by Sofie Kelly
“You knew him when he was Douglas Williams.” He nodded, took a drink from his mug and set it on the counter again. “The other day in your office, I tried to convince myself you hadn’t noticed that I’d recognized his real name.”
“You were both at Oberlin at the same time.”
He looked past me, nodding slowly again.
I fished in my pocket and pulled out the sheet of paper Owen had brought me, unfolding it on the counter between us. “That’s your music.” I flattened the paper with my hand. “Gregor Easton stole it.”
For a long moment Oren didn’t move, didn’t speak. Then finally he said, “Yes.”
The truth hung there between us. I wanted to reach out and somehow wave it away. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Oren looked past my left shoulder at the sculpture suspended from the rafters. “Kathleen, my father was incredibly talented,” he began.
I turned for another glimpse of the sculptures myself. “Yes, he was.”
“He was an artist. But all anyone saw him as was a carpenter.” Oren studied his own hands for a moment. “He was a good carpenter, but he wanted to be an artist.”
I nodded, unsure of where the conversation was going, but reluctant to stop Oren while he was talking.
He looked at me now. “I could play the piano when I was four. I was composing music when I was six. I created my own method of notation because I couldn’t read music back then.”
The piece of paper Hercules had found. I was right. It was a kind of code.
Oren picked up his mug and took a long drink. “I could—I can—make music with almost any instrument: piano, guitar, bass, mandolin. I can play that harpsichord.” He set the coffee back on the counter.
“A musical prodigy. That’s what they told my parents I was. Gifted. If I look at a piece of music just once, I can remember it and play it. Years later I can play it.” He wiped his mouth with one hand. “I was sixteen when they sent me to Oberlin. I’d long since outgrown all the music teachers in this area, probably in the state. I was auditing a seminar class Easton was teaching as a grad student. I dropped a piece of my music one day. I knew how to write music by then, but I was so used to notating my way that I’d kept on doing it.”
“What happened?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew.
“I explained how the notation worked. He offered to help transcribe what I’d written into conventional notation. There was too much music for me to do it by myself. By then I had stacks of compositions, but no one else could play them.”
I set my cup on the counter. “He took your music. Why didn’t you say something? Your notation proved you’d written everything. The university would have expelled him.”
Oren wiped his hands on his pants. “I don’t know if this will make sense to you, Kathleen, but I didn’t want to end up like my father.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand.”
“No one knew I was composing music. To me, all I was doing was writing down what I heard in my head so it would go away. It was bad enough people were already beginning to see me as some kind of musical wonder. If they found out I was writing my own music, as well . . .” He didn’t finish the thought.
“My father wanted me to have the chance he never had—to be an artist. The thing was, I wanted what he had.”
I realized then what he was trying to tell me. “You didn’t want to be a musician.” I looked around at the tools and the work space. “You wanted to be a carpenter.”
Oren nodded. “So many people thought I had a gift. I thought it was a curse.” He played with his coffee cup, turning it in slow circles on the counter. “The funny thing is, he helped me.”
“Easton?”
“I know it sounds strange. Doesn’t it? I had a breakdown. He told my parents I wasn’t nearly as talented as everyone thought.”
“Oren, you know that’s not true. From what I’ve heard Easton was the one who lacked talent.”
He leaned toward me. “I didn’t care,” he said. “His saying I didn’t have much talent let me have the life I wanted to have.” He pushed the mug away across the counter. “It was years before I realized Doug Williams had become Gregor Easton. I was in a music store in Minneapolis and I heard my own music. Before that, I had no idea. And when I thought about it, I decided where was the harm? I didn’t want that life and he did.”
“Something changed,” I said.
Oren slid off his stool and walked over to the harpsichord. He ran his fingers lightly over the keys. “I was working at the theater the second day of practice after Easton got here. He was playing that piece you heard me playing the other day.” He picked out a melody on the keyboard. “It wasn’t . . . right. It didn’t sound the way it was supposed to sound.” He pulled his hands away from the keys. “I knew how that music was supposed to sound. When everyone was gone I sat down at the piano. I hadn’t played for many, many years. But someone was still in the theater.”
“Easton.”
“Yes.” Oren sat on the harpsichord bench. “He wasn’t a good person, Kathleen. He hadn’t come to help out the festival. He was looking for more music.”
“More of your music.” I leaned back against the counter.
“He told me the music should be given the audience it deserved.” He stared at the wide wooden floorboards. “The Stratton has had money problems for years. I told Easton I would give him the rest of my music and he could claim it as his own, but he had to give half of everything he made with it to the theater. He said we could work something out, but he’d have to see the music first to decide how many changes he’d need to make.”
Finally he looked up at me. “I’m not sixteen anymore. I knew he was lying and I told him so. I told him I was going to tell the whole world that it was my music, not his.”
“And?”
“And he laughed at me. Said it was my word against his, and who would believe a mental case like me?”
I wanted to smack Easton myself. “Lots of people would believe you, Oren,” I said. “All they’d have to do is hear you play.”
He smiled. “Thank you for saying that,” he said. “But I had—have—proof. I have all my original notation, all the work as the music evolved. The papers are in a safedeposit box in St. Paul. At least they were.”
“You saved everything?”
“I guess maybe I cared more about the music than I thought.”
My mind began to race ahead. “That’s why you missed meat loaf night. That’s why you weren’t at the Stratton the next morning. You went for the proof.”
Oren walked over to where I was sitting. He stood in front of me, hands jammed in his pockets. “I thought with the proof I could convince him to take the deal I’d offered. I’m sorry I wasn’t at the theater that morning. I’m sorry you found Easton’s body.”
“You didn’t kill him, Oren. You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” I stretched my arm across my chest to try to ease the knot in my shoulder, which had stiffened up while I was sitting.
“Your shoulder?” Oren asked.
I nodded. “It’s still a bit stiff,” I said. “Oren, have you told Detective Gordon where you were?”
He nodded.
“Did you tell him who Easton used to be? Did you tell him you knew each other?”
“I didn’t,” he said softly. “I like my life, Kathleen. I don’t want to lose what I have.”
I slid off my stool. “Maybe it won’t come to that. Maybe if you give people a chance they’ll surprise you.” I waited until he looked at me. “I think you need to tell Detective Gordon who Easton used to be.”
“Do you really think it has something to do with his death?”
“I do,” I said. “Oren, he met someone the night he died.” I flashed on the wound on the side of Easton’s head. “Someone was with him at the Stratton. Someone he knew. Someone he’d let his guard down around. Virtually the entire choir was at a birthday party at Eric’s. He knew someone el
se here besides you.”
Oren stared out the window for a moment. “Have you read The Go-Between?”
I nodded. “‘The past is a foreign country.’”
“I didn’t think I’d ever go back,” Oren said. “But maybe it’s time.”
I took a deep breath. “I think for Gregor Easton, the past was getting a little too close to home.”
20
Step Back Ride the Tiger
I thought it was Rebecca knocking on my door first thing Monday morning, but it was Detective Gordon standing on my back stoop, holding a jar of something in front of his chest. I wasn’t sure if it was a shield or a peace offering.
“Good morning, Ms. Paulson,” he said, smiling at me.
“Good morning, Detective Gordon,” I said. “Are you here on police business or have you come for breakfast?”
He had the good grace to blush a little. “Police business,” he said. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” I stepped back so he could come into the porch, and wondered if people ever said no when he asked to come in.
I led the way to the kitchen and turned around, back to the table and crossed my arms. “How can I help you, Detective Gordon?” I asked. I was pretty sure this visit had something to do with Oren’s visit to the police station the day before, but I wasn’t going to spot him any gimmes.
“First of all, this is for you.” He handed me a jar of jam. It was strawberry rhubarb. “I thought you might have changed your mind.”
The jam was a deep crimson in the jar, tart from the rhubarb, I imagined, and sweet from the berries. “Umm, thank you for this,” I said, finally remembering my manners.
“You’re welcome. Thank you for encouraging Oren Kenyon to come talk to us.”
“He told you that?”
“He did.” He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. “What he told us about Easton—Douglas Williams—saved us some time, so I appreciate having the information.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“Detective, you’ve probably noticed how much I like a good cup of coffee. In fact, I like a not-so-good cup of coffee, too. It’s no trouble.”
“Then yes,” he said. I got a cup from the cupboard and poured coffee for him, topping up my own cup at the same time. I set his on the table and pushed out one of the chairs as an invitation to sit down. Then I grabbed plates for both of us and set them on the table, along with a couple of knives and some butter.
“You don’t have to give me breakfast, Ms. Paulson,” the detective said. “Coffee’s fine.”
I put four multigrain rolls in a little breadbasket and set it on the table, too. “I know I don’t have to feed you, Detective,” I said, “but you do seem to keep showing up at breakfast time. And since we are sharing a meal again, could you please call me Kathleen?” I picked up the jam. The cover was tight on the mason jar.
He smiled. “I guess I’m just a morning person, Kathleen. I had a paper route when I was seven. What about you?”
I twisted the lid of the jar as hard as I could, trying not to make a face at the effort. “Me?” I said. “My parents are actors. A lot of the time they’d be going to bed when everyone else was getting up. I think being an early bird was an act of rebellion.”
I was beginning to think the lid had been welded on. I braced myself against the counter and twisted again, trying to smile and not grunt.
Detective Gordon cleared his throat. “Uh, Kathleen, would you find it sexist if I offered to open that for you?”
I could feel drops of sweat on my neck from the effort, and there was no way I could get the stupid top off the jar. I was almost out of breath. Wordlessly I handed the bottle to him and he uncapped it without any effort at all. How had he done that? My mouth probably hung open a little bit.
“I’m sure you loosened it,” he said, handing me the jar.
“No, I didn’t,” I said, laughing. I put the jam on the table between us and sat down. “So.” I reached for a roll. “Oren isn’t a suspect in Easton’s death.”
“He never was. There’s surveillance footage of him at the bank, as well as on several highway cameras.”
“What about me?” I asked as I buttered my bread and added a thick layer of jam.
He took a drink of his coffee before answering. “You weren’t a suspect. You were a person of interest.”
“You thought I was having an affair with Easton.”
He held up his thumb. “He had a note from you in his pocket.” He added the index finger. “You had ordered breakfast to be sent to his hotel room.” The middle finger popped up. “You showed up very early at the theater.” And finally the ring finger. “And you both spent the previous year in Boston, where you could have easily met Easton through your job or your parents.” There was something condescending in the smile he gave me as he picked up his mug.
I held up my own thumb, which had a dab of jam on the end. “I didn’t write the note to Easton.” I added my index finger. “I sent breakfast as an apology, not as an illicit invitation. And, by the way, it was never delivered.” I added my middle finger, which stuck out at a bit of a weird angle. “I was at the theater to find Oren, not Mr. Easton. And finally”—I stuck my ring finger in the air with the other three—“Boston is full of people, most of whom I don’t know.”
Instead of a condescending smile I gave him the raised eyebrow. Then I nudged the rolls in his direction and took a bite of my own. I couldn’t help making a little grunt of pleasure. The jam was sweet, with just enough tartness from the rhubarb. It was thick with fruit and good, good, good.
I wiped a drip of fruit off the side of my mouth and smiled across the table. “That’s delicious,” I said. “Thank you.”
He bit into his own bun. “Mmm, this is good,” he mumbled.
I stood up to get the coffeepot. “Detective, what happened to Gregor Easton? How did he die?” I filled both of our cups.
He licked a blob of jam from his finger. “Please call me Marcus.”
“Okay. How did he die, Marcus?”
“It was an epidural hematoma.”
“So a head injury?” I said, sitting down again.
“Yes. The blow to the side of Mr. Easton’s head caused bleeding in his brain.”
“That could take time.”
“It’s likely Mr. Easton didn’t know how serious the head injury was. And it didn’t help that he took aspirin, probably for the headache. It’s an anticoagulant.”
I added sugar to my coffee and stirred. “So he could have been walking around, talking, acting normally.”
“He probably seemed fine. For a while.”
I watched as he slathered butter and jam over the other half of his roll. “He would have been all right when he left the library. Or at least he likely thought he was.”
He nodded. “It’s possible.”
“Then you don’t know that someone killed him.” I smacked the table lightly with one hand. “You don’t know that someone even tried to kill him. It could have been an accident. Easton could have hit his head on something at the library. He could have fallen or bumped into something. The renovations have been going on for a long time. For that matter, he could have hit his head before he even got to the library.”
“I don’t think so,” the detective said, picking up his cup again. “Mr. Easton thought he was meeting you at the library.” He touched the side of his head. “I don’t think he was the type of man to show up with a head injury.”
“Maybe he thought it would get him a little sympathy.”
He raised his eyebrows at me. “I don’t think Mr. Easton was looking for sympathy from you.”
I had to admit he was probably right. “Even so,” I said, “you don’t know what happened at the library.”
He leaned back in his chair and folded one arm over his chest. “I know someone used your name to lure Mr. Easton to a meeting at the library. I know Mr. E
aston was injured inside the library and a few hours later he was dead. I also know whoever that person was, he hasn’t come forward.” He gave a slight shrug. “I don’t see any other way to look at that evidence.” He grabbed his cup, drained it and then stood up. “Thank you for the coffee and breakfast. Again.”
I got to my feet. “Thank you for the jar of jam.” I walked him to the door.
He turned, one hand on the screen. “I almost forgot. We’re finished at the library. The space is yours again.” He gave me his professional-policeman smile. “Have a nice day, Kathleen.”
I went back into the kitchen. A gray, furry head was looking around one side of the living room door. A black one was peeking around the other. “You can come in. He’s gone,” I said.
Owen went for a drink while Hercules came to sit at my feet. “Murp,” he said, rubbing his face against my ankle.
I broke off a tiny corner of roll, buttered it and gave it to him. That made Owen come scooting over. I did the same for him. “You two eat too much people food,” I said. They both gave me their best don’t be ridiculous looks.
The phone rang then. I went into the living room to answer it.
“Hi, Katydid.” My mother’s voice came warmly through the phone and I felt the familiar pinch of loneliness that always accompanied her calls.
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
“How’s everything in Minnesota?” she asked.
“Good.” Except for the murder I’m still tied up in, a contractor who doesn’t show up when he’s supposed to and a couple of klepto cats with magical powers. “How’s Boston?”
“Rainy at the moment. I called to tell you your father booked a commercial.”
“Hey, good for Dad,” I said, moving the phone so I could sit down. “Is it for the bank? He said he was thinking of auditioning for that because they were planning a series of ads.”
“No. It’s not the bank, but the director is a former student. He asked John to audition.”