by Gerald Elias
‘So you think it was accidental?’
‘What else is there to think? The door wasn’t locked. She could have left anytime she chose to.’
‘Had she turned off the ventilation?’
‘No. The switch was still on.’
Jacobus remembered having tripped over the cord behind one of the modules.
‘Did someone disconnect the electricity?’
‘We checked that. It’s still plugged in.’
‘So how could she have died from carbon-dioxide poisoning?’
‘It’s my job to figure out the whats. The police figure out the hows. And in case you’re wondering, this time we’ll do an autopsy, but all indications are that’s what happened.’
Jacobus wasn’t buying it, but he kept it to himself. That the manner of death in Schlossberg’s medical examiner’s report remained ‘accidental’ was the product of his own persuasiveness, and he intended to keep his own counsel for the time being.
Schlossberg and Broder, both dead. Jacobus was totally perplexed. So many loose ends. He asked the police if he could leave. They had no objections. In fact, if he left it would be easier for them to continue about their business. As he rose from his chair, a voice he identified as the janitor, Sam Consiglio, addressed him.
‘Mr Jacobus! The cops told me another one kicked the bucket. They want to ask me questions. How can this be happening?’
‘Maybe you can tell me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You work around here. You mean to tell me you didn’t see anything suspicious?’
‘All I know’s that when I left last night she was practicing here all by herself. And I don’t have to be here in the mornings until seven thirty.’
‘So how did she manage to stay all night? Don’t you lock up?’
‘Yeah, for the students. But faculty, they have their special privileges. Got their own keys to the building. Not my idea.’
Jacobus sat back down. He drummed his fingers on the stack of Broder’s music. Things began to become clear. He handed the music to Consiglio.
‘Read me the names of the composers on all this music.’ Consiglio rattled off one composer after another, which unsurprisingly included music Jacobus had heard at his masterclass.
‘Felix Mendelssohn, César Frank—’
‘Not Frank. Franck.’
‘OK. Franck, Charles Griffiths—’
‘Griffes.’
‘Whatever.’ He continued to pore his way through the dozen or so assortment of sonatas, concertos, and concert pieces. Finally, he stopped.
‘That’s everything?’ Jacobus asked.
‘I think so.’
Jacobus asked Consiglio to check to make sure. No, he might not pronounce all the names right, but he surely hadn’t missed any.
Jacobus had had enough for one morning. He stood up to leave.
‘You want me to put that chair back?’ Consiglio asked.
‘What do you mean, put it back? This is where I found it.’
‘It’s from the practice room.’
Jacobus had no idea why that chair was where it was, but Albert Pine, chief of police of Kinnetonka Crossing, did. Which was why Jacobus was sitting in a different chair, and an uncomfortable one at that, in the police chief’s office.
‘Why did you remove the chair from the practice room, Mr Jacobus?’ Pine asked.
‘I didn’t. But if I had, what the hell difference does it make?’
‘Because indications are that the chair was used to wedge the practice room door shut from the outside, making it impossible for the victim to open it.’
‘What indications?’
‘Abrasions on the carpeting outside the practice room and scratches under the door handle indicate the victim tried to open the door. Obviously, she was unsuccessful. Why did you need to see her at such an early hour?’
Jacobus was reluctant to explain the whole ball of wax. He had a feeling it wouldn’t sit well with Pine that he had been conducting his own personal murder investigation. He was also pretty sure that if he unburdened himself to Pine, it would put Audrey and Lucien in serious jeopardy of being arrested. He was reasonably convinced they hadn’t murdered Schlossberg. And, since they were in hiding, they could have had no connection to Broder’s death. Jacobus was stymied.
‘Broder was going to be performing in a concert this Friday,’ he answered. ‘The Vivaldi by Twilight concert. There’s a violin student who’s performing. I wanted to go over a few things about the part.’
‘That’s not what I understand.’
‘What do you understand?’
‘I understand from Professor Sybil Baker-Hulme that you expressed a keen interest in Lisette Broder’s personal affairs. I understand from the janitor, Sam Consiglio, that you were very inquisitive as to when and how faculty and students entered and left Stuyvesant Hall at night and in the morning.’
‘What are you trying to say?’ Jacobus barked.
‘I also understand from Professor Elwood Dunster and others that you made it clear to anyone who would listen that you had no affinity for the music of Aaron Schlossberg. That in fact your aversion—’
‘Are you saying that I killed Aaron Schlossberg and Lisette Broder?’ Jacobus was dumbfounded.
‘Maybe it’s a coincidence that since you showed up on the Kinderhoek campus, both of them have died mysteriously. That you happened to be the one who found Broder’s body, and that you were at the Schlossberg home the night he ingested a fatally poisonous mushroom.’
‘If there’s someone who’s been eating too many mushrooms, it’s you, Pine.’
‘We’ll see about that. But I do have to wonder why you have remained on school premises long after your dismal showing at your masterclass and your dismissal by the administration. Can you give me an explanation for that?’
‘You’ve certainly been doing your homework in the past two hours, haven’t you?’ Jacobus said, beginning to understand. ‘You and Lou Pine related, perhaps?’
‘Brothers.’
‘Go figure.’
‘And he and I are very close. As a trustee on the conservatory board, he heard an earful from Charles Hedge about how you screwed up a ninety-million-dollar gift, and … well, let’s just say my family doesn’t keep secrets from each other. Until today I would have wanted you out of here, Mr Jacobus. But not now. Now I want to be close to you. Like my brother. Very, very close.’
‘May I be excused now?’ Jacobus asked. ‘Or do you think I might also have killed Theodesia Lievenstock, too?’
Since he was at a loose end and probably under observation, Jacobus decided to go to the Lievenstock Music Library where it would be difficult to suspect him of subversive activity. He didn’t want to remain there long and attract attention, so he cajoled the librarian into allowing him to borrow some cassette tapes of Aaron Schlossberg’s music, convincing her that Sybil Baker-Hulme had requested them. ‘Poor woman’s still in mourning,’ he said. ‘His music makes her feel he’s still with her.’ From there he returned to the inn.
Jacobus did not consider Schlossberg’s music to be beautiful, but the more he listened, the more he grudgingly accepted the fact that Schlossberg had known what he was doing. It didn’t touch his heart, but it did awaken something in his brain. Whether his music would ever come close to giving Jacobus the same kind of emotional lift that Beethoven’s did was a different story, but for the moment all he was searching for was simple guidance.
Schlossberg’s most recent recording was an eclectic retrospective that included the Seductive Variations. He had composed the piece in his pre-computer days, when real instruments played by real musicians were still in vogue. The performance on the tape was not by Lisette Broder, which was no surprise, but by Tallulah Dominguez, which seemed a much better fit. It was a strange piece, starting out in great complexity but ending very simply. Jacobus could make out threads of interconnected motivic ideas, but there seemed to be a great deal of random, superfluous
material.
Being blind, he had no idea how many compositions were on the tape. When he turned it over to listen to Side Two, he was surprised to hear the voice of the composer himself. Spoken program notes. With a rich, persuasive voice like Schlossberg’s, no doubt his producers felt it was a profitable marketing idea.
Schlossberg spoke in general terms of the sources of his inspiration. It was almost a verbatim repetition of what he had told Jacobus in person. How he loved nature and the forests; how Beethoven also loved nature and the forests; how he had evolved from acoustic instruments to synthesizers to a combination of the two. He also spoke about the individual pieces on the tape. What he said about Seductive Variations set off Jacobus’s alarm bells:
‘The traditional musical format of theme and variations is for the composer to start out with a simple melody and then impress the listener with his versatility by reshaping the melody, going from Point A to Point B, etcetera, in any number of ingenious ways. Bach’s Goldberg Variations and Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations are two of the greatest examples of this form.
‘But that’s not how life really is, is it? In life we start out with seemingly infinite possibilities. Random and arbitrary possibilities. Which variations do we choose? How do we go from Point A to Point B in search of the holy grail? And what is our holy grail? For most people, it’s love. But love of what? Along the path to love we are seduced by an assortment of possibilities: money, fame, possessions, power. Lust. Lust is perhaps the greatest seducer of them all. But when all is said and done, when we approach the opposite end of our existence, what is left – if we’re lucky – is love. If we’re not, we’re left with nothing. In either case, we’ve gone from complexity to simplicity, opposite the traditional form of theme and variation. In Seductive Variations I’ve followed the reverse fractals of nature’s path.’
Jacobus dialed the campus directory and was given the pager for Sam Consiglio, who immediately apologized if he had gotten Jacobus in trouble. He was just answering Pine’s questions.
‘No problem, Sam. But I have a question for you. You know what practice room Lisette Broder would’ve been in the night Aaron Schlossberg died?’
‘That’s a toughie. First of all, we don’t know exactly which night he died, right? Second, it would’ve been on the sign-up sheet, and I get rid of them at the end of each week. And third, it was spring break, so there wasn’t even a sign-up sheet. Especially being faculty, she wouldn’t have needed to sign up anyway.’
‘Good points. Hadn’t thought of that. If someone did have that information, who would it be?’
‘Connie Jean, I suppose. Once people sign up on the sheet on the door, I let Connie Jean know and she puts it into the computer. It’s so that if anyone wants to change their time or cancels, she can arrange things. You could call her.’
‘That probably wouldn’t be the best idea, Sam. Think you might do that for me? Maybe tell her that Chief Pine needs to know and then get back to me?’
‘I suppose I could do that. I figure I owe you one anyway. I’ll give her a call right now.’
While Jacobus waited, he thought about the upcoming concert just three days ahead. Mia Cheng, not Audrey Rollins, performing ‘Spring’. Someone other than Lisette Broder playing harpsichord. Sybil Baker-Hulme narrating the sonnet, in Venetian, while her arch-enemy, Bronislaw Tawroszewicz conducted the music. If audiences only knew what baggage musicians brought onstage with them.
Friday was also judgment day for Tawroszewicz’s tenure review. Somehow all these disparate events and people were connected. The link seemed to be Aaron Schlossberg. Mia and Audrey, abused by him. Broder, his former, casually discarded flame. Baker-Hulme, the proud, cuckquean wife. Tawroszewicz, the … the what?
What was the bond that had held those two together? For a time, Schlossberg had been Tawroszewicz’s sole pillar of support. Why? And why had Tawroszewicz disavowed their friendship after Schlossberg’s death? What was the solvent that in the end dissolved the glue?
Tuesday afternoon there was a scheduled chamber orchestra rehearsal. Jacobus didn’t know what time it currently was. He guessed it was already afternoon. As soon as Consiglio called he would go to the rehearsal. He wasn’t too interested in the music. More in the words. Not Vivaldi’s. Tawroszewicz’s.
He removed the Schlossberg tape from his cassette player and inserted his own, ready to record some new thoughts. Starting from the infinite possibilities and working his way to the simplest ones. Theme and variations in reverse. The phone rang. Jacobus pushed Stop.
‘Mr Jacobus. Sam here. Yeah, well, I just spoke to Connie Jean. I had a tough time getting through. I got the impression that people in the office are running around like headless chickens over Miss Broder’s death. Except for Connie Jean. You gotta believe she’s a micromanager, but I guess this place would fall apart without her.’
‘And so?’ Jacobus prodded.
‘Yeah. Turns out people could get into the practice rooms over the break only with her authorization. Some liability rigmarole that’s over my head. Turns out Broder was booked into Room Nineteen.’
‘Room Nineteen. Ring a bell, Sam?’
‘Well, I’ll be!’
Jacobus shuffled over to Feldstein Auditorium along the cobblestone path as quickly as he could without walking into a tree or giving himself a heart attack. He was so easily winded of late, which he attributed to old age and a lifetime of liverwurst. When he arrived at the auditorium there was no music to be heard. Footsteps approached.
‘Excuse me,’ Jacobus said to the footsteps. ‘I miss the rehearsal?’
A young lady replied, ‘It was canceled. Didn’t you hear? Miss Broder died, so Mr T canceled it.’
‘Know where I can find Mr T?’
‘His office, I guess.’
‘Might his office have a number?’
‘Uh. Yeah, but I’m not sure.’
Jacobus hated asking favors but had no time to explore. The young lady, a viola student it turned out, agreed to accompany him.
Jacobus tapped his cane on the floor.
‘Do you need me to, like, hold your arm or something?’ she asked.
Jacobus almost replied, ‘Not on our first date,’ but caught himself. Though for decades it had been his standard response to that offer, it was not a comment he was comfortable with while investigating the murder of a faculty rapist.
Instead he asked, ‘So, how do you like Mr T?’ as they walked along the corridor.
‘He’s all right. I guess.’
‘You guess?’
‘He’s weird.’
‘The accent, you mean? East European?’
She laughed. ‘No. He was always kind of mean. You know? But just this past week, he’s been so nice. It’s kind of creepy.’
‘I understand he gets great student evaluations.’
‘He does?’
Jacobus let it go at that. They passed a room from which a recording of dense orchestral music was emanating.
‘Whose office is that?’ Jacobus asked.
‘That’s Professor Millefiori. Do you want to go in?’
Jacobus considered it. Millefiori had more to lose from Schlossberg’s death than anyone and nothing to gain. And as far as he knew, there was no particular connection between Millefiori and Broder. If he needed to see Millefiori he would do it another time.
‘No thanks,’ Jacobus said. ‘But do you know what music that is? I’ve never heard it.’
‘Oh, yes. That’s Aaron Schlossberg’s Third Symphony. We played it last semester.’
‘That’s the name? Third Symphony? Not Calamari for Orchestra or Orsehay Itshay?’
‘I’ve never heard of those pieces. Did he write those, too?’
They arrived at Tawroszewicz’s door.
‘How are you spending your time now that they canceled the rehearsal?’ Jacobus asked the student.
‘I know I should be practicing, but I’m going shopping with my friends.’
Jacobus lau
ghed. He thanked the student and knocked on the door.
‘Yes. Come in.’
Jacobus entered.
‘Oh, it’s you. What do you want?’
‘Just want to understand a few things,’ Jacobus said.
‘I’m busy.’
‘I’ll be brief. I was hoping to hear the rehearsal. You canceled it.’
‘That was not my idea. It was Sybil’s. We needed the rehearsal. She only has to talk.’
‘Yet you agreed to canceling it?’
‘My tenure review is Friday morning. I can’t afford enemies.’
‘But you have your excellent student evaluations. For example, “Professor T is one of the good teachers I’ve ever worked with.”’
Jacobus heard a pencil drop.
‘Strange syntax, don’t you think?’ Jacobus continued, after a pause whose length would have been uncomfortable for anyone else. ‘I suppose that must have come from one of your typical semi-literate music students. Or maybe they were just in a rush. After all, who wants to waste time writing teacher evaluations on a computer when you can go shopping?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘Hypothetically speaking, if one were to insert a negative in the evaluations to replace a positive, the syntax would be perfect. Try this one on: “Professor T is one of the worst teachers I’ve ever worked with.” Here are some more examples, if my memory serves me: “Mr T often yells at us” instead of “compliments.” “After two years with Professor Tawroszewicz I never want to play in an orchestra again” instead of “always.” “Sometimes I think I hate playing” instead of “like.” One might overlook the syntactical subtleties. If one were East European, for example.’
‘Get out.’
‘You gamed the system, didn’t you?’ Jacobus said. ‘You dug into the school’s computers. What’s the word they use? Hack. That’s it. You’re a hacker. But hack has more than one meaning. Musically, you’re also a hack. You have little to contribute except bullying the students, and you’re doing everything you can think of to get tenure, except by becoming a better musician.’