Just in Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  “Fine. I’ll stay a few minutes. Then you two lovebirds can get back to…whatever.”

  A serene smile spread over Lola’s face. Yowza!

  * * * *

  After a good night’s sleep—minus any camping or contestant dreams—I awoke bright-eyed and ready to pounce on the day. In between setting up the refreshments for Bye, Bye, Birdie and calming the kitchen yesterday, I’d made a couple of phone calls. The first to the alumni organization at the Maynard Institute to see if they had anything archived on Ruby.

  The operator said the receptionist was out but would be back in the morning. The second call was to Greenburg, Indiana information to see if any of Ruby’s relatives still lived in the town. I figured Bill would also be searching for Ruby’s family, but his focus right now was on the medical examiner’s findings and the carbon monoxide tampering. Bad luck on the second call—there were no Passonatas in Greenburg. There could be Passonatas in other parts of Indiana, or the rest of the country for that matter. I had to admit I was less interested in Ruby’s killer than I was in her past.

  I showered and dressed in a lightweight pair of slacks and a pale, blue, sleeveless blouse that flaunted my upper arms nicely. Not too shabby. I decided that I would zip into Manhattan after meeting with Lola and Dale and speak with the alumni office. They wouldn’t need me at the Windjammer until lunch—plenty of time to interview the receptionist. Besides, Enrico and Carmen worked weekends, easing the pressure on Henry and the dining room.

  My neighborhood was sleeping in this morning. No lawn mowers or sprinklers. I backed out of the driveway and headed to State Route 53. Dale and Lola were breakfasting at a café on Main Street in Creston that I had frequented in the past whenever I needed some time away from Etonville. It was certainly more private than Coffee Heaven and far removed from the town’s ever-nosy citizens who would, no doubt, have opinions on last night’s near-washout of a performance. Those opinions were probably more than Lola and Dale could handle this morning. I’d declined Lola’s offer of a ride to Creston since I needed to get to New York as soon as possible and didn’t intend to overstay my welcome.

  Traffic was light on the highway, and I eased into a parking space in front of the café at nine. I peered in the front window and saw Lola and Dale already cozy in a booth by the door. They made a good-looking duo. Dale had the looks of a cartoon character: a chiseled face, muscled upper arms, and a cleft chin. I entered, and when the waiter at the counter looked up I pointed to the occupied booth.

  “Hi. Hope I’m not intruding.”

  Lola tore her attention away from Dale. “Dodie! What a nice surprise! Whatever are you doing in Creston?”

  Huh? What was Lola doing? “Uh…well…I had an errand in town and thought I’d stop in for coffee—”

  “Have a seat,” Dale said smoothly. He showed no sign that he might be upset that I was joining them.

  Lola shifted over, moving her coffee cup and table setting and gave me a sideways glance. She wasn’t a diva for nothing…I read the subtext. Mum’s the word on my invitation to meet with them.

  I sat down. “Thanks. You two must be pleased with the show last night. It went well.”

  “Until the rain,” Lola said, a trifle mournfully.

  I ordered coffee and refused a menu. “Good news on tonight’s weather. The skies look clear.”

  Dale scowled slightly. “Not too bad for an opening. There were some hits and misses.”

  I couldn’t afford to waste time. I had to swing this conversation into Ruby territory soon. “I guess Alex had some trouble with music cues?”

  “Some?” Dale hooted. Lola smiled wanly.

  “Must be difficult juggling the piano and the musical direction,” I said.

  “Real professionals can manage both,” he said.

  Professionals? It was a community theater production during a rain shower.

  “Alex did his best,” Lola interjected.

  I dove in. “So unfortunate about Ruby. She was a genius at the keyboard, right?”

  Dale hesitated. “A genius? She was competent.”

  Whoa. Some salt in that wound. There was something to their offstage spat. “I heard she went to the Maynard Institute.”

  Lola studied the dregs in her coffee cup. Dale became frosty. “Where did you hear that?”

  I sneaked a glimpse of Lola’s face: totally noncommittal. What was going on with her? She knew about the scrapbook too. Obviously, Dale had no more idea of Ruby’s background than Alex had. “One of the Creston Players might have mentioned it,” I said.

  Dale snorted. “Why would someone who attended the Maynard Institute play the piano for a community theater?”

  “It does seem unusual,” I said.

  In a bid to move the conversation to safer territory, Lola grabbed a non-sequitur out of thin air. “Speaking of unusual, did you know Dale is a financial advisor? He’s giving me fantastic portfolio advice.” Lola put on her dazzling smile.

  “I didn’t know. If I had any money to be advised about, I’d sign up.”

  Dale relaxed into the seat back and graced us with a short chuckle. “It’s a good time to be in the stock market.”

  “Right. Well, I should be going.” I stood up and grabbed my bag. “See you tonight. Here’s hoping the weather holds.”

  I waved good-bye, and Lola rotated in her seat to give me a pointed stare intended to communicate something. But what?

  * * * *

  Trucking into Manhattan on a weekend morning was nothing compared to rush hour on a weekday. I cruised onto Route 3 East past the Meadowlands and the stadium where the New York Giants played, the strip malls and outlets that lined the highway. I made my way to the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel within fifteen minutes.

  The Maynard Institute was located on New York’s Upper West Side, but my best bet was parking in Midtown. With the pleasant weather, I was tempted to walk the thirty blocks to the school, but given my schedule, a taxi was a better solution. I flagged one down and we zigged and zagged through city traffic. Before I could formulate an opening salvo for the alumni receptionist, the cab pulled up in front of the Institute.

  Wrought iron gates encircled a quad that fronted the main administration building. I’d checked out the campus map online, so I felt somewhat familiar with the layout. I walked through the gates, past a cluster of ivy-covered structures dating from the eighteenth century. The Maynard Institute was an oasis of serenity in the midst of the bustling city—a kind of artistic paradise. It was not surprising that tuition, fees, and room and board topped fifty thousand a year. Of course, when Ruby entered the school in 1958, her scholarship would have been worth far less.

  As I approached Ostracher Hall, where the alumni office was located, the music of a string quartet poured out an open window. Students hustled in and out of buildings. I considered the setting, trying to imagine a young Ruby making her mark here, which still felt odd—knowing the Creston Players accompanist as I did. The building directory pointed me to room 132. The floor tile sparkled, the walls overlaid with mahogany-stained wainscoting. The atmosphere reminded me of the hushed reverence of a church, except for the bone-chilling air conditioning.

  I pushed open the wooden door to room 132 and faced the receptionist, who was on the telephone. Martha Bissel, according to her nameplate, had gray hair styled in a pageboy, wore a crisp white blouse and deep red lipstick. Her lined face suggested she was probably in her early seventies. Martha looked up and gestured to me to “hold on.” I moved away from her desk and sat on a stuffed chair out of the range of her conversation. When my cell pinged, I surreptitiously withdrew it from my bag as if I was involved in illicit activity and stole a glimpse. It was Lola: I can explain! I hoped so.

  “Now then, young lady, what can I do for you?” Martha asked politely.

  I approached the receptionist. “Hello. I’m wondering if y
ou can help me.”

  “It depends.” A jovial grin creased her face. I’d bet she was fun on a night out with her girlfriends.

  “I’m trying to find some information on an alum of the Maynard Institute.”

  “Oh? Who might that be?” she asked.

  I had already resolved to play it straight. Less complicated. “Ruby Passonata.”

  Martha frowned. “I’ve been here fifteen years. I don’t recall anyone by that name,” she said, her fingers poised above her keyboard. “How do you spell her last name?”

  “P-a-s-s-o-n-a-t-a. But she would have graduated well before 2000,” I said hastily. “Around 1962.”

  “Our database doesn’t go back that far. There might be paper records, but they’re stashed away in the basement.”

  I apparently didn’t do a terrific job of concealing my disappointment. “Oh.”

  The receptionist laced her fingers together and leaned forward. “If you tell me what you are looking for, I can offer some assistance.”

  How much information to share? Odds are Ruby’s murder hadn’t been broadcast in the New York media. “I met Ruby recently…she was accompanying a musical production at a community theater in New Jersey. She died…suddenly.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Martha Bissel was genuinely sympathetic.

  “When I was helping to sort through her…personal things…” Mostly true. “…we found a scrapbook that mentioned the Maynard Institute and contained dozens of clippings from concerts and tours after she graduated from here. She was an international celebrity pianist.”

  Martha beamed like a gratified parent. “Many of our graduates have gone on to stellar careers. Maynard has a very proud tradition.”

  “I was hoping there would be some record of her time here,” I said. “Someone who remembered her.”

  The receptionist studied me quizzically.

  “I’d like to…I don’t know…know more about her.” Is that what I wanted?

  “Well, as I said, records from that far back, over fifty years, have been archived and locked away in dusty old files that no one ever searches. I don’t have access to them.”

  I nodded and shifted my purse from one shoulder to the other. “Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.”

  “But there may be one other source of information.” She scribbled on a Post-It note. “Professor Yurkov was on the piano faculty in the sixties. He’s nearly ninety now and retired for several decades. But he comes around and keeps in touch. He might remember Ruby.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “That’s wonderful.”

  “And he lives right around the corner on Amsterdam.” She handed me the note. “I have to warn you. He’s a tad gruff at first, but after a while, he warms up,” she said with a twinkle.

  I nodded. “Got it.”

  “By the way, he loves cannoli from the bake shop next door to his apartment building.”

  * * * *

  On the sidewalk beyond the wrought iron gates, I checked my watch. I’d intended to buzz into the city and buzz out again, arriving at the Windjammer by noon. It was ten thirty. I still had time to call on Professor Yurkov. Martha graciously offered to call and give him a heads-up so I could stop in the bakery and pick up his favorite dessert. By ten forty-five, I was ringing the buzzer for B. Yurkov, apartment 2C, and climbing the stairs to the second floor.

  I knocked on his door and it immediately opened four or five inches, the chain in place. A wild halo of white hair surrounded a pudgy face, which filled the gap. “Yes?” he said brusquely.

  “Professor Yurkov? Martha Bissel in the Maynard alumni office suggested I speak with you.”

  “Why?”

  The receptionist was spot-on. The professor would require a little wooing. “I’d like to ask you about Ruby Passonata. She was a student there in the sixties and Martha thought you might remember her.”

  The professor released the chain from the door. It clattered against the jamb. “Ruby? You know Ruby?” he asked, excited.

  “Yes, I do.” Did.

  The door opened wide and he stood on the threshold. His face was clean-shaven, his starched shirt collar dug into the folds of skin on his neck. He sported a bow tie, sweater vest, and neatly pressed trousers. Professor Yurkov was all dressed up. Did he have any place to go? He stared at me. “Come in. Come in.”

  “Thank you.” I lifted the cake box. “Martha also mentioned you are a fan of cannoli, Professor Yurkov,” I said.

  “Please call me Boris, and don’t put much stock in what Martha says,” he grumbled, but took the box and inhaled the scent of the cannoli. He pointed to a settee covered by a colorful afghan. “Please sit.”

  He disappeared into the kitchen where I could hear him moving about, probably making coffee. I glanced around the apartment. Not much larger than Ruby’s, but with tons more personality. Reading materials and tchotchkes crammed the bookshelves. Photos decorated one wall, and a lace doily covered an end table. The end table, next to a recliner, held reading glasses and a coffee cup.

  “Do you take milk or sugar?”

  “Black is fine,” I said.

  The professor reappeared with a cup of coffee for me and the plate of cannoli. He set both on a coffee table and settled himself into the recliner. “Now what about Ruby?” He bit into the crispy shell of a cannoli, savoring the sweet creamy filling.

  “You remember her?” I asked eagerly.

  He gave me a withering look. “What? A teacher should not remember his best student? I taught for over forty years—students from every state and many countries.” He halted as if seeing a lineup of four decades of pupils. “No one…Ruby was the most promising musician I ever taught. Eat!” He pointed to the plate of cannoli.

  I took one. “When I knew her, she seemed like a genius.”

  His bushy eyebrows shot upward. “Genius? Yes! You say you knew her?”

  I explained how I’d met Ruby, that she’d passed away, and that her scrapbook had intrigued me. After a moment to absorb her passing, Boris described her talent, the awards, and concert tours—much of which I’d already read about.

  “Community theater? Bye, Bye, Birdie?” Boris looked aghast. “I had no idea she was in New Jersey.”

  “Were you in touch in recent years?” I asked, nibbling on the pastry.

  Boris picked up another cannoli. “The last time I heard from her was in…1969.”

  The last year there were clippings in the scrapbook. “Do you know why she stopped performing? Did something happen?”

  He took a sip of his coffee. “I have no idea. I was astonished to learn she had retired at such a young age. I called her and asked why? She said she never wanted to play again. I was astounded! I pleaded with her to see me. Tried to talk sense into her. Tried to persuade her to go back on tour.” He dabbed at his eyes. “But she hung up the phone. We never spoke again.”

  Silence for a moment.

  “But you never forgot her,” I said.

  “Never.”

  “Boris, I’m wondering…was there anything about Ruby or her past that you would consider…unusual? Remarkable?” I asked.

  “Unusual?” His brow puckered as he finished off the cannoli, wiping stray crumbs from his lips.

  “I know she came from a town in Indiana. Ending up at the Maynard Institute must have seemed unusual.”

  “I don’t know about that. Ruby was a private person,” he said.

  I finished off my coffee and stood. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” I held out my hand and Boris shook it.

  “Thank you for the cannoli.” He bowed slightly.

  I turned to leave.

  “Wait!”

  I swung around and faced the professor again. “Yes?”

  “In her final year, a month before she graduated, we had a meeting set. I
was waiting for her to arrive. It was not like Ruby to be late. I was more impatient in those days,” he said sadly.

  “Something happened?” I asked.

  “My office window was open, and I heard loud voices in the quad. It was Ruby and a young man. I don’t think he was a Maynard student.” He gazed upward as if trying to retrieve the moment from his memory. “The man…he was explaining something, I think. He said, ‘Ruby, I’m sorry,’ over and over.”

  “What did Ruby say?”

  “She screamed. ‘If you think you are sorry now, just wait.’”

  “A lovers’ quarrel?”

  “That would not have been so surprising. I looked out the window. They sat on a bench. The young man was in great distress, but what shocked me was the rage on Ruby’s face. I had never seen anything like that from her before.”

  “Did you speak with her?”

  “Ten minutes later she knocked on my door in good spirits, as though the fight had never happened.”

  “Ruby never mentioned it?”

  “Never.”

  “I wonder who the guy was?”

  “She shouted his name but…” Boris shrugged, then rose from his recliner and crossed to the bookshelf. He rummaged around a stack of albums and returned with a photo. He held it out. “Ruby’s final concert at Maynard.”

  Ruby and Boris were side by side, she in an evening gown, he in a tux. Both beaming. “She looks so happy here.”

  “She played like an angel that night…Chopin and Bach.”

  I wrote my cell number on a piece of paper and Boris agreed to call if he remembered anything else.

  As I opened the door, he said, “Her voice was full of vengeance.”

  10

  Lunch was crazier than usual. Much of Etonville was taking advantage of the pleasant weather, and the Windjammer was standing room only. All anyone could talk about was Bye, Bye, Birdie, the rain, and the wacky ending.

  “I laughed myself silly,” said Vernon. “That curtain call was the best part of the evening.”

  Mildred thumped his shoulder. “Don’t let Penny or Walter hear you. The cast is supposed to take their bows with respectability, regardless of the weather.”