Death in a Major

by Sarah Fox

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” she said, her face still pale. “I don’t know how that brooch got in my bag.” Her face lost more color. “Oh God. I can’t go to jail. I’ve got a daughter to raise.”

  “You’re not going to jail,” I said firmly, sitting down next to her.

  Mikayla sat on her other side. “Midori’s right. We’ll get this sorted out before it comes to that.”

  Bronwyn looked at us each in turn, her eyes desperate. “So you believe me?”

  “Of course we believe you,” I said. I’d known Bronwyn for years and she was one of the last ­people I could picture stealing jewelry, or anything else for that matter. But more than that, I knew her well enough to read her expressions, and her shock and puzzlement at seeing the brooch fall out of her bag had been one hundred percent genuine.

  She relaxed slightly, but then she noticed the suspicious glances she was getting from other ­people in the room. “But nobody else does.”

  “Forget about them,” Mikayla told her.

  I nodded in support of her statement. “We’re going to get this figured out and clear your name.”

  “But how?” Bronwyn asked, unshed tears glistening in her eyes.

  I took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “By finding the real thief.”

  AFTER PROVIDING BRONWYN with a few more reassurances, Mikayla and I helped her put everything back into her shoulder bag and sent her home to her family.

  “Do you really think it’s possible to figure out who the real thief is?” Mikayla asked, not bothering to hide her doubt now that Bronwyn was gone.

  “I sure hope it is.” I considered what our first move should be. “I think we should talk to Maestro.”

  “No doubt Elena already has,” Mikayla said.

  “No doubt,” I agreed. “Maybe Mr. Hollingsworth as well. Hopefully not the police, though.”

  After securing our lockers, we left the lounge. Fortunately, Hans hadn’t left the theater yet and we found him in his office on the second floor. He was finishing up a phone call as I tapped on the open door.

  Something like hope or expectation flickered in his eyes when he saw me, but then he spotted Mikayla next to me and his eyebrows drew together. “Are you here about Bronwyn?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “We’re guessing Elena already spoke to you,” Mikayla said.

  “She did,” he confirmed, and for a split second he looked a bit harried.

  If I’d been standing in his office for a less serious reason, I might have taken some pleasure in the fact that he didn’t seem to have enjoyed his conversation with Elena. As it was, I had more important things to focus on.

  “We’re not sure yet how the brooch ended up in Bronwyn’s bag,” I said.

  “Isn’t that rather obvious?”

  “Elena thinks it is,” Mikayla said, “but we don’t.”

  “Bronwyn’s not a thief,” I added.

  Hans raised his eyebrows. “The evidence suggests otherwise.”

  I tried to quell my rising frustration. “There has to be another explanation. Surely you won’t kick her out of the orchestra without at least giving her a chance to prove her innocence.”

  Hans let out a sigh and ran a hand through his blond hair. “To be honest, I don’t know what’s going to happen. But it’s getting late and there’s not much we can do about it tonight anyway. I’m meeting with Mr. Hollingsworth tomorrow to discuss the matter.”

  I wasn’t keen to leave things up in the air, but I could tell we wouldn’t get any more from Hans that night. After Mikayla said good night to Hans and tugged on my arm, I followed her out of the office. With my spirits hovering about an inch above the floor, we returned to the lounge, where Dave and a handful of other musicians were still hanging around.

  “Some of us are going out for drinks,” Mikayla said as I retrieved my jacket from my locker and pulled it on. “Want to come?”

  “No, thanks.” I shoved my music folder into my quilted bag. “Between everything that’s happened with Aaron and now Bronwyn, I’m not in much of a celebratory mood.”

  “I get that, but don’t beat yourself up too much about Aaron. These things happen. As for Bronwyn . . . Hopefully things will turn out okay.”

  “Hopefully,” I echoed.

  She hesitated, probably because of my low spirits, but I didn’t want to hold her back.

  “Go on,” I encouraged, doing my best to smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  She gave me a quick hug and then grabbed her belongings and headed out of the lounge with Dave and three others. Once they were gone, I fished my phone out of my bag and checked for messages. I didn’t have any.

  A sudden sense of loneliness settled over me. What I really wanted at that moment was to hang out with my best friend, to share all my worries and guilt with him. At the same time, I still didn’t want to talk to him about Aaron, and I couldn’t do one without doing the other.

  With my bag over my shoulder and my instrument case in one hand, I slammed my locker shut and snapped my combination lock into place. Even if I was willing to talk to JT about Aaron, it was too late to bug him. He wouldn’t mind what time it was, but I knew he’d be working in the morning and I didn’t want to keep him up late with my problems. That meant I’d have to handle all my pre-­breakup emotions on my own. Good thing I had Smarties ice cream in my freezer.

  On my way out of the musicians’ lounge, I realized I wasn’t the last to leave. Ernest was still by his locker. I paused, considering whether or not I should talk to him. It didn’t take me long to come to a decision. Reversing my direction, I approached him and stood by his locker as he buttoned up his coat.

  “Hi, Ernest. How are you doing?”

  He made only the briefest of eye contact with me. “Fine, thank you.”

  “It’s terrible what happened to Mr. Major the other night, isn’t it?”

  “Oh.” His neck flushed and his eyes darted around the empty room. “Um. Hrm.” He cleared his throat and returned his focus to his top two buttons.

  His reaction only confirmed the suspicion I’d developed on Friday night—­he didn’t think it was so terrible that Major had kicked the bucket.

  “Right,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, “you didn’t like him much, did you?”

  Ernest’s fingers slipped from his top button. He stared at me through his thick glasses, his gray eyes wide. “What . . . why . . . what makes you say that?”

  “I saw the way you glared at him the other night. And then there was the note.”

  His eyes almost popped right out of his head. “Note?” Panic pushed up the pitch of his voice. “What note?”

  “The one you threw away after Mr. Major collapsed. The police have it now.”

  His face flushed red and then drained of color. He shut his locker and fumbled with the lock until it was secure. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Ernest . . .”

  “No. No. No.” He clutched his instrument case to his chest. “I really must go.”

  He hurried away from me and out the door.

  Poor guy. I’d freaked him out and didn’t learn anything new in the process. Although if he was a murderer I didn’t need to waste my time feeling sorry for him. Then again, if he was innocent I’d stressed him out and put him on Detective Salnikova’s radar for no good reason. But of course I’d had to turn the note over to Salnikova. Withholding it would have been irresponsible, especially since I didn’t know if Ernest was innocent or guilty. Jordan believed his uncle had killed his grandfather, but in my view Ernest still belonged on the suspect list, especially since he definitely had something to hide.

  As I wandered out of the lounge and headed for the theater’s nearest exit, I realized that Bronwyn’s predicament and my encounter with Ernest had distracted me from my thoughts of Aaron, i
f only for a short while. Maybe that meant focusing on Major’s murder and the jewelry theft would provide me with a good diversion over the next few days. Murder and theft weren’t exactly pleasant subjects, but mulling over the crimes was still far less stressful for me than worrying about the sorry state of my love life and what the heck I would say to Aaron when I broke up with him.

  Yes, I decided as I made my way along the darkened street to the nearest bus stop, I’d talk to Salnikova as I’d promised Jordan and I’d do a bit of digging into other matters to see what I could turn up. That way I’d be helping out my student and my friend as well as preventing myself from wallowing in guilt and dread.

  It seemed like a perfect idea.

  SINCE I HAD a few free hours the next morning before I was scheduled to teach my first student of the day, I hopped on a bus and headed for the police station. I hadn’t enjoyed the best night’s sleep, but I was alert enough to focus on what I hoped to achieve during my visit with Detective Salnikova. As Jordan had requested, I’d make sure she was well aware of Kevin Major’s potential as a suspect in his father’s murder. In addition to that, I hoped to glean whatever information I could from her about the progress of the investigation.

  She wasn’t likely to share much—­if any—­information with me, I knew. But I also knew there was always a chance I could learn something interesting if I kept my eyes and ears wide open while at the station. Maybe it was a long shot, but careful observation had led me to valuable information in the past.

  Upon my arrival, I asked the man at the enclosed reception desk if I could speak with Salnikova. He directed me to take a seat while he checked if she was available. I hoped I wouldn’t have to sit there for too long. I was all too familiar with how uncomfortable the chairs were.

  A few minutes later, the man at the reception desk called for my attention.

  “Ma’am?”

  I got up and approached the desk, glad to leave the hard chair behind.

  “I’m afraid Detective Salnikova isn’t in at the moment and I’m not sure when she’ll be back. Would you like to leave a message or speak to someone else?”

  I tugged at my ear as I considered those options. “No, thanks. I’ll call her later and set up an appointment when it’s convenient for her.”

  The man nodded and turned his attention to the scruffy, middle-­aged man who had just entered through the front door.

  Disappointed that I hadn’t accomplished anything during my visit to the station, I wandered across the reception area to the door. As I pulled it open, I heard a woman sob somewhere behind me. When I glanced over my shoulder, I let go of the door, forgetting my intention to leave.

  A uniformed officer had entered the reception area from a back hallway. While the door was open for him to pass through, I caught a glimpse of another officer leading a crying woman along the hallway in my direction. Behind him followed Detective Salnikova, the person I’d come to see. But the detective wasn’t the one who had caught my attention. Instead, my wide, shocked eyes locked on the woman in tears.

  Mrs. Andrea Duffy.

  Jordan’s mother.

  Chapter Eight

  MRS. DUFFY?”

  She raised her head when I called her name, but her tear-­filled eyes barely registered my presence. I’d never seen her so distraught and disheveled, her light brown hair hanging in straggles and her makeup smeared. She hadn’t even looked that bad when her father took ill at the reception.

  I caught hold of the door as the uniformed officer with Mrs. Duffy guided her into a room halfway down the hall.

  “Sorry, ma’am, you can’t go back there,” the officer next to me said as I made a move to leave the reception area for the back corridor.

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Salnikova spoke up before I got a word out.

  “It’s all right, McGuire. She can come with me.”

  Relieved that she hadn’t sent me on my way, I hurried to Salnikova’s side. She ducked her head into the room where Mrs. Duffy had been taken and said a few words. I tried to peer in through the open door, but Salnikova put a hand on my back and guided me farther down the corridor.

  “You’ve arrested Mrs. Duffy?” I still couldn’t believe it.

  “What are you doing here, Ms. Bishop?”

  “I came to talk to you, but the man at the front desk said you weren’t here.”

  “I just arrived. And Mrs. Duffy isn’t under arrest. She’s here to answer some questions she didn’t want to answer at home in front of her son.”

  She offered that explanation as we reached an open area filled with several desks, a few of which were occupied by detectives in suits. The gray filing cabinets and light gray walls didn’t exactly give the place a cheery atmosphere, but I figured most of the detectives’ work was probably more grim than cheery. A lone potted plant stood in one corner, but a thick layer of dust left it looking almost as gray as the drab walls.

  “Take a seat, Ms. Bishop.” Salnikova’s voice interrupted my study of the room.

  “Could you please call me Midori?” I requested as the detective pointed me to a chair next to one of the desks. “Ma’am and Ms. Bishop are so formal, they don’t sound like me.”

  “All right.”

  Her agreement brought a smile to my face even though I was still distracted by the presence of Jordan’s mother down the hall. I sat in the offered chair and waited until Salnikova had settled behind her desk.

  “Do you really think Mrs. Duffy could be the killer?” I asked. “I find that so hard to believe.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t—­”

  “—­discuss an ongoing investigation,” I finished for her. I’d lost count of how many times she’d told me that in the past.

  “That’s right. Now, what did you want to see me about?”

  It took me a second to shift gears. “Kevin Major. Jordan, his nephew, believes he killed Mr. Major. Maybe you don’t agree, but I promised Jordan I’d talk to you and make sure you were at least looking into Kevin as a suspect. He has a criminal past and he did make that ominous statement the night of the reception, don’t forget.”

  She ignored that last part. “And your connection to Jordan Duffy?”

  “I’m his violin teacher.”

  “I see. Jordan raised his concerns with me the other day and I can assure you that we’ve been investigating a number of possible suspects.”

  “So you’ve talked to Kevin?”

  “I have.”

  I waited but she didn’t elaborate on her answer. She really wasn’t going to give anything away.

  A heavyset man with gray hair and a protruding stomach lumbered his way between the desks, heading in our direction and distracting me from my conversation with Salnikova. Although he wore cargo pants and a T-­shirt rather than a suit, I recognized him right away.

  “I was wondering where he was,” I said as Salnikova’s partner, Detective Bachman, drew closer to us.

  Salnikova swiveled in her seat to see who I was talking about. “Mark? What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at home resting.”

  Bachman waved off his partner’s concern. “I was going stir-­crazy. Thought I’d come by to see how things are going with the Major case.” His gray eyes slid to me and narrowed with recognition. “Don’t tell me you’re mixed up in this case.”

  “I’m not mixed up in anything,” I said, unable to help sounding indignant. “I simply have a . . . peripheral involvement.”

  That wasn’t too much of a stretch of the truth. At least, I didn’t think it was. I hadn’t yet done anything aside from retrieving Ernest’s note and talking to Jordan and Detective Salnikova. That hardly qualified as getting mixed up in the investigation. JT and Bachman might not agree with me, but I was sticking to that opinion.

  Bachman let out a dubious-­sounding grunt and returned his attention to hi
s partner. “I hear you’ve got the daughter in for questioning.”

  Salnikova glanced at me and got to her feet. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  I sat back in my chair as the two detectives moved several feet away to converse in lowered voices. They both kept their backs angled toward me so I couldn’t attempt to read their lips. I strained my ears and thought I heard the words “fingerprints” and “flask” but beyond that I couldn’t catch anything.

  Disappointed, I let my eyes wander over Salnikova’s desk. A file folder sat in the middle of it. Although it appeared innocent enough, once I’d spotted it I couldn’t forget about it. The thought that it might contain information about Major’s murder burned in my brain.

  I cast a glance in the detectives’ direction. They were still in the midst of their hushed conversation and didn’t seem to have the least bit of interest in me. A quick sweep of the open area told me that no one else was paying attention to me either. Biting down on my lower lip, I reached out toward the folder.

  I knew I shouldn’t touch it. I knew I could get in major trouble if anyone caught me snooping into its contents. But I couldn’t resist. With another quick glance at Detectives Bachman and Salnikova, I lifted the folder open and craned my neck to peer at the top sheet of paper inside.

  It appeared to be some sort of report. I scanned the top sheet, which mostly seemed to be filled with mumbo-­jumbo. But I understood enough to conclude that it must be the toxicology report. And since Major’s name was printed near the top, I knew I wasn’t looking at the report for some other case.

  Knowing I had limited time before Salnikova’s return, I ran my eyes down the page for a second time, trying to retain whatever information I could. That wasn’t much, but one word did jump out at me.

  Brugmansia.

  Letting the folder fall closed, I sat back and dug my phone out of my purse. Once online, I typed the familiar word into the search bar. As soon as the search results popped up, I knew why the word had rung a bell.

  Angel’s trumpet.

  My mom had grown Brugmansia a few years back and the one thing I knew about it was that it was extremely poisonous.