The Wicked Hour

by Alice Blanchard

  “And you think it was Hollis who was going to show her the Stradivarius?”

  Poppy squinted up at the overcast sky. “I remember her being really excited, because I mean, how many people get to do that? Play a real Strad? She said she was going to send me video of her playing, but then … it never happened.”

  Natalie nodded sympathetically. How heartbreaking—these memories. Last words. Last conversations. A swirling wind pushed against their backs and played with their hair.

  Poppy sat up and brushed the grit off her hands. “I’ve been meaning to ask you where Morgan’s violin is.”

  “The police have it. They’re still processing it.”

  She sighed with frustration. “When can we get it back?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you want me to find out?”

  She nodded. “We need to bury her with her violin. It’s only right.”

  “Of course,” Natalie said. “I’ll do my best to find out for you, okay?”

  Poppy smiled and got to her feet, brushing grass stains off her jeans. “Well, I’d better go now. It’s getting late. Thanks for sitting here with me.”

  “It was nice. I’m glad I didn’t miss it.” Natalie stood up. “One more thing. You initially said that it was the record producer who wanted to show Morgan the Stradivarius. Do you still think it was Hollis?”

  “Honestly?” The girl shook her head. “I don’t remember.”

  48

  Sarah Hutchins Drive was empty and quiet this afternoon. The Halloween trash had been picked up and the cleaning crews had moved on to other locations. Most of the shops were closed. Tomorrow or the next day, businesses would reopen, but for now the town was in recuperation mode.

  Natalie walked past the alley toward Blondie’s. The temperature had dropped, and the air was nippy for November, more like December air. Rainie’s New Age boutique was closed. The Laundromat was closed. A couple of bars and restaurants were open for business, but there was no foot traffic to speak of.

  Her phone rang, and she picked up. It was Luke.

  “The blood in the wastebasket is AB negative, same as Morgan’s blood type,” he said. “We also found a long red hair with a root on the sofa, but it’ll take a couple of weeks to get the DNA results. Meanwhile, we’re processing the warrant and coordinating a joint execution with the state police for Swinton’s summer cabin. This could be a gold mine.”

  Natalie glanced around at the deserted street. “What about the list of finalists for the Monster Mash contest?”

  “Augie’s compiling it now. I’ll have him send it to you shortly.”

  Her eyes grew hard. “Listen, I just talked to Poppy Chambers, and Morgan told her someone was going to let her play their Stradivarius violin. None of the antique violins we found at Russ’s place were Stradivariuses, were they?”

  “I don’t know. I’d have to check,” Luke said.

  “Send me pictures of them, would you? I’m on Sarah Hutchins Drive, and I’m about to talk to Justin Bertrand. I figure he’ll know anybody locally who owns one. Maybe he can shed some light on this for us. Send me those pictures, and I’ll ask him about Russ’s violins, while I’m at it.”

  After a pause, Luke said, “I don’t doubt your instincts, Natalie. Just keep me apprised.” He hung up.

  The interior of Bertrand Antiquities was dark except for a globe lamp illuminating the back of the store. She could see Justin shuffling through some paperwork behind the counter. She rang the bell and he looked up, surprise flitting across his face.

  After a moment, the front door swung open. “Hey, Natalie,” he said, looking dapper in a plaid shirt and khakis. “We’re closed today, but come on in.”

  “I have a few questions for you about violins.”

  “No problem.” He motioned her inside. “This place is a ghost town, huh? Post-Halloween doldrums. I kind of like it, though. Peace and quiet. Coffee? Tea?” he offered, escorting her to the back of the store.

  “No, thanks. This won’t take long.”

  “You sure?” He ducked behind the register. “I’ve got spearmint. Not only is it delicious, but it helps reduce stress. It’s high in antioxidants.” On the counter behind him was a teakettle on a hot plate, along with packets of sugar and nondairy creamers in a bowl.

  “I’m good. I just wanted to know…” Her phone rang, irritating them both. “Excuse me a second. Hello?”

  It was Augie. “I’m sending over the list of finalists now. Check your emails.”

  “Thanks.” She pocketed her phone.

  “Everything okay?” Justin watched her inquisitively.

  “Yeah, police business,” she said dismissively.

  Dusty air blew out of the vent above their heads, and the Post-it Notes on the wall behind the register bristled in the mild breeze. The cat was cleaning its whiskers on top of a faded rocking horse. The rest of the antiques shop was hushed, as if it had been doing something mischievous before she’d come in, and now it was frozen and still.

  “Well, Natalie, you lucked out,” Justin told her. “We almost missed each other. I was about to head home. Dad’s nurse quit.”

  “Really?”

  He shrugged. “It’s the third one in six months. My father can be a handful. He’s got a will of iron. If he doesn’t want to do something, then nobody’s going to make him. Stroke or no stroke. He’s as stubborn as the day is long. He used to terrify me … well,” he hedged. “Not terrify. I mean, he was strict. There were rules you had to follow. If you didn’t, there was hell to pay. Anyway, what brings you here, Detective?”

  It was the first time today he’d called her detective, not Natalie. Her intuition prickled. “I was wondering if you knew anyone who owned a Stradivarius,” Natalie said.

  “A Strad?” Justin repeated with a scowl. “You’re kidding, right? Those are extremely rare. There are only about six hundred and fifty in existence, and they come with a provenance. They’re worth a couple million each, sometimes more.”

  “So nobody local?”

  Justin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, Mr. Rose would love to get his hands on one. So would a lot of people. But it’s far more common to see imitations for sale.”

  “You mean fakes? Like the one in your window?”

  “That’s right. They started making replicas after Stradivari died. There are some excellent imitations floating around out there, and then there’s junk. Most of the replicas were churned out in German factories in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. There are literally thousands of them. I’d say the majority are inferior products, but a certain percentage are exceptional in their own right. It’s those antique replicas I’m interested in.”

  “So the one in your window…?”

  “Is a fine example.” He locked up the register. “Most people can’t tell the difference, because it’s so well constructed. The shape, the quality of sound it produces. Spruce for the top, willow for internal blocks, and maple for the back—that’s exactly what Antonio Stradivari used to create his violins.”

  “But you wouldn’t call the one in your shop a Stradivarius, would you?”

  “No. That would be unethical. Besides, enough people can tell the difference.”

  “Has anyone bought an imitation Strad from you that might be able to pass for the real thing?”

  “You mean, like … if they wanted to fool someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, like I said, Mr. Rose has an imitation Strad, but it’s got a label from Germany. That’s a red flag right there.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Mr. Linkhorn has one from nineteenth-century France that’s exceptional.” He scooped up his keys and said, “Let me show you something.” He walked to the front of the shop, opened the cabinet, scooped up the violin and bow, and began to play.

  He wasn’t half bad, Natalie thought. He chose a sweet, lyrical piece and gazed at her with probing intensity. Then his eyes flicked away, and he slid the bow across the strings with such eleganc
e and precision, she felt transported to another place and time. It was the sort of music that made your soul ache. He seemed to be sending all his loneliness and longing out into the world. When he finished playing, his gaze came to rest on Natalie’s face.

  “That was beautiful,” she said. “I didn’t realize you played the violin.”

  “It’s just a hobby,” he said self-effacingly. “My mother taught me when I was a kid. I was in the school orchestra for a while. I was planning on taking it further, but then … I broke my arm.” He shrugged. “That’s life, right?”

  Something prickled at the back of Natalie’s neck. “When did this happen?”

  “Umm, let’s see. I was in the ninth grade. Once you have a serious injury like that, you can forget about a professional music career. Now it’s just my passion.”

  “And your arm is fully healed?”

  “It wasn’t easy to retrain myself. Not without a lot of blood, sweat, and tears. I had to switch from right-handed to left-handed.” He placed the violin and bow carefully back in its case. “But I was determined. I never gave up. Funny thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  He paused. “As soon as I could play again, I broke my other arm.”

  “Really.”

  “Weird, huh?”

  Her stomach dropped. She remembered the long-ago day Justin had given Natalie and Bella their free marbles. First he placed the two orange-and-black tigers over his eyes and made a funny face. Then he explained how glass-blown marbles were made. While he was showing them, he accidentally knocked the glass jar over and spilled marbles across the floor of the shop. His father reacted poorly, grabbing Justin by the arm and yanking him sharply with such force, Justin had cried out in pain.

  “How did you break your other arm?” Natalie asked.

  “One winter, I was shoveling snow in our driveway, when I slipped on an icy patch and landed wrong. Snap. Just my luck.”

  She put on her most sympathetic expression, while her body grew slick with sweat. “Two broken arms? Wow. That’s kind of hard to believe.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “And yet you still play the violin.”

  “The second time, it took a lot longer to heal, but I kept at it. I’m as stubborn as the old man, I guess. But I never regained full control of the instrument. That’s why I call it a hobby now. You can’t compete on any professional level with those types of injuries. So I just play for fun.”

  Natalie had a flash of Lily Kingsley’s severed arms inside the violin case. “And you broke both arms within the span of—what? A few years?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And yet you persevered regardless. That takes guts.”

  He nodded slowly. “Guts is one word for it.” He snapped the violin case shut, then picked up a stack of paperwork. “You’ve probably heard this before, but I consider it a gift. Sometimes bad things happen, but they make you grow. All this talk about ‘adulting’ is so much bullshit, if you ask me. So much of that is simply accepting responsibility and moving on.”

  “That’s a good way of looking at it.” Her body grew still as stone.

  “Anyway, Hunter Rose bought two imitation Strads from me…”

  “Two?” There was an acid taste at the back of her throat.

  “Yeah, he’s been trying to buy an original for years through his New York dealer.”

  “That’s interesting. What about Russ Swinton?”

  Justin shook his head. “He can’t afford it. I think he’s pretty happy with his Stainers and Vollers.”

  “I want you to take a look at something. Are these all Stainers and Vollers?” She activated her phone, opened Augie’s attachment, and swiped through the images. “We found these antique violins in Dr. Swinton’s house.”

  He looked down at the screen. “For the most part, yeah. No Strads there.”

  She put away her phone. “Nobody else owns one? Owen Linkhorn? Hollis Jones?”

  “Well, Mr. Linkhorn’s a collector of rare instruments. He’ll ring me up to see if I’ve come across anything interesting. But he doesn’t have a Strad as far as I know. Anyway, I should be going. My father’s alone in the house…”

  “I understand. Just one more question.” Natalie felt herself edging into high alert. She recalled the scene in the store again—Ned Bertrand lashing out at Justin for spilling marbles on the floor. Shouting at his son “You stupid brat!” and grabbing him so violently by the arm, he could’ve pulled it out of its socket.

  “But you’re so good at playing the violin,” she said. “It makes me wonder why you haven’t performed or competed. Or am I mistaken? Did you enter the Monster Mash contest this year? One of the detectives sent me a list of finalists, and I’m wondering if you’re on it.”

  Justin checked his watch. “Yeah, I entered this year for fun. But I was eliminated in the first round. I never made it to the finals.”

  She shook her head. “Why didn’t you mention this to me before?”

  “You didn’t ask. Besides, it’s embarrassing to lose. Nothing to brag about.”

  “But, see,” she said, “it raises a bunch of questions. Like, did you meet or talk to Morgan Chambers while you were auditioning? Because she was a contestant, too.”

  He shook his head vaguely. “I don’t think so. There were so many people there.”

  “You would’ve remembered talking to her. Right?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t talk to anyone.”

  She knew instinctively he was lying. She swallowed a prickle of fear. “Your father … I’m assuming he didn’t approve of your violin playing?”

  Justin laughed derisively. “Now that’s an understatement.”

  “But your mother approved, because she’s the one who taught you.”

  “She was a classical violinist before she married my father. She passed on her love of music to me. Dad thought it was for eggheads. They used to fight about it.”

  “So the first time you broke your arm was—right around the ninth grade?”

  “Dad and I went hunting and I shot a buck. We injured it. We followed the blood trail through the woods. We tracked it to a steep trailhead, where I fell down a ravine.”

  Natalie was careful to hide her disbelief. “It’s funny, because I just remembered something,” she said. “When you gave us those marbles, Bella and me—I remember you accidentally knocked the jar over, and marbles spilled all over the floor. Your father was quite upset. He grabbed your arm…”

  “He thinks discipline is important.”

  “Was he rough with you a lot?”

  He stared at her, appalled. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  A bitter taste filled her mouth. “One last question. Have you auditioned for the Monster Mash contest every year? Or was this your first time?”

  “First time.” He shuffled through the paperwork on the counter.

  “Why didn’t you try out last year, too? Or the year before? Was it because your father wouldn’t let you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said brusquely, glancing at his watch. He looked up. His face softened and sagged. “I told you, he had a lot of rules.”

  “But not anymore,” Natalie reasoned. “Not since he had his stroke. He’s too sick to stop you. He can’t speak. He can’t move. He can’t prevent you from performing. He can’t grab you by the arm or break your bones.”

  Justin’s hands were hidden behind the counter. She didn’t like that. She could feel her gun in its holster, snug against her rib cage. How to reach for it without arousing a counterreaction.

  “You said music was your passion,” she went on. “It must be difficult being judged for that. I’m wondering what it feels like to stand in front of a group of judges and perform for them, knowing they might not like it. Knowing they’re assessing you. How hard that must be … to play your heart out and know you could get a thumbs-down. I just heard you play, and in my opinion, you’re very good. That you could get eliminated after t
he first round doesn’t seem fair.”

  He watched her closely, as if he were trying to catch the lie. His hands were still hidden from view behind the counter. Fear coated her tongue. Her heart began to tic at the base of her neck.

  “Let me see your hands, please,” she said.

  He didn’t move.

  She shifted ever so slightly, and her leather pancake holster squeaked.

  His eyes widened.

  Natalie sensed they were circling around the truth. A glaze of sweat broke out all over her body. She went for her gun, but she was too late. He’d already reached under the counter and was swinging the baseball bat freely at her head.

  Natalie managed to duck, but the bat clipped her on the side of the skull and she went down. Her vision spun. Her knees caved. She felt the impact like a door slamming shut. Like a dead bolt locking.

  49

  Natalie woke up. Where the fuck am I?

  She was lying on her back, gazing at the ceiling.

  She sat up groggily and looked around. There was blood on the floor—a constellation of drops with crenelated edges. She touched her head. There was blood on her fingertips. Fear grabbed her hard.

  She stumbled to her feet, then drew her service revolver and released the safety. “Justin?” she called out. The door leading to the back of the shop was open.

  Natalie entered the back area, which was jammed with midcentury modern chairs, Art Deco bookcases, and eighteenth-century commodes. She squeezed past old advertising signage, Depression-era glassware, and funny-looking kitchen appliances from the 1950s, then burst out the back door and stood on the sidewalk that overlooked the public parking lot on Howard Street—the same asphalt lot that Blondie’s backed on to. The quickest route out of Dodge.

  A scenario flashed through her head: Justin met Morgan at the auditions, where he bragged about the Stradivarius in his shop, convincing her it was real and offering to let her play it sometime. They exchanged phone numbers. When Hollis Jones didn’t show up at Blondie’s on Halloween’s Eve, Morgan called Justin from the bar, and they arranged to meet in his shop, which was practically next door. Once there, a little tipsy, she sipped an herbal tea that he’d spiked with GHB. Something must’ve spooked her, because she escaped about thirty minutes later, pushing her way through the crowd on Sarah Hutchins Drive and running away from Bertrand Antiquities, afraid for her life. As the GHB began to take effect, she ducked into the alley, crawled inside a dumpster, stripped off her clothes in her delirium, and died from a lethal combination of drugs and alcohol.