by Leslie Karst
“Was Kyle with you when you were in the room that morning?”
Marta frowned and took a slow drink of coffee, as if deciding how to answer. “Yes,” she finally said. “I followed him up there to try to talk him out of something.”
After setting down her mug, she licked her lips, blinked several times, and then went back to studying her cuticle, all without returning my gaze. When it appeared she wasn’t going to say anything further, I asked in a soft voice, “Something having to do with that music?”
Now, I gotta say right here that I had no concrete idea what the hell I was talking about. Sure, I did have some ill-defined theories about her maybe stealing someone else’s music to submit to the Chicago new music festival or perhaps stealing or even forging that Lacrymosa music, but I was truly pretty much just flailing. My question was merely an intentionally vague shot in the dark.
But it apparently hit the target.
“Partly,” Marta said with an almost imperceptible bob of the head, then picked up her fork and finally ate the bite she’d cut off before. Squinting out at the sunlit ocean, she slowly chewed her omelet and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee. I didn’t press her further. She needed to decide whether to tell me or not, and continuing to hound her with questions didn’t seem like the best way to gain her trust at this point.
“Okay,” she finally said, setting down her heavy ceramic mug with a decisive thunk. “I am going to tell you what happened between me and Kyle, since you obviously know some of it—perhaps quite a lot about it—already. But also because it has been a great—how do you say? A great weight on me. Especially now, since he has died. I think I need to confess it all to someone.”
“There’s always the priest,” I said with a chuckle.
“I gave up priests many years ago.” Marta smiled. “So you will have to do. But I want to start by saying that although what I did was wrong—I know that is true—I did not push Kyle out that window. He was perfectly healthy when I left him that morning.” Marta looked me in the eyes. “Do you believe me?”
“Uh . . . I guess I . . .”
She smiled. “That is all right. There is no need to say anything right now. Let me explain, and then you can decide whether you believe me once you hear what I have to say.”
I dug into my French toast as Marta took another sip of coffee, priming herself for her story. “Bene,” she finally said after a long exhalation. “It started last summer, during the chorus tour to Germany and Eastern Europe. We were visiting the home of a dear friend of mine who had recently passed away—a man who had spent his life collecting rare music manuscripts.”
“The place outside of Leipzig,” I said, hoping to convince her that I did indeed already know much of the story.
“Yes,” Marta answered, taking a bite of potato. I’d expected her to ask where I’d gotten my information, but then again, she likely figured it was from Jill. Marta knew Jill was the one who’d asked me to look into Kyle’s death, and since the story obviously concerned Kyle, she must just assume he’d confided in his girlfriend.
“The widow of this man was showing some of the manuscripts to a group of us from the chorus,” Marta went on, “and as she did so, it became clear that she knew almost nothing about the magnificent music that she possessed. For instance, there was an autograph Chopin specimen that she barely even acknowledged as she went through the music. And she had absolutely no idea how to handle the valuable manuscripts, leafing carelessly through the pages with her bare hands, leaving oil and dirt and God knows what else on those documents in the process.”
Marta paused to drink some more coffee, shaking her head derisively as she sipped from the mug. “So anyway, after a while, most of the people got a little bored, perhaps, and wandered off to look at the musical instruments on display. But Kyle and I spoke a little longer with the woman, admiring the beautiful manuscripts. As she was showing us a folder filled with music from the eighteenth century, I recognized some text from a requiem mass written above the music on one of the pages. And I noticed that it was scored for four vocal parts and a figured bass.”
“This is the same story you told me about finding that music in the bookstore in Prague,” I said. “Except I’m guessing that story isn’t the true one, after all.”
“Corretto,” Marta said with a solemn nod. “But you are getting the true story now. I asked the woman about this manuscript, but she was not interested in it and said something like, ‘Oh, that is just some minor composer, it is not important. But you should see this one.’ And she turned to another page.”
“So let me guess: you conspired with Kyle to steal it.”
Marta pushed her plate to the side and leaned forward, placing both forearms on the table. “But I do not see it as a theft,” she said. “I see it as a liberation. What I did was rescue this music for all the world.”
“Right,” I said. Though, being a non-native English speaker, Marta may have missed the sarcasm in my response. “So how’d you pull it off?”
“I knew that the woman spoke only German, so I said to Kyle in English—pretending I was talking about how wonderful the manuscript we were looking at was—that he should ask her to show him where the bathroom was and that I’d explain later. And when she took him down the hall, I simply rolled the paper up and slipped it inside my jacket. It was quite easy, actually.”
“Because she trusted you.”
“Yes, she did,” Marta said. “As I said before, I know what I did was wrong. I took advantage of that trust. I do not feel proud about that.”
“And Kyle? How did he react when you told him what you’d done?”
“He was frightened at first, but after I convinced him that the woman would never realize that the music had been taken, he became very excited. Especially after I promised to split the money with him when I sold it.”
“So that’s where he got the cash for the house,” I said. “It wasn’t an inheritance.”
“Sì. That was just a story he made up to explain the money.”
“A whole lotta that going around,” I muttered to myself, pouring more maple syrup over my whipped cream.
“Sorry?” Marta asked.
“Nothing,” I said, then ate a bite of French toast. “So, getting back to that morning Kyle died, when you followed him up to that room. What exactly did you want to talk him out of doing?”
“He was blackmailing me,” she said, stabbing a piece of melon with her fork. “About that music we’d taken.”
Aha. I’d been right after all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I was pondering why Marta would have chosen Kyle, who didn’t strike me as particularly trustworthy, for her coconspirator, when I remembered what Eric had told me at our sushi dinner: that there had been nights during the chorus trip when Kyle had not returned to their hotel room. Eric had suspected Roxanne, since she was the only chorus member with a single room. But Marta wasn’t a member of the chorus. What if she was the one he’d been spending those nights with? That would sure explain a lot.
“Okay, I have one more question,” I said after swallowing another mouthful of sweet challah bread and whipped cream. “I’m just wondering, were you and Kyle involved? You know, romantically?”
Marta nodded. “Very briefly. We had a . . . what do you call it? Una tresca. A romantic alliance.”
“An affair.”
“Yes. But I broke it off not too long after we returned from Europe. In part because he was involved with Jill, but also because I realized we were not such a good thing together.”
“And he didn’t like that at all, I’m guessing.”
“No, he did not. But I got the impression that what he hated the most was that I was the one who did the breaking off, not that we were no longer involved. He was very happy, however, to take the money from me once I sold the manuscript.”
“Do you think that’s why he started blackmailing you?” I asked, lowering my voice for the B word. “Because you broke it off
with him?”
“Chissà?” she said with a shrug. “Who knows? That, and greed, most likely. I originally refused to pay him any money besides what I’d already given him, but he told me that I had no choice, that he could prove that I stole the manuscript, and that there was no evidence to connect him to it. So I gave him a little more. But I don’t think it was the money so much as the power over me that he was interested in. Nevertheless, that is why I followed him up to that room that day: to try to make up with him so he would stop the blackmailing.”
“And I’m guessing you suspect he was the one who started the rumor about your composition for the Chicago new music festival, too?”
“He does seem the most obvious person. But Roxanne, who told me about the rumor, says it was not until after he died that she first heard it. Though I suppose that does not necessarily mean he did not start the rumor; it could have taken a while to get to Roxanne.” Marta pulled her plate back over in front of her and picked up her fork.
I’d now finished my French toast and flagged down our waitress to refill our coffees. Once Marta began to eat, she quickly devoured her now cold breakfast. Getting this all off her chest was clearly a relief.
But on the other hand, now she had the additional worry of what I would do with the information she’d given me. As did I, for that matter. Plus, nothing she’d told me was enough to prove she hadn’t killed Kyle. She had, after all, been up in that room with him before he fell, and I had found that medal of hers in that rotted window support. Moreover, I now knew she had good reason to rid herself of the creep.
Nevertheless, I found myself believing the director. There’d been no need for her to come clean like she had, since the only evidence I possessed against her was minimal, to say the least. And no way would she have admitted what she’d done if she were the one who’d killed Kyle, right?
Or was I being a naïve dupe? Was it merely because I wanted to believe her?
Letting Marta eat in peace, I watched the same cocky sea gull from before attempt to make off with an entire buttermilk pancake sitting on a plate in the bus tray. Inundated as it was with butter and maple syrup, however, the prize was soggy and heavy and kept falling apart each time the bird tried to grasp it in its beak. One of the waitresses finally spotted the gull and waved it off, but the bird did manage to fly away with a sizable chunk.
After a few minutes, Marta set down her fork. “Bastante. If I eat any more, I will not make it back down the road.” Unfolding the white napkin that lay on her lap, she wiped her mouth and set the crumpled cloth next to her plate.
The waitress arrived to clear our plates and leave our bill, which Marta grabbed before I could reach my hand across the table. “I’m getting this,” she said. “Unless you are worried about my money being the result of bad actions.”
“I’m not so much worried about that,” I answered, “as I am about whether or not all this is going to affect the result of my audition.”
Taking this for the joke it was, she returned my smile.
* * *
Nonna was not happy with me at Sunday dinner that afternoon. When I’d ordered that slab of French toast smothered in whipped cream and maple syrup for breakfast—and then consumed the entire mammoth portion—I hadn’t been thinking about the four-course meal I’d be expected to put away a few hours later.
Eric had joined my dad and grandmother for this week’s gathering, and, as usual, we sat down for our repast at two o’clock sharp. (Italians may have a reputation for running late, but woe to anyone who doesn’t arrive on time for our Sunday dinner, is all I can say.) We’d started with the antipasto, had moved on to the primo, and were now embarking on the secondo. And I was really starting to bog down.
Eric passed me the platter of meat: beef, pork, and sausages braised all morning in wine, tomatoes, onions, garlic, and fresh herbs. I forked several chunks onto my plate and started to pass the platter on to Dad.
“What? You no hungry, again?” Nonna asked. “I start to think you don’ like my cooking no more.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” I said. “It’s just that I had a pretty big breakfast. But here, I’ll take a sausage, too. They’re always so delicious.” I learned long ago that it’s no use doing battle with my grandmother.
Nonna’s pinched lips told me she was only somewhat mollified, but I considered it a victory that she didn’t press me further. “You try this,” she said, turning to offer the plate of sautéed broccoli to Eric. “I make it wit’ the acete balsamico. The real kind, aged for twelve years.”
“Yum, that sounds great!” Eric answered enthusiastically, even though he’d consumed the exact same dish at numerous previous Sunday dinners.
“So I’ve been meaning to ask,” Dad said to me as he helped himself to salad, “how’s it going with the new gal, Cathy? Is she learning the ropes?”
Was this some sort of peace offering? “Yeah, she’s terrific. I’d say she already pretty much has it down.” I paused, wondering how far I should push this apparent olive branch. “In fact, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about maybe having Elena begin taking over some of my managerial duties next week. You know, scheduling, inventory, and ordering supplies . . .”
To his credit, my dad merely nodded as he cut a slice of sausage. Maybe he was finally starting to accept that my heart truly wasn’t in running the front of the house. That I wanted to cook and needed to put all my energy into running Gauguin.
I was still shocked and amazed, however, at what he said:
“Okay, hon.”
“Really? Wow.” I laid a hand on his sinewy forearm. “Thanks, Babbo.”
He nodded and smiled, but the lines about his blue eyes betrayed the anguish my decision caused him. Patting my hand, he swiveled in his chair to ask Nonna about driving her to a doctor’s appointment later in the week. Dad may have reconciled himself to my leaving the restaurant, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it any more than was absolutely necessary.
* * *
Elena was put to the test first thing Monday morning at Solari’s. I’d placed her in charge for the day and had hidden myself away in the office in the hopes that no one would come to me with questions or decisions to make. But not five minutes after we’d opened, a shriek from the vicinity of the wait station made me jump up from the desk and race out to see what the hell was going on.
Elena was at the ice machine, using the metal scoop to dump ice onto the center of a tablecloth. Twisting the four corners of the red cloth together, she swung it over to Giulia, who I now noticed was sitting on a chair next to the coffee station, tears streaming down her face. Elena gingerly placed the ice pack on the waitress’s thigh, then shouted at Sean and the others in the room to back off and give the poor woman some breathing space.
“Ohmygod, what happened?” I asked.
Elena didn’t look up from her ministrations. “Sean accidentally bumped into Giulia as she turned around with a fresh pot of decaf, and the scalding coffee poured all down her leg.”
“Let me see,” I said, crouching down next to Giulia. It looked pink, but there was no blistering of the skin, thank goodness. If only she’d been wearing long pants instead of that black skirt, it would have been far better. But even though Dad had relented years ago and now allowed our waitresses to wear black slacks if they wanted, most of the gals still preferred the skirts, convinced that they resulted in better tips. A pretty pathetic state of affairs, in my view.
“You want to go to the ER and have someone look at it?” I asked. “I’m happy to drive you over there.”
The waitress nodded and wiped her eyes, and I told her I’d bring my car around to the restaurant’s back door.
We spent over an hour sitting in the waiting room, where the staff immediately told Giulia to take the ice pack off her leg, as it could cause frostbite. By the time she’d been seen by the doctor and I’d dropped her off at her home, the lunch shift was over. I found Elena in the kitchen, explaining to my dad what had ha
ppened.
“How is she?” Elena asked.
“She’ll be fine; it was just a minor first-degree burn. She’s supposed to apply some kind of ointment but should be back to work in a couple days.”
I asked how lunch had gone, being a waitress short.
“We got by okay,” Elena said, “but for sure we’re gonna need someone else for dinner.”
“What about Sally?” Dad asked.
“I’ve got chorus rehearsal,” I answered, prompting an exaggerated sigh from him. “But don’t worry. I’ll find someone to come in.”
So much for getting out of scheduling. Walking back to the office, I pulled out the binder containing the employees’ contact information and started phoning people. It took four tries, but once I’d finally found a sub for the evening, I went to tell Elena and then headed home.
I had just enough time to shower and change clothes, take Buster for a walk, and prepare and then bolt down a grilled cheese sandwich (Gruyère, sautéed red onions, baby spinach, mayo, and black pepper on three-seed sourdough) before it was time to leave for rehearsal.
The noise level of the hall was even higher than normal when I arrived at the church, and it took me a moment to figure out why. Oh, right. I’d forgotten, what with all the hubbub over Giulia: tonight was when Marta would be announcing the results of the auditions, so everyone was chattering away, speculating as to who would be singing the solos at this Friday’s concert.
I spotted Allison talking to Wendy and crossed the room to join them. “Nervous?” our section leader asked as I walked up. “I’ve done a zillion auditions, so you’d think it would be no big deal anymore. But I was just telling Allison, the whole process still always makes me kind of crazy.”
“So why do you still do it?” I asked.
“A combination of things, I guess. To keep my chops up, the adrenaline rush, pride. But then again, when you don’t get picked, that pride part pretty much flies out the window. Oh, here she comes.”