by Blake Pierce
Her heart stopped. Her blood ran cold. She took a step away and tried to calm her breathing. “Like I said. Just a walk. I was going to call it a day from my sightseeing, but it seems a shame to stay in when it’s such a beautiful night out. Are you attempting to follow me, Mr. Ugbodu?”
His features softened the tiniest bit, and he shook his head a little. “No. Have a good night.”
She spun on her heel and headed for the door, trying to walk at a leisurely pace, so she wouldn’t arouse suspicion. When she stepped outside and looked over her shoulder to confirm he wasn’t following her, she began to walk at a brisk pace, not quite running, but close.
She simply had to get to Musikverein before it closed for the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
She practically raced back to the music hall, thinking about the possibilities. Yes, it made sense that whoever killed Huber must’ve been someone who could easily slip backstage. Someone who belonged there, like a worker or performer.
But when she returned to Musikverein, she wasn’t alone.
No, the streets outside the building were crowded with people, clustered together, standing still and waving signs. At first, Diana thought it was some kind of protest. But as she neared it, she noticed the candles, the crying women, and the flowers. All of the posters were taken from Lukas Huber’s audio recordings. It was a vigil for their beloved artist, snatched from the world in the prime of his life. There were a few police cars nearby, and even some television crews.
Diana wove her way through the many tightly packed bodies, listening to the weeping and moaning. Cheeks everywhere were wet, eyes red, just like Pia’s and Nina’s had been. At one point, a woman let out a heart-wrenching sob, fisted both hands, and cried out to the heavens in German. Diana assumed it was something like, “Why, God? Why?”
At the steps to the music hall, she could go no farther. A police officer was standing there, looking rather uncomfortable. She looked over at the people around her. The vigil might have been peaceful for now, but emotions were running high. One of the women, a young blonde, said, “You! Police officer! Why have you not caught his murderer yet?”
“Whoever did this should die!” another person shouted.
The police officer, who couldn’t have been any older than Bea, cleared his throat. “We’re doing everything we can,” he said, voice cracking. “It just happened last night. These things take—"
“Do more! The killer is out there, running loose! And you’re here, doing nothing!” a curly-haired, matronly woman shouted at him.
“Ja!” another person shouted, holding up a fist.
Give him a break. He is trying to keep the peace and stop the music hall from being overtaken by you crazed fans, she thought, trying to give him an encouraging smile. He wasn’t looking at her, though.
His eyes were focused on the woman in front of him, who was in the process of spitting on his feet. She turned and punched her hand in the air and started a rallying cry. “Find the killer! Find the killer!”
The officer started to back away as everyone around Diana began to repeat the slogan. The vigil wasn’t a vigil anymore—these people were getting as rowdy as they’d been as fans, in the back of the music hall, when Huber had been alive. More police officers were arriving, much to the young officer’s relief. Diana looked around for a way to slip inside but found none. And I’m not going to find one this way, she thought. I need to go around back.
Rabid Huber fans elbowed her as she struggled to make her way out from the protest, moving herself parallel to the blockades. When she emerged from the crowd, she took a deep breath and scanned the area, expecting to see Detective Moser with the other officers, or Ugbodu watching her from behind a tree in the park across the street. No. He hadn’t followed her.
The police had enough on their hands, watching the crowd to make sure it didn’t get out of order. Skirting around the police cars, Diana walked quickly toward the box office at the back of the building. There were far fewer people there, as most everyone had been drawn to the chaos happening at the front of the building.
She crossed the street and was just about to open the door to the box office when it opened on its own, and Sheila, the young ticket-taker that worked with Dieter, came out. She stopped short. “You’re back,” she mumbled, eyeing her suspiciously. “Looking for your stole again?”
“Yes, I am. But no--”
“Good. Because we all know that was a big lie.”
Oh, no, Diana. She’s onto you. Think quick. “Actually, this time I came to see about purchasing some—”
“I told you, no ticket sales today. We all know why you were here, anyway. It’s why all those women were here. They all want a piece of the great Lukas Huber. Do you know how many times we’ve heard of women breaking into his dressing room to get a memento of his?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s exhausting. And now, it’s even worse, that he’s dead. And security is absolutely worthless.”
“People have been breaking into his dressing room?”
She nodded. “Haven’t you seen the pictures posted online? Someone got in there and took a bunch of photos.”
“No, I must’ve—”
She checked her phone. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got somewhere to be.”
“I promise, I wasn’t here to steal from his dressing room. I was just wondering . . . Is it too late to buy tickets for an upcoming performance?”
She frowned. “We told you. Ticket sales were suspended for now. Besides, we just closed.”
“Yes, but I’m leaving town soon,” she said, thinking quickly. “And I was wondering if I couldn’t put my name on the list to get into the New Year’s Concert?”
“That’s a lottery,” she said. “It’s pretty hard to get those tickets.”
“I know, but—”
“Dieter’s inside, closing up. You can ask to add your name to the lottery. He’ll do it for you.” She hurried down the steps without another word.
Diana turned to the double doors. Perfect.
Looking over her shoulder once to make sure no one was watching her, she hurried inside, expecting to see Dieter’s face behind the box office window. But the space was empty. The inside of the box office was dark. “Hello?” she called out, but there was no response.
Even more perfect.
She went past the box office, through the open double doors, toward the main lobby. The place was just as empty as it had been the night she’d returned to apologize to Lukas Huber. She shivered at the recollection. Now, though, there was no clean-up crew, the bar was closed, and everything looked spotless and untouched. She crossed the lobby, her feet making no noise on the lush carpeting, and went to the curtain.
Pulling it aside, she found the same empty hallway she’d travelled before. At the end of it, she came to the spot where she’d seen Lukas Huber, surrounded by his admirers. This area was empty as well, and darker, lit only by a few emergency floodlights above. She quickly made her way to the hallway with Huber’s dressing room. When she stopped outside it, she noted that there was no tape, nothing to indicate it was a crime scene at all.
She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
There, on the floor, she almost expected to see a body, sprawled, just as it had been on that fateful night. But the carpet looked as it had recently been vacuumed. In fact, as she looked around, she realized that the dressing room had been cleared out. Already.
No, that’s not possible. Unless the women sneaked in and stole all his personal items away.
She found the light switch and flipped it on. Sure enough, the vanity where his many cards and gifts from admirers was now clear. That big stack of press photos was gone, too; she had to imagine the two in her purse would probably be worth a lot more, now. Every surface had once been covered with little mementos from his many fans, but now, they were all gone. Carefully, she crossed to the vanity and opened some of the drawers, but they were empty, too.
Maybe the police had removed all
of his personal belongings as evidence? Or had the staff removed it all to avoid people sneaking in, hoping to get some souvenir of the famous composer? Whatever the reason, one thing was clear: If Diana was hoping to get some evidence to point to the murderer, she was too late.
Sighing, she turned around and headed back outside, into the hallway. And that was when she heard it.
It was Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, the stirring piano notes wafting down the hallway.
Curious, she moved forward, wondering if it was just a recording, being piped in through speakers, somewhere. But as she neared the back door to the stage, it became clearer. No, someone was playing it live, and in a fast tempo, faster than she’d ever heard it.
She quietly crept to the doorway leading to the darkened stage and peered out. There was the entire shoebox-shaped room, darkened in a way she’d never seen it, so that all of the beautiful details and golden scrollwork were barely visible. There was a dim light at the piano, focused on the keys. The figure seated at the bench was a man possessed, his fingers flying over the keys in a blur. He moved to the music, as if taken away by it, as if his hands were no longer his own but controlled by a higher power. The halls of Musikverein made almost any music sound good, but this would’ve sounded incredible, played anywhere. The music and technique were flawless.
When he finally played the last note, he pulled away from the piano, his chest heaving, and smiled.
Diana strained to see his face and let out a small gasp of surprise.
It was Dieter, the young man from the box office.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
He looked up, his eyes locking on hers. He mumbled a curse under his breath.
“Why? I’ve never seen anyone play Liszt like that.”
He shook his head and quickly stood up. “This piano is worth a fortune. If anyone found me here, they’d fire me. But sometimes, when I’m all alone like tonight . . . I can’t resist.”
She understood. It was likely any music lover with his kind of talent would feel the same. Being that close to one of the most valuable pianos in the world, in the greatest music hall in the world? How could any musician resist the opportunity to try it out? No, she couldn’t blame him at all.
There was a smug smile on his face, mixing with a bit of a five o’clock shadow, making him look more like a full-grown man than the gawky, acne-faced young adult he’d been in the light of day. “So what did you think?”
How could he ask that? It was like asking whether any of Mozart’s symphonies were any good. “Wow. You were wonderful,” she gushed. “I didn’t know . . .”
“I don’t go around flaunting it, like some people,” he said, rubbing his hands together. When he saw that she wasn’t going to run and tattle on him, he sat back down. Then he began to play Bach’s Aria from the Goldberg Variations, slowly, in a lilting way that Diana had never heard. “This one’s my particular favorite. Deceptively simple, it leaves so much room for interpretation.”
Diana nodded as she neared him on the stage. She listened for a moment, not wanting to speak and distract him.
But he was the one to speak first. He did it as he played, which she found remarkable. How could he do both at once? Most virtuosos couldn’t, could they? “So, does that mean that your meeting with Gunther Graf didn’t turn up anything?”
She shook her head. “Not very much. I feel like I’ve turned up more, right here. I’m just shocked. You’re very good. Did you learn how to play at the university?”
He snorted. “Nope. I’m entirely self-taught. Mostly with YouTube videos. I started pretty young, though. I even compose my own stuff. Impressive, right?”
“Yes. Very.”
He played some more, his long fingers effortlessly pounding the keys. Pia Zimmerman would probably have been jealous. “So since Gunther didn’t pan out, what’s your next step? You came back looking for more evidence, hmm? Snooping around the dressing room for clues?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Not that I found anything.”
“Of course you didn’t. Police cleared it out this morning, and the administration needs to make room for the next virtuoso. We have a show next weekend. Things move quickly around here.”
“I see that. Who is the next principal pianist going to be?”
He shrugged. “Not me. That’s all I know. Probably Graf.”
“Why not you? I know for a fact that Graf isn’t interested. You could—"
“Don’t get me wrong. I auditioned a long time ago. Got too nervous and screwed it up. I’ve been wanting another audition, but they’re not really interested in someone who learned everything on his own. I don’t have the fancy education. Not only do I crack under pressure, but I don’t have any formal training. Plus, they say I’m not “flashy” enough. They need another Lang Lang type.”
“Well, I love Lang Lang.”
He smiled. “Yeah. I do, too. He might be flashy, but he has the talent, at least. You know, it was here, many years ago, I first saw him play. My grandfather took me to the concert. I watched him play Prokofiev’s War Sonata #7, and I knew that was what I wanted to do. I told you, I dreamed of being here one day. But not as an usher. On this stage. Playing with the greatest orchestra on earth, in the greatest city on Earth.”
“You could be. One day? You’re very good.”
He shrugged. “Not any day soon.” He frowned. “So I guess you’re at a dead end. With the murder, I mean?”
Suddenly, without her realizing it, he’d switched over to Schubert’s Impromptu Op. 90. How did that happen? His music was hypnotizing, in a way, and yes . . . even more emotional than Huber’s had been. For a moment, she could almost imagine shedding a tear . . .
“You all right?”
“Yes. Sorry. The music just captivated me.” She laughed. “Actually, I’m not quite at a dead end yet. Meeting with Gunther did get me thinking . . . And I think you might be able to help me, if you’re willing.”
He abruptly stopped playing and looked at her. “Again?”
“I know, I know . . . I’m sorry if I’m putting your job in jeopardy.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Sheila and I were talking a lot today, and well . . . we’re going out after this. I think she likes me.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“She’s your boss, though, right?”
He nodded, grinning. “So, yeah . . .I think I don’t have to worry too much about all that. I think she likes that I don’t follow the rules. Makes me look tough.” He pulled his name plate off his polo shirt. “What did you need help with?”
“I was just thinking about the murderer. While I was with Gunther, he made a good point—people would’ve noticed him if he’d attempted to sneak in there. So my thought is that it likely had to be someone who could be back there without raising any red flags. A member of the crew, or one of the musicians?”
He nodded. “Or Sheila?” He grinned slyly. “Or maybe even me?”
“Well . . .”
“Yeah, I understand. That makes sense. But it doesn’t help narrow it down much. There are over two-hundred members in the Philharmonic. And another hundred crew. Do you want to interview them all?”
She frowned. That was a lot of people. And she couldn’t interview them all. How would she track them down, keep details on all of them? Detective Moser would probably be onto her way before she got done with such a gargantuan task. “No, of course not. But I thought, you were there that night. Maybe you had an idea of someone who was acting suspicious?”
“Suspicious? No. I was ushering, going back and forth, so I was dealing with all the guests. I didn’t really interact with the musicians. No one in the crew was acting odd, that I know of. Well, Sheila, but she’s always acting odd. Stuck up and kind of aloof. Come to think of it, that might be because he likes me.” He grinned. “What do you think? Do women act like that when they like a man?”
“Sometimes. I suppose they do.”
“As for the crew and musicians, the pol
ice already interviewed everyone. So I’m sure they’re on it.” He looked back at the piano and cracked his knuckles. “Now where was I?”
“I’m sorry. I’m disturbing you.”
He shook his head. “I can play in my sleep. It’s hacks like Huber who need absolute silence to perform. But when I play, everything falls away. Nothing can bother me. He’s a diva. A true genius doesn’t need conditions to be favorable in order to create. And he doesn’t need to stand on the shoulders of giants, either.”
Diana thought about what Pia had said. Lukas Huber had fallen in love and hadn’t created in five years. So yes, it seemed that he did need favorable conditions to create. But the last part of what Dieter said hung in her mind. She leaned on the side of the piano, but then thought better of it—the piano was probably worth more than her entire 401k— and straightened. “What do you mean? Shoulders of giants?”
“Ha. You didn’t notice?” He shook his head and smiled a secret smile at the piano keys. “I’m surprised at you. You seem to be quite an expert on music. But don’t worry; even the most trained ears don’t seem to notice. Only very few can. Listen.” He played a few bars of Liszt. “Sound familiar?”
“Sure. That’s Liebestraum No. 3. The Love Dream. Liszt.”
“Right. Good. But then listen to this.”
He played a little more. It sounded like something she’d heard before, but she couldn’t place where. “What is that?”
“It’s the third movement of Huber’s Jupiter Symphony. But it’s the same piece as Liebestraum, only in a different key, with variations on tone and a few odd notes, here and there. But it’s nearly eighty-percent identical.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“And I can show you at least five of his recent pieces and make the comparisons to other works.”
“Oh, my gosh. Graf mentioned something like that, too. So when you said he was a fraud, you weren’t just saying that? He really is one?”
Dieter nodded. “He used to pick lesser-known works, so the average person wouldn’t know. Even the experts don’t know, because as a fraud, he’s a very good one. But Liebestraum, one of Liszt’s greatest works? That took guts.”