by Gerald Elias
‘You’re not telling the truth,’ Jacobus said. ‘Either of you.’
‘Yes, we are!’
‘No. You can’t be. Because everyone – his wife, the doctors, the authorities, his colleagues – everyone was absolutely certain Schlossberg died from diabetes. Natural causes! Not even an accident! No one had any idea he’d been poisoned. It never would have occurred to anyone to blame you for anything.’
Audrey and Lucien had no answer.
‘It all fits,’ Jacobus continued. ‘It would have taken two people to haul Schlossberg, a big, dying man, away from his house. You could have done it a night or two after the party, waiting for Sybil to leave the house. She might have thought he had gone out for a breath of fresh air, trying to revive himself. Or to get some medicine from the drugstore. Who knows? Then, arriving at the vacant music building during spring break, you could easily have entered undetected, gone down the stairs or elevator, and deposited him in Room Nineteen. Sounds right to me.’
Still the two students were mute. Jacobus waited. He would not be the one to break the silence.
‘So, we thought if we told you everything you wouldn’t believe us,’ Lucien said.
‘So far you’ve been about as honest as Richard Nixon, but try me.’
‘We did put the jack-o’-lanterns in the party food,’ Audrey admitted.
‘Not we!’ Lucien protested. ‘I did it. Myself. Audrey didn’t do anything. She didn’t even know.’
‘Well, that’s very valiant of you. But why the hell would you do something asinine like that?’
‘I just wanted to ruin his party!’ Lucien said. ‘That’s all. He was always bragging about how great he was with his foraging and his parties. It made him feel so superior. I wanted to humiliate him. To make him feel the way he’d made Audrey feel. I thought using his own damn book would be a way to get back at him.’
‘And when you heard he died you thought you might’ve killed him with those jack-o’-lanterns?’
‘Yes. I knew they weren’t supposed to be lethal, but then with his diabetes I figured maybe the combination … Anyway, that’s the whole truth. We had nothing to do with the false morel. I swear.’
Jacobus was inclined to believe this story, because the one piece of the puzzle that had confused him – why Audrey had put on an act at the masterclass – was now explained. If she had had a premeditated plan to kill Schlossberg at the party, her act on the veranda had been Oscar-winning, and she simply didn’t have enough guile for that. She would have given something away. Now he understood the answer. At that point, she hadn’t known Lucien had planned to sicken the guests.
Jacobus took a deep breath. He had been prepared to literally let them get away with murder. No one the wiser. Cause of death: ingestion of false morel. Manner of death: accidental. Case closed.
But now there was a new problem. If Audrey and Lucien hadn’t murdered Schlossberg, then someone else had. And for what reason?
‘How did you find this place?’ Anderson asked, interrupting Jacobus’s thoughts. It was the first thing Anderson had said since they had entered the cabin. ‘I’ve lived around these woods for years and I’ve never seen it.’
Audrey laughed a bitter laugh.
‘Aaron found it. Isn’t that ironic? He foraged in this area a lot and just came upon it one day. It’s only about a twenty-minute walk through the woods to his house. He used to take some of us out with him on his “expeditions.” We’d feel really privileged. Then he’d bring us here. He told us, “only his special people.” He said no one had been in it for years, so he cleaned it out and kept it for his little secret hideaway. Sometimes we spent the night. If I told him I wanted to leave, he’d laugh and say, “No one’s stopping you,” knowing there was no way for me to get home.’
‘It seems a little weird and creepy,’ Yumi said, ‘that you would take your boyfriend to the place where your professor sexually harassed you.’
‘I know,’ Audrey replied. ‘Pretty disgusting, isn’t it? But that’s why I did it. I figured this would be the last place anyone would look for us, even if they knew it was here.’
‘How did you find us?’ Lucien asked.
Anderson started to answer. Jacobus interrupted him.
‘Long story and not important,’ he said. ‘I understand students filed complaints against Schlossberg that got nowhere. Might any other faculty be aware of went on?’
‘Maybe,’ Audrey said. ‘Who knows what they talk about? Maybe they like to brag about their trophies.’
‘I have a question for Lucien,’ Yumi said. ‘At the party, why did you take Sybil to the studio where Audrey and Aaron were?’
‘I didn’t take her,’ Lucien replied. ‘She took me. She said we needed to go find Audrey because the party was almost over and we had to get the guests’ jackets. We went through the whole house before we found them.’
‘When the two of you entered the studio and saw Audrey and Aaron, what was your reaction?’
‘I started shouting. I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to kill him.’ He paused. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t say that.’
‘At least you’re being honest. And Sybil’s reaction?’ Jacobus asked. ‘What did she do?’
‘I didn’t notice,’ Lucien said. ‘I was too angry.’
‘I remember,’ Audrey said. ‘It was a little weird. I’m not sure, but for a second I thought she smiled. Like Mona Lisa. Then she told us to get out.’
‘So, what are you going to do now?’ Lucien asked Jacobus.
‘Not sure. But for the time being,’ Jacobus said, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a handful of bills, ‘here’s some money.’
‘For what?’
‘You’ll need a hamburger to go with whatever you’ve been foraging, and lukewarm Coke loses its appeal after the first case.’
He got up to leave, and Yumi rose with him.
‘Do you want your letter back?’ Yumi asked Audrey.
‘No. I don’t need it. I don’t want it.’
‘Audrey, you mentioned irony,’ Jacobus said. ‘There’s another irony here. Do you know what this place is?’
‘No. Not really. Just a cabin.’
‘My young friend here thinks it was a WPA logging camp. It’s a good guess. But I’m guessing he’s wrong. I know he’s wrong. Don’t ask how an old blind man can be sure, but I can feel it.
‘This is – this must be – one of the original Kinderhoek Settlement cabins. This is where World War II Jewish refugees, fleeing violence and annihilation in Europe, came for asylum. Where they came to play music together without fear. In this room, on this floor, in this quiet place, traumatized human beings played music to regain their sanity. To regain their sense of a future. I can feel their presence. I can feel the vibrations.
‘Audrey, you’re one of those refugees. You’ve escaped. You could have fled anywhere but you came to this place. You’ve survived. If you give up music, fine. But think about what it means to you first. Goodbye.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Since Jacobus never did have faith in humanity, he couldn’t truthfully say he had lost it. Jealousy, greed, lust, envy, resentment. Everyone picked at the scab of at least one, if not all of them. Always had. Always would. Nothing changes. What offense, what hurt – real or perceived – what pet peeve, might have provoked someone to murder Aaron Schlossberg?
Did he believe Audrey and Lucien? Maybe. He wanted to. College prank? Possible. When he and Nathaniel were college students, they had once poured a laxative into the fruit punch at a party at French House. Snippy French majors. That’ll teach them. It was stupid and immature. He hadn’t considered the possible consequences. Someone could have gotten seriously sick. Maybe someone had.
So it was possible they were telling the truth. But if Audrey and Lucien weren’t the culprits, then who was? Sybil Baker-Hulme, who, like Gesualdo, discovered her illustrious spouse in a compromising position? Tawroszewicz, polar opposite of intellect and taste with Schlossberg, whose appa
rent friendship suddenly turned ice cold? Might Mr T have resented some condescending slight enough to feel the need to kill? Was there some issue over his tenure? Mia Cheng, with her tangled upbringing, who had reason enough? Could her controlled exterior have suppressed an inner rage that finally snapped? Dante Millefiori, the above-it-all whose success depended upon Schlossberg’s celebrity? Hadn’t he spoken of keeping secrets? Or any of the others. Dunster, Hedge, Handy? Consiglio even? After all, he had been the one who found him. The list went on and on. It could be any one of them. Or it might have been none of them at all.
‘Need to rest a minute,’ Jacobus said.
‘We’re almost back to the car,’ Yumi replied.
‘I said I need to rest.’ He was short of breath. His brain was on overload as he considered the seemingly infinite number of possibilities. He wanted more than anything to sit down on the grass but didn’t know how he’d get back up again. Or if he’d get back up again. ‘Go on ahead without me if you want to.’
Anderson and Yumi waited with Jacobus in the tranquility of the woods on an early spring evening. It would have been an ideal day for a picnic, he thought, with thick-cut kosher salami sandwiches and deli mustard, and cold beer. An ideal day, if not for all the lying and the deceit. And the murder. If not for that. Easy to say. When was there a day in this world that was otherwise? So much for picnics.
‘All right, let’s go,’ he said. They trudged to the car and drove off.
Halfway back to the inn, Yumi’s phone rang. It was Lilburn. She handed the phone to Jacobus.
‘Interesting tidbit,’ Lilburn said. ‘I’ve been doing my research on Aaron Schlossberg’s NYU days. I tracked down a copy of his graduating class’s yearbook in their library. I must say, Schlossberg was much slimmer in those days. He cut quite a fine figure …’
‘Cut the crap, Lilburn,’ Jacobus said. ‘Did you find out anything worth this phone call?’
‘It’s relevant, Jacobus. I traced the names of some of his fellow students from the yearbook. I started calling and got a few positive hits. I told them I was doing a Schlossberg retrospective for the Times, which is by no means untrue, so they were refreshingly forthcoming. Piecing things together, it seems that in the year he and Lisette Broder overlapped, they became an item. He wrote music for her and she played it. In the NYU archives I discovered a program in which she performed a piece of his called Seductive Variations for Piano Alone.’
‘Remind me to listen to it the next time I—’
‘For a few months the two of them were inseparable.’
‘A few months? Until what?’
‘Until Schlossberg did a month-long midyear project at the Royal Academy.’
‘Ah!’ Jacobus said. ‘Let me guess what happens next. Lover boy returns to the Big Apple from the UK with a new, gleaming trophy on his arm: the charming, brilliant young duchess of historically informed performance.’
‘Yes. You’ve hit the nail on the head. My sources told me that Miss Broder did not take kindly to being dumped in so public and unceremonious a fashion.’
A motive for murder? Jacobus wondered. Maybe at the time. But why wait decades to retaliate? It didn’t make much sense. And innocuous Lisette Broder? With her schedule, when would she even have time for murder?
Jacobus found himself about to be kicked out of Sybil Baker-Hulme’s library.
‘“Mona Lisa smile”?’ Sybil Baker-Hulme railed dismissively. ‘Is that what she said? Tell me, Mr Jacobus, what would you recommend? Tell me, Mr Jacobus, the proper way for a wife to respond upon finding her husband in the amorous clutches of a conniving hussy. What would you, Mr Jacobus, have had me do? Tear out my hair? Throw a vase? Faint? Would that have been the acceptable response?
‘But that’s not who I am, is it? “Mona Lisa smile,” indeed! And why not? In its own way it was comic, the three of them entwined in their hopeless love triangle! Like a scene of a Handel opera, except of course Handel would have had gods and goddesses, not tawdry mortals.’
‘Why do you say conniving?’
‘Well, isn’t that perfectly clear? A girl with such modest talent being selected over others with far greater qualifications to perform a concerto? Have you not heard the term “gold-digger,” Mr Jacobus? It wouldn’t be the first time a young woman used her body to advance her concert career. Is that not true?’
Jacobus could not deny it. He had often wondered at some of the questionable talent – not only women, either – who were getting plump, five-figure fees to perform with major orchestras. There were enough stories. How much was true, he had no idea.
‘Admittedly, Aaron sometimes let his penis influence his decision-making,’ Sybil continued, ‘but who benefitted the most, I ask you? Who initiated?’
‘Why didn’t you tell us any of this?’ Jacobus protested, but he knew immediately it was the worst thing he could have said.
‘Because it’s none of your bloody business! Because my husband, whom I loved, has just died from a poisoned mushroom! Because … And such an ordinary girl. A girl threatening me with a one-page piece of crude, pulp fiction. A Trollope’s trollop. Please leave. Now.’
When they got in the car, Anderson said, ‘I guess that didn’t go so well.’
None of it had. Before Jacobus had brought up the toxic subject of Audrey Rollins, Sybil also denied ever knowing that her dead husband and Lisette Broder had had a relationship. She even denied knowing Broder at all at NYU, and said that after joining the conservatory faculty Aaron had never mentioned her name except in the context of her position as staff accompanist. Sybil couldn’t believe there was any truth to the ‘fable’ that Lisette Broder, ‘of all people,’ would have been attractive to her husband. And even if it were fact, and even if it were true that Lisette considered herself jilted, what did that have to do with anything?
‘Only that the cause of your husband’s death is suspicious,’ Jacobus said. ‘Do you think Broder might have wanted to kill him?’
‘Mr Jacobus! Really! Suspicious? Murder? Lisette Broder? The medical examiner concluded Aaron’s death was accidental. You were there, as I understand, as my surrogate. That is the end of it as far as I’m concerned.’
It wasn’t the end of it for Jacobus. Not quite. It was then he asked whether Sybil was aware of the relationship between her husband and Audrey Rollins. He didn’t want to call it what it was – rape – because he knew that wouldn’t him get him very far. But it didn’t matter. They were shown the door anyway.
Once more they tried calling Lisette Broder, and yet again all they got was her answering machine. Though it was getting late, Yumi suggested going to Stuyvesant Hall. Surely she must be in rehearsal with one student or another.
They found her in Room Nine. When Jacobus heard her and a student rehearsing the Poem for Flute and Piano by Charles Griffes, a piece of fluff he detested but which was for some reason a staple of flute students’ repertoire, he wanted to abandon the plan, but Yumi assured him they would stop playing as soon as they opened the door. She was almost wrong.
‘We have a senior recital coming up,’ Broder said, ‘and there’s no time. I can’t talk now.’
‘Half hour?’
‘I’ve got to practice “Spring” after this for the concert on Friday.’
She tried pushing the door closed on them.
‘Tomorrow morning?’ Jacobus asked.
Broder hesitated.
‘Either now or tomorrow morning.’ Jacobus made it sound like a final offer.
‘Very well.’ She checked her calendar. ‘Seven a.m. Room Seven. I have a Haydn Trumpet Concerto at seven thirty.’
‘Glutton for punishment,’ Jacobus said to Yumi after Broder closed the soundproofed door on them.
Yumi dropped Jacobus off at the inn and immediately left for New York City because she had a Harmonium rehearsal the next morning. Jacobus was exhausted, but before going to bed he forced himself to record some more of his thoughts about the baffling case on his cassette player.
He coughed up something into the bathroom sink that didn’t taste good, and then probed around his chest to determine if he could feel any growths on his lungs. Not finding any, he fell into a deep sleep.
TWENTY-FIVE
Tuesday, April 7
The next morning, promptly at seven a.m., Jacobus found Lisette Broder in Room Seven at Stuyvesant Hall. He found her dead. If not for his probing cane, he would have tripped over her body, which lay halfway between the door and piano bench.
Jacobus called Dr Dahl as soon as he could find a phone.
‘Stay right there and don’t touch a thing,’ Dahl cautioned. ‘It could be a crime scene.’
‘Don’t worry. I will not touch a thing.’ Which was true, in a manner of speaking, because he already had retrieved all the music that Broder had left on the piano. Just a matter of syntax. While he waited for Dahl and the police to arrive, he sat on a wooden chair he found around the corner from the practice room, Broder’s music in his arms, taking deep breaths to calm himself.
When the police arrived, Jacobus answered their questions as succinctly as possible. He stayed out of their way, waiting for Dahl to complete his work. He had a question of his own.
‘Preliminary guess. Suffocation,’ Dr Dahl said.
‘Suffocation? Someone strangled her?’
‘No. She wasn’t strangled.’
‘Then what?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s possible she suffocated if the ventilation had been shut off. If she had been here all night.’
‘How can you run out of oxygen in a single night?’ Jacobus asked.
‘It’s not so much running out of oxygen. It’s the accumulation of carbon dioxide that’s lethal. CO2 is a toxic gas when the levels get too high – a mere five percent. In the poultry industry CO2 asphyxia is a method used to humanely slaughter chickens. It’s called CAS, or controlled-atmosphere stunning.’
‘Lisette Broder wasn’t a chicken.’
‘Let me give you a human example: It takes twenty-four hours for a hermetically sealed room that’s ten-by-ten-by-ten, or a thousand cubic feet, to be filled with a lethal concentration of CO2 by a resting individual. Moderate activity will cut the time in half, and strenuous activity half again. A mere six hours. This room looks like about half that volume. If Broder had been practicing with great intensity and hadn’t been aware what was happening, she might have realized too late what peril she was in. She could have passed out and then as the CO2 level continued to increase from her breathing, it killed her.’