hazards of the dimly lit stage.

Art and Bernice were fidgeting, staring at something on the
black-painted wooden floor.  Art, in his tattered tux he had purchased for the
USO tour in Korea, was raising his feet as if he had stepped in gum.

I got up and walked over noticing a widening pool of a dark
watery substance on the floor coming from behind the backdrop curtain.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

Bernice handed a handkerchief to Art before replying, “Cin
dear, it seems that someone must have knocked over a bottle of water.

Art rubbed the wetness off his shoe, and as he did, the
freshly starched kerchief turned red, blood red.

I snatched it out of his hand before Bernice could take in
that there was blood pooling under their feet. I didn’t need anyone stroking out
on stage.

“Is there a problem?” the gruff voice of the stage manager
Miles asked behind me.

“Miles, be a dear and help Bernice and Art off the stage. 
There seems to be water or something here.  We don’t want a replay of last
year.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Miles growled as he held out his
elbow to Bernice and shimmied his way out of the row of chairs and stands.

Art accepted my hand and raised himself, stepping over the
puddle in front on him.  “That weren’t water.  It be blood,” he said, mimicking
a pirate

“I hope you’re not right,” I hissed as I led him to the front
of the stage where he followed Miles and Bernice to the break room.  I waited
until the trio exited, stage left, before I moved slowly towards the heavy,
black sound curtain that kept the music flowing out into the theater while
shielding the audience’s view of the cavernous back stage.

It swayed a little as a draft somewhere caught in its
folds.  I grabbed the edge and pushed it back slowly.  This area wasn’t lit
during intermission.  Not many used this particular alcove as it was too far
from the practice room and, more importantly, the refreshment tables.  I hoped
the spotlights would be enough to find the source of the pooling fluid.

I continued to push the curtain back until I was greeted by
Carl, our first-chair saxophone player.  “Carl?”

As I gripped the curtain for support, I took in the macabre
image in front of me.  I finally understood why there had been two screams in
the
Phantom of the Opera
piece earlier.  The first had come from this
hideous tableau of death in front of me.

Before me suspended in midair, with the aid of a microphone
stand through his chest, was Carl.  My irrational mind wondered why anyone
would go to the trouble of constructing a waxen image of the man in the first
place, let alone have him holding his saxophone caught in a comedic pratfall.  The
evidence of the copper smell of blood congealing, along with the staring eyes
and the pale blue skin, shattered the illusion.

Still trying to keep my happy little world together, I
walked up to Carl and dared to touch his face.  Cold, dead-cold flesh greeted
my fingertips.

“Ew,” was all I let escape my voice box.  Silently I
screamed for a very long time.

I heard footsteps crossing the stage, and I moved to
intercept the owner of the size thirteen’s plodding across the wooden expanse.

Miles was a tall man.  Not bad looking if you enjoyed the
lounge lizard look.  He leered, ogled, or something in between, at me.  It
would occur to me later that he thought I was luring him backstage for a little
slap and tickle.  This would cause me to groan in revulsion for weeks to come.

I held up my hand to stop his progression.  “Are you a
fainter?”

“No, why?” he asked dryly.

“Because you’re a big guy, and I don’t want to get
squashed,” I explained.

“I’m not a fainter.  What’s the problem?”

“There’s been an accident.”  I directed him around the
curtain.  He had lied.  He fainted.  I tried in vain to catch him, but he and I
ended up on the floor with Carl looming over us like a Madame Tussaud’s figure.

The sound of our fall brought the security guys from the
orchestra seating up on the stage.

“Oh, my lord, what have we here,” exclaimed Buck Murphy.  He
backed up and collided with Eddie Simpson who was lost for words for a moment.

“Is that real or.” was all Eddie could manage.

“Don’t touch anything,” I advised from the floor.  “Hey,
guys, could you help?  Hello.  Down here.”

Buck looked down at me and back at Carl.  He was either
mesmerized or in shock.  Fortunately Eddie’s prior career in law enforcement
kicked in.  “Wake up, Buck, let’s help this woman and then we will deal with
the corpse.  They shifted Miles’ weight so I could get on my feet.

I lay there a moment.  In my haste to get up, I tried to use
my previously injured left arm which couldn’t hold my weight, and I fell back. 
I rolled to my side and used my right hand to push me to a sitting position.  I
stared up at Carl and could have sworn he smiled at me.  I started to lose my
wits and pushed myself away with my feet.

Buck cooed, “He can’t hurt you now, miss.”  He reached down
and helped me up and over to a chair.  “There, just sit down and let Eddie and
I sort this thing out.”

“Buck, I’m going to have to call this in.  I don’t know
exactly what to call it, but I better get started.”  He left the stage, and I
could hear his feet pound down the stairs and as he made his way up the right
aisle the sound of the entrance doors being pulled shut.  He circled around and
did the same for the other side of the theater.  I heard him order the ushers
to not let anyone in as he left the dress circle seating.  The door closed
behind him with a clank. 

I heard more clanks from the balcony as they closed off the
interior of the Avery theatre to the viewing public.

Chatter and hushed responses started coming from the walkie
talkie Buck had secured to his belt.  Retired police officer Eddie Simpson was
issuing orders.

“Buck, you there?”

Buck clicked a button, “Yes, Eddie, I’m still here.”

“Get the band secured in the break room.  We got officers
and EMTs coming in.  Do not let anyone leave.”

“Gotcha, buddy.  What about the corpse?”

“He ain’t going anywhere.  Get the scene secure, you
comprehend?”

“Yes, sir.”  Burt clicked off and looked at me a second
before repeating my words to him back to me, “Don’t touch anything.”

I nodded.  He seemed satisfied with that, mentally checking
me off a hurriedly penned list in his head before he ran off stage left.  I
turned in my chair and watched him corral tux adorned sheep off the stage and
back down the hallway with the precision of a collie, barking orders, and taking
on the persona of a television cop.

Miles just lay there.  I wondered for a moment if the shock
had killed him.  I saw his chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm.  His color
looked good.  I breathed a sigh of relief that I was only in the company of one
dead male.  

Eddie returned to the stage and put two fingers to Miles’
neck.

“He’s alive,” I said from my perch.

Eddie looked over at me and blushed, admitting, “Forgot to
check before.”

I winked at him.  “It’ll be our secret.”

“Miss.”

“Ms.  Ms. Fin-Lathen,” I supplied.

“Are you alright?”

I tried to smile although I didn’t think I succeeded.  “Eddie,
under the circumstances, I’m just peachy.”

“I’m at a disadvantage here.  Back in Maine, where I’m from,
I never had anything like this happen before.”

“Don’t worry, from what I’ve seen, you’re doing just fine.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Well, you have a news reporter roaming around.  David
Thebes.  You may want to contain him.”  I nodded my head to the right dress
circle door where a valiant battle was being fought to keep the door closed by
an elderly female volunteer and the announcer.  I saw the petite, brave soul
manage to get several kicks to his shins while holding the door.

Buck shouted, “You there, stop!”  He left the stage, and I
saw him run up the aisle shouting orders into his walkie as he approached the
scene.

The volunteer lost her hold on the door, and Thebes burst in
and started to make his way down to get a better look.  Buck waved his hands.

“Stop right there and leave the theater,” he ordered.

“Do you realize whom you’re talking to?”  Thebes’ arrogant
voice echoed across the empty seats.

“Yes, sir.  I do.  I will ask you one more time to vacate
the theatre before...”

“What is happening up there?”  The newsman started to run
down the center aisle.

Not to be outdone.  The little old lady usher started
running from her post and tackled Thebes with the energy of a Chicago Bear. 
She not only knocked him off his feet but held him face down until Eddie could
reach him.

A warm breeze blew by my legs.  I forced myself to turn away
from the spectacle and saw that, unnoticed by me, the police had arrived.  They
stood dumbstruck by Carl a moment before heading out into the audience to help
Eddie secure Thebes.

The paramedics arrived and started to work on Miles who
received more attention than Carl did.  They got him on his feet, and he left
mumbling that he would be in his office.

I stayed with Carl even though I hadn’t like him in life.  Maybe
this was why I felt I needed to even the karma after his death.  His wife would
need to be contacted, but I would leave that to the professionals.  I turned my
chair around and sat back in my seat facing Carl.  With the sound curtain
pulled back and the lights up, Carl finally had center stage.