by Alexie Aaron
“The band. I don’t know, you could ask Miles about whether or not there’s a tape.”
Smiling, Detective Curtis said, “I have a lot to ask Miles it seems.” Looking back through his papers, he asked, “Ms. Fin-Lathen, how did you get so much blood on you?”
“Miles fainted when he saw Carl and fell on me, and we both ended up on the floor.” I pointed to the area under Carl. “Two security guards helped pull that big wuss off me. You can ask one of them. I also tracked quite a bit of blood leaving my chair and walking to the rest room.”
“Hold on a minute.” He turned around and waved the photographer over. While he was waiting for her, he jotted down some more notes. I craned my neck to see what he was writing. I thought, if only I could get a bit closer I might be able to make out what was on that clipboard of his. Not that I was curious. No, I was very curious because I was feeling more like a suspect than a witness.
“Amy, could you get some pictures of Ms. Fin-Lathen and find some clothes for her because we will be taking hers with us.”
“Hold on, Curtis. Detective. This is a Ralph Lauren tux. Why do you want my clothes?”
“Do you watch crime shows on television Ms. Fin-Lathen?
“Yes, sometimes, CSI and Law and Order, Criminal Minds...” I started to list more but he held up his hand.
“Let’s just say we need to properly collect as much evidence as we can get to find out exactly what happened to Mr. Campbell, Carl.” He took a deep breath and blew the excess air out of his nose. “I want to assure you, I am not a, quote, brain trust, unquote.” His face was serious and even though I could see a touch of humor in his brown eyes, I decided to comply with his wishes.
“Detective, what about our instruments,” I asked as I surveyed the empty stage. “You’re not going to “collect” them are you?”
“Don’t worry. After everyone has been questioned, and the scene totally photographed you can take your instrument home.” He started to walk away but hesitated. Turning back, he asked, “Tell me, did you like Carl?”
“I hated him. Still do.”
“I guess we will be talking further.”
“Guess so.”
I waited there until Amy returned with my new ensemble. Looking around I observed that more officers had arrived, and Detective Curtis had headed to the coffee room with them. I imagined that they had a frustrating evening ahead of them getting statements from the band. Not to mention a long night considering that there were fifty-five or so members of the band, one conductor, and one guest announcer.
Amy returned with an apologetic look. She handed me a blood red choir gown. She mentioned that I would have to return it to the theater, dry-cleaned. I gave her a look of disdain, and followed her into a dressing room, where she photographed me. The blood had seeped into the back of my white tux shirt. My bra and underpants were ruined, as were my socks and shoes. As I washed up at the sink, after getting permission to do so, I watched Amy via the mirror. She handled everything with gloved hands. Each item of clothing was placed in a plastic bag and labeled.
“Do you have to take my shoes?”
“Sorry, they’re ruined anyway.” She said holding up the bag containing them.
I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. One would assume it was for Carl. I knew it was for my shoes. You see, I have a problem with shoes or them with me. I have yet to actually wear out a pair of shoes or even get through a season with them. My last trip to England was a costly one, shoe wise. The Devon/Cornwall Constabulary have a few pair residing in evidence bags, as did the Met in London. The pair I just lost was purchased there while I awaited the trial that had exonerated me for the accidental death of a beautiful transvestite and the self-defense death of her paramour.
I checked out my new choir ensemble in the mirror before following Amy back on to the stage. I looked down at my toenails and regretted the earlier impulse to paint them fuchsia. Thank God, I shaved my legs recently.
Carl had finally been removed. His saxophone rested upside down in a plastic bag and carelessly placed in a cardboard box at the feet of Detective Curtis, who was bagging the end of the microphone stand that until a few minutes ago had rested inside Carl’s chest.
“What now?” I asked as I arrived, tapping my pink big toe on the floor.
He looked over at me, and I think he winced. “Red’s not your color.”
“I wasn’t aware of that. Thank you for pointing that out,” I said sarcastically. “And since you have now become my fashion consultant, would you mind if I told you that you are ruining that saxophone?”
“I don’t think Carl will mind.”
“His heirs may. That’s a 1970s Selmer series Mark 6, which is a very expensive instrument. His case must be around here somewhere.”
“I don’t understand, case?”
“Pardon me for telling you your job, but shouldn’t you be looking into his belongings?” I started to pace, being careful not to step in any blood with my bare feet. “He didn’t drive here with his saxophone in his hands. Where are his case, his keys, his jacket, and his tape recorder? He always taped his performances.”
“How do you know so much about this guy that you ‘hated’?”
“I have been playing in this band for ten years. And in that ten years Carl has arrived late to everything. He makes his presence known, he never stops talking. I would have to be deaf and blind not to notice things about Carl. Hell, I bet you most of the old folks in that audience tonight know about that arrogant fuss pot!”
“Well, since I am Carl-trivia challenged at the moment, how about you and I take a walk around and see if we can spot his things before I release the other members of the band.”
“Fine, if you would please turn Carl’s saxophone over. I may have disliked Carl but his saxophone deserves better treatment.”
“Good one?”
“The best, it’s just a shame Carl never knew how to play it.”
Chapter Three
Detective Curtis and I found Carl’s Saxophone case and gig bag not far from the back entrance to the stage. His car was in the loading zone with the keys still in the ignition. By the way it was parked Carl must have been really late. A breeze picked up my gown, and I grabbed it before it gave Detective Curtis another adjective to write next to my name. Tall, middle-aged, saggy, nude woman with fuchsia painted toenails who could lose a few pounds was not the impression I wanted to give, even if it appeared that I was now suspect number one.
We didn’t find the tape recorder, and Detective Curtis noted to ask Mrs. Campbell whether or not he intended to tape the performance. With Carl’s belongings photographed, tagged and put into evidence bags, and instructions left to tow his car, Detective Curtis turned his attention back to me.
“Coffee?”
“I would love some, black.”
“Why don’t you pack up your instrument, gather your things and sit over by the announcer’s podium?”
“Not done with me yet?”
“No, I think I may need your expertise on some other questions I have. Oh, do you have someone waiting for you?”
“Here? No.”
“At home? Are you married?”
“Not anymore.”
“So, you could stick around for a while?”
“Hell, why not, I seem to be dressed for it.” I smiled and curtseyed.
I think he may have started to laugh, just a little. Maybe he was starting to understand just how ridiculous I felt.
“Black coffee coming up.”
Of course he didn’t bring it. It was Dudley Do-Right that delivered it with a grunt. I sat there with my now-cased alto, folded-up stand and purse. I had turned on my cell phone to see if I had any messages, and there were none. My social life had hit the skids not long after my adventure in England. Not that I had many friends, mind you, but after the headlines died down and I was no longer a novelty for dinner parties, I ceased to exist in all but my band mates eyes, who, truth be known, always regarded me w
ith suspicion and a little disdain.
From my seat I had a great view of the stage without being seen. I could see each person as they left the coffee/interrogation room and went and packed up their instrument. I noticed that I wasn’t the only one watching. I saw Detective Curtis standing in the wings on the other side of the stage.
The officers must have interviewed the band members according to their instrumental section because I noticed the first people to come out were all tuba and bass players. The baritones, euphoniums and trombones followed starting with the first chair trombone who had been sitting right behind where Carl would have sat if he had arrived on time. The cornets and trumpets came next.
The French horns and bassoons sat in front of them. The two bassoonists had a considerable amount of gear between their massive instruments and stands. The gentlemen loaded their equipment on a luggage trolley and rolled away chattering to themselves. The saxophone section was next to pack up. The baritone sax player, the two tenors and the three altos that remained were actually quite jovial. They waited for each other at the back entrance, and I think I overheard that they were going out to “celebrate”.
The flutes came out quietly, packed up quickly and left without looking over at the spot in which Carl had been found. The flutes sat in the front, starting on the left in front of Carl and curving around to the right, butting up against the two oboe players. Our first chair oboe player, Mark, was fabulous. I believe that he had been a studio musician in New York before he retired. I liked him as much as I disliked the second chair oboe, Cheryl. She thought she was as good if not better than Mark and whined constantly about having to play the second oboe part. Sometimes Mark would be generous and give her a solo or two, but frequently the conductor would take them away after Cheryl botched them in rehearsal.
Cheryl was convinced that she knew best and would constantly talk back to the conductor, which wasted rehearsal time. Socially I didn’t have much to do with her. She was a chain-talker and never really said anything. A couple of years ago, Bernice noticed that Cheryl had been copying my sense of style and would point out each infraction to me at rehearsal. “Isn’t that your bracelet? Look, there’s your tote bag.” And the worst of all, “She’s wearing your outfit.” What amazed me was why she would dress like me. I am a tall, busty redhead, thirty pounds overweight and dress accordingly. Cheryl is a petite brunette with a size four behind.
All I could figure out was that Cheryl copied everyone that she knew in some way or another. I think she stopped trying to be me this last Christmas when I celebrated my husband leaving me for an heiress and gave myself a BMW Z3 topaz blue roadster. Cheryl and her husband are presently on the outs, so she would have to be happy with her old green Honda.
Mark came onstage and gathered his equipment. He had taken his oboe with him at intermission so all that remained for him to collect was his oboe stand and the water cup that he used to soak his backup reed during performance. Cheryl, on the other hand, had gadgets galore. Some musicians feel that the more stuff they have the better they will play. Swabs and tissue paper for the removal of the moisture that accumulates are necessary, as the tone does suffers the wetter the inside of the instrument gets. But Cheryl also had a porcelain cup to soak her three backup reeds, a cup holder that attached to her stand so she wouldn’t need to exert herself by reaching to the floor, a tuner, music clips (for holding music outside, why she needed them indoors was a puzzlement to me), and a black cloth to drape over her skirt. Maybe if Cheryl spent less time reading accessory catalogs and more time practicing she would be sitting in Mark’s chair. No, probably not.
After Cheryl had finished putting away her reeds, she did something so totally gross. She flung the water in her cup out into the auditorium. For the brief moment it took the drops to fly by me I smelled flowers. That was a new one. I hadn’t heard of perfumed reed water. She put everything in a bag that was attached to a luggage trolley, no doubt copied from the bassoon players, and rolled it right through the crime scene, ignoring the protests of the officers as she left the building.
The clarinet section came onto the stage en masse. Three first, four second, six third clarinetists and two bass clarinet players gossiped as they hurriedly packed up. An officer, who had learned by Cheryl’s bad graces, stepped up and assisted Bernice and Art by handing their instruments to them so that they did not venture any closer to the crime scene. Bernice looked around the stage and asked Art if he had seen me, but since I didn’t want to expose myself to all those people I kept quiet in my hiding spot. I would call her later and explain my absence. Maybe it would be my one call from the police station, I thought sourly, wondering if I would also have to ask her to find me a lawyer.
The percussionists took their time packing up the equipment and moving it off the six-inch risers into the storage room at the back of the stage. Our conductor Doctor Sanders walked out to his stand, gathered his scores and walked back into the coffee room. Detective Curtis must have decided to join in on the fun because he followed him. They were gone for some time before Doctor Sanders reemerged. He seemed angry, and I noticed his hand shook as he grabbed his baton off the podium before leaving the stage. I wondered how he was feeling. Did he despair at the failed concert or revel in the, although untimely, exit of a major thorn in his side.
Our announcer, news anchor David Thebes, came onto the stage and nodded curtly to me as he gathered his notes from the podium. He took in how I was dressed with a practiced eye. I was surprised he didn’t ask me any questions. He just turned and nosed around the crime scene while complaining to no one in particular that he should have been notified of the crime - something about civic duty and wanting everyone’s badge number. Dudley Do-Right escorted him out with the help of the remaining two security officers.
All that were left in the theater were Miles, the cast of characters who called themselves police officers, and me. Now, I admit my last thought was the result of my increasingly surly mood. Waiting didn’t help matters. The group of officers that had conducted the interviews and Detective Curtis were comparing notes in the coffee room when I walked in.
“Can I leave now?”
“Yes, but don’t leave the county, country, planet. You know the drill,” Detective Curtis said dismissing me.
“Excuse me.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know where you can reach me?” I saw the blank looks and the papers flying as he scanned for the information. “I thought so. Good night, gentlemen.” I backed out the door.
“Wait!”
“Too late,” I called over my shoulder. Dudley tried to catch up with me before I had gathered my stuff and was on the way out.
“We need information, your address.”
“Really. Tell you what. You help carry my stuff out to my car and I will spill my guts. Or you can get it from the DMV if you’re quick enough to copy down my plate as I drive out of here.”
I think the moron actually went for his gun before I heard Detective Curtis’ voice command, “Officer Dudley, walk the lady out.”
Chapter Four
I don’t remember much about the drive home. I could recall my barefoot on the gas pedal, amused looks by the toll takers, and driving into the garage and putting down the door before getting out of the car. I didn’t want the neighbors to have too much to gossip about. I turned off the alarm and walked into the den. The answering machine light was blinking. I decided I would wait till I had a long shower and a shot, no, a glass of whiskey before playing back the messages. I turned on the house alarm before going into the bathroom. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel safe. It was because each time I got in the shower I could have sworn I could hear someone talking. This precaution would ease my imagination.
My bathroom is beautiful and calming, although the beauty did not come without cost. This was the room I was painting when I fell. I was painting the ceiling twelve feet up when the ladder twisted beneath me and I fell, landing in the marble tub. I was injured and cove
red with a gallon of latex ceiling pant. I opted to take a shower before heading to the hospital. Not a real smart thing to do but definitely a Cindy Fin-Lathen thing to do.
After I healed, I finished the bathroom. I didn’t want it to win. By using a long pole and the brushes needed, I painted the ceiling and the walls. I never got on a ladder again. I have applied a grapevine border and have since named the bathroom “The Grapes of Wrath.”
The shower warmed me up and eased the tension out of my neck. Keeping my eyes closed, I washed off the blood. I started to mull over the events of the evening. I tried to remember more about the night than I recalled to Detective Curtis earlier. With my eyes still closed, I put myself in my seat at the beginning of the concert and looked around the band. Was anyone missing? Just Carl, and because of my ruminations, he was now in the shower with me. His face showed horror and something else, recognition. Had he recognize death or his killer?
The thought came slamming into my head. He knew who killed him! Yes, he did. I was sure of it. I turned off the water and toweled off. I pulled on my “husband dumped me for a whore” ugly pajamas and headed into the kitchen. I poured some Irish whiskey over ice and swirled the ice around by jiggling the glass. The tinkling sound was rather musical. Such a slight sound and I could hear it. Carl dies and no one hears it, that is, beyond the one scream. We were all musicians, trained to listen across the band, taught since grade school to know when we were out of tune, taking tempos from the conductor and the other musicians we were playing with. It didn’t make any sense that someone wouldn’t have heard Carl.
I drank deep from my glass, feeling the bite, while pushing those thoughts away. The answering machine called. With both my son and daughter away at school, I was feeling a bit vulnerable. Maybe one of them left me a message. I would have loved to hear at least one of their voices. I settled into my chair and pushed play.
“Cindy this is Bernice. Call. I will be up late.” Click. Ten fifty-one P M.