Deadly Overtures: A Music Lover's Mystery

by Sarah Fox

  It didn’t take me long to track down the detectives. I found them standing on the stage, conferring with one another. They were the only ones present, all the chairs now empty, the music stands holding nothing save for the occasional forgotten pencil used for marking up music.

  My footsteps caught the attention of the detectives and they broke off their conversation as they looked my way.

  “My name’s Midori Bishop,” I said when I reached the two men. “My stand partner and I were the ones who found Pavlina’s body the other night.”

  “Right,” Detective Chowdhury said, consulting his notebook. “We’ve read your statement.”

  “Did you have something to add to it?” Detective Van den Broek asked.

  “Not exactly,” I replied. “I don’t have any more information about finding Pavlina’s body, but there are some other things I thought you should know, since her death is no longer being considered an accident.”

  Detective Van den Broek gestured to the nearest chair. I sat down as he pulled up another chair and produced his own notebook and pen from the pocket of his suit jacket. Detective Chowdhury also reached for another chair, but when his cell phone rang he abandoned the piece of furniture. As he answered the call, he nodded at his partner and headed off the stage, speaking in a low voice to whoever was on the other end of the line.

  “Did you know Ms. Nicolova well?” Detective Van den Broek asked as he flipped his notebook to a blank page.

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t know her personally at all. I’d heard about her before, but I’d never actually seen her in person until the dress rehearsal the night before she was killed.”

  Van den Broek made a short note. “So what was it you wanted to tell me?”

  I did my best to order my thoughts. “You might have already heard this from someone else, but Pavlina and Ethan Rogerson didn’t like each other much.”

  “What gave you that impression?” Neither his voice nor his expression indicated any particular interest in what I’d said.

  “The way they spoke to each other backstage. They didn’t respect each other’s music, that’s for sure.”

  “I suppose that’s not surprising,” the detective said. “They were each other’s competition, and big egos aren’t exactly a rarity among you musician types, are they?”

  I bristled at his words, though they had some merit. “We aren’t all egotistical and self-centered, but no, such people aren’t a rarity in this profession, especially among the exceptionally talented ones.”

  “Like the finalists in the competition.”

  I nodded.

  Detective Van den Broek flipped his notebook shut, his attention already drifting away from me. “Is that all?”

  “No.” I tried not to grit my teeth together. The detective’s disinterest irked me, but I still felt obligated to share with him what I’d overheard the previous week. “It’s my understanding that Pavlina was involved with one of the competition’s judges, Jeb Hartson.”

  “Involved?”

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “Romantically.”

  “I see,” the detective said, his voice still neutral. “And how did you find out about this?”

  “I overheard a conversation between Jeb Hartson and Olivia Hutchcraft, the competition’s coordinator. Accidentally,” I hastened to add. “I gathered that Olivia had been involved with Jeb as well, at some point, and Jeb thought she was jealous. But she insisted that her concern was for the integrity of the competition.”

  Van den Broek regarded me impassively for a moment. “If Mr. Hartson and Ms. Nicolova were indeed involved and Ms. Hutchcraft knew about it, wouldn’t Ms. Nicolova have been disqualified from the competition?”

  “You’d think so,” I said. “But I was under the impression that Olivia had only recently come by that information. Maybe Pavlina would have been disqualified if she’d lived long enough.”

  As I spoke, I had to quell a sense of growing frustration. All I was doing was attempting to help the police with their investigation, yet the detective seemed completely uninterested. Maybe the information I’d shared wasn’t relevant, but could he really be so sure of that already?

  “Anything else?” Van den Broek flipped open his notebook and made a brief notation before shutting it again.

  I battled the glower that wanted to take over my face, somehow managing to keep my expression neutral. “No. That’s all. I just wanted to make sure you knew what was going on behind the scenes, whether it turns out to be of importance or not.”

  The detective stood up. “I appreciate that.”

  He didn’t sound particularly appreciative.

  “If you have any more information to share, please get in touch.” He handed me a business card, although he didn’t sound like he was at all eager to hear from me again.

  “I’ll do that,” I said, a hint of a chill to my voice. I stood up and pocketed the card. “Good night, Detective.”

  He didn’t offer any parting words in return.

  As I left him on the stage and made my way back toward the musicians’ lounge, I silently cursed the circumstances that had led to Detectives Van den Broek and Chowdhury taking charge of Pavlina’s murder case. Detective Salnikova, who’d investigated two previous murders connected to the orchestra, was much more pleasant to deal with. Sure, she had an annoying habit of not answering my questions and she tended to get exasperated with me at times, but at least I never doubted her interest in the cases she was working. With Detective Van den Broek, I couldn’t tell if he cared at all about solving the crime or if he was simply going through the motions so he could get paid.

  If it was the latter, would the murderer ever get caught or would he or she be free to roam among us indefinitely? I shuddered at the thought of possibly passing the killer in the hall, not knowing their dark secret. Perhaps the killer had followed Pavlina to the theater and had no connection to the competition or the Point Grey Philharmonic, but for some reason I found that hard to believe. After all, there must have been less populated places to do away with Pavlina than the theater. If the murder had been premeditated, then why carry it out here? And if it wasn’t premeditated, then how would anyone without a connection to the theater have ended up in the women’s washroom with Pavlina?

  No, it was more likely than not that there was a connection.

  As I passed by the closed door of a maintenance cupboard, my thoughts turned to Fred and his toolbox. If the blood on his hammer belonged to Pavlina, did that narrow the list of suspects at all?

  I wondered how many people would have had access to Fred’s tools. Pausing in the hallway, I decided there was only one way to find out. Giving up on my plan to gather up my belongings and head home, I instead set off in search of Fred.

  Considering the time of night, I didn’t know for sure if he would still be at the theater. I’d often spotted him working after rehearsals, but I’d remained at the theater longer than usual and didn’t know if he worked the same hours each day or not. I remembered hearing something about a judges’ meeting being held in one of the upstairs conference rooms, so I knew I wasn’t alone in the theater, but it felt like I was. Heavy silence hung over the corridor, broken only by the soft sound of my footfalls on the red carpeting.

  I couldn’t hear any voices and wondered if the detectives had gone home. That was entirely possible since the stage was empty of life when I returned to the wings and peeked out at the unoccupied chairs and music stands. I stood still and listened for a moment, but could hear no telltale sounds of maintenance work going on. Crossing the stage, I passed through the wings on the opposite side and followed a corridor lined with dressing rooms, all of the doors currently shut tight.

  At the end of the hallway I pushed through a door and stepped into the theater’s lobby. Still lit up, the lobby featured more red carpeting, ticket windows, a shuttered concessio
n stand, washrooms, four cushioned benches, and two elegant, curving stairways that led up to the balcony and private boxes. The silence was as heavy in the lobby as it had been in the corridor and I decided to give up on my search. But as I turned to make my way back through the door, a clanking sound drew my attention. The door to the men’s washroom opened and Fred emerged, his toolbox in hand.

  “Evening, Midori,” Fred said when he caught sight of me.

  “Hi, Fred.”

  The maintenance man had worked at the theater for many years and we’d been on a first-name basis for a long time.

  “You’re here late tonight,” he commented.

  “I am,” I agreed, as I left the door to approach him. “I was looking for you, actually.”

  “Something need to be fixed?”

  “No. I wanted to ask you about your tools.” Both our gazes shifted to the toolbox in his hand. “Did the police ever tell you if the blood on your hammer was Pavlina’s?”

  “The dead woman?” He shook his head. “That was a real shame, losing her life so young. But no, the police haven’t told me anything. And I’m not sure I want to know. If my hammer was used to kill that poor young woman . . . Well, that makes me feel responsible for her death.”

  “Even if it was the murder weapon, her death wasn’t your fault,” I tried to assure him. “If the killer didn’t use your hammer, he or she would have found something else to use.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Fred sighed heavily. “Still, it’s a terrible thing. Does everyone know that blood was found on my hammer?”

  “No. I only know because I overheard you telling the police the other night. It doesn’t seem to be general knowledge.”

  A hint of relief registered on Fred’s creased face. “That’s something, at least. I wouldn’t want people thinking I’d killed her.”

  “I’m sure no one would think that.”

  He didn’t seem entirely convinced. “Of course, people might still find out, and I’m just grateful the police haven’t hauled me off to jail.”

  “Surely they don’t think you’re a suspect?” The idea seemed preposterous to me, but I’d known Fred for years whereas the police knew nothing about him.

  “They sure asked me a lot of questions the other night. It’s their job to, of course, but I’m not sure my old ticker could handle time in the slammer.”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that,” I said quickly, hoping fervently that was the truth. “Maybe the blood wasn’t Pavlina’s. Even if it was, you weren’t the only one with access to your tools that night, were you?”

  “No, I sure wasn’t.” Fred scratched his head, thinking back. “The police asked me this as well. I’d left my toolbox out in the hall while I went to my maintenance cupboard to fetch a mop. I’d fixed a leaky pipe in one of the men’s rooms, but there was water all over the floor. When I got back, I didn’t notice whether my hammer was there or not. It wasn’t until I went to put my tools away that I noticed the blood, but the toolbox was still out in the hall while I was mopping up the water. If someone was quiet about it, they could have taken my hammer and returned it without me being any the wiser.”

  “Hopefully the killer left fingerprints behind,” I said. “That would help the investigation. If your hammer really was the murder weapon.”

  “I sure hope it wasn’t, but my gut tells me it was. And there aren’t many times when my gut is wrong.”

  I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Everything will turn out all right in the end.”

  “I hope so.” He nodded at me. “I’d better get on. You have yourself a good night, Midori.”

  “You too, Fred.”

  He passed through the door leading to the corridor I’d followed to the lobby. I almost took the same route as him, but then decided to cross the lobby to get to the other side of the theater where the musicians’ lounge was located. I passed by the shuttered concession stand and reached a recessed door on the far side of the lobby. As I was about to push through it, a man’s voice caught my attention.

  “It’s all taken care of,” the man said. “They don’t suspect a thing.”

  An eerie chill ran up my spine and I remained frozen to the spot. Glancing over my shoulder toward the nearest curving staircase, I spotted Jeb Hartson in a suit and bolo tie, descending the stairs, lowering a cell phone from his ear.

  With a sudden stab of fear cutting through me, I opened the door as silently and as quickly as I could. Then I slipped through it and fled down the hall toward the musicians’ lounge, hoping with all my might that Jeb had no clue I’d overheard him.

  Chapter Seven

  BY THE TIME I returned to the musicians’ lounge, the door was locked, all other members of the orchestra now gone. Fortunately, I had my key in my pocket and was able to retrieve my belongings from my locker. While quickly shrugging into my coat and pulling on my gloves, I kept glancing toward the door. My nerves were worn thin like a well-used violin string, ready to snap under the smallest amount of pressure.

  As soon as possible, I hitched my tote bag over my shoulder, grabbed my instrument case, and shut and locked my locker. I flipped off the lights as I left the room and locked the door behind me. Pausing outside the lounge, I glanced up and down the corridor. It was empty, thick silence ringing in my ears.

  Not wanting to hang about any longer, I hurried to the stage door and left the theater for the chilly, dark night, my warm breath puffing out in small clouds in front of my face. While I was relieved that I hadn’t run into Jeb since I’d overheard him in the lobby, I couldn’t get away from the theater fast enough. It was usually a comforting place for me, but it was nothing of the sort at the moment. I couldn’t help thinking of Pavlina’s killer stalking the hallways, whether that killer was Jeb or someone else.

  As I made my way down the short alley, I kept glancing this way and that, jumpier than a hyper kangaroo. When I reached the parking lot, my footsteps slowed. Voices danced through the cold night air, jumbled words I couldn’t decipher sounding at two different pitches. As I continued toward my MINI Cooper—one of only four cars left in the lot—I spotted Elena near her silver Mercedes-Benz, speaking with the same man I’d seen her with before the concert on the night of Pavlina’s death.

  I strained my ears but still couldn’t make out their words, and I soon realized they were once again speaking Russian. But while I couldn’t understand their words, Elena’s body language required no translation. As I watched, she threw her hands up in the air and spat out several exasperated words. The man said something in return and she shook her head, cutting him off with a rapid stream of Russian.

  Arriving at my car, I fumbled with my keys as I kept an eye on Elena and the mystery man. I managed to get the door unlocked and when I opened it, the movement caught Elena’s eye. Her head snapped in my direction and she glared at me from across the parking lot. Feigning disinterest, I stashed my violin behind the driver’s seat, tossed my tote bag over to the passenger’s side, and climbed in.

  When I pulled the door shut my eyes went back to Elena, but she too had climbed into her car. The mystery man climbed in next to her and the engine roared to life, the headlights slicing through the night. Elena wasted no time reversing out of her parking spot and careening out of the lot. I followed in my MINI Cooper at a safer pace, and by the time I reached the main road, Elena’s vehicle had disappeared from sight.

  I would have been lying if I said I had no interest in knowing who the man with Elena was. I was far too curious by nature not to wonder. But as I paused at a red light a minute later, other memories of the evening crept to the forefront of my mind, crowding out any lingering thoughts of Elena and the man who’d left with her.

  Clanging the loudest for my attention was my memory of Jeb Hartson’s recent words. What was it that was all taken care of? What did nobody suspect? That he’d killed Pavlina?

/>   If that was the case, who was he talking to? And why would he have wanted Pavlina dead?

  If Pavlina had threatened to make their relationship public, it was entirely possible that such news could have negatively affected his reputation and career. It was unlikely that he’d ever be asked to judge another contest once it was widely known that he’d had an inappropriate relationship with one of the finalists in the young composers’ competition. Maybe his colleagues would have looked down on him as well, causing more damage to his career by reducing other future opportunities.

  The problem with that scenario was that—as far as I could see—Pavlina herself had stood to lose plenty by making their relationship public. Revealing such information during the competition would likely have led to her disqualification, as I suspected would have happened if she’d lived long enough for Olivia to set that ball rolling. Even if she’d won the competition and had already made off with the prize money before revealing her relationship with Jeb, she likely would have been disgraced in the media, and people would have surmised that she’d won because she was sleeping with Jeb, rather than because of her talent. Whether or not that would have been true or fair, the perception could have darkened the prospects for her otherwise bright future.

  It was entirely possible that there were facts still unknown to me that would paint a clearer picture of why Jeb would want Pavlina dead, but based on what I knew at the moment, it seemed far more likely that he would have wanted Olivia out of the way. She knew Jeb and Pavlina’s secret and whether or not she herself could have made the decision to disqualify Pavlina and boot Jeb from the judging panel, she certainly could have taken the first step toward that outcome by telling what she knew to those in charge.

  Since Olivia had that power, I would have been convinced of Jeb’s guilt if she’d been the victim rather than Pavlina. As it was, a note of uncertainty jingled at the back of my head, making me wonder if the words I’d overheard held any real significance after all. If his statements were indicative of his guilt, the police needed to know what I’d overheard. But I could already imagine how completely disinterested Detective Van den Broek would be when he heard the brief tale of that moment in the lobby.