The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3

by Alexie Aaron

  “Don’t worry, I just lost my appetite.” I tossed my remaining sandwich in the white deli bag and went into the building to gather the music folders.

  ~

  With Harry’s help I stowed all the folders in my car. I had to use the passenger seat as the trunk is very small, and with my alto we could only squeeze in ten folders. He seat-belted the thirty folders and cautioned me to ease to a standstill as a jarring stop would send the folders flying.

  “Yes, Daddy,” I said sarcastically.

  “Hey now, I’m just looking out for your best interests.”

  “Sounds like part of a speech I gave Alex once.”

  “You gave it to the both of us one evening.”

  “I guess I was a nag.”

  “No, you cared. You were a friend when I needed you and a mom when my mom was too ill.”

  “Thanks, Harry.”

  “No, thank you!” He gave me a big smile and ducked in time to miss the rub on the head I was going to give him.

  I closed up the car and we wandered into the building. Detective Curtis motioned us over to him.

  “This is how it looks so far. The killer was waiting for Carl outside. He lured him over and killed him here. He had some nerve considering it was still daylight at six-thirty. He then dragged him in, and the rest of our thesis seems to fit.” He looked over at me. “The ‘where’ has been solved. The ‘who’ and ‘why’ is yet to be determined.”

  “It is the ‘who’ that bothers me the most.”

  “I know it could have been anyone, no, more correctly, any male.”

  “That gives me little comfort considering, there are forty-one males in the band.”

  “What about looking at who left the stage before the sound changed? Wouldn’t that narrow it down?” suggested Harry.

  Detective Curtis patted Harry on the back. “I’m one step ahead of you. The tape is cued and all we need is Cin here.”

  I groaned and followed Harry and the detective. The detective asked Harry. “So what’s your major?”

  “Performance art.”

  “Performance art? It should be law enforcement.”

  “No way, I’m allergic to donuts,” Harry insisted.

  I sat down once again and looked at the monitor. Detective Curtis, whom I would call by his first name if I could recall it, had stopped the tape right at the sound change.

  “Tell me who is still on the stage.”

  I rattled off the names, and he crossed them off his list. Allowing that some of them may have been right behind the killer and subtracting the women, he came up with twenty-nine names. Twenty-six band members, Miles the conductor, and the announcer.

  “I’m going to run this by my supervisor before I attend your practice. I have here that it’s at Coconut Palms High School,” Curtis looked at me and I nodded. “Until we get this resolved, don’t share what we’ve found with anyone, Cin. Harry that goes triple for you. We need to keep our killer feeling safe and sound. It would be very dangerous for both of you if the killer knew you had some idea of who he was.” He was very serious, and I heard more than caution in his voice. I heard concern.

  “Detective, I have one more question.”

  “Yes, Cin.”

  “What’s your first name? Detective Curtis is quite a mouthful.”

  “Anthony.”

  “Don’t tell me, your mother calls you Tony,” Harry said. “You should have been in performance arts and not law enforcement!”

  I left with them bickering. I had fifteen minutes before I had to be at practice. I needed time to prepare myself to walk into a room where Carl’s killer may be. More importantly, I needed to act blissfully unaware that he was there.

  Chapter Seven

  Coconut Palms High School parking lot was almost full by the time I arrived. I opted not to park the car as the forty-some music folders and my stuff would be too much for me to carry. I eased my car up on the wide sidewalk and drove through the courtyard, stopping just outside the band room door. Several of the smoking members were outside still, so I asked them to help me take in the folders. We unloaded them in record time. I went in and dropped my things on and by my chair and ran out to move my car before the school’s security people had me ticketed.

  I was lucky to find a spot not too far away, and with the aid of my longs legs I made it back to the band room with five minutes to spare. I was pleased to see my folder placed on my stand. I must have a guardian angel today. I quickly set up my stand, opened my case, chose a reed, and stuck it in my mouth while I went through the task of assembling my alto. Clarinet players use a single cut bamboo reed in varying strengths, moistened to produce the vibration needed. Bassoonists and oboe players use a double reed cut and banded together. These sometimes need to be soaked beyond the preparation a single reed normally gets. In short we use the saliva in our mouths.

  The sound of a band warming up is not for the weak or sensitive. The trumpet players insist on hitting high notes they rarely play in concert. Add in the other instruments all playing something different. Well, I guess you could call it “Ode to a Train Wreck”.

  Above the din, I could hear snatches of conversation, mostly speculating about what happened to Carl yesterday. I avoided any eye contact, so I didn’t have to talk to anyone. Cheryl sat down in front of me and pushed back into my stand, nearly knocking the music off of it.

  “Cheryl, be careful!” I warned.

  “You’re in my space anyway. When you’re in my space you better move.” She turned around and smiled. “Did you see my bottle of water yesterday?”

  “Bottle of water?”

  “Yes, oboe players must have the purest water for their reeds, not just spit like you clarinets use. I had it before the concert and after the concert it was gone.”

  “I didn’t see it, and I was the last to leave.”

  “Why were you there so long? Oh that’s right; someone has to pick up after us,” she said smugly.

  “Bitch,” I thought to myself and pointed to the clock, indicating to Cheryl that we were going to start soon. When she got up to get some water from the water fountain just outside the door for her reed cup, I pushed her chair back up with my foot, and, as I adjusted my reed on my mouthpiece, Doctor Sanders took the podium.

  “You only played half a concert yesterday. And that half was miserable. People, you have to watch the transitions! Bassoons, do you know what an after beat is? It comes after the beat! That said, I think that Carl’s accident was unfortunate, but Carl was a showman and he would want us to move forward and produce a good concert. But right now, I think we should have a moment of silence for Carl.”

  The band quieted down. I looked around at the band. Most of the members sat stoically. The saxophones elbowed each other, and the two bassoons whispered behind their stands.

  Doctor Sanders tapped the stand with his baton. “B flat concert scale.”

  We were well into our Bb concert scale when Cheryl sat back down. She chose a reed from her cup and blew out the excess water. Some of it landing on a neighboring flute player’s music. We finished the scale with Cheryl squawking out some notes. Taking off the malfunctioning reed, she grabbed the other reeds and put them into her mouth.

  “Last night was ill-fated but we must carry on. We have two more concerts this month and not nearly enough time to prepare. Take out March Grandioso. Let’s take it from letter F. Notice the key change, and it is piano. As always, piano means very quiet and not look mom hear what I can do. One and two and...”

  The band started and was restarted several times until we had the level of sound he was asking for. We practiced the rough spots, and, when Doctor Sanders was satisfied, we went back to the beginning and played the piece all the way through.

  “Since we are in a marchy mood, take out Washington Post. We had some trouble with that last night.”

  Cheryl was fidgeting again. Mark turned and looked at her with annoyance and then concern.

  “Are you alright?” Mark
asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. My heart is beating so hard and... Lord, I think I’m going to puke!” She got up, ran by the conductor and out the door heading for the ladies room.

  Doctor Sanders looked from the door to Mark. Mark shrugged his shoulders. Doctor Sanders lifted his baton and the band started. Through the piece I kept an eye on the conductor and an eye on the door for Cheryl’s return. She hadn’t returned by the time we finished the march. Doctor Sanders got off the podium and walked over to Mark, asking quietly what happened to Cheryl. Mark told him she seemed ill and went to the ladies room. Doctor Sanders leaned over her empty chair and asked me, “Cindy, do you think you could go and see how she is?”

  “Sure, no problem,” I said as I put my alto in the stand and obediently left to find Cheryl. What was I going to say, no, I’m sorry but the Cheryl’s no friend of mine? I was so blinded by my silent fit of temper that I almost collided with Detective Curtis on my way out the door. He looked at me questioningly.

  “Cheryl, one of the oboe players is sick. I am going to go and check on her,” I explained.

  “Is Art at practice?” He asked.

  “Yes, back row behind my chair,” I said over my shoulder.

  South Florida schools are built in an open courtyard design. Covered walkways connect the buildings. The restrooms were in the neighboring fine arts building. Not a long walk but a big pain when it’s raining. Florida’s rain rarely travels straight down. I pushed open the door and was pushed back by the smell. Someone had vomited and maybe worse. I took a deep breath and carefully walked over the vomit. “Cheryl, are you in here?” No answer, I pushed stall after stall open. No Cheryl. I, finally, found her in the handicap stall at the end. She was on the toilet leaning sideways with her head resting in the sink.

  “Cheryl?” I asked quietly.

  No response. I reached over and lifted her head up. She moaned, her breathing was barely there, but she was still alive. I turned on my cell and dialed 911. After having the operator send medical help, I asked her to connect me to Detective Curtis’ cell phone.

  “Curtis here.”

  “This is Cin. Cheryl is real bad in the girls’ restroom. Next building. Get someone to show you. I think she’s dying!”

  “On my way.”

  “Come on, Cheryl, hang on!” I held her head up off her chest. Her body was running sweat. It felt like her heart was beating outside of her chest. Her size four jeans were dangling from her legs. “Ah, Cheryl, you poor dear. What did you eat?” I reached up and grabbed a paper towel and with my best balancing job, manage to wet it down. I tried to cool her down by wiping her face with the towel. I heard Tony burst through the door. “Here!” I yelled.

  “I have someone waiting for the paramedics.” He filled the remaining space of the stall. “Mother of god...”

  “She’s still breathing, but… ” I gestured at the toilet.

  Pushing Cheryl back a bit, he found what I had noticed just moments before. Blood, a lot of blood. Too much blood.

  “Where...” he started to ask.

  “Intestines from the smell of this place. Poor kid has it coming out of both ends.”

  “Food poisoning?”

  “I don’t know. Does it come on this fast?”

  Just then Cheryl convulsed and more vomit flew in the sink.

  “Make sure and clear it from her airway,” he said as he searched around for a pulse. “This kid’s heart is going to explode. How long has she been in here?”

  “Ten, eleven minutes, tops.”

  The door burst open and Ed and Bill, the paramedics from the night before, came in. Ed slid all the way through the vomit. I squeezed by them, following Tony. He must have heard me sliding because he turned, grabbed me securely and guided me through Cheryl’s dinner. He stood me at the sink and proceeded to wash my hands and arms and tried to sponge off my jeans. I waved him away. I just got out of the way as Bill ran by me.

  “Ed, do you need my help?” Tony called.

  “Bill went for the board. I think we may get her out of here before she codes. Does anyone know what she was on?”

  “On?” I looked at Tony.

  “Drugs?”

  “She seemed fine at practice. I could go get her purse.”

  Bill was back, and I left to see if I could find her purse. I ran into the band room. Everyone was still rehearsing. It seemed so unreal. I flew by the conductor and grabbed Cheryl’s purse and tote bag. I was out of there before Doctor Sanders could stop the band. I caught up with the emergency crew at the ambulance where they were loading Cheryl in. I gave them her bags and stepped back. My legs didn’t want to hold me anymore. I stiffened up my knees and waited till someone told me what to do. Ed rode in the ambulance, and Bill followed in the truck. Tony was talking to the school’s security when the patrol cars arrived.

  After briefing the officers, he turned around and stared at me. His serious face softened a bit. “What the hell happened here?”

  “What the hell is happening here?” I corrected. “First Carl then Cheryl. Now don’t tell me what she’s going through is natural! She was fine. She was her self-centered bitchy self at the start of practice.” And I cursed her. I called her a bitch, even if it was in my head, I still did it, I finished silently. I started wringing my hands.

  “Cin, hold together now. I need you. Did you see her eat or drink anything?”

  “She came in, arranged her stuff. She filled her reed cup from the water fountain. Then she put her reeds in the cup. Her concert reed was bad, so she chose another one.” I looked up at him. “Could it be the water?”

  “First let me get my breath back.” He opened the door and walked in. “Excuse me.” Most of the band continued to play. Doctor Sanders looked at him coolly before he waved his arms to cut off the band. “Thank you, Doctor Sanders.” He walked up to the front of the room. “I’m sorry to report that there has been a situation, and we need you all to move to the back of the room. If any of you have drunk from the drinking fountain by the door would you please come over here? You can bring your things.” He walked over to Mark and the flute player, Amy. “I need the two of you to stay here. Don’t touch anything. Do not put anything in your mouth.” Amy all but dropped her flute, and Mark laid his oboe down in his lap. He turned his attention to the few members that drank from the fountain. “Do any of you feel ill?” Heads shook no, but their faces held dread. “Don’t worry, I’m just checking things out. You can go back with the rest of the band.”

  I walked over and sat down on the podium across from Cheryl’s empty seat. Tony waved in the school security and the patrolmen. When the band saw the police, there were groans and a myriad of complaints. Doctor Sanders threw down his baton and gave me a look of pure hate. As if I caused all this. Men.

  Detective Curtis waited till the band had cleared out of the seating area before he spoke to Mark and Amy. “What I need from you two is to remember, as best as you can, what Cheryl did from the moment she came in.”

  “Cheryl came in and put together her stuff. She soaked her reeds. She blew water all over my music, played, and got sick and left,” Amy whispered as if talking was too much effort.

  “Do you have anything to add?” Tony asked Mark.

  “Just that she had trouble getting a good sound out of one of the reeds so she put all the remaining reeds in her mouth.”

  “How many reeds?

  “Two. She took three reeds from her case. She likes to rotate her reeds, but sometimes you get a bad one.”

  “Don’t touch her reeds, but look at them for me. Is there anything different about her reeds than, let’s say, your reeds?”

  Mark took his time observing the reed on her oboe and the two in the cup. “They’re double bamboo reeds like mine but much more expensive. Cheryl believes if it costs more it must be better.”

  “Is it?”

  “Not all the time. These are more colorfully wrapped but the vibration would be about the same.”

 
“Mark,” I butted in. “Do oboe players put anything into the water they soak the reeds in?”

  “Not that I know of. I always use bottled water because I can keep it at room temperature. I think Cheryl used the fountain tonight.”

  “Did anyone touch Cheryl’s things after she left?”

  “Cindy ran in and grabbed her purse and tote bag,” Amy accused.

  “That’s okay.” I asked her, “anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Mark,” asked Tony.

  “No, just Cindy.”

  “Did anyone touch her things Sunday before the concert?”

  “Not while I was around. I really don’t know.”

  Amy shook her head no.

  “Do any of you have anything to tell me or have any questions regarding Cheryl or Carl for that matter?”

  “How is Cheryl?” Amy barely squeaked out.

  “Not good. She’s on her way to the hospital.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Mark’s voice trembled a little.

  “We aren’t sure. Please pack up your things and...”

  “She had a cold,” interrupted Amy. “She told me last Monday she couldn’t smell or taste anything. She’d been afraid she would be too sick for the concert.”

  “Is that true?” Tony asked Mark.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I am not too sensitive to Cheryl. When she talks, I tend to drift off. She complains and talks all the time.”

  Tony turned around and looked at me. “It’s true, Cheryl talks all the time,” I confirmed. Then I asked, “Mark, did Cheryl use any of your bottled water at the concert?”

  “I filled my cup backstage. I think she started using the same kind after seeing me do it. Wait here.” He reached into his case. “I have half a bottle left.” He handed it to Tony. The water was the same brand as the empty bottle in the plastic bag.

  Tony opened it. “Do you mind if I keep this?”

  “Take it. But Cheryl prepared her reeds up onstage. She got there early so she could arrange all her things. She was still out there warming up after the rest of us left, and Miles had to ask her to leave so the ushers could let the people in. Cheryl and Miles had words backstage over what the word professional means. Why did you ask if it was my water?”