Broken Serenade

by Dorina Stanciu

  “Look, Tee! I don’t intend to serve you my past on a platter. I let you in, but you shouldn’t stretch your luck.”

  “Vivien…Vee…”

  He called her name tenderly and with so much passion, as no other person had ever done it before. It sounded like a symphony of love to her ears, and it was impossible for her to stay mad with a man who was able to utter her name that way. She remained silent.

  “Vee… You and I have been good friends once, long ago,” he continued. “Let’s bury the hatchet, my dear girl! We are two grown-ups now, two intelligent people who have not seen each other in fifteen years. Don’t you have anything to tell me? I know that you didn’t shake your childhood habits, or at least not the most dangerous ones anyway! I know now that you’re so damn beautiful that I’m going to have white nights until I’ll have you. And you’re going to be mine, I promise you that! I know that you’re not a good liar, even when you struggle to play cool. But that makes you even more attractive, if you ask me. And I know that every night before bedtime you play the piano. I will be in the garden, by your window, tonight. Choose something joyful, Vee! There is too much sadness in this world anyway.”

  The tranquility in his voice, or maybe the warmth in his brown eyes, or the relaxed manner in which he lay on her white sofa among the multitude of unnecessary pillows, she did not know exactly what, but something soothed every cell of her body as if by magic. She came closer to him and sat on the same sofa, a few pillows further. They told one another about their lives’ most important events, emphasizing the last years, and when the old clock in the hallway beat five times, they both got up. There was regret in their souls, but none of them mentioned the regretfully rapid flow of that amazing hour.

  He left with a short: À demain! She wasn’t even able to answer his French salute. So suffocated she was with emotion. She wanted to run after him and shout: Stay, please stay! Don’t leave, don’t you ever leave me! There is so much peace around you, no demons, no fear, no panic…”

  Timothy kept his promise and came to her window that evening. Vivien felt his benefic presence. She didn’t open the door. She was terrified that she would not resist the temptation, and she would throw herself into his arms, begging him to make love to her. She chose Mozart and started with Symphony no 40. She played transfixed, with Tee’s face in her soul, imagining that her fingertips touched him gingerly with every musical note.

  CHAPTER 10

  I cannot comprehend what this client is preparing for, Timothy thought, examining the miniature-scale replica of his last masterpiece – a huge mansion in the Monterey Peninsula, erected magnificently right on the border of the ocean. They were asking for changes to the project again, alterations involving, as always, secret entrances and exits, and hidden rooms. The real reason of all these perpetual modifications eluded him. It was the fifth or sixth time already, and their repeated request had become annoying.

  Architect Timothy Leigh had never met this client. He had no idea how she looked like, or if indeed it were a woman. Her lawyer and accountant were the only contact persons. He presumed she was a Hollywood actress fed up with publicity who wished to escape into the picturesqueness of Pebble Beach without being chased by the paparazzi.

  Standing up, Timothy stretched his muscles as his mind slipped again into the charming territories of his newly found love. Following a flash of inspiration, he pressed the interphone button, and very politely, he called his secretary.

  “Miss LaFontain, I need your help, please.”

  The woman materialized immediately into his office.

  “Yes, Mr. Leigh,” she answered, with her usual ready-to-please tone.

  Instantly, Timothy caught himself analyzing the woman’s gray suit - common, cut in a masculine manner – and her black shoes – unwomanly, flat, and unseemly deformed by huge mounts. He asked himself reluctantly if Miss LaFontain were indeed the right person to consult in this delicate problem. It had recently emerged, and it had been terrorizing him for exactly seventy-two hours with the insistence of a toothache. Nevertheless, as he didn’t know any other woman less inclined to gossip than his secretary, he decided to give it a try.

  “Miss LaFontain, where do young, beautiful, and sexy girls usually buy their clothes?” he inquired as his features became gradually softer and his eyes dreamier. “Let’s say…a…a blouse… made of silk preferably, with lace, and a deep décolletage, very feminine,” he concluded, accompanying his verbal description with awkward descriptive gestures.

  “Victoria’s Secret,” the secretary replied promptly. “What size?”

  “Two. But I would like to choose it. Do you think you can help me?”

  “Definitely! I will send you a few examples via email.”

  “Thank you, Miss LaFontain. And…if it’s possible, you know…”

  “My lips are sealed, Mr. Leigh. No one will find out, you don’t have to worry about that,” the secretary assured him.

  On her square face with tough, masculine lines, Timothy Leigh could not read anything. But he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Thank you, Miss LaFontain.”

  Five minutes later, an email containing four links arrived on his Yahoo mail account. All four blouses picked by Miss LaFontain were fine works of art in Timothy’s opinion. He didn’t have the heart to eliminate any of them, so he purchased and sent the entire collection overnight to Vivien’s address.

  As he was still admiring a dark-blue one, made of heavy, fluid silk, and he was feasting on the thought of that tantalizing fabric clinging on Vivien’s full breasts, eventually braless, Clark burst into his office without knocking.

  “Hey, Tim, could you give me your car, mate? I have a flat tire. And I need a car now. I need it like air, mate. Only for an hour, an hour and a half at the most.”

  “You mean you want my Mercedes? There are taxis in this city. I may need it to go grab some lunch.”

  “I’ll bring you lunch. Come on, man!” Clark begged. “I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

  “Yeah, you’ll probably spill your coffee in it, or throw your tuna sandwich under the chair. Another thing: my housekeeper comes every other day. If you want to stay in my house, you wash the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. A little housework never hurt anyone. It won’t kill you, that’s a sure thing. I can’t stand the smell of old food in the entire house.”

  “Ok, mate! I’ll do it, that’s a promise,” his brother agreed.

  “What happened at the hotel? Did they kick you out because you’re way too messy and disorganized?” Timothy asked him.

  “No, mate. I just want to keep an eye on you a little. You seem to have caught a bug, or something is happening to you lately,” Clark chuckled meaningfully. “Since our jogging on Flowers Street, to be more precise.” He leaned over his younger brother’s desk and cast glances at his computer. Caught unguarded, Timothy had no time to close the link.

  “You don’t say! You’re already shopping for her at Victoria’s Secret?” Clark exclaimed grinning.

  “Keep your mouth shot, Clark,” Timothy tried to temper him.

  “Give me your car keys. Or I’ll go out there and scream loud enough so all your employees will know what their boss is doing while they’re sweating over his million-dollars projects. That’s by far not the best example. Am I right, Tim?”

  “It’s my own business, you idiot! I do whatever I like.”

  “OK, then it’s your choice.” He advanced toward the door harboring a Mephistophelean sneer.

  “Clark!” Timothy roared.

  Clark swirled around. Timothy threw him his Mercedes keys.

  “You’re a pain in the ass! If you keep it longer than one hour, or if I find the tiniest scratch on it, you can start writing your ‘last will and testament’. Comprenez-vous?”

  “Oui, monsieur! Merci beaucoup! Au revoir!” Clark saluted, taking his leave pompously with an elaborate bow worthy of a high-rank aristocrat at a middle age French Court.

  * * *r />
  Clark Leigh slowly passed Vivien’s house. The young woman’s Lexus was not there, as he had anticipated. He made a tight U-turn at the first intersection and then drove back. In order to create confusion and escape easily in case she would return unexpectedly, he parked in front of Vivien’s neighbor house, on the right.

  He rang the doorbell twice, and as no one answered - as expected - he walked to the back door with the confidence of some of her folks or friends. Being equipped with a pair of plastic gloves and resorting to the use of a hairpin, he picked the lock easily and broke in. In a matter of seconds, he had localized the young woman’s personal computer.

  Let’s see, Vivien! Are you indeed the sexually obsessed loony who’s been pestering Tim?

  It took him less than a minute to discover that Vivien did not even have an email address in Google - his brother had received those annoying messages from that particular network.

  Clark Leigh indulged in peeking through Vivien’s correspondence in yahoo. Her most contacted person - and especially vice versa! - was her mother.

  “I am so saddened by Arlene’s death. I can’t get over it,” the young woman had written in one of the emails.

  Me too, Vivien, the man recognized with sorrow. I should’ve found someone else with more brain and less heart. God rest her dear soul! I’ll really miss her silly laughter… and her 17 inches skirt, he admitted, smiling melancholically. It’s not every day that you see someone exposing that considerable amount of leg and décolletage.

  In another email, Vivien bragged about her culinary talents.

  “Today I cooked a delicious veggie soup, baby spinach in tomatosauce, and a red cabbage salad,” she had told her mother.

  So you cook, my dear! Clark laughed loudly. You must be from another world!

  He turned off her computer and was careful to arrange the mouse in the exact position he had found it. He didn’t touch anything else.

  A diabolical thought plagued him. You can’t be so… perfect, Vivien! There must be something… a skeleton in your closet.

  He exited what appeared to be Vivien’s office and her improvised exercise room, and then he entered the young woman’s bedroom. Perfect order. He pulled the top drawer of her dresser. Matching intimate lingerie lay neatly arranged, from white to black, with an added colorful palette in between. Panties under, bra on top. Amazed, he opened another drawer, and his eyes feasted on folded sexy nightgowns tied up in the same manner.

  Clark loved order. He just couldn’t keep it. His schedule was usually too busy for that luxury. He sighed disappointed and muttered enviously under his breath. You’re a freak, lady!

  Out of the blue, the unwelcomed sound of a slammed car door startled him. Clark approached the window and peeked outside through the half closed blinds. An old truck was parked in front of Vivien’s house. Whistling an ambiguous tune and grunting with effort from time to time, a stout Latino guy began to unload his gardening tools.

  Oh, nice! Clark whispered nervously. That’s exactly what I needed right now!

  He decided to wait for the gardener to start his job, and when the guy would be engrossed in his tasks, Clark figured he would slip away quietly to the Mercedes.

  With time at hand, he inspected the bathroom - a vast collection of white little drawers packed with perfumes, face and body creams and lotions, lipsticks, eyeshades, mascaras, fluid and powder foundations, nail lacquers in all the colors of the rainbow, and lots of brushes and other little things he didn’t even know what their use was. An entire cosmetology and embellishment arsenal! Clark thought, amused. What a waste of money, my dear! You definitely don’t need all this stuff. He picked a Chanel lipstick and lifted it to his nose. Curious, he inhaled its sweet, fruity aroma. You can spread it on your toast! Actually, this overpriced product has no value. In fact, from all cosmetics, we, men, hate lipstick the most. We’d like to taste your lips, sweetie, not your lipstick! He continued his imaginary dialogue with Vivien, counting perplexed more than twenty nuances of lip-gloss and lipstick in her collection.

  In the empty garbage can, a single small plastic bag with the name “Tee” written on it caught his eye. He knew that Vivien was the only person in the world who called Timothy “Tee”. Clark fished the bag out and uncovered a turned-over business card underneath.

  Detective Art Leonard

  Menlo Park Police Department

  Without any effort at all, Clark recalled the handsome, square features of Timothy’s high school colleague. He had met Art for the first time fifteen years ago, at what had been planned to be Tim and Nadine’s wedding. Subsequently, they had run into each other a couple of times. Clark rather liked the guy. They had something in common – they were both morbidly dedicated to what they were doing. More so than to a relationship or marriage for that matter, Clark reflected bitterly. From what he had heard, Art was also divorced.

  The sealed sandwich bag appeared empty, but at a more detailed study in the sunlight, Clark discovered a piece of golden hair inside it.

  “Bingo, little sister! You’re burned!” he exclaimed.

  The busy gardener turned on his lawnmower, and Clark seized the moment. He locked the back door from the inside and left the house convinced that no one had seen or heard him. In the intimacy of his brother’s car, he took out of the hidden pocket of his jacket a small, black covered notebook. He circled in red Vivien’s name in a list of names as long as a whole page.

  Igor, old pal, you’re next! He let out a nervous chuckle and took off recklessly, pushing the accelerator excessively hard.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sitting quietly close to the aisle, Vivien tried to listen to the comforting words spoken reverently, with religious passion, by the old preacher at Saint Gabriel Episcopal Church in Menlo Park. She made desperate efforts to ignore the heart-breaking sobs of Arlene’s grieving mother. The beautiful framed picture of the untimely dead girl was unable to replace in Vivien’s mind the gruesome image of her dead body from that past Halloween morning. With her hands held together in her lap, the young woman struggled to smother the terrorizing signs of a panic attack.

  She had never intended to come alone to the religious service in memoriam Arlene. She had had a feeling that it would be particularly hard for her. That early morning, Vivien had called Laura. Nevertheless, the woman had found a plausible excuse to sugarcoat her refusal.

  “I’m so sorry that I can’t come with you, Miss Hopkins,” Laura had whined theatrically. “I have to take my car into the shop for repair. Some minor problems, but they need to be taken care of sooner better than later.”

  Vivien had understood. She had hoped to meet Igor there, because other than him, she didn’t know anyone else from Arlene’s family or friends. That past Tuesday, the young man had stood her up. She had waited for him in vain more than an hour at Whole Foods in Redwood City. She wondered if something had happened to him, or he was rather the unreliable type who forgot his appointments. And now, to her utter chagrin, Igor had not turned up at his late girlfriend’s religious service.

  Wrapped up in thought, Vivien studied the perfect geometry of the wooden floor absently, as she waited for the preacher to finish the mass. Out of nowhere, an enormous black Labrador invaded her visual field. The sudden apparition froze the blood in her veins. Its owner had somehow escaped her attention – she hardly comprehended how, as she was seated so close to the aisle, and there was no one between her and the walking space. The person had most certainly passed right by her. Now she could hear the high heels hitting the parquet and the metallic tinkling accompanying their cadenced rhythm. When, finally, curiosity defeated her shock, she turned her head. All her eye could catch, it was a black high-heeled shoe and the hem of a pair of trousers in the same color stained with something beige that strongly resembled face foundation.

  Suddenly the air in the church became impossible to breath. Vivien got up slowly and slipped out. Her heart beating madly, as if threatening to break her rib cage, she hesitantly walked t
o her car. The panic strained her muscles, and her palms and underarms got wet with cold, uncomfortable sweat. She collapsed on the edge of the sidewalk in front of her Lexus and made an effort to control her crisis with yoga breathing exercises.

  “Miss Hopkins, are you OK?”

  Vivien registered detective Leonard’s voice like coming from a dream.

  “I’m fine,” she responded, drained of energy.

  She was as white as a sheet. The detective crouched and handed her a small bottle of water.

  “Take a few sips. It helps.”

  “Yes. Like massage for a wooden leg,” she grinned and bore it.

  “I’m sorry you have to go through these panic attacks.”

  “You know about it?”

  “You’re the person who discovered Miss Morgan’s body. I had to run a check on you. I talked to your mother, among other people…”

  Vivien hung her head, her eyes fixed on the asphalt under her feet. Art Leonard set down beside her.

  “This is not a reason to feel ashamed,” he said softly. “My grandmother suffers from panic attacks. She’s eighty-seven years old. When did yours start?”

  “In my childhood. The neighbors’ dog attacked me. They were rare at first, maybe once or twice per year. As time went by, they became more and more frequent.” Especially after Mademoiselle Lili’s suicide, she wanted to add, but reconsidered. She had no doubt that the detective knew too much about her already.

  “I hope you feel better,” he said, playing nervously with his car keys. He threw a glance at her and was happy to observe that her face was regaining its normal color and brightness. “I’m sorry, Miss Hopkins, but I have more bad news.”

  Vivien studied him worriedly.

  “Igor Schenk,” he said shortly. “Does that name sound familiar?”

  “I know him from my childhood in Woodside. A talented painter. We were never close. He’s a few years older than I am.”

  “He’s in a coma right now, in critical condition. Two or three hours ago, around noon more precisely, he became the victim of a hit and run accident in Menlo Park, about a mile away from your house. No witnesses. A man found him. He was lying unconscious on the sidewalk.”