The chandelier dimmed. The murmur of voices swelled, and then settled, growing softer with the fading light. A single spot shone on center stage, and he watched—still hidden—as Ellen appeared. She looked lovely in her midnight blue silk, her hair done up special. So much of this night was her doing, the invitations to Manhattan’s old money, her idea. The shame of his youth about to be redeemed, the Martin name being cleared.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Ellen’s husky voice carried through the perfectly balanced acoustics, each of the two hundred fifty attendees able to catch every word. “I wanted to thank each and every one of you for coming. Tonight is a very special night for my brother … and for me. It’s a celebration. Tonight,” she paused, and scanned the room, “not only will my brother return to the concert stage, but more importantly …” She smiled, and scanned the room looking at the faces. “I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but tonight will end with an important announcement.”
The silence was total.
“So without further ado, I give you my brother, James Cyrus Martin IV, and on piano, Dr. Barrett Conyors.”
___
From her vantage point in the wings, Barrett watched Ellen’s announcement. She stared at the black piano, and the gleaming cello in front of it. Her body felt light, and while she knew she should be terrified, that Justine was in mortal danger, and that she was about to be married to a psychotic murderer, she somehow could not feel afraid. I’ve been drugged, she thought, something hallucinogenic. As she turned her head, rainbow halos clung to the outlines of the furniture and to the dimming lights.
“I think that’s your cue,” a woman in a red-and-black usher’s outfit whispered.
“Thank you,” Barrett said, and as though gliding on magic shoes, she stepped onto the stage.
From the opposite wing, Jimmy emerged; his hair slicked back, the lapel of his tuxedo, made of the same greenish-black satin as her dress. We match, she thought.
In center stage Ellen stood looking at her, and then at her Jimmy. “Come,” she mouthed to Barrett, holding out her left hand. With her right she motioned toward Jimmy. She grasped Barrett’s fingers, and her brother’s. She joined them together, and faced the audience.
Barrett looked at Jimmy, he seemed so young. And then she realized, in a deeper way than before, that Jimmy was not a single person. That the diagnosis she’d resisted was in fact the correct one. Jimmy had distinct and separate personalities inside of him. The thirty-five-year-old man, whose hand she was holding, and whose expression seemed so young and innocent, was actually Jimmy the child, the virtuoso, and the victim.
He met her gaze, his eyes filled with longing. “Thank you,” he grasped her hand tight.
The moment hung, as she looked at him. There was no doubt, the eyes that gazed back with such sweetness were those of a little boy. “Jimmy,” she whispered, knowing that Ellen could also hear. “I’ll do this, but nothing must ever happen to my sister. You have to swear, you all have to swear. I know you’re not in there alone.”
A sliver of fear sliced through her drug-induced euphoria, as the planes of his face shifted. A harsh appraisal shone through his pale eyes. Something dark and dangerous peered back, like the gaze of a serpent.
“Swear,” she repeated.
“Of course,” he said, his tongue clicked wetly against the roof of his mouth. “A deal’s a deal.”
“And you,” she looked at Ellen, their hands all still entwined. “Swear it, and I’ll do this.”
“You have my word,” she whispered, through clenched teeth. Her gaze outward toward the audience. “Do as you’re told, and all will be well.” Leaving Barrett’s hand in Jimmy’s, Ellen stepped back. “And now,” she addressed the room, “I give you a night of romance and magic.”
___
Ed Hobbs flashed his shield and showed the lobby usher the parchment concert invitation.
“Where is this?” he asked.
“Third floor.”
He bypassed the elevator and ran up the marble stairs. He arrived as the audience funneled into the recital hall. Dressed in jeans, work boots, and a flannel shirt he felt exposed in the excited crowd of perfectly groomed men—some in tuxedoes—and women in couture gowns and diamonds.
Hanging back, as though he were a member of the maintenance staff, he caught snippets.
“Could have knocked me over with a feather,” a woman in a black cocktail dress commented, “after all these years; I thought they’d locked him away for life. I hate to say it,” she said, casting her eyes, and passing over Ed, as though he were invisible, “I wouldn’t have missed this just for the freak value.”
A thirty-something man, his eyes bright with champagne, agreed, “Of course, but think about the money. Neither one with an heir, she’s … at that age … and he, well, I always thought he was a bit light in the loafers.”
“They say the father was,” a second woman in pale pink added, sipping her drink.
“And she was no better,” the woman in black replied, “had a thing for the help … can you imagine?”
“To be fair,” the man offered, “Ellen Martin pulled the company out of the fire. God, if I’d only kept that stock.”
“She never married,” pink lady replied. “And she’s not bad looking. Lezzie?”
“Maybe,” he said, “I know Harold Anderson made the attempt.”
“Good family, what happened?” Pinky asked.
“Well,” he leaned toward her as they moved into the auditorium, “the way I heard it …”
And no matter how Ed strained, he couldn’t catch the outcome of Ellen Martin’s involvement with the eligible son. Keeping to the periphery, as the crowd streamed through the gracious double doors, Ed searched for a hiding place in the elegant, but intimate, concert hall. Barrett’s message, while hazy, had been clear on one point. She was deathly afraid, and didn’t want Jimmy—or anyone he was working with—to know that she’d gone to the cops. And the absurdity … she was going to play a Carnegie Hall concert with her patient, a man Ed was convinced lay at the center of a decade’s-long blood bath. Up until a couple of hours ago, it still hadn’t made sense, and then, while flipping through the day’s roster of cases—an old habit from his days as deputy chief—he’d come upon a just-opened case that sucked the breath from his chest. A young doctor had gone missing from the Harlem hospital where she was in training. Staring at the report of Justine Conyors’ disappearance, the pieces had clicked horribly into place.
Needing to hide before the curious audience took their seats, he aimed for a curtained alcove to the left of the doors.
Behind the red velvet was a small room with a dimly lit balding man in front of an expansive control panel. He glanced up, “No one’s allowed in …”
Ed flashed his shield. “Please,” he said, “I need to be here, and tell no one.”
“What’s going on?” the man swallowed, glancing from Ed’s shield to his face. “Am I in trouble?”
“No, I just need an observation point where no one can see me.”
“Okay,” he said, looking from Ed down to a series of three monitors on the table.
Ed joined him behind his equipment, and was afforded a view of the empty stage.
“Okay if I get started?” the man asked.
“Sure, just do everything the way you were told, nothing different.”
The sound-and-light technician glanced at the clock as the second hand kissed the twelve; exactly eight. His right hand eased back on a lever; the chandelier dimmed. The crowd settled and Ed, shifting his attention between the monitors, watched as Ellen took the stage.
“Here,” the technician passed a pair of headphones across the table. “You want to hear better; it comes straight from the mike.”
“Thanks,” Ed put them on, and listened to Ellen Martin’s cryptic announcement.
It was all he could do to not bolt out of there and get Barrett the hell away. She should have listened to him, should have given up this damn case, bu
t now … his failure to act, to save her, was tearing him up. And he knew that to call for reinforcements might bring down Jimmy and his sister, but without his knowing exactly what leverage they had to get Barrett into that dress and onto that stage, the risk was too high. She was in deadly peril, the same probably for her sister; that’s the only thing that would have gotten her here.
As he watched and listened, the technician zoomed in on the three figures holding hands in center stage. He tapped Ed on the shoulder.
Ed pulled up one earpiece.
“Concert’s being filmed,” the techie offered. “I’ve done a lot of these, but I think this is the first combo recital and engagement … surprised they didn’t get the whole damn thing done and haul in a minister.”
“What? What did you just say?”
The techie looked up, and then back at his complicated equipment. “That’s the big surprise. The cello player is gonna propose to the accompanist.”
“Oh, shit!” Ed stared at the image on the screen, and what struck him hardest was the expression on Barrett’s face. She wasn’t frightened, or if she was, she was giving one hell of a performance. But more than that, Ed was jolted by her beauty. As he looked at Jimmy in his tuxedo, Ed startled as he named the powerful feeling coursing through him—jealousy.
The camera panned back, framing the piano and cello. Ellen followed Barrett to the piano, and sat in a chair slightly behind and to the left of the bench, as the technician manipulated two spots to frame Jimmy and Barrett in separate circles of soft amber light. The effect made their faces glow, and as Barrett, her back straight, lifted her bare arms, and brought her hands down onto the keys, Ed was unprepared for what followed. How was it that he could have known her for all of these years and not known that she could make this magic?
He gasped as the first dizzying run of Chopin spilled from the piano, the timing impossibly difficult, the subtlety amazing. And then Jimmy lifted his bow, his head cocked slightly in her direction, and started to play.
THIRTY-ONE
Barrett gasped as the first notes from Jimmy’s cello blossomed into the most exquisite music she’d ever heard. The painfully tragic melody floated in the air, mixing with the furious off-kilter runs that spilled from her fingers. She recognized what she was playing, having often heard—but never played—Chopin’s Cello Sonata in G Minor. It was his last work, written on Capri, and the only thing he had ever written for the cello. He was dying there, his lungs collapsing, overcome by the tuberculosis that had plagued him from childhood. Chopin, Polish like Sophie, had been a constant of Barrett’s life. She remembered her first competition, at nine, her fingers flying over the Revolutionary Étude, a piece that seasoned performers could barely handle.
Tonight, her playing felt effortless, and she barely noticed when Ellen would lean forward, wait for her nod, and turn the page. The music was glorious. The cello’s dreamy song, her assured reply, the joined effort of two people, two instruments, becoming one. They flew through the movements, the soulful allegro moderato, the rapid back and forth of the scherzo, the longing ache of the largo, and the spectacular finale—Chopin’s last musical statement.
Her fingers lifted slightly as the intense chords resonated through the darkened hall.
She lifted her head and looked at Jimmy, his arm still raised from the final sweeping arc of the bow. He turned to her, sweat dripping from his brow. In the amber light, his face glowed and she saw the brilliant child from all those years back.
“I love you,” he mouthed. “I will always love you.”
Frozen in time, she wanted to respond. The music had transcended all, how could she have given this up?
Ellen whispered into her ear, “Take a bow.”
Barrett tried to remember where she was … a thunderous applause surrounded them, as the house lights raised slightly on the well-dressed audience.
She watched as Jimmy placed his instrument on the floor and came toward her. He took her hand and led her toward the front of the stage. “That was incredible,” he gushed. “You were incredible.”
“So were you,” she said, as she felt the heat of his hand in hers, its warmth traveling up her arm, she shuddered; something wasn’t right. “You played beautifully,” she answered truthfully, her tongue thick in her mouth.
As the traces of their playing vanished, and they took their bows, Barrett struggled against a dense fog-like curtain that made it hard to think. What was she doing on stage? And who was this man who’d just told her that he loved her? He played beautifully, but hadn’t she given up music, or had that been a dream? Perhaps this was a dream, and that’s why it didn’t make sense. This had to be a dream. She looked over the audience and saw that many of them were holding champagne flutes—a clear violation of Carnegie Hall rules—no food or drink allowed in the performance spaces; this was definitely a dream, and soon she’d wake to some other reality. She took a third bow.
“One more?” Jimmy asked, as the audience continued with unrelenting applause.
“Yes,” she answered, feeling the glow of adoration, remembering what it had felt like, and thinking that if this were a dream, it wasn’t so bad.
___
Ellen watched as Jimmy and Barrett took their bows. Hanging back by the piano, she scanned the audience. They’d all come; she knew they would. Like some dying breed of rare bird—Manhattan’s old money. Here were no flash-in-the-pan real estate moguls or hot-shot brokers; her guests had families with roots that ran deep. These had been the supposed playmates of her childhood, all running under the watchful eyes of dark-skinned nannies and governesses at the Bailey Beach Club, while the parents got stoned on martinis and Manhattans. They’d all come; all wanting to see what had become of the Martin twins. Keeping a pleasant smile fixed on her face, she ran over the names, all of the families with debutante daughters and iron-clad trust funds. All of the eligible men from eligible families that Mother and Father had tried to interest her in. To please them, she’d endured a series of uncomfortable outings with shallow boys who spoke endlessly of their own pathetic accomplishments, who fumbled for kisses, and who lacked any spark of talent.
As she watched her brother and the woman he loved, she felt a surge of jealousy. How ironic, she thought, that the one man of true genius was the one man she could not have. And the woman, drugged and her memory clouded by the potent amnestic she’d placed in her champagne, was undeniably beautiful, and grudgingly Ellen had to admit that her playing was better than anything she had ever done. But she did not love Jimmy; it was just an illusion that would vanish in the morning. She had so much that needed to be done; it caused a shiver of panic. “One step at a time,” she mouthed. The concert, a wedding gift to her brother and his bride, served an important purpose, and it was the only reason she would have taken such a risk, because here tonight, in front of 250 descendants of robber barons, Jimmy’s engagement was about to be announced. Not one of the attendees would forget this evening, and the beautiful woman in dark-green satin who’d held her brother’s hand, who’d glowed in the spotlight. There would be no more questions, no awkward accusations; after all they’d all seen them together. A beautiful couple, so talented, so well-matched, so in love.
No, she mused, as Jimmy led Barrett back to the piano for their second and final sonata—the Brahms E Minor. There’d be no questions, the child—maybe twins if they were lucky—would be born. And the mother, who would be remembered at her most beautiful and her most brilliant, would meet with a tragic end in childbirth.
She leaned forward and centered the music on the lyre. She glanced at Barrett, with her creamy complexion, high cheekbones, and gray-green eyes. The child would be beautiful. For the briefest of moments Ellen allowed herself to fantasize that Barrett was actually Jimmy’s willing bride. But Ellen—as her father had always reminded her—was the practical one. Barrett Conyors was merely a vessel, a means to a critical end.
Jimmy glanced back, catching her eye, and then Barrett’s. He nodded in her di
rection, raised his bow, and touching it down to the strings, began a performance that would be remembered by many in the audience as the single most glorious piece of music they had ever heard.
THIRTY-TWO
The audience was on their feet, the applause thunderous. From his hiding place, Ed strained to see the stage. Jimmy and Barrett were taking their bows.
Ellen Martin stepped from behind the piano and approached the footlights. She raised her arms to quiet the audience. She smiled and put a finger to her lips. She nodded to her brother and stepped to the side.
To Ed, as Jimmy came down on one bent knee and produced a ring box, it felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. He reached for Barrett’s hand and through the microphone Hobbs clearly heard, “Barrett Conyors, will you marry me?”
Even from this distance he caught the flash of the ring as Barrett, quietly responded, “Yes Jimmy, I will marry you.”
The room exploded with fresh applause, as Jimmy slipped the jewel on her finger, and rising, gave her a chaste kiss on the lips, and taking her hand, led her offstage.
The clapping didn’t stop. He waited—along with the rest—for the performers to return. Shouts erupted, “Bravo! Encore! Encore!” It turned into a chant.
“Encore! Encore! Encore!”
He waited, not certain of what he’d just seen, just heard. With the passing seconds, apprehension grew, and then, with a sickening certainty, he knew they weren’t returning.
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