Deadly Overtures: A Music Lover's Mystery

by Sarah Fox

  I probably should have kept walking, but my inexhaustible curiosity brought me to a halt and I stood at the foot of the stairs, listening.

  “What do you think people will say when they find out about your . . . liaison with Pavlina?” a woman asked, spitting out the word “liaison” as if it repulsed her.

  “When they find out?” a man’s voice echoed in an unconcerned drawl.

  I recognized the voice right away as belonging to Jeb Hartson, one of the competition’s judges. He always dressed like a cowboy and spoke with a drawl, even though he was born and raised in Halifax, Nova Scotia, the son of two lawyers.

  “You going to tell on us, Liv?” he asked, still sounding unconcerned.

  Liv. So the woman with him was Olivia Hutchcraft, the competition’s coordinator. Interesting.

  “This could get her disqualified from the competition,” Olivia said without answering Jeb’s question. “She should be disqualified.”

  “And why’s that? You really think a little hanky-panky’s gonna influence my decision?”

  “Of course I do! And so will everyone else once they know.” Olivia let out a sound of disgust. “And you strutting around like some ridiculous, self-absorbed peacock. You do know she’s only sleeping with you to ensure she wins the competition, don’t you?”

  Jeb laughed. “You think that’s the only reason? You should know better than that, honey buns.”

  “Don’t call me that.” Her words almost sizzled with hot anger.

  “Aw, don’t be jealous, darlin’.”

  “Jealous?” Olivia seethed. “Hardly.”

  “Really? Don’t you miss what we had back in the day?”

  “Not in the least,” Olivia said, her voice full of scorn. “This isn’t over, Jeb.”

  Her voice was closer when she spoke those last words and I jerked myself into motion. I dashed away from the foot of the stairs, only slowing my pace when I was within a stone’s throw of the open door to the musicians’ lounge. Before passing through the doorway, I cast a look over my shoulder in time to catch sight of Olivia reaching the bottom of the stairway, one hand clutching her clipboard in a death grip, her nostrils flared.

  Not wanting to give any indication that I’d overheard the argument, I slipped into the lounge and made my way over to my locker. All four finalists and a handful of musicians were already in the room, but I barely registered their presence. Jeb and Olivia’s conversation occupied too much of my attention.

  So Pavlina was sleeping with one of the competition’s judges. That was potentially scandalous, and Olivia was right—it was more than enough to get Pavlina disqualified from the competition. Would Olivia reveal what she knew and take Pavlina out of contention for the top prize? She’d certainly sounded angry enough to do so. It wasn’t any of my business, however, so I tried to forget about the matter.

  As I hung my coat up in my locker, Elena flounced into the room and sat down on one of the couches with a toss of her blond hair. She didn’t so much as glance in Pavlina’s direction, and the finalist took no notice of her either. That was probably for the best, and I hoped they’d continue to ignore each other, for the sake of everyone else in the room.

  Janine, one of the PGP’s first violinists, approached Pavlina with two other female members of the orchestra. They gathered around the finalist, exchanging a few words before Janine asked, “What was it like being on the cover of Classical Spotlight?”

  “It’s been great,” Pavlina replied. “Everyone’s been really excited for me. And, of course, the exposure is good for my career.”

  Elena let out a short, disdainful laugh. Everyone’s attention focused on her, and I could sense the tension in the room rising.

  Pavlina raised her voice. “Do you have a problem?”

  Elena stood up, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “A problem, no,” she said, her accented words scathing and condescending. “I simply find it amusing that one bit of media attention has inflated your head to the size of a beach ball.”

  My eyebrows shot up and I had to slap a hand over my mouth to stifle the burst of incredulous laughter that tried to escape. If anyone in the room had an overly inflated head, it was most definitely Elena.

  She shot a glare in my direction but spared me no more attention than that.

  “At least I’m not a sore loser,” Pavlina retorted.

  “Sore loser? I haven’t lost anything. I’m in the midst of a successful career.”

  “You lost the cover of Classical Spotlight. Everyone knows your story got buried in the middle of the magazine when they put me on the cover instead.”

  Yikes. I had no desire to get caught in the crossfire of Elena’s reaction to Pavlina bringing up that subject, but at the same time I was transfixed by the exchange, unable to tear myself away. The same seemed to be true for everyone else. Every set of eyes was focused on the two blondes facing off in the middle of the room.

  Elena’s perfectly plucked eyebrows drew together and a flush of color touched her cheeks. “For your information, I chose to give up the cover. I’m already so successful that I thought it was only kind to give the publicity to someone much less fortunate than myself.”

  I didn’t believe that for a second. There was no way Elena would have given up the spotlight for anyone or any reason.

  Pavlina obviously didn’t believe her either. She let out a harsh laugh. “Nice try. I’m sure the magazine’s editor would dash that claim to pieces in a matter of seconds.”

  The color in Elena’s cheeks deepened and I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if white-hot sparks of anger had flown from her narrowed blue eyes. “You might think you’re something special. But you’ll see—everyone will see—that your time in the spotlight will be fleeting.”

  With that, Elena strode from the room, her chin up, ignoring everyone she passed.

  Pavlina shook her head, smirking. “Can you believe her?”

  She directed the question at Janine and the others gathered around her, but none of them would meet her eyes now. Janine in particular kept her gaze toward the floor as she led the others in drifting away from Pavlina.

  I wasn’t surprised. Janine practically worshipped Elena—why, I never could quite fathom—and although she’d momentarily become enthralled by Pavlina, no doubt she still didn’t like seeing her idol cut down to size. Heck, I hadn’t enjoyed the scene and I didn’t even like Elena.

  An awkward silence had fallen over the room and I had a sudden urge to run from the theater to escape all the tension and animosity. But of course I couldn’t. The concert would start before long and I needed to get ready.

  Pavlina stared at everyone for a moment before dropping into a chair and focusing all her attention on her cell phone. I turned my back on the room and busied myself with removing my instrument from its case and tightening my bow. If the past two evenings were a good indication of what the atmosphere would be like at the theater until the competition was over—and I figured that it was—the next week couldn’t go by fast enough for me. Playing in the orchestra was normally something I thoroughly enjoyed, but putting up with all this backstage drama was anything but fun.

  As I rubbed some rosin on my bow, Olivia Hutchcraft strode into the room, all signs of her earlier anger gone, her face a mask of bland professionalism. Her gaze flitted ever so briefly in Pavlina’s direction, but aside from that there was no sign that the young woman was on her mind to a greater degree than any of the other finalists. When she called them over to gather around her, I held my breath, wondering if she would announce then and there that Pavlina was disqualified and why. But instead she simply went over some final instructions before shooing the finalists out the door so they could go take their seats in the front row of the theater.

  Strange, I thought.

  Why hadn’t she disqualified Pavlina? As far as I knew, Olivia was the perso
n in charge so surely she had the authority to do so, based on the information she had. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe there was someone else not present at the theater who was ultimately in charge of such decisions. If that were the case, it might take some time before a disqualification could be made official.

  I didn’t bother to mull the matter over any further. Mikayla had arrived, and minutes later we left the lounge together, our violins in hand. On our way to the stage, I spotted Elena speaking with a scowling young man. She didn’t appear much happier than he did, but since they were conversing in Russian, I couldn’t tell what they were so displeased about. As Mikayla and I drew closer, Elena spat out one last word and stalked off toward the lounge.

  Mikayla and I exchanged a look, but then we both shrugged and continued on to the stage, forgetting about the concertmaster within seconds. We took our places on the stage, our fellow musicians joining us over the next few minutes. Once we’d all tuned our instruments and the audience members were settled in their seats, Maestro Hans Clausen stepped up to a microphone set near the edge of the stage. A hush fell over the theater, broken only by a man’s cough. When that too subsided, Hans addressed the full house.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming tonight. The Point Grey Philharmonic is proud to have the honor of hosting the bi-annual young composers’ competition, a contest which showcases the incredible talent of composers in our country. While the competition was stiff this year, with many worthy entrants, the judges have narrowed the field to four rising stars among today’s classical composers.”

  After a brief moment of applause, Hans continued. “Before moving on to the music, I would first like to introduce the three esteemed classical music experts who are serving as judges for this year’s competition.” He outstretched his left hand toward the wings where the judges waited. “Please join me in welcoming Jeb Hartson, Yvonne Charbonneau, and Harold Dempsey.”

  As the audience applauded, Jeb Hartson led the judges’ procession across the stage, wearing a bolo tie and cowboy boots with his gray suit. He waved and winked at the audience, a big smile on his face as he strode across the stage, enjoying every second of his time in the spotlight. Behind him came Yvonne Charbonneau, gray-haired and in her early sixties. As reserved as Jeb Hartson was outgoing, she held herself primly as she walked toward Hans, only the barest hint of a smile on her face.

  Bringing up the tail end of the procession was Harold Dempsey, a professor of music at the University of British Columbia here in Vancouver. I’d taken one of his classes when I was a student there, and he hadn’t changed much in the intervening years, except perhaps for the addition of little more gray in his wavy dark brown hair. He raised a hand to the audience, giving them a nod and a smile on his way across the stage. When all three judges had shaken hands with Hans, they descended a short flight of stairs and took the seats reserved for them near the front of the theater.

  When the applause for the judges had died down, Hans introduced the first piece of music we were going to play, Pavlina’s Storm of Sorrows. He provided a snippet of information about Pavlina herself, including an outline of her musical education. Then he moved on to speak about her composition, describing it as innovative and beautifully eerie. After he added a few more words about the piece, it was time to begin.

  Hans took his place on the conductor’s podium and I raised my violin to my shoulder as my fellow musicians readied their own instruments. A short stretch of silence hung over the theater. Then, with a signal from Hans, we were off, bringing Pavlina’s composition to life.

  Storm of Sorrows had a distinctly modern flair, with the occasional dissonant, jarring phrase. Those parts weren’t quite to my personal musical taste, but overall, I couldn’t deny that the piece was beautiful, that it was uniquely Pavlina’s. The mournful and at times turbulent sounds created by each section of the orchestra blended together to create a haunting and memorable piece that I knew would leave a lasting impression on many members of the audience.

  When we reached the last note and drew it out until Hans signaled the end of the piece, barely a second of silence held the theater in a captivated hush before a roar of applause erupted from the audience. The bright lights hid Pavlina from view where she sat in the front row of the theater, but I knew she had to be pleased. We’d given life to her musical vision, and the audience had accepted it with appreciation and gratitude.

  Eventually, the applause died down and Hans approached the microphone once more. This time he spoke about Sherwin Banes and his composition, A Winter Symphony. While Sherwin hadn’t had the same media attention as Pavlina, he was still exceptionally talented. A Winter Symphony adhered more closely to the classical music of old than Pavlina’s did. In his music I could detect influences from Vivaldi, one of my favorite composers of all time. Although Pavlina’s Storm of Sorrows was arguably the most innovative of all the entries, Sherwin’s was more to my personal taste and I thoroughly enjoyed every movement of the symphony.

  After we played the last bar of music and applause once again filled the theater, my eyes strayed to the wings of the stage where Sherwin stood with Olivia Hutchcraft. Olivia was speaking to him quietly but urgently, and when Sherwin shook his head in response, she hurried off backstage, her ever-present clipboard in hand. Sherwin glanced around, uncertainty plain on his face.

  I turned my attention back to Hans as he spoke to the audience.

  “Please join me in welcoming to the stage tonight’s featured finalists, Pavlina Nicolova and Sherwin Banes.”

  The audience clapped and my eyes returned to the wings where Sherwin still stood, more uncertain than ever. He glanced behind him, but he was alone. My eyebrows drew together as I watched him. I was as puzzled as Sherwin apparently was. Where the heck was Pavlina?

  After receiving an encouraging nod from Hans, Sherwin took a hesitant step onto the stage. As he emerged into the bright light, he blinked, but then focused on Hans and crossed the stage with more confidence. Hans leaned toward him and whispered something in his ear, but when Sherwin shrugged and shook his head, Hans returned his attention to the audience.

  “I’m afraid Pavlina is unable to join us at this moment, but I’m pleased to present to you the composer of A Winter Symphony and one of our four finalists, Sherwin Banes.”

  If the people in the audience were thrown off by Pavlina’s absence, they didn’t let it affect their enthusiasm. They clapped warmly for Sherwin and he bowed twice before shaking hands with Hans. Then Sherwin retreated to the wings and I rose with the other members of the orchestra as Hans gestured to us. The audience applauded for us as well, and moments later the concert was officially over.

  Chatter filled the musicians’ lounge when I returned to the room with my fellow members of the orchestra. Everyone was in a good mood after the successful concert and I spotted Sherwin across the room with Dongmei, a big smile on his face. He had reason to be happy, but what about Pavlina? She should have been basking in the attention and success as well.

  I swept my eyes over everyone present, but there was no sign of Pavlina.

  Strange. I would have thought she’d want to enjoy every minute of her well-deserved attention. Whatever had kept her from her moment on stage at the end of the concert must have been significant.

  Forgetting about the finalists, I loosened my bow and tucked it into my instrument case along with my violin. Leaving my belongings in my locker, I snapped the combination lock shut and headed for the door.

  “Washroom?” Mikayla asked as she fell into step with me. When I nodded, she added, “Me too.”

  “The concert went well,” I commented as we made our way down the hallway and around a corner.

  “It did,” Mikayla agreed. “But it’s weird that Pavlina is missing.”

  “It’s definitely weird,” I said as we arrived at the washroom. I turned the knob and pushed the door open. “Maybe she’s sick or . . .”


  The rest of my sentence died out on my tongue and I came to an abrupt halt.

  Mikayla bumped into me from behind. “Oh my God,” she said as she looked over my shoulder at what had brought me to a standstill.

  Pavlina lay sprawled on the washroom floor, her eyes closed. Her head had lolled to one side and her hair was fanned out around her. Dark blood matted the hair at the back of her head and pooled beneath her on the tile floor.

  Still shocked, I took a tentative step toward her. “Pavlina?”

  She didn’t stir.

  A shrill scream cut through the small room, assaulting my eardrums. Mikayla and I both turned sharply. Janine Ko stood behind us, holding the washroom door open. Her eyes wide and horrified, she drew in a breath and let out another scream.

  The piercing shriek jolted me and Mikayla into action. I took another step toward Pavlina as Mikayla grabbed Janine’s arm and tugged her out of the washroom.

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” Mikayla said to me over her shoulder before the door shut behind her.

  Careful to avoid the pool of blood, I crouched down next to Pavlina and touched my fingers to her throat. I said her name again, but her eyelids didn’t so much as flutter and I felt no pulse against my fingers. A flare of panic set my heart beating faster. I moved my fingers to her wrist, trying once again to detect a pulse. I still couldn’t find one.

  Swallowing the lump of unease and distress forming in my throat, I straightened up and took a step back. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Pavlina and found that I was watching for the tiniest movement, the slightest sign that she was breathing, that she was alive. At the same time I already knew there would be nothing of the sort.