by Alexie Aaron
“Or whom is whom,” Harry whispered.
“Shhhhhhhhhhhh,” I hissed at him.
“In the front, starting from the right. Stand up please. Miles Feinstein, stage manager for the Avery Theater and the Coconut Palm Concert Band. He was working Sunday, the evening of Carl Campbell’s murder, and Tuesday, the attempted murder of Manfred Tuttle and Tobias Green. In the middle are my team, Bob Walker, Pete Smith and Eric Daily. The three were present for questioning on Sunday night, and Bob and Pete were with me on Tuesday. They also were responsible for canvassing the audience members. Retired Sergeant Eddie Simpson and his partner Buck Murphy were on duty Sunday night as security for the Avery Theater.”
“In the second row is Doctor Glen Botticelli, I hope I pronounced that correctly. Glen is on loan to us from the FBI profiling unit in Washington D.C. Last row, Sergeant Dave Buslowski of the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Department. He has acted as liaison between us and the lab. He was also on scene for the activity at Cindy Fin-Lathen’s residence down in the village. Next to him is Cindy Fin-Lathen. Stand up. Thank you. Ms. Fin-Lathen discovered Carl Campbell on Sunday evening. She unsuccessfully tried to save Cheryl Ann Brown’s life Monday evening at Coconut Palm High School where the band was rehearsing. On Tuesday morning, she awoke to find a truckload of white oleander flowers on her front lawn. Tuesday evening, she and Bernice Marks were responsible for saving Manfred Tuttle and Tobias Green with the help of the gentleman next to her, Harry O’Rourke. You might as well stand up, Harry. Good. They decoded a message sent to her home that aided the lab in labeling the poison used in the attempt on Tuesday. Mr. O’Rourke assisted me on Monday morning in my investigation. He is acting as bodyguard for Ms. Fin-Lathen presently.”
I sat down and pulled Harry down next to me. The room was either warm or I was blushing. I hoped it was the room.
“First, bear with me as I run the concert tape. Please act as an audience and observe the performance,” he said as he came down the steps to join us. A policewoman handed each of us one of the programs that were used Sunday night. As the tape ran, I focused on Cheryl. She walked in wearing the same style tux that I had worn last year. She carried her oboe and, yes, the reed was in place. She sat down, and I didn’t see anything that could have been a water bottle around her chair. Manfred and Tobias were talking to each other and waving to the audience. I saw myself walking Bernice to her seat and sitting down myself. Once the band was set and all but Carl’s chair was taken, the conductor came out and started the concert.
I got caught up in the concert. I winced at wrong notes and colored when the tempo sagged. The dissection of the music so captivated me that I lost focus on why I was there until we played The Phantom of the Opera. The first scream, jolted me from my focus. I must have jerked because Harry’s hand grabbed mine. I appreciated the warmth of his overly manicured grasp. He brought me more gently back into the cold theater where a new drama was about to begin.
“Pause tape, please! Thank you. The list on the left is of the people on the stage before the sound quality changes.” Curtis, in full detective mode, ordered, “Roll ahead and stop at zero thirty-five point eight.”
He went over all the action, and when there were questions they were directed to the participants. I answered some musical questions, and the security guys gave their play by play. I could sense the impatience of the males on either side of me. Harry must have seen the video more times than he cared to. Sargent Dave checked his notes while murmuring things to himself.
Tony pointed out the change in the sound quality, explained the theory of Carl’s own recorder being used. Questions, assumptions and cold hard facts were repeated to the group. I phased out a moment, and I saw not the heavy-set man pacing the stage with microphone in hand, but that little Belgian detective I’d seen brilliant portrayed by David Suchet.
I wonder if movie actors feel this out of body experience when they see themselves on film. I felt that way as I watched myself walk and pull the sound curtain back. Miles comes across the stage.
“Pause the tape a minute, Tony,” Dave directed. “Run it back to Ms. Fin-Lathen’s reappearance. Okay, good. Now, what did you say?”
“I think I said ‘Carl.’ I didn’t realize he was dead at first.”
“Run it in slow, and please continue to narrate, Ms. Fin-Lathen.”
I recounted the exchange between Miles and myself up until he fainted on me.
Tony walked over to the security guards. “This is where they come in. Rewind back a bit and roll the tape,” he directed.
The curtain broke off its rail because I was still holding it when I fell. Not all of it came down, just the first four feet, which was enough to expose Carl to the camera.
“Ouch. That had to hurt,” Harry said beside me.
“I’m sure Carl didn’t enjoy it,” I said softly.
“No, the fall. Look at your leg. You’re right under him. Oh yuck!”
“Don’t get sick,” I warned him. “I don’t remember much after this. I must have been in shock. I want to see what happened.”
The guards ran up on the stage. I relived the horror of finding Carl, and the embarrassment of not being about to get off the floor without assistance.
“Hello, what’s going on now?” Dave asked.
Eddie took the lead and answered the questions fired at him like a pro. I smiled as I remembered his supposed lack of experience. He was professional and concise.
The tape resumed with me sitting there while they helped Miles up and in came the police.
“Hold on, are those traffic patrolmen?” Dave asked. “Does Coconut Palm send out motorcycle traffic patrolmen to suspected homicides?”
“No. There was a lot of confusion in dispatch.”
“Where were the campus police?”
“Basketball game.”
“All this in the report?”
“Yes,” Tony answered, his face showing that he wasn’t appreciating the direction of Dave’s questions.
“Hold tape!” Dave got up. He was running the show now. “Back up to when the paramedics arrive. This would be Ed Novak and Bill Clarion?” he asked, looking down at his notes.
“Yes.”
“Are they here tonight?” he questioned.
“No, but their report is.”
“I will need to talk to them personally. You’ll arrange that?”
Tony nodded as he jotted down the request.
“Okay, then it’s up to Ms. Fin-Lathen - that is quite a mouthful,” Dave complained.
“Cin, call me Cin,” I offered.
“Cin is better, no disrespect meant.”
“None taken.”
“Please tell us what’s going on here. Can we slow this down? We can. Okay, Cin, you go ahead,” Dave instructed.
I cleared my voice and began to explain to the best of my knowledge what was going on without adding in my theories. My hands shook a bit as the gravity of the situation started to take hold of me. I may have been implicating myself with too much knowledge of the scene before me, but I couldn’t help myself. I finished my narration. Silence greeted me.
Tony looked over at me and me at him. Had he sensed my worry? I remembered thinking, “Is this the moment when the cuffs come out?”
To my relief he spoke, “Thanks, Cin. We can stop the tape now.” He walked back to the middle of the stage. “I wish this had been handled better. Maybe if it had, we would have an answer by now. Who knows? Officer Dudley was young and inexperienced. Ms. Fin-Lathen was treated poorly.”
I assumed this was an apology, although, I don’t think he tried very hard.
Tony asked for the stage lights to be brightened. “Does anyone have any questions for Miles, Buck or Eddie?”
“Miles, where were you during the concert?” Dave asked, scanning the reports.
“I was in the lobby fixing a door that wouldn’t close.”
“Is this one of your responsibilities?”
“No, but I was the only one ar
ound.”
“Can anyone verify that you were there?”
“Buck.” Miles pointed at the security man.
“Buck?”
“Miles was there at the start of the concert. And then I took my post inside the theater,” Buck verified.
“So you can’t say that he was there all the time?”
“No, sir, I can’t.”
“Thank you, Buck. Miles, did anyone else see you?”
“No, I was by myself. The door was stuck because someone jammed a reed in the hinge. It took me a while to pop it off its hinges and clear all the bamboo away.”
“Excuse me, can I ask a question?” I asked Tony.
“Please.”
“What kind of reed was it?”
Miles thought for a moment and looked into space as if he was trying to visualize the reed. “Honestly, I don’t really know. I know enough to know it was a reed. All I could tell you is that there was a lot of bamboo to clear away.”
“Could there been more than one reed?”
“There was. Wait. There wasn’t that smooth part. Just the cut part.” Miles gestured with his hands.
“I’m sorry, but what is he talking about?” Dave piped up.
“Hold on.” I reached down and put my purse on Harry’s lap as I pulled things out of it. “Hang on. Yes, here it is.” I pulled out a package of reeds I had bought but had neglected to take out of my purse. I opened the package and slid out a small plastic case. I tossed the small package to Miles.
Miles opened the case and drew out the reed. He held a two and a half inch by three quarter inch piece of bamboo sliced even on one side and at an angle on the other, starting half way down and tapering to a tip.
“What part was in the door?” I asked Miles.
“This part.” He held up the angle cut part of the reed. “But the pieces were longer and thinner. And there was some red thread.”
“Do we have the reed?” Dave asked.
“No reed. Miles threw the pieces away. We didn’t find any trace at the door,” Tony explained.
“I wonder...” I realized that I was talking out loud. Dave turned, and I caught Tony looking at me. “I wonder if it could have been a bassoon reed? It would explain the thread. Oboe reeds would be bound in something similar, but they are considerably smaller.”
“I may be talking Hollywood here,” Harry interjected, “but can’t you find trace evidence of the reed still in or around the door. I doubt that the area has been cleaned.”
“Harry, a lot of people left using that door,” Miles explained.
“Did anyone try?” Harry looked at Tony. Tony held up his hands. Harry looked at Dave.
“I’ll call the lab,” Dave offered.
“Anyone have any questions for Buck or Eddie?” Tony waited. “Okay, you guys can go home. Miles, why don’t you stick around your office until the lab boys come. You can show them which door.”
“Sure.” He got up, and Harry tossed him his keys as he walked by. “Thanks.”
Tony then invited the officers and profiler up on the stage where he went through the facts collected. I hung back having been through this again and again with Tony before. I listened to make sure nothing had been added to shine an unfavorable light on myself.
Tony summed up, “In short Carl was lured backstage, killed, and posed by someone that knew him and his habits well.”
“Someone working with or in the band,” Dave clarified.
“That’s the theory right now.” Tony rolled his neck. “Let’s take a break and let this sink in before we talk about Tuesday. Plus, we have to go over suspects. And the information my team has come up with.” Tony looked over at Harry and me.
“I understand the two of you have been busy today?” Tony asked, already knowing the answer.
“We might have something to share” is all I would commit to.
Chapter Seventeen
With trepidation, I accepted the coffee that was handed to me. The police officer, one of whom I had not yet met, told me not to worry, the department had brought the percolator and snacks, all of which had been under the supervision of one of the officers all evening. I still smelled it. I knew that was rude, but I think totally understandable under the circumstances.
Harry was in a deep conversation with the young policewoman. I think he was using his charm to get her phone number. I decided to make myself scarce. I grabbed another cup of coffee and went in search of Miles. I found him sitting in his office with his back to the door. I knocked lightly, and he spun around ready for an attack of some kind.
“Sorry, just me.” I reached out and handed him the coffee. “Thought you might need some.” I sat down. “Don’t worry, the police made it.” I took the cup back and sipped it, smiled and put it back down. “Can’t be too careful.”
“I have been going out of my mind lately,” Miles said before he sipped the coffee. His face showed the stress he was under.
“Miles, I started off suspect number one. It isn’t a great feeling knowing you’re innocent and someone is setting you up.”
He looked at me warily. “You don’t think I’m the killer do you?”
“Nope.”
“Why not? The police had me fingerprinted and they took DNA samples.”
“So what, Harry and I were fingerprinted, my clothes were stripped off me, and this chick took cheesy pictures of me. I’m sure old horny Tony enjoyed those. Just because you and I don’t get along doesn’t mean I’m going to lay these murders at your feet. I know you were fixing the door because of the thread. And if you were guilty you would have the pieces of bamboo. I know you called Manfred and Tobias under instruction because when I walked in here Tuesday, when you were trying to find the paper that must have been taken, I saw this.” I walked over and picked up the band personal listing and the page was open to Tuttle. “If you were plotting their murder you would have their numbers already. You called them in the order the note requested so you looked them up alphabetically. That is why it was left on T.”
“That’s what I did, but I have another problem. One I didn’t tell Detective Curtis.” He got up and began absent-mindedly straightening the books on his shelf. “Tonight when they talked about the water bottle... You see, I took Cheryl’s bottle away. Someone in the audience has probably told the police that.”
“Why?”
“Because you band members are always spilling or leaving coffee or water behind. Plus it looks pretty bad from the audience, especially the balcony, when there is anything but the players onstage. Cheryl’s area looks like a teenager’s bedroom, crap all over the floor. She made me so mad. I went back and took the water. Let her be thirsty.”
“What did you do with the bottle?” I asked.
“Put it on the stage desk. I forgot all about it.” Miles stretched out his hands. “My prints would be all over it.”
“I think you have to tell them.”
“Sure, how is that going to look? I just now remembered?” Miles kicked over the garbage can. “Phony as hell.”
“Let me ask you and look at me when you answer.” I waited until he sat down and looked at me. “Did you kill Carl?”
“No.”
“Did you kill Cheryl?”
“No.”
“Did you attempt to poison Manfred and Tobias?”
“No.”
“Do you think I’m a pain in the ass?”
“Yes.” He broke into a smile. “And I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on horny Tony’s pics.”
“I believe you’re innocent, a pervert but innocent. You know you’re innocent. So go in there and tell them what happened with the water bottle. But first tell me how you knew about it.”
“Easy, Tony left the mic on. I can hear it through the speaker over by the door.”
“Miles,” I said leading him out, “make sure you tell him that first.”
“Why are you doing this?” Miles asked as we made our way into the auditorium.
“Because I
think you were supposed to die Tuesday. Maybe all of you were supposed to die. Or, as Harry thinks, the old farts set you up.”
“Why me?”
“Because I don’t - or didn’t - like you. And someone is trying to impress me.”
“You have some ego for an alto clarinet player.”
“I know. Believe me I know,” I said with a smile.
~
Dave, Tony and his team went into an immediate huddle after Miles unburdened himself. Harry had disappeared with the policewoman. That left Dr. Botticelli and me to make small talk which made me very uncomfortable.
“I understand you’re staying at the Breakers,” I started clumsily.
“Yes I am. My wife and I try to get down here every year to recharge.”
I looked around me. That was the extent of my skills. “Dr. Botticelli, I’m horrible at small talk,” I admitted.
He laughed. “Ms. Fin-Lathen, you don’t have to entertain me. We aren’t at a social function. Small talk wastes time, don’t you agree?”
“A man after my own heart. Please call me Cin.”
“Cin it is, and since my parents are still paying for my education we better stick to Doctor,” he said and raised both of his eyebrows.
“Snob.”
He just shook his head and laugh at me.
Tony walked over and took the doctor’s arm. “I need to borrow the doctor a moment.”
“Sure go ahead.” Relieved, I walked out of the coffee room, down the hall, crossed the stage and out of the loading dock door over to the cement steps to sit down. I was tired and wanted my old ego-driven life back. I wanted to sit in my bathtub full of fragrant bubbles and read an Elizabeth Peters book. I hadn’t practiced since Monday, and I wanted to make music again. Would I ever make music again? Had I caused all of this? Who was I to dictate what was or wasn’t music, who was or wasn’t productive? Was I trying to eke out an existence in the volunteer band world because I never had the gumption to try to turn professional? Or was it because deep down I knew I wasn’t good enough, dedicated enough?
I had raised two children, worked jobs when we needed the money, and put my husband’s career first, always. True, I was left alone a lot, but I did enjoy my periods of being on my own. Music made me feel good, and it brought good quality people into my life. I was never a soccer mom. I wasn’t cut out to be one. And now with my children and husband gone, I guess I needed music more than ever. It was always there waiting. Waiting until I would need it.