The Ghost Sonata (35 page)

Before Gilda could respond, she noticed a flurry of activity a short distance down the hallway. The two Italian boys she remembered seeing in their tracksuits at the drawing of numbers appeared to be in a heated argument. One of them was exclaiming about “bad luck!”

They drew a small crowd of competitors—the French girl who always wore her hair in messy braids, the Russian boy with the pants that were too short, two kids from London. Everyone spoke with agitated voices about something.

Gilda drew closer to the group and saw that each of the competition finalists had received a tarot card. Their voices overlapped as they compared the cards they had just discovered:

“What are these?”

“They're tarot cards—like for telling your future.”

“But this looks unlucky.”

“Exactly. Looks like someone wants you to think you're going to have rotten luck.”

“Where did you find yours?”

“Fell out of my music bag just as I was warming up.”

“Mine was in my jacket pocket.”

“This is the second one I've gotten.”

“'Fess up. Did any of you lot hand these out as a joke?”

“No—someone else. Probably one of the Americans trying to undermine everyone else.”

By now, Gilda had moved very close to the group in an attempt to eavesdrop. Suddenly they all stared at her. “Well,
I
didn't do it,” she said.

The group looked unconvinced.

“Listen, the Americans who are in the finals also received tarot cards,” she added. “In fact, my best friend received the Death card, which is pretty much the scariest one you can get!”

Everyone was distracted by a rumbling sound from outside the theater. The front doors of the building opened, releasing a flood of elderly ladies wearing plastic rain scarves who filed inside. The hallway filled with rubber boots, sleet-encrusted hair, and rueful comments about the weather.

“I can't believe it. Thunder in February!”

“Rain and snow mixed! Sleet!”

“Quite odd indeed!”

The group of finalists disbanded as complaints and exclamations about the weather blended into a dull roar of conversation. Another burst of thunder crescendoed like the roll of timpani drums.

For some reason, Gilda felt increasingly uneasy as the corridors became jammed with people attending the performance.
Where is Wendy?
Gilda hurried up and down the hallway, peeking into the ladies' room, a broom closet, and a rehearsal room, but there was no sign of Wendy. From across the room, she glimpsed Professor Waldgrave with his cat and Professor Maddox with her long black cape. At the moment, both struck her as sinister, witchlike characters. They disappeared into the crowd just as she tried to approach them.

What if every one of these clues is part of some strange game Waldgrave and Maddox like to play with the competitors?
Gilda wondered, feeling frazzled by the backstage nerves and creeping paranoia that surrounded her.
What if—every time the competition is held in Oxford—one of the finalists disappears?

Gilda ran down the hallway. She knew she had to act fast to find Wendy before the performances began.

48

Sequins and Sabotage

 

Gilda climbed the creaking wooden steps to the balcony level, then headed up another flight of narrow stairs to a large, wooden attic space above the concert hall. From beneath the floor, she heard a rush of applause as one of the performers approached the piano.

“It isn't going to stay up, Mama!”

Gilda caught her breath. Standing in the shadows across the room, Jenny Pickles fiddled with the bodice of an ice-blue strapless gown as her mother squinted at a needle and thread, altering the back of her daughter's dress.

“It'll stay up,” snapped Ms. Pickles. “Just stand up straight and quit yer twitchin'.”

“Ow!”

“I told you—hold still.”

As Gilda drew closer, she saw that Jenny's hair was fuller and stiffer than ever, as if she were about to perform in a country music festival instead of a classical competition.

She and her mother had created a makeshift dressing room with a battery-operated curling iron, a lighted mirror, a makeup kit, and an overstuffed handbag. Several yards of colorful material were strewn across the floor—evening gowns in shades of scarlet, vibrant green, and the hot pink that Jenny had apparently rejected. Jenny's sheet music was strewn across the floor on top of the dresses. Jenny was staring down at the music and moving her fingers through the air, practicing silently as her mother tightened the back of her dress.

As Gilda took in this scene, she reflected that Jenny had the kind of mother she herself had occasionally wished for—a plump mother who took an inordinate interest in her slender, attractive daughter's activities, the kind of mother who had no qualms about applying heavy makeup to the faces of young girls. These mothers never seemed to spend any time on their own appearances, but they were perpetually overburdened with bags of cosmetics, hair-care products, and glittery costumes for their daughters' talent shows, dance recitals, gymnastics meets, and school plays.

On the other hand
, Gilda thought,
if Mom ever started lurking around all my activities, I'd probably end up telling her to get lost
.

As Jenny's mom squinted at the needle in her hand, Jenny suddenly picked up the largest can of hairspray Gilda had ever seen and shook it vigorously. She enveloped herself and her mother in a cloud of aerosol spray that sent her mother into a coughing fit.

“Warn me next time, Jenny!”

“Sorry.” The can clattered to the floor as Jenny suddenly noticed Gilda staring at her through a haze of hairspray.

“Omigod, you scared the daylights out of me, Gilda! I thought I was seeing a ghost!”

“Sorry,” said Gilda, secretly feeling some satisfaction at having startled Jenny. “I was just looking for Wendy.”

“Haven't seen her.”

“We're tryin' da stay oud da way,” said Ms. Pickles, speaking with a needle clenched in her teeth. “Doo many frazzled nerves downstairs.”

“Hey, have you seen Julian down there?” Jenny asked brightly.

Gilda bristled. “The last time I saw him, he was chatting up a bunch of slappers.”

“Slappers?”

“Some flirty-looking
girls
.”

A look of recognition came over Jenny's face as she met Gilda's eyes—a surprised look that said,
Oh, I see. We're in competition over him.
“That's such a cute tiara,” she said.

That's right, Jenny
, Gilda thought.
I may not have flaming-red hair, but at least I look fabulous in sequins and a tiara.

“Oh, Jenny, we should have brought
your
tiara,” said Ms. Pickles. “Remember the one you won at the Miss Magnolia Pageant?”

“That would be tacky, Mom,” said Jenny, deftly deploying an insult meant for Gilda's ears. “Nobody in Oxford would wear a tiara to perform.”

“Then you don't understand Oxford,” said Gilda. “They have a soft spot for eccentricity and whimsy here.”

“Maybe I'm
glad
I don't understand Oxford then,” Jenny countered. “Anyway, leave it to Julian to think about girls at a time like this, right, Mama? Right before he goes onstage to perform?”

“Doesn't sound like he's very focused on winning this competition, that's for sure,” said Ms. Pickles cheerfully.

“He
never
misses an opportunity to chat up girls,” said Gilda. “He said, ‘It's all part of the show,' as far as he's concerned.” Gilda couldn't help it; she wanted Jenny to experience the sense of hurt and surprise she herself had felt when she peered into the practice room window the day before.

“Well, we've all met that type before, haven't we, Gilda?”

“Oh, sure.” Gilda pretended to be just as experienced with boys as Jenny apparently was. “
Tell
me about it.”

Gilda had to admit that Jenny had a special knack for deflecting jealous, competitive comments.
Maybe it's a skill she picked up from all those beauty pageants
, Gilda thought.

“Jenny,” said Ms. Pickles, “can you grab that harbrush and the pair of scissors for me, darlin'?”

Jenny reached for the scissors and caused a small avalanche of beauty products to cascade from the folding chair. Her mother's purse spilled open and vomited its entire contents onto the floor. The chaotic pile included a cell phone, numerous lipsticks, a wallet with loose credit cards, packs of gum and mints, a lighter, a key chain, and a miniature photo album labeled BRAG BOOK.

“Oh, Jenny, good night!” Ms. Pickles exclaimed. “That purse had more junk crammed in it than a redneck's front yard, and now look!”

Gilda and Jenny crouched down to help Jenny's mother, who was hurriedly stuffing objects back into her bag.

“Oh, don't bother, hon, I'll get it,” said Ms. Pickles, breathlessly, her sun-spotted hands and coral fingernails moving quickly to grab objects and stuff them back in her bag.

Just then, under a wad of tissue, Gilda discovered something so interesting and incriminating, it was all she could do to keep from shouting out loud.

The contents of Ms. Pickles's spilled purse included a deck of cards labeled
The Gill Tarot
.

Ms. Pickles reached for the deck of cards, but Gilda snatched it first.

“Just drop that back in, sugar. Must have been some crazy thing that made its way into my purse at a flea market back home. I don't know the half of what's in here.”

Gilda looked at the back of the deck and saw that it was priced at three pounds. “Actually, Ms. Pickles, this deck of cards was purchased here in England.”

“That's nice, sugar.” Ms. Pickles sounded calm, but her sun-speckled skin looked flushed. She made another sudden lunge to grab the deck of cards from Gilda, but Gilda clung to the cards stubbornly—the way she had seen Wendy's little brother hang on to a favorite toy.

For a moment, the two were locked in an absurd tug-of-war. Gilda met Ms. Pickles's eyes and perceived a gold glint of rage.

“Mother! What are you
doing
?”

“Gilda,” said Ms. Pickles, ignoring Jenny's protests, “if you don't mind, please unhand my personal property so I can help my daughter get ready.”

Instead, Gilda wrenched the deck of cards from Ms. Pickles's hands. She opened the box and swiftly flipped through the deck to see whether any cards were missing. She felt a triumphant sense of excitement combined with shock at the realization that someone's
mother
was now the prime tarot card suspect. “Aha! Just as I thought!” Gilda waved the tarot cards in front of Ms. Pickles's nose. “The cards missing from this deck are the very ones that have been turning up among the other performers—all of the most
disturbing
cards in the deck, I might add.”

“Are you both crazy? What is going on here?”

“Jenny, this girl is talking blarney,” said Ms. Pickles. “Let's get you ready.”

“But why
do
you have tarot cards in your purse, Mama?”

“Who knows? Probably an old party favor. Lord knows there's a landfill full of trash in that bag.”

“Ms. Pickles, was your daughter in on this with you, or was this your own secret little plan to undermine the other performers?”

“Gilda, I hate to be rude, but you're disrupting my daughter's concentration. Jenny, turn around so I can hurry up and finish your dress before your performance time.”

Jenny faced her mother with hands on hips. “Mama, tell me what's going on. Is this a repeat of the Miss Blossom Pageant?”

Gilda's ears perked up. “What happened at the Miss Blossom Pageant?”

Ms. Pickles ignored the question. She knelt down to collect the remaining objects strewn about on the floor.

“Mother did something unsportsmanlike at the Miss Blossom Pageant,” said Jenny, watching her mother warily. “But she promised it would never happen again.”

“I only did that at the Blossom show after that horrible girl stained your evening gown on purpose.”

“We don't
know
that she did it
on purpose
.”

“Believe me, Jenny, she did it on purpose.”

“Still, there was no call for you to ruin her hairstyle that way.”

“You think what I did was so bad?” Ms. Pickles snapped. “What about that mom who snuck laxatives into the smoothies?”

“That's not the point, Mama.
This
isn't one of those back-stabbing beauty contests! People around here are thinking about
music
!”