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Blurb
Acknowledgments
The City House
The Country House
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Copyright
The Player
By Joe Cosentino
Player Piano Mysteries
When young music teacher Andre Beaufort discovers an antique player piano in the basement of his apartment building, he is visited by the ghost of the original owner: a dapper and charismatic playboy from the Roaring Twenties, Freddy Birtwistle.
Andre has never seen a ghost and Freddy has never been one, so they get off to a rocky start. But when Andre finds his neighbor murdered on his doorstep, he and Freddy join forces to narrow the pool of suspects.
Soon Andre and Freddy discover that opposites attract, even if one’s alive and the other dead. Together these amateur detectives make an enticing team, and it’s a good thing too, because the first murder they solve together won’t be their last. But the real mystery isn’t just whodunit—it’s how a romance between a man and a ghost can have a happily ever after ending.
The Player contains two stand-alone cozy murder mysteries, The City House and The Country House.
Acknowledgments
TO FRED for everything over all these years, the staff at Dreamspinner Press, the readers who asked for a ghost character, and to everyone with a mystery-solving ghost in their closet seeking true love.
The City House
Chapter One
THE PLAYER piano stood upright, demanding my attention and beckoning me toward it. Having an MA in Music, specializing in the Roaring Twenties era, I could tell it was a genuine pianola authentic to the period. It was handcrafted from maple, mahogany, and spruce with an elaborate leaf-pattern molding. Aunt Nia stood next to me in the corner of the basement with her hand planted firmly on her ample hip. Her familiar scent of coconut soap permeated my senses.
“Andre Beaufort, are you going to stare at that dusty old piano while the entire apartment building floats into the Hudson River?” My aunt missed her calling as an actress.
“How long has this pianola been here?” I asked.
“I’d say since the year of the flood, but with this leaky pipe, I don’t want to tempt the fates.” She handed me a roll of Teflon duct tape, led me to the ladder, and pushed me by my behind up to the top. “You get that bubble butt from my side.” She giggled.
My father, French Canadian, and my mother, African American, had died with my baby brother in a car crash when I was four years old. My mom’s sister had raised me ever since in the building she managed, an Art Deco mansion converted into an apartment building. I had lived in apartment 1B with Aunt Nia until my twenty-first birthday. For the last four years, I’ve exerted my independence and lived on my own—in apartment 3A—a walk-up that keeps my legs toned and my inherited butt firm. As I ripped a piece of thick tape off the roll, I asked Aunt Nia, “Shouldn’t you call a plumber?”
“I did, but he’s booked until the end of July.” Looking authoritarian in her peach ankara maxi dress and matching bib collar necklace, Aunt Nia announced, “The tape should hold for a month.”
“Is that all right with the owner of the building?”
“Who knows?”
“How can you work for someone you’ve never met?”
Still beautiful at fifty-five, Aunt Nia shook her head, and long dreads formed a halo around her smooth face. “I get my monthly check, and the bills are paid. So Florida’s Tzar Me In Corporation is all good by me.”
“But shouldn’t they know about this?”
“What the owner doesn’t know won’t hurt him—or me. I’ll email ‘office’ about it.”
I wrapped the tape around the pipe and the leak stopped. “Maybe I should have been a plumber.”
She snickered. “You’d make more money.”
“True, but you know I love teaching.” I grinned. “Now that it’s the end of June.”
“I hear that.” Aunt Nia, who was a high school guidance counselor, chuckled as she helped me down the ladder.
As a grade school music teacher, it was fulfilling to share my love for music with children, teaching them about history, culture, self-expression, emotion, and different sounds to calm and delight. However, with so much state-required administrative work thrust upon me lately, fewer children labeled “gifted and talented,” and pushy parents demanding their tone-deaf and entitled children have solos in the school’s spring concert, I was in dire need of my summer break.
After handing my aunt the roll of tape, I was drawn back to the player piano. Sitting on the dusty bench, I sneezed and then placed my feet on the pedals. The center section at my eye level was open, so I could see the roll of preprogrammed music on perforated paper. It was a George Gershwin song from 1926: “Someone to Watch Over Me.” As I pressed the pedals, a few familiar notes played. “It still works!” I rose and lifted the top of the bench. “Aunt Nia, there are nine more rolls of music in here! Who owns this?”
“It must have been left here by the original owner in the 1930s. The building has changed ownership a few times since then. I guess nobody wanted it. I can’t say that I blame them.”
“Can I have it?”
She sniggered. “Are you going to haul this old thing into your classroom at school?”
With most of my school’s budget going to sports, I was forced to use an old soccer net and coach’s whistle to create the latest new musical instrument for my class. However, though my students would enjoy the pianola a great deal, they’d no doubt break it, trying to stuff a music roll down each other’s throats. “Can I bring it to my apartment?”
She cocked her head at me. “How are you going to get a piano up three flights of stairs?”
In my canary polo shirt and tight jeans, I glanced down at my lean and cut body. “My recent torture sessions at the gym will come in handy. And Victor can help me.”
She shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat. And now that the leak is stopped, nothing is going to float around here.”
I kissed her smooth, dark cheek. “Thanks, auntie.”
She kissed mine back. “You can host dinner tonight at your place to thank me.”
“It’s a date.”
After climbing the basement stairs two at a time, I was about to enter the first floor when I heard raised voices. I peered around the stairwell at Alexandria Popov Sokol standing in front of apartment 1A. The tall, thin, gorgeous young woman was dressed impeccably in a wisteria business suit adorned by gold leaf jewelry. Alexandria had lived in the building with her husband for five years, yet I hardly knew the woman. Opposite her stood Hunter Buck, tall, about forty, with long bleached-blond hair. His white tank top and shorts packaged an incredibly sculpted, spray-tanned body. It had been crush at first sight for me when Hunter moved into apartment 2C three years prior. However, talking to the guy ended that fast.
His contact lens capri-blue eyes homed in on Alexandria. “Why are you doing this? Are you trying to destroy me?”
“You don’t need my help with that. You’re doing just fine on your own.”
“Meaning?”
She flicked back her long blond hair. “You misbehaved, Hunter.”
He leaned into her. “I thought we were misbehaving together.”
Alexandria reached into her purse. “Not anymore. You saw to that.” She raised a key to her door.
Hunter grabbed her wrist. “Don’t do this to me, Alexandria.”
She wiggled free. “It’s business.”
“Yeah, you’re giving me the business all right.”
Her tiffany-blue ey
es widened. “This is not the way I wanted it.”
“Then stop this!”
“No can do. As they say, you reap what you sow.” She unlocked her door.
“Alexandria, wait. Let’s talk about this.”
“I think we’ve both said enough.” She disappeared inside her apartment.
Hunter stormed up the stairs.
As I walked down the first-floor hallway and exited the building, I couldn’t help wondering what was going on between Hunter and Alexandria. Outside it was a mild, clear day in Hoboken, New Jersey, as cotton candy clouds dotted the cyan sky. Soon forgetting about my neighbors’ squabble, I passed various shops and restaurants. Then I hurried into the grocery store and did some shopping. Still excited about finding the player piano, I blurted aloud between the produce and canned foods aisles, “The pianola will fit perfectly between the fireplace and the bookcase!” After paying for the groceries with bags in hand, my next stop was the antique store where I had purchased most of the furniture for my apartment. The owner looked over his bifocals and smiled at my entrance. “Sorry, Andre. I don’t have anything new for you today.”
“Hi, Chester. I’m not here to buy Art Deco pieces.” I blurted out, “I found a 1920s pianola in our basement!”
The elderly man couldn’t contain his excitement. “It must have belonged to the original owner, back when your apartment building was a mansion!”
“What was the original owner’s name?”
He glared at me. “I’m not that old, however, I believe it was the Birtwistle family.” An art historian, Chester straightened his bow tie and sweater vest, always happy to share historical gossip. “The Birtwistles were quite wealthy. They made their money in the railroads. The parents and daughter died of influenza shortly after the stock market crashed.”
“Who lived in the mansion then?”
“The son, Frederick. Very good-looking. A notorious man about town.” He coughed. “Quite the playboy. He died on his thirtieth birthday.”
“Of influenza?”
He shook his bald head. “A jealous lover shot him.”
“Is Frederick the one who bought the player piano?”
“I assume so. Freddy was quite a fan of music and dancing.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Rumor has it Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, and George Gershwin were his ‘close friends.’” Winking at me, the little man added, “If you know what I mean.”
I nodded. “It must have been Freddy’s heir who sold the building.”
He giggled. “Freddy never married. I believe a distant cousin inherited and sold the manse to a private owner. The place was converted into apartments in 1955 and then bought by the Tzar Me In Corporation in 1994.” Rubbing his small hands together, he asked, “Does the pianola still play?”
“Yes! And it has ten rolls of music!”
Chester sighed contentedly. “They don’t make them like that nowadays.”
“They don’t make player pianos nowadays period.”
“And what a pity.” He lifted an antique pen. “I’ll take it off your hands for five hundred dollars.”
“No sale. I’m bringing it up to my apartment today.”
“Good for you.” He smiled. “Enjoy the pianola.”
“Thanks, Chester. I plan to.”
After leaving the antique store with groceries still in hand, I hurried through the two blocks back to our apartment building, where I admired the tall, regal structure of white and silver with numerous bayed balconies of delicately molded wrought iron in the French tradition. Upon opening the front door, I again heard two people arguing. Pausing at the entrance to the first floor, I noticed Alexandria and her husband, Denis Sokolov, standing in their open doorway.
Denis, tall and muscular with brooding dark eyes, rammed his hands into the pockets of his black leather jacket. “You don’t mean that!”
“I’m finally saying exactly what I mean.”
“How can you do this? To me?”
Alexandria sighed. “Denis, please try to understand. Things change. People change.”
“I haven’t changed.” He reached out for her. “And you haven’t either. Not inside.”
“I wish that were true.”
Denis ran a shaky hand through his thick dark locks. “Alex, we were both too focused on our work. So you made a mistake. Now we’re going through a rough time. But you’re still my baby. We can work through this thing… together.”
She pulled away. “It’s what’s best, Denis.”
“Not for me. And not for you either.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Well you’re not succeeding!”
“Please, try to understand. After everything that’s happened—”
“I don’t care what’s happened. And I’ll never understand!” He stormed out of the apartment, brushed by me, and left the building.
My best friend, Victor Martinez, scurried down the stairs, his short, stocky body housed in a burgundy T-shirt and jeans. Spotting Alexandria at her doorway, he hurried over to her. “Hi, Alexandria.”
She nodded and began to close her door.
Victor held it open. “Have you heard anything?” He offered her a winning smile.
“This isn’t a good time.”
“I agree. It’s never a good time for an actor, except when he’s acting—or auditioning. Unless he doesn’t get the job.” He guffawed too dramatically. “So, any news about my audition for your show?”
“No.”
“No news?”
“No need. A TV star from LA was cast in the role.”
He thought fast. “Can I audition for the understudy?”
“That’s not possible.”
“Can’t you put in a good word for me?”
“Not anymore.”
“But you promised!”
She glared at him. “Here are four good words… of advice for you. Get over this show. I have.” She closed the door.
Victor gasped and ran back up the stairs.
I started off after him, but I paused at the landing when Preston Steele entered the building and knocked on Alexandria’s door. The handsome new vice principal of my school had recently moved into apartment 2A. When Alexandria opened the door, their blue eyes met, and he handed her a white envelope.
“You didn’t need to come here on your lunch break.”
He unbuttoned the jacket of his designer suit, releasing sculpted pecs barely contained by his white dress shirt. “Yes, I did.”
“Thanks.”
His foot caught the door before she closed it. “Is everything all right between us?”
“It is now.” Alexandria unleashed a stunning white smile. “You’re very talented, you know.”
He blushed. “You noticed?”
“I noticed.” As if daring him, Alexandria said, “See you soon.”
I headed up the stairs to the third floor and stopped at the familiar black door with the 3A imprinted on it. After unlocking the door, I scanned the living room clockwise from the doorway, admiring the antique-store purchases that were a result of emptying my bank account and bartering with Chester. I smiled appreciatively at the Gustavian scalloped pedestal and side table, bookcase, tiered mirror over the screened fireplace, a turquoise chaise facing two wide armchairs and an end table decorated with an aloe vera plant from Aunt Nia all in the balconied bay window. A tall silver lamp, a wall mural depicting piano players from the 1920s, two statues of singers from the period, and a baby grand piano caused me to beam with pride. Finally, in the dining alcove, a mahogany table and chairs with a waterfall buffet still made my heart flutter. To my delight, the Art Deco character of the room was also evident in the busy silver-and-azure wallpaper, silver wall sconces, crystal chandelier on the arched ceiling, round-topped doorways to the bedroom and bathroom, and silver crown-like molding.
After making my way through the living room, I landed in the kitchenette, which had originally been a bar. The long mahogany structure remained as a co
unter, to which I had added two stools. I put my groceries in the refrigerator and inside the mahogany cabinets. Then, concerned about my friend, I hurried back through the living room, ran down the hall, and knocked on the door of 3C. When there was no answer, I called out, “Victor?”
A few moments later, the door slowly opened, revealing my best friend’s red swollen eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He blinked back tears.
I stepped into the living room. Though Victor’s apartment was laid out like mine, the décor was contemporary thrift shop. I sat him next to me on the lumpy brown sofa. Victor Martinez was my age. However, over the year we had known each other, I had often felt like his older brother. Putting my arm around him, I pushed the mop of black hair off his olive-colored forehead and gazed into his emerald eyes. “I overheard you talking to Alexandria Popov Sokolov in the hallway. Tell me about it, buddy.”
A drama queen onstage and off, Victor sucked in a melodramatic breath. “You know I’m not one to go on about myself.”
“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
He nodded stoically.
“All right.”
He bellowed, “Why weren’t my parents Lucy and Desi? Or Vincent Minelli and Judy Garland? Lady Gaga and Obama?”
“They never had a child.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“If my parents had been celebrities, I would have had my career handed to me. But no, my folks had to be a Cuban businessman and a WASP businesswoman hellbent on me making my own way in the world.”
“Is this about your parents in Florida?”
“Did you have to remind me of Florida?” The tears rolled down his full cheeks.
“What’s wrong with Florida?”
“Nothing! When I lived there, I acted in theme parks.”
“Playing cartoon characters in costumes that gave you a heat rash and dehydration.”
“Yes! And after rubbing pizza on my face, I did an infomercial as someone with terminal acne.” He sighed. “Those were the days.”
The Player Page 1