by Leslie Karst
“Well, I don’t know nothin’ about his death. I wasn’t anywhere near the church the day he died, and I moved out of his house weeks before it happened.”
“You didn’t see him again after you moved out?”
“No way. Our parting was not what you’d call warm and fuzzy. He evicted me after I’d done a ton of work on the house—work that was worth way more than I got in reduction in rent, by the way.”
“Yeah, I gather. Jill said you were pretty upset. Which is totally understandable,” I added, trying to keep him on my side. “That seems pretty harsh, to kick you out like that. What sort of work did you do, anyway? ’Cause maybe I could get Jill to reimburse you or something.” I seriously doubted this was going to happen, but I figured it might make him more likely to open up.
His eyes did indeed register a flicker of interest. “Well, I painted the kitchen and bathrooms and also did all the trim on the exterior. And I replaced a couple faucets and put in a new toilet for him. Oh, and I also pulled up the carpet in the living room and hall and refinished the hardwood. That was a real pain in the ass.”
“That does seem like a lot. You didn’t pay for the stuff, though, did you?”
“Nah, Kyle bought all the fixtures and paint and rented the equipment and everything. But the labor’s the expensive part. I probably worked over a hundred hours and only got about a thousand bucks off my rent.”
“Ten dollars an hour,” I said. “Not a bad deal for Kyle.”
“And I did all his maintenance for him. You know, snaking the drains, repairing the garbage disposal, fixing a leak in the other toilet.”
“Jill says you do maintenance for your church, too.”
“Uh-huh.” He eyed me warily, as if he knew where this was going.
“So you must know about that broken upstairs window—the one Kyle fell out of?”
Steve stood up suddenly. “Okay, look, I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but that was not my fault. As soon as I realized the frame was rotted, I got permission from the church to order a new one. But it takes a while for the shop to come out and take the measurements, make the window, and then come back and install it. So in the meantime, I put up a sign saying it was broken and not to use it.”
“Let me ask you this: were the police interested in the condition of the window?”
Steve laughed. “They never even talked to me. I think the only people they talked to were the pastor and deacon, who must have told them about the window. That’s why I asked if you were a cop. I thought maybe they’d finally realized I might actually have something interesting to say.” He sat back down and leaned back in his chair. “But hey, no one ever wants to talk to the lowly maintenance guys.”
“So how bad was the window? Was it, you know, right on the edge of coming completely out like it did?”
“No. That’s the weird thing—and what I would have told the cops if they’d talked to me. I tried that window just last week as soon as I realized it was rotted, and it opened easily, no problem at all. ’Cause it wasn’t the part you open that had the problem—it was the frame. I only put that warning sign up as a CYA. So it’s really bizarre that the whole thing came out like it did, because it would have taken real force to push the frame out like that.”
The dank, dimly lit maintenance shop felt suddenly claustrophobic and hot—another damn hot flash, no doubt—and I experienced a strong urge to yank off my tight-fitting cycling jersey.
It was looking more and more like Jill and I were right.
Chapter Eight
We had our first women’s sectional—just the sopranos and altos—that night before regular chorus rehearsal. After spending the entire hour on the fugue that ends both the Domine Jesu and the Hostias sections of the Requiem, Marta released us for a short break between sectional and regular rehearsal.
I was about to go get a drink of water from the fountain in the breezeway but was stopped by Jill, who rushed over from the soprano section to catch me. “Have you learned anything yet?” she asked, eagerness spilling from her voice and eyes. “You know, about Kyle?”
“Yeah, actually, I have. C’mon, let’s go outside.”
Jill followed me out to the breezeway and leaned against the metal railing while I gulped water from the fountain. “Okay,” I said, coming to stand next to her. “I talked to Steve, the maintenance guy, this afternoon.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, I passed right by his college on my bike ride, so I decided to see if he might happen to be there. He was, and he told me the window Kyle fell out of had worked fine last week when he tried opening and closing it—that it was the frame that was in bad shape, not the moving parts. He also said he was surprised the frame had come out, as it would have taken some real force to dislodge it.”
“So . . .” I could tell Jill didn’t get the significance of this fact.
“So in other words, it’s looking more and more likely that Kyle was in fact pushed. I mean, think about it. He must have been standing near the window when someone shoved him against it hard, and that’s what caused the whole thing to come loose.”
“Wow.” Jill stared out at the parking lot, where two of the tenors were having quick cigarettes before the start of regular rehearsal. “I know I was the one who didn’t think it was an accident, but . . .” She trailed off.
“I hear ya. It’s pretty scary to realize it might really be true. That someone actually could have pushed him. But after talking to Steve, I’m not so sure he’s still our best suspect, even though he clearly had reason to hate Kyle. He made that pretty clear when we talked. But why would he tell me how pissed off he was at Kyle—or about the condition of the window frame, for that matter—if he was the one who pushed him? So can you think of anyone else who might have . . . ?”
“Wanted him dead?” Jill just shook her head.
“Well, money’s always a good place to start. Do you know who’s going to inherit his estate, for instance?”
“I know he has a brother—I’ve met him—and his parents are still living. They’re all up in the Bay Area.”
“Did he have a will?”
“Who knows? He never talked about stuff like that.” Jill busied herself with picking a bit of lint off her pale-blue sweater. Cashmere, by the look of it. “Maybe you should look around that storage room to see if you find any clues.”
“You could do that as easily as I could,” I said. “Easier, actually, since you’re a member of the church, and I’d have no legitimate reason to be up there.”
“I did look, a few days ago, and didn’t find anything that seemed important. But I was thinking maybe you’d see something I missed, since you’re obviously so good at this investigation thing.”
Right, I thought as the tenors extinguished their cigarettes and started back into the building. As if I’d be so easily convinced by mere flattery.
Once everybody had taken their seats, the full chorus started on the Domine Jesu movement, which leads into the tricky bit the women had been working on in sectional.
After concentrating on the notes and dynamic phrasing for a few minutes, Marta asked us to look at the words. “Do you know what the Latin text here means?” she asked, and then provided the translation before anyone could answer: “‘Lord, free the souls of all the faithful departed from the punishments of the inferno and its deep lake.’ And you know what that lake is filled with, don’t you? The eternal flames of damnation. I want you to visualize for a moment those countless lost souls, their flesh searing for all eternity in that burning lake.” She paused to allow us to ponder this grisly image.
“Scary, no? So you should sound scared—terrified—during this part. Like this.” Marta sang the soprano line, her voice hushed yet intense, managing to convey at once both fear and awe.
I shivered, listening to her. Though I’d been raised a Catholic, our parish priest thankfully didn’t tend to focus on these more disturbing aspects of the Church’s doctrine. Were there people these
days who really believed that stuff? Nonna might, I figured. She still attended mass several times a week, and I knew the main reason she constantly harped on me about getting married was because she was afraid Eric and I were committing “sins against the body.” Which was pretty amusing, actually, given the utter absence of any such sinning on my part of late.
“What’re you smiling about?” Allison whispered as Marta turned to work with the tenors on their part.
I shook my head. “Nothing. Just thinking about my grandmother, is all.”
Allison gave me a quizzical look but then shrugged and looked back down at her music.
We finished the Domine Jesu and moved on to the Hostias, then put them together with their fugal endings. It was a bit of a car wreck, but Marta patiently guided us through the difficult music. By the time we finished working on the sections, it was time for our break, which was good because I was in need of another drink of water as well as a bathroom break.
Before letting us go, however, Marta wanted to talk about the solo parts for the Requiem. There would be auditions a week from Saturday, she told us, for anyone interested in trying out for any of the solos or quartets. “Okay,” she finally said, shooing us off with her hands. “That’s all. You may now go to your cookies and tea.”
I made a bee line for the ladies’ room only to find the two stalls already occupied. Dancing from one foot to the other, I tried to concentrate on something other than my pressing need.
“You gonna audition?” the woman in the right stall asked. I couldn’t identify the voice, but I recognized the red-and-orange slacks visible beneath the door as belonging to one of the sopranos.
“Maybe for the Tuba mirum,” the other voice answered. Her nondescript blue jeans provided little clue as to her identity. “It’s short and not too hard.” And then she laughed. “Of course, when you think about what happened with Roxanne last time with the Poulenc, maybe I shouldn’t audition after all.”
“I didn’t do the Gloria, remember? Why, what happened?”
“Oh God. It was horrible. The night before the concert, she got sick as a dog. Food poisoning or something. Jill ended up doing her solos.”
“Huh.” Red-and-orange pants stood up. “Is that why they act like they despise each other?” The sound of the flushing toilet prevented me from hearing any response to this question. “Oh,” she said as she emerged from her stall, apparently startled that anyone else would be in the ladies’ room. And then she laughed and waved her hand. “Just chorus gossip.”
When I got back into the hall, I found Eric—by the dessert table, of course—and asked him if he knew which of the sopranos was Roxanne. “That’s her.” He pointed to the front of the hall by the podium “The one in the red shirt talking to Marta. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I was just curious ’cause I overheard someone in the bathroom saying she was one of the best singers in the group.” This half-truth seemed to satisfy him, and he went back to chatting up the dessert gal, Carol, who’d brought double chocolate fudge brownies for tonight’s rehearsal. After pondering briefly which was the bigger draw for him, the woman or her sweets, I turned to check out Roxanne. She was a big gal, sturdily built like great singers often are. It’s the larger facial bones that do it, I’ve heard, by creating a more resonant instrument.
She and the director were laughing over some shared joke, but as I watched the pair, they seemed to sense my gaze, and both turned my way. Embarrassed, I flashed a quick smile and headed for my seat.
Once everyone had gotten settled again after the break, I scanned the soprano section. Sure enough, Roxanne and Jill were sitting as far away from each other as was possible for two singers in the same section. Interesting.
Marta again started the second half of rehearsal with announcements. After one of the tenors told us about a barbershop concert he’d be singing in the following week, Roxanne raised her hand. “I thought the chorus might be interested in hearing how it went for you last month,” she said. “You know, having your composition performed at that new music festival in Chicago.”
“Oh, it was just incredible!” Marta beamed at the soprano. “The piece was very well received. And it was such an honor just having it chosen to be a part of this year’s festival.” The director shook her dark, shoulder-length hair and smiled again, waving her hand dismissively. “But enough about that; now it’s time to go back several centuries and visit again with Herr Mozart.”
* * *
At ten o’clock, we knocked off for the night, and once again I felt exhausted yet exhilarated, as if I’d had a shot of double espresso. So when Eric asked if I wanted to join some of the choral members for a post-rehearsal nightcap, I readily agreed.
“You’re welcome to join us too,” he said to Allison.
“No way. Gotta get home to the hubby and spawn,” she answered. “Though I am mightily tempted. Singing Mozart makes me awfully thirsty.”
The bar was only a couple blocks from where we rehearsed, so Eric and I left our cars at the church and walked over together. The town was quiet this time of night, and other than chorus members dribbling out of the hall and making their way to their cars or walking home, not many people were out and about.
“I was wondering,” I said, zipping up my brown leather jacket, “do you know who all has access to that storage room Kyle was in the morning he fell out of the window?”
Eric stopped walking. “So you’re really gonna do this all over again?” When I didn’t answer this clearly rhetorical question, he just shook his head. “Fine, be that way. Okay, so other than various church folks I can’t help you with, in the chorus, it’s just Marta, the section leaders, and the two people who organize the desserts—Carol and Brian—who are supposed to be up there.”
“You all have keys to the room?”
“Yeah, and it’s supposed to be kept locked when no one’s using it. But it’s not like there’s anything super valuable in there. It’s pretty much just a big broom closet. So we usually open the room before rehearsal and lock it up again at the end of the night.”
Which means anyone could have been in there with him before he fell. Wanting to avoid any further snide remarks, however, I kept this thought to myself. Eric started walking on, and I fell into step with him, neither of us speaking.
“So tell me about that festival Marta was talking about tonight,” I finally said as we turned the corner onto Pacific Avenue, the downtown shopping street. “The one her piece was played at.”
“Oh man, that was awesome. She had a composition accepted by the Chicago Festival of Contemporary Music—one of the biggest new music festivals in the country. It’s a huge deal to have your piece performed there.” Eric dodged the outstretched legs of a hipster in a Mr. Bubble T-shirt and brown knit cap who’d made himself comfortable leaning against the wall of a Thai restaurant. “But to tell you the truth,” he added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the cachet of discovering those Süssmayr pages opened up some doors for her.”
We turned another corner, passed a pawnshop and a tiny art gallery specializing in Day of the Dead sculptures and paintings, and then came to the chorus watering hole. I grabbed the door before Eric could do his “women first” thing and held it open for him.
Kalo’s is a Hawaiian-themed restaurant with your typical tiki-style decor that has proved to be wildly popular in this college town. During happy hour, which features five-dollar Mai Tais and appetizers, patrons are three or four deep at the bar, and you’ll be lucky to even find room to stand.
The place was still buzzing when Eric and I arrived, but at this late hour, there was actually a free table in the bar area. A tenor I didn’t know was already there, along with the soprano Roxanne. Yes. Just the gal I wanted to talk to. I took the seat next to her, and Eric the one by the tenor—Phillip, I learned as he leaned over to shake my hand. Once we’d all ordered our drinks and a basket of sweet potato fries for the table, I turned to Roxanne and introduced myself.
“So how
long have you been in the chorus?” I asked.
“Let’s see . . .” She frowned and scratched her short, spiky hair. “It was when we did the Dvořák Stabat Mater, which was, what? I guess it’s been six years now? But I’ve sung pretty much all my life. How about you? Did you sing before joining this chorus?”
“I haven’t since high school, so I’m really out of practice. It’s a bit like a trial by fire, being dropped into the Requiem after so long without reading music.”
“You mean like being dropped into a deep burning lake, its flames searing you for all eternity?” Roxanne’s laugh was deep, from the belly, and infectious. I found myself liking this woman.
“Let’s hope not,” I answered with a grin. “I just have to get my melisma chops back in gear. So, you gonna audition for any of the solos?”
Her smile vanished and was replaced by a pair of knit brows. Uh-oh. Wrong question.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Sorry,” I said, voice low. “I heard what happened with the Gloria, so I guess it’s probably a sore subject for you.”
“Uh-huh.”
Our drinks thankfully arrived at this moment, saving me from further immediate embarrassment. “That’s mine, the bourbon-rocks.” I took the cocktail the waitress was holding out. Roxanne had the bottle of IPA, Phillip the Dark ’n’ Stormy, and Eric his usual Bombay gin Martini.
After Eric and Phillip resumed their prior discussion—the best surf spots around the world, it sounded like—Roxanne fiddled with the corner of her beer label for a moment, took a sip, and then looked up. “I didn’t mean to be a bummer just now. It’s just that it is still kind of a sore subject, what happened at that last concert.”
“I gather you and Jill are not the best of friends?”
Roxanne barked out a short laugh and took another pull off her IPA. “Not hardly. She was totally pissed about not getting that part and kept going on and on to everyone who’d listen that if there’d been blind auditions, she would have been picked for the solo instead of me.”