by Meg Perry
Liz asked, “Did you find the boyfriend?”
Jon answered. “Not yet. Her friends knew she was seeing someone, but she was being coy about it. From some hints she’d dropped, they wondered if it was someone of a different race or religion. Her parents are very traditional. They wouldn’t have approved.”
Kevin said, “Her memorial service is this afternoon. We’re going.”
“To see who turns up?”
“Right.” Jon picked at the remains of his salad. “We’ve spoken to everyone on the list of her friends that the parents gave us, but they might have missed someone.”
Liz said, “Hoping this boyfriend will show?”
“Sure. Although he’s hardly likely to announce himself.”
I said, “But you still think the killer had to have an invitation to the wedding. Which doesn’t fit the boyfriend-as-killer theory very well. Unless the boyfriend was Brian.”
Kevin frowned. “We spent all day yesterday talking to all the caterers and valets again. The three PCC student caterers swore again that they didn’t know Elena, but we need to cross-check course schedules and instructors.”
Jon said, “We finally got to speak with the wedding planner. He’d been too rattled until yesterday. But he wasn’t any help.”
Liz said, “Do you have the guest list?”
Kevin snorted. “Not yet. The grooms are on a month-long honeymoon to Ibiza. They’ll provide it when they get back.”
I said, “But you - or rather, Branigan and her partner - talked to all the guests the day of the murder.”
“Yeah.”
“Who were the security guards at the wedding?”
Jon said, “Off-duty Beverly Hills cops. We’ve talked to them too.”
Kevin wadded up his napkin and tossed it onto his plate. “We’re getting nowhere so far.”
I said, “Maybe you’ll pick something up at the funeral.”
Jon said, “Right. Speaking of which, we’d better roll.”
“Yep.” Kevin stood and punched me in the shoulder. “Later, short stuff.”
We watched Kevin and Jon stride away. Liz said, “I can’t believe I’ve never asked you this. Why does he call you short stuff?”
I shrugged. “I’ve always been shorter than him. I don’t remember when it started, he’s been doing it so long.”
“A tauntingly affectionate nickname.”
I laughed. “Exactly.”
We went back inside for our reference shift. At 1:30, Clinton approached the desk. Liz said, “Hi, Clinton.”
He smiled. “The word of the day is sobriquet.” He bowed and walked away.
I said, “That one’s familiar.”
Liz looked it up and began to laugh. “It means nickname. Damn, how does he do that?”
After reference, I spent the rest of the day sniffing around the internet for chat about Jeremy Isaacson. I found a handful of potentially interesting sites. One was a blog, maintained by a fan, with a handful of ardent followers. I read through all of the entries, but there was no discussion of the stolen music. Since the theft hadn’t been reported in the news, the general public shouldn’t know anything about it.
But, of course, if the thief was one of the commenters, he or she would hardly mention it on a public forum, would they? Unless they weren’t very smart.
When I searched Yahoo Groups for “cello,” there were 280 results. Too many. I skimmed through the descriptions; a lot of them were inactive, some of them only mentioned the word “cello” in a post somewhere, and a lot of them weren’t in English. I’d need some help with interpretation.
When I searched for “jeremy isaacson,” I found eight groups. Only two were active, and both of those were in English. Good. I made a note of them.
Google Plus had too many “cello” results to look through. A search for “jeremy isaacson” produced some live people, but no pages or discussions.
There were a bunch of other independent cello sites with chat rooms for members. I bookmarked the ones that mentioned Isaacson for further examination and shut down my computer.
Time to go home.
Scott
An hour before the funeral, Scott entered the address of the church in Glendora into his GPS and pulled out of his parking spot, still chastising himself for agreeing to this.
He really needed to do something about Wiley.
He’d met Cameron Wiley the summer after his first season with the Philharmonic. A cellist from the London Symphony was doing a master class in LA, and Wiley had shown up. Scott had noticed Wiley’s talent almost immediately - after Scott himself, Wiley had been the best cellist in attendance by far.
Scott had been surprised to learn that Wiley taught at a community college. When he’d asked him about it, Wiley claimed that he loved to teach. Scott asked him why he didn’t play with an orchestra and give lessons, then; Wiley said that he had young kids and needed a daytime job. The longer they talked, the more reasons - excuses - Wiley came up with for his failure to reach his potential.
But in spite of it, Scott had liked the guy. He was good-looking, personable and funny, and Scott could see that he might be a good teacher. So he tried not to judge him too harshly.
They’d kept in touch over the years. Wiley usually showed up three or four times a season at a Philharmonic concert and would come backstage. Now that Scott thought about it, he’d only come to one concert in the past season. At the time, he told Scott that he’d started the PCC string quartet and had been busy playing a booked schedule.
Wiley must be wishing now that he’d waited another year to begin this quartet.
Scott had never been to Glendora, but his GPS didn’t let him down. He parked and locked the car, pulling his jacket on as he walked. The church wasn’t particularly attractive, built in the octagonal style that seemed to be de rigueur in contemporary church architecture. Scott thought to himself that Catholic churches usually had better taste.
Scott didn’t mind churches; he’d certainly played in plenty of them. He’d been raised Episcopalian and still enjoyed the rituals and music of high church, even though he was a confirmed agnostic. Some of the best music on the planet had been written for the church.
And churches often had outstanding acoustics.
Wiley was pacing worriedly at the foot of the sidewalk. When he saw Scott, his expression lightened. “Oh, thank God. I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
That was irritating. “I said I would, didn’t I?”
Wiley was instantly contrite. “Sure, of course. I’m sorry.”
He looked so hangdog that Scott couldn’t maintain his irritation. “Jeez, Wiley, relax. Come on. Let’s get a seat near the back.”
It looked like the place was going to be packed. Scott and Wiley slid into a pew. The service didn’t begin for another fifteen minutes, so Scott took a hymn book out of the pew rack and began flipping through it. He was studying the meter of an unfamiliar hymn when Wiley hissed, “Why do they have to be here?”
Scott turned his head to look in the direction in which Wiley was glaring. Kevin Brodie and Jon Eckhoff had just taken a seat at the very back of the sanctuary, on the opposite side of the aisle. Eckhoff caught Scott’s eye and nodded at him. Scott nodded back. “It’s police procedure, Wiley. In the case of an unsolved murder, the cops come to the funeral to see if someone turns up that they haven’t talked to yet.” At least that’s how it happened in mystery novels.
Wiley frowned. “It doesn’t seem - appropriate.”
Scott said, “If I’d had a family member murdered, I’d want to know the cops were doing everything they could. Elena’s family may be glad to see them here.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
The service was mercifully short. The priest, who apparently had known Elena since infancy, did most of the talking. A few of her friends spoke. Scott was surprised to see Stacy, the other violinist in the quartet, stand and play a solo piece. Once again, Scott was impressed with Stacy’s ability.
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When the service was over, the family formed a receiving line along the front walk. Scott veered in the opposite direction. “Wiley, I’m not going through that line.”
Wiley looked disappointed but only said, “Okay,” and joined the line.
Scott drifted over to where Kevin and Jon were standing, watching the crowd from behind sunglasses. Kevin said, “How’d you get roped into this?”
“Wiley begged. Anyone interesting here?”
“No. More interesting is who’s not here.”
“Who?”
“Your viola player. Brian Dalziel.”
“Oh.” Scott looked around. “Well, I didn’t get the impression that he and Elena were friends. You think there’s something to that?”
Jon said, “His father’s an attorney. He’s refused to allow Brian to speak with us.”
“His father? Isn’t Brian an adult?”
“Nope. He’s seventeen. A dual-enrolled student.”
“Dual-enrolled?”
“Taking college classes while finishing high school.”
Kevin asked, “Did you have any impressions of Brian besides not liking Elena?”
Scott tried to think. “No - but he was flushed when he came back from break. Like he’d been running, maybe.”
Jon said, “We’re going to ask Elena’s parents if they’ll convince Brian’s dad to let us question him in the interests of discovering who killed their daughter.”
Scott said, “You should ask Wiley to talk to the dad, too.”
Kevin looked over his shades at Scott, impressed. “Good idea. Why don’t you come with us?”
“Um - okay.” Scott scanned the crowd and saw that Wiley had just finished talking to Elena’s parents. “There he is.”
Wiley seemed to be looking for someone - maybe Scott himself. He turned just as Scott reached him, Kevin and Jon in tow, and blinked in surprise when he saw the detectives.
Kevin said, “Hi, Mr. Wiley. Might we have a word?”
“Of course. But I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
Jon said, “You might be able to help us with a problem. Brian Dalziel’s father is refusing to allow us to speak with Brian.”
“Oh.” Wiley looked back and forth between the detectives in puzzlement. “Why?”
Kevin said patiently, “We don’t know. The dad’s a lawyer, and Brian’s a minor. We don’t have a way to force the issue. Scott suggested that you might have some influence with the dad.”
Wiley ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I’ve never met Brian’s parents.”
Kevin’s eyes narrowed. It was pretty clear to Scott that he didn’t believe Wiley. “Really? They never came to any of his performances?”
“They did, but I never spoke to them. Brian never introduced us.” Wiley smiled. “I could pick them out of a lineup for you.”
“Thanks, that won’t be necessary.” Kevin was not amused.
Wiley turned to Scott. “I’ve got to get back to campus. Thanks for coming, Scott. I really appreciate it.”
Scott stood with Kevin and Jon and watched Wiley scurry toward the parking lot. Jon asked, “Is that likely? That Wiley’s never met the parents?”
“I - don’t know. My parents always made it a point to meet all of my teachers, but they were paying a hell of a lot more than community college tuition for my instruction.” Another idea occurred to Scott. “Stacy might know.”
Jon looked around. “The girl who played the solo? Is she still here?”
Scott stood on his toes and scanned the thinning crowd. “Yeah, there she is. Want me to get her?”
“If you would.”
Stacy was on the other side of the grassy area talking to a couple of other girls who stared at Scott as he approached. Stacy turned and broke into a smile. “Mr. Deering, hi! It was nice of you to come.”
“Mr. Wiley asked me to come with him. You played the Stravinsky beautifully.”
She beamed. “Thank you.”
“Can I speak to you for a minute?”
“Sure.” She said to her friends, “I’ll see you later,” then began to walk with Scott. “What’s up?”
“The detectives are here. The ones investigating Elena’s death. They’d like to ask you a question.”
“Oh. Okay.”
When they got back to where Kevin and Jon were standing, Stacy said, “Hi, Detective Brodie.”
Kevin pushed his shades to the top of his head and smiled. “Hi, Stacy. Thanks for coming over.”
“It’s no problem. What can I help you with?”
“We’re having trouble convincing Brian Dalziel’s dad to let him talk to us. Do you know Brian’s parents?”
Stacy grimaced. “Not to speak to. They come to our performances, but they’re not very friendly.”
“Did Brian ever introduce you to them?”
“No.”
“Do you remember if he ever introduced Mr. Wiley to them?”
Stacy looked surprised, then thought about it. “You know, I don’t remember ever seeing Mr. Wiley talk to Brian’s parents. They come for his performances, but they don’t hang around afterward, you know? They snatch Brian up and go home.”
Kevin said, “We were hoping one of you in the quartet would have an in with Brian’s parents, but it doesn’t sound like that’s the case.”
“No. Can’t you subpoena him or something?”
Jon grinned. “A subpoena is for a search, not an interview. Wouldn’t that be nice, though?”
Kevin said, “Listen, Stacy, while we have you here, let me ask you about something else. The day before the wedding, Elena stole a piece of music from the library at UCLA. Do you know anything about that?”
Even Scott could tell from the look on Stacy’s face that she didn’t. “No. You are - seriously?”
“Unfortunately, yes. She was seen on the security cameras with her Hello Kitty tote bag.”
Stacy shook her head slowly, thinking. “I - that’s astounding. I mean, I didn’t know Elena very well, but…” She bit her lip. “I guess I knew her even less well than I thought.”
Jon asked, “Did Elena need money?”
Stacy gave him a wry smile. “Don’t all students? At least, those of us in community college.”
Jon grinned. “Good point.”
“Do you think she stole this piece of music for money?”
Scott said, “It was a cello solo. She wouldn’t have wanted it for herself.”
Stacy was clearly flummoxed. “I can’t make sense out of that at all.”
Kevin asked, “Would she have done it for Mr. Wiley?”
Stacy’s jaw dropped. “No. I mean… No. I can’t imagine Mr. Wiley asking anyone to steal anything, and even if he did, I can’t imagine Elena agreeing to it. She didn’t even like him very much.”
That struck Scott as odd. Everyone liked Wiley. “Even though he gave her the opportunity to be in the quartet? Because both you and I know she wasn’t good enough for it.”
Stacy winced. “I know, she wasn’t. But you’re right, Mr. Wiley gave her the opportunity, and Elena didn’t appreciate it.” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “I hate to say this, under the circumstances, but she could be kind of a bitch.”
Kevin said, “Thanks so much for your help, Stacy. Do you still have my card?”
She nodded and gestured to her purse. “I do.”
“Good. You call us if you remember anything at all that might be helpful.”
“I will. Bye, Mr. Deering.”
“Bye.” Scott watched her go then turned to Kevin. “Sorry for jumping in there.”
“It’s fine. That was helpful.” Then Kevin narrowed his eyes at Scott, but there was a twinkle in those eyes. “Don’t ever do it again.”
Scott laughed. “Promise. Can I go?”
“Yep. See ya.” Kevin and Jon headed toward Elena’s parents.
Scott blew out a breath and went to the parking lot.
Jamie
On the
way home, I called Donna Aguilar to tell her about the chat sites. “I found them, but I don’t think I can tell which one would be best for smoking out a collector. I certainly don’t think that I could pass myself off as a cellist.”
“No. Nor would we expect you to. Hm…” Donna thought for a moment. “Let me talk to Kevin and Jon. Whatever we do needs to be coordinated.”
“Of course. Let me know what you decide.”
When I kissed Pete hello, he kissed me back then handed me a sheet of paper with two columns, labeled Pete and Jamie. Along the left margin were written four words: Old. New. Borrowed. Blue.
I said, “Are you serious?”
“Of course. This is serious business. If we don’t do this, it’s bad luck.”
“So is spending the night before the wedding with the groom, but I’m pretty sure that’s gonna happen.”
“So we need all the extra luck we can get.” He tapped the paper. “What do you already have?”
I shook my head - smiling - and sat at the table. “We should probably get married in new underwear.”
“I’ll pick some up tomorrow.”
“Our hiking boots can count as old.”
“Okay, that works. I’m going to wear a blue t-shirt and my blue plaid flannel shirt. What about blue for you?”
I thought. “I don’t own much that’s blue. It’s not a flattering color for me like it is for you.”
“What shirt are you going to wear?”
I only had a couple of flannel shirts. “The cream, tan and black one. Can one item serve in two categories?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“You could get me blue underwear.”
He laughed. “I don’t think we should risk angering the traditional marriage gods.”
“Is that who’s in charge of this? ‘Cause if so, I’m not so sure we should be playing along.”
“Pfft. I didn’t mean traditional marriage in that sense. I just meant - tradition.”
“Okay, fine.” I was drawing a blank. “Let me work on the blue. I have an idea for the borrowed.”
“What?”
I held up a forefinger and picked up my phone. When Ali answered I said, “Hey, Al, I need your help.”