by Phil Swann
Dani loved seeing the passion and enthusiasm of a child bubble from the old woman. Dani could swear she was watching her grow fifty years younger and two feet taller. The two exited the study through another door at the rear and descended a small stairwell that curved forty-five degrees to the right and emptied into a light, bright room at the back of the house.
The morning sun twisted through the old oaks of the lush backyard and sprinkled light through a large picture window, gently brushing the soft lavender walls of the lanai music room. Books filled the shelves of a built-in bookcase directly in front of Dani as she entered the room. She could make out a few titles of the larger ones: Oxford Dictionary of Music, Portrait of a Genius, Baker's Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, and Reader’s Digest's World's Best Loved Love Songs. The long wall opposite the window was filled with photographs of some of the world's greatest jazz musicians. Dani's eye was immediately caught by her favorites, Basie, Ellington, Parker, and of course, Armstrong. In the corner atop a small ivory pedestal was an enormous ebony bust of…Chopin? She does have eclectic taste. But directly across from it, filling most of the room, was a satin-black seven-foot Steinway.
"Oh, Mrs. Sugarberry, this is beautiful," Dani said, making a beeline for the instrument and looking under the open lid.
"Thank you, dear. Once again, you must forgive me, but I love it too.”
"It's pre-war, isn't it?" Dani's voice reverberated off the soundboard.
"Yes, 1914," Sugarberry said with pride.
"It's in magnificent condition."
"Please, dear, won't you play it?" Sugarberry asked, suddenly excited.
Dani lifted her head out of the instrument and smiled. "I'm sorry. I don't play piano. Cello's my instrument. I learned just enough to get me through the required courses in college. I stopped altogether in graduate school. One of my many regrets."
Sugarberry's face went sad. Dani noticed and tried to recover. "But please, won't you play me something? I'd love to hear this instrument."
"Oh, I don't play, either. I tried learning years ago but just couldn't seem to get the knack of it. Still, I do love this old piano," she said, stroking the top of the piano with her hand. Dani saw she had gone somewhere else, perhaps to a time and place kept alive by the instrument.
"Well, dear," Sugarberry snapped back, "let me show you my pride and joy. Why don't you have a seat here beside the piano, and I'll get the music."
Sugarberry went to a cedar chest under the picture window and began lifting out large photo albums. She set them on the table.
Dani opened the first album and began thumbing through the page—she'd study them more closely later back in her office. Each page contained a piece of sheet music, many dating back to before the turn of the century. There were marches by Sousa, a first edition of “St. Louis Blues” by W.C. Handy, as well as many very rare original works by the New England Impressionists, Horatio Parker, Arthur Foote, and even Charles Griffes. Legendary publishing companies such as Jerome H. Remick & Company and Whitney Warner were proudly displayed on many of the pieces.
As much as she resented Beckman for pulling her off the Women of Song project, she had to admit this was going to be a wonderful addition to the museum. All the pieces were in their own individual, non-acidic plastic sleeve and appeared to be in mint condition.
"Mrs. Sugarberry, these are magnificent," Dani said, not looking up.
"Do you think they're suitable for the museum?" Sugarberry asked cautiously.
Dani closed the album and looked kindly at the woman. Sugarberry was sitting wide-eyed on the piano bench, knees tightly locked and hands together on her lap. She had the look of a six-year-old waiting for a sign from a parent that she had done good.
"Yes, ma’am," Dani declared with authority. "The Smithsonian Institution and the National Archives of the United States of America will be honored to exhibit your fine collection. And on behalf of the Division of Musical History and this nation, I thank you for this very generous and historical contribution."
As the tears started falling down the proud lady's face, Dani decided that everything—the four years for the BA, the two years that followed for the masters, and the two years after that for her PhD—had all been worth it.
"Would you look at me.” Sugarberry said, retrieving a tissue from the table.
"May I join you?" Dani said, reaching for a tissue as well. The two women dabbed their eyes and then looked at each other. Both broke into laughter.
"Why don't I go get us another warm pot of tea and some strawberry pie? I pulled it from the oven before you arrived, should be perfect now.”
"Sounds wonderful."
After Sugarberry left the room, Dani went to the piano and sat down. She plucked a few keys in the middle of the keyboard and tried to remember some of the songs she'd learned back in college. It seemed so long ago now.
She hadn’t noticed the music stand in the far-left corner of the room. She rose from the piano and walked over for a closer view. The stand was mahogany and stood about four feet high with the top in the shape of a lyre. Displayed was a single page of music, a very old page of music. Dani got very close but didn't dare touch it. There was one melody line, no accompaniment, handwritten with no title and no claim of authorship. It was twelve bars in length, but the twelfth bar ended with a tied B-flat quarter note, obviously an incomplete phrase leading to a second page. Dani, still not wanting to touch the music, looked around the back of the stand. The carving of the lyre was such that she could see through to the back of the music—it was blank. Frigg, no second page.
"I see you've found the Cook," Sugarberry said, entering the room with the same tea service, but this time sporting two pieces of pie.
"The what?" Dani replied, startled.
"Well, I think it's a Cook. Maybe you can tell me for sure?"
"I'm not familiar with that composer."
"He wasn't really a composer. That's why no one's sure if it's his or not."
"Ma’am?" Dani asked.
"Doctor James Cook was a medical doctor and a member of the free black community in these parts during the days of slavery. He was also a violin teacher. I picked that up several years ago at an auction. The person selling it confessed he wasn't sure if it was authentic or not, but that didn't matter to me. I just loved the way it looked and felt. I also think it's a beautiful melody. I guess I just like things old."
"The music is interrupted. Do you have a second page?"
"Oh, aren’t you clever to see that. No, that's all I have."
Dani thought for a second. "Can't someone do an analysis of the handwriting to authenticate it? There must be other examples of his writing."
"Oh, there are plenty. No musical works though, just letters and things like that. I've had it analyzed, and it's definitely his writing. You see the thing is, no one knows if he actually composed the piece or just copied it.”
"That's fascinating."
"Oh, isn't it though? I just love a mystery," the woman said, making a face as she took a bite of strawberry pie. "Mmm, mmm. Oh, dear, you must try this pie. If I say so, I have outdone myself with this one."
Dani returned to the table where Sugarberry was sitting and dug into the pie. She was right—it was mmm, mmm.
As the two ate, Sugarberry asked about Dani's life, and the two talked for almost an hour until the tea was gone. Dani looked at her watch. "I really must be going now. Thank you for a wonderful morning.”
"No, dear, thank you. You have been a delight. Now, I presume you'll be taking my sheet music with you?"
"No, ma’am. For security sake, the institution will send a courier from Brink's by on Monday to retrieve the items."
"I see. That's very serious."
"No, ma’am, it’s just standard procedure. They are very well trained in transporting important artifacts for the museum." Dani caught the look on Sugarberry's face. "Don't worry, ma’am, I'll be here to make sure everything goes okay.”
Sugarberry
's face relaxed into a contented smile.
"However," Dani said hesitantly. "No, never mind."
"What, dear?"
"No, I can't, it's not a part of this project, so I have no authority to ask."
"What? Please, dear, do ask me," Sugarberry begged.
"Well…it's just…that piece on the music stand."
"The Cook?"
"Yes, the Cook. I was wondering if I could borrow it for a few days? I'd like to do some digging myself in my spare time."
"Well," Sugarberry hemmed, "I guess there'd be no harm, you—”
"No, I'm sorry, Mrs. Sugarberry, I should have never asked.”
"No, you take it. If you can learn something about it, that would be delightful."
"Are you sure? I promise I'll take very good care of it."
"Of course, dear. You take it and return it whenever you're through." Sugarberry took the old music from the music stand. "I even think I have something we can put it in."
"Thank you, Mrs. Sugarberry. I'll take very good care of this and return it in a few days."
"Whenever, dear."
∙•∙
Gertrude Sugarberry stood at the door, smiling and waving goodbye as Dani bounced down the cobblestone walkway and into her car. Sugarberry closed the door and walked back into the study where she and Dani had walked through to get to the music room. She rolled up the top of the desk and pulled the old black telephone close to her. She slowly dialed—not punched—a number and waited for an answer. It came on the second ring. "She's gone, dear." Sugarberry listened. "Yes, she took it with her, and I believe she may be just who we need." Sugarberry smiled. "I love you too, dear."
Chapter Eleven
Joshua Bowen turned onto Ventura Boulevard as David sat beside him writing on a yellow note pad. Bowen's knock had awakened David at seven-thirty a.m.—he'd slept for ten hours straight. After Bowen had dropped him off, David spent the first two hours tracking down the whereabouts of Ravel. After getting the runaround from the LAPD, David decided to call the Department of Animal Control directly. As it turned out, Ravel was being kept at a shelter two miles away. After retrieving the cat that, except for being thoroughly petrified, was none the worse for wear, David swung by the grocery store for cigarettes, a pre-roasted chicken, and some cat food. It was after nine by the time he got back to his apartment and began writing down the events of the past twenty-four hours as instructed by Bowen. A half-hour into the assignment, both he and the cat surrendered to exhaustion.
"Coming up with anything?"
"I don't know, maybe," David replied without looking up from the page.
"Well, what?"
"Hang on, I'm almost done." David scratched furiously over the page. "Yeah, that must be it. I knew it. I even told Jeep."
"What, tell me?"
"Okay," David said, taking a deep breath. "It has to go back to Harshbarger. Everything started going to hell after that."
"Wait, who's Harshbarger?"
"He's the guy I got in a fight with at the hotel."
Bowen looked confused.
"The guy I got arrested for beating up, and how you met J.P."
"Oh, okay, I'm with you."
"Okay, I get arrested, but Harshbarger doesn't want to press charges because he's got a wife. So he gets a couple of his henchmen to tail me."
Bowen reacted, "Wait, you were tailed? When?"
"After J.P. picked me up from the police station. J.P. thought it was my imagination, but I knew it wasn't."
"So you were tailed by Harshbarger. Why?"
"Retaliation. Only I'm with J.P., so they can't carry out the vendetta."
"Mr. Webber, this doesn't make any sense. What do they care if Jean Ann's with you or not?"
"She's a witness. She'd know it was Harshbarger's men."
"So? So would you. Unless they were planning on killing you, which I find hard to believe. You could report Harshbarger's harassment as easily as Jean Ann. Which leads me to the obvious question. Why didn't they just do whatever it is you think they wanted to do to you after Jean Ann dropped you off? And what does this have to do with what happened to Jean Ann?"
"Well, he must've kidnapped her," David answered.
"For retaliation?"
"Yeah."
"And Henry? Harshbarger just happened to know an old friend of yours you haven't seen in over ten years was staying at that hotel, so he decided to have him murdered to get back at you too? And he set all of this up to frame you because of a stupid barroom fight? Oh, and I forgot about your car. He would have also had to—”
"Okay, I got it already," David said. "So you got any better ideas?"
"No, but I know—”
"You wanted me to write down what I thought happened, that's what—”
"No, I told you to write down everything you could remember about the events leading up to Jean Ann's disappearance. There's a difference."
"What’s the difference?”
"Stop trying to make sense of the picture and just paint me the picture."
David came back with nothing. He knew Bowen was right. He was grasping at straws. Searching for anything that might make the insanity make sense.
"It's over there," David muttered.
Bowen pulled into the parking lot of the Bank of America.
David opened the door. "I'll be back in a minute."
“Mr. Webber,” Bowen said. “I’m sorry, I know it's tough, but I just don't think Harshbarger's the key."
David responded with a nod and shut the door.
Fifteen minutes later, David emerged from the bank carrying a leather pouch.
"That's it?" Bowen asked.
"This is it."
"Okay. Let's grab some breakfast. My treat."
»»•««
Bowen cut into his pastry as David opened the leather pouch.
"I haven't looked at this in years," David said, gently removing the clear laminate that housed the fragile work. A lump caught in his throat. It was a moment ago—no twelve years ago. He, Kathryn, and Henry were at Sardi's toasting the success of an A plus on his music history final. David would graduate with honors. Henry walked over, kissed him on the cheek, told him he was proud of him, and that he loved him. Then, he handed him the music and said it was the only thing of value he had and wanted him to have it.
"Wow, how old did you say it was?" Bowen asked.
"1790-91 is everyone's best guess. It's definitely toward the end of Mozart’s life when he lived in Vienna."
"Really, how do you know?"
"The watermark embossed on this sheet is consistent with the stock Mozart used on other pieces he's known to have written at the time."
"Cool, when did he die?"
"December 5, 1791."
“It’s held up pretty good."
"Yeah. So now what?"
"We go over it. Does it have anything written on it other than music?"
"Yeah," David answered.
"Really, let me see?"
David smiled slightly and handed him the music in the plastic sleeve.
Bowen put down his coffee and carefully took it. David watched as Bowen scanned the page.
"Hey, it's all written in—”
"German," David said with a smile. "You'll make detective in no time."
Bowen handed the music back to David. "So, what does it say?"
"Not much. It's part of some unfinished symphony, or opera, or something. Basically, it’s just notes to himself about things he wanted to do with the instruments. There's a lot of scribbles too, seems ol' Wolfgang was a doodler."
"Is this a one-of-a-kind—I mean are there other half-written, what did you call it, sketches out there?"
"There are parts of the guy spread all over the place. Wolfy was incredibly prolific. He composed more important works than any other composer in history. Sixteen operas, forty-one symphonies, twenty-seven piano and five violin concertos, twenty-five string quartets, nineteen masses, and about five hundred other works
in every style. And the son of a bitch died at thirty-six."
"Over five hundred. You're exaggerating, right?"
"Nope. He accumulated a catalog of over six hundred and twenty works. But one of the by-products of being a genius is also being a bit absent-minded. He would start something, forget where he put it, and just write it down again somewhere else."
"He could remember all that music and just write it down again?"
"Yeah. But he didn't always finish everything he started. There's a lot of unfinished shit floating around, as well as first drafts of works he revised later. This is all pretty common knowledge."
"Common knowledge to you. I don't know anything about the guy. Well, I did see part of that movie once. What was it called?"
"Amadeus. Good movie—bad history."
"What do you mean?"
"It wasn't accurate. It portrayed Mozart as some uncouth sex-crazed, drunken lunatic. In truth, he was quite religious, drank very lightly, and was deeply in love with his wife, Constanze." A distant smile filled David's eyes, "That was another reason Henry gave me the music. He thought it was right I should own it because Constanze's maiden name was the same as mine, Weber—but with one b. Yeah, Mozart was definitely different, maybe even a bit mad. And he did rub people the wrong way, but hey, the guy was a genius. Everyone knew it, even then."
"Wasn't he killed or something?"
David shook his head and raised his coffee cup. "More theatrical license. Lots of rumors like that started popping up after his death. Everyone from Leopold the Second to a supposed lover of Constanze was bandied about. Some even blamed the Freemasons.”
Bowen’s eyes widened. “The Freemasons, why?”
“Mozart was a Mason—pretty avid one too. One of his last operas was The Magic Flute. It’s known as a Masonic opera because it’s filled with the secret symbols and numerology crap of the brotherhood. Some speculated the Freemasons got pissed at Mozart for divulging sacred lodge secrets and killed him—total horseshit.”