Music is Murder Read online

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Scott Book

  Design by Melissa Vail Coffman

  Music is Murder

  Copyright © 2021 by Barbara J. Bowen

  ISBN: 978-1-94207-816-6 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-94207-817-3 (eBook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  In loving memory of Mamacita,

  Emma Frances Bowen Barnett,

  who awakened my love of music

  and always supported my writing.

  I wish you had seen the book.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  Acknowledgments

  Many people inspired this manuscript and helped turn it into a book. I would like to acknowledge a few here. In no particular order they are:

  My agent, Dawn Dowdle, who had confidence in me and in this book, and provided support when I was most discouraged.

  Jennifer McCord, my editor and publisher, who took the risk of publishing me, an unknown author, and expressed and shared her love of music with me.

  La Dolce Vita Writers Group, which started me on this project.

  Clark Wilson, the bassoonist whose description of the instrument’s boot joint gave me the idea to use it as a murder weapon. He acted as consultant on all things bassoon. If I have made any mistakes, the responsibility is mine.

  Nancy Andrew, who patiently answered my questions about the flute, flute music, and flute playing. I am to blame for any errors.

  Jim Cara, who provided technological expertise, humorously getting past my technophobia and reexplaining many times. Any inaccuracies are my own.

  Lena Gregory, who gave unstintingly of her time and knowledge to help me find my way through the unfamiliar world of electronic promotion.

  My daughter, Amy, who didn’t mind when I forgot to make dinner as long as I was writing, and who read the first chapter approximately 1,387,942 times.

  The Writers of the Roundtable—Marylin Warner, Ann Kohl, Leisel Hufford, Mary Zalmanek, and Eve Guy—who read the first chapter another seventeen times, as well as the rest of the book, gave me excellent advice, provided encouragement, got me to the finish line and, most of all, were my friends throughout.

  ONE

  Sunday, February 2, 2010, 2:15 PM

  Olive’s voice on the land line made me cringe. If I’d known it would be our last conversation, I’d have been more patient.

  “Emily, I’m in such pain!”

  Oh no. Not again.

  Olive suffered pain—southern-tinged, emotional pain—on a regular basis. This time Gardiner James, her section leader, the symphony’s principal bassoonist and her unrequited love, refused to talk to her. No surprise. “He hung up on me. It’s fate that we’re in the same place, playing in the same symphony in Colorado. We were meant to meet and fall in love. He just won’t admit it.”

  Please. Not me. Not in the middle of a crucial practice session. I wanted to be there for my friends, especially someone who’d given me as much time and sympathy as Olive, but this was a repetition of a conversation we’d had a million times. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings though so, bowing to reality and knowing I wouldn’t get back to practicing for a long time, I put my flute on the counter and boiled water for tea as we talked.

  Olive continued to whine. If my nephew had whimpered that way as a toddler, I would have put him in time-out. But I summoned my patience—again. “Gardiner asked you to leave him alone. You can’t have a relationship by yourself.” I used the most persuasive tone I could muster.

  Olive dismissed me. “Why can’t he understand we’re meant to be together? It’s kismet, Emily.”

  I held back a sigh and tried to think of a new tack.

  The conversation went on like this for way too long; it felt like hours. In reality, no more than fifteen minutes went by, Olive moaning it’d be a great relationship if Gardiner only let it. I paced the floor with the phone and my tea, reminding her that a relationship took two, while casting longing glances at my reluctantly abandoned flute.

  “Emily, help me. I can’t think straight.” An understatement for the record books. She explained that she had to play a 4:00 quartet rehearsal and desperately needed to talk to Gardiner first.

  I wanted to help, but I became more and more exasperated. How many ways could you say “He’s not interested. Forget him”? I hoped she’d listen when I said, “He’s not worth it, Olive. I don’t know what else to tell you.” I shook my head. I’d said it to her so many different times and ways.

  She almost cried. “But he’s gotta talk to me!” She pronounced it “tawk.” Her accent always got more pronounced when she grew emotional, and now threatened to render her unintelligible. “If he does, he’ll come ‘round.”

  She wasn’t listening to me. Hardly news. “Olive, I wish I knew how to help, but I don’t see any way forward for you and Gardiner. You don’t want to be accused of stalking him, do you? My advice is to get on with your life.”

  She cried, “I can’t!”

  With a headache building above my eyes, I finally said, “Olive. Go play your rehearsal. I have to practice.”

  She started to say more but, without any other important words of wisdom, I said, “Gotta go,” and hung up.

  I retrieved my flute and returned to my aborted practice session. My job as second flute in the Monroe Symphony depended on practicing, particularly in this concert, and my responsibilities demanded my attention.

  Ravel’s second Daphnis and Chloe suite started with an important flute passage, and I wanted to be ready for the first rehearsal. Besides that, I anticipated the side effects of practicing: calm, focus, and a sense of acc
omplishment. I’d discovered over the years that without words in the way, I could express my feelings and center myself in music.

  I sat down and ran through the opening passage but couldn’t concentrate. I’d said all I had to say in this and many previous conversations, and Olive hadn’t listened to me. She worried me. I wanted to take a stand for sanity, hers and, more importantly, mine. I’d done that, but did I have to say goodbye so hurriedly? She’d been close to tears. Different approaches chased themselves around in my head, but I couldn’t think of a right way to help Olive. I didn’t know what words would help her let go of dreaming of a romance with Gardiner.

  I’d almost regained my focus when Clara James called. Gardiner’s ex-wife played violin in the symphony, so we were all members of the great big dysfunctional family of the orchestra. Gardiner and Clara had been divorced about a year, and I knew from previous conversations she wasn’t taking it well. Watching while Gardiner flaunted his desires, flirting with every female in the symphony, strained her good nature. And his obvious lust for Leanne Johnson, the violinist who happened to be Clara’s stand partner, hurt her deeply. She pasted on a smile and tried to ignore the seductive games they played under her nose, though. I had divorced around the same time and felt a certain camaraderie with her. In my book, Clara deserved sainthood. It must have been obvious because she called me a lot.

  Clara exploded, “I don’t believe it. Olive just phoned me . . . again.”

  I settled down in the big easy chair, flute across my lap. “Why?”

  “She calls all the time. It’s infuriating. I try to be polite. But she always wants ‘insight’ into Gardiner. This time she wanted me to tell her how to make him talk to her. As if I know how to make Gardiner communicate!”

  Clara and Gardiner had stopped talking long before their marriage ended, and nothing had changed with their divorce. Weird for Olive to consult Clara about Gardiner in my opinion but, in Olive’s world, I had to assume it made sense.

  “Why does she insist on phoning me?”

  Clara didn’t stop long enough for me to answer.

  “With Olive excavating the past, dredging up my feelings all the time, I can’t move on. It’s excruciating.” I could hear the irritation and pain in Clara’s voice. “Well, I’ve had it. I’m not taking her calls anymore. I’m blocking her number.”

  “I don’t blame you a bit.”

  Clara vented a bit more, with me affirming her decision, before we said our goodbyes.

  The phone calls, first Olive and then Clara, had upset me. Why put me in the middle of this squabble? I tried to resume my practice session, but my mind circled back again to Olive and my frustration with her.

  Time for a break. Here in Monroe, Colorado, the weather in February can range from brutally cold to sunny and mild. Today, with the sun shining in a cloudless sky, Mother Nature seemed to be offering me a temporary reprieve from my frustration. Olive had mentioned a 4:00 rehearsal. I figured if I stayed away from the landline and turned off my cell phone until then, I’d avoid her phone calls.

  I put away my flute, turned my cell off, and bundled up to walk my retriever, Golden.

  Just before we left, the landline rang. The phone ID-ed Olive as the caller. I didn’t answer this time, and as I left, I heard, “Emily, phone as soon as you can. Gardiner still isn’t answering and I gotta talk to him.”

  Golden and I took refuge in the greenbelt, one of our favorite walks. I let her off the lead, so she could run free. She always stayed in sight or checked in, and the path led away from traffic, so I didn’t have to worry about her. I really came here, though, because the greenbelt’s peace soothed my soul and restored my perspective and sense of well-being.

  I stayed ‘til the beauty of the spot worked its magic, then called Golden. She came right away, smelling terrible, with brown goo all over her fur, looking extremely satisfied. I smiled, glad she had enjoyed herself and resigned to cleanup. I had become used to seeing her, and smelling her, like this after a romp outside. All part of having a canine friend.

  When we arrived at home, we went in through the garage. There I kept a large aluminum tub especially for bathing Golden. I filled it with warm water from the garage tap and lifted her in, first forelegs, then hind end.

  Noticing her betrayed and miserable looks, I said, “I’m sorry, Lovedog, but you brought it on yourself. I’m just making you socially acceptable again. It’ll be okay.”

  She didn’t look any happier.

  I washed her thoroughly before I let her go. While she shook off, soaking everything, I emptied the tub, then dried her as best I could with old towels I had for the purpose. I gave her one last inspection and opened the kitchen door.

  Once inside the house, I turned on the cell phone and checked for messages. I found a missed call and a text.

  The call came from Leanne Johnson, Gardiner’s latest fling, and the message she’d left seethed with anger. “Emily, you have to do something about your friend. Olive phoned while I visited Gardiner. He saw her name on the caller ID and, of course, didn’t answer. But then she had the nerve to call my house and talk to my kids, hoping to find Gardiner. The kids were home alone. I’d left Steven in charge—he’s thirteen now, you know—and he knew I should be at Gardiner’s. But Olive told him no one had answered the phone there. She scared him. He called me on my cell, and I calmed him down, but I shouldn’t have had to. Olive’s your friend. Talk some sense into her.” The recorded phone banged down noisily.

  I was taken aback. Why was I somehow supposed to take care of this situation? Surely Gardiner’s mistresses could settle things without me. Although, scaring kids was crossing the line. I vowed once again to try to reason with Olive.

  The text was from her, time stamped 3:28 p.m. “In trouble. WRU? CMB!”

  What kind of trouble could Olive be in? Probably more about Gardiner. I only had so much energy for Olive in one day. Besides, she would be in rehearsal now, which gave me a good reason to delay phoning her. I had already heard about the calls she’d been making. I would call later when her perceived crisis had passed.

  After a quick dinner, I paid some bills and reveled in an evening with no commitments, free for practice. The phone left me in peace, and I did some good, solid work. At last, prepared for rehearsal, I realized I hadn’t yet returned Olive’s call or text. I glanced at my watch. 11:30. Time had passed unnoticed, a frequent occurrence when I immersed myself in music. If I wanted Olive to respect my time, I had to respect hers. I wouldn’t call this late. I’d wait until morning and hope she had finally let go of her fantasies about a relationship with Gardiner. She deserved better.

  TWO

  Monday, February 3, 2010, 8:15 AM

  Alice Smithson, cellist in the Monroe symphony and my main connection to the grapevine, phoned and interrupted my morning routine. I don’t know how she learned the things she did, but her news was faster and more reliable than MSNBC. Usually when she called, she had some bit of gossip, unimportant. With the phone propped between my shoulder and ear, I only half listened while I opened the drapes to my stunning view of the Colorado mountains, the main reason I’d bought the house. Carrying my mug of tea with one hand, I shook open the newspaper with the other, and sank into the recliner in front of the window. A lively house finch ate from the bird feeder.

  “Isn’t it chilling?” Alice also had a flair for the dramatic.

  “What’s that?”

  “Olive. It’s on the front page of the paper.”

  “Why would there be anything about Olive? I’m looking at the front page, and I don’t see anything about her.”

  “Look below the fold, at the bottom. The lower left corner.”

  UNIDENTIFIED HOMICIDE

  An unidentified body was found yesterday evening at 225 Maple. The death is being investigated as a homicide . . .

  Olive’s address. I scanned the article. Pret
ty sketchy. It didn’t mention her name.

  “It can’t be her.”

  “Killed with her own bassoon boot. Beaten to a pulp, Alesia O’Malley says. David, that’s her husband, discovered the body.”

  I knew the O’Malleys. Olive lived in a duplex. They were her downstairs neighbors.

  I absorbed Alice’s information. Olive’s bassoon boot? The bassoon, largest of the woodwind instruments, pulled apart into five different sections. The “boot” was the bottom section, a heavy chunk of wood with metal caps and keys. I pictured Olive dead beside it. To put as much love and time into playing as Olive did and then be killed with her own instrument. Ironic. Sad. And more than a bit bizarre.

  I felt sick. Golden knew something was wrong. She sat in front of me and put her head in my lap.

  Impossible. I’d just talked to Olive yesterday. I remembered how impatient I’d been with her, and my throat tightened as Alice babbled on.

  “Who would . . .?”

  “It’s just awful. I put it on Facebook, but I know you don’t use Facebook much, and I had to be sure you’d seen it, since you and Olive were friends. I have to let my Twitter followers know, too. Lots to do. We’ll talk later.”

  Olive. Dead. What had happened, and why? I’d miss her. Even her accent. My first impression of her had been her Texas twang. Now I’d never hear it again. Or listen to her honest, unvarnished opinions—opinions that often made me laugh, sometimes in spite of myself, for her views were always truthful, but frequently unkind. Olive, gone. The lump in my throat grew.

  The memories kept flashing through my mind.

  Olive had joined the orchestra at the beginning of the season, six months ago. Her outspoken opinions had attracted attention from the very first rehearsal. At one point, the conductor, Felix Underhayes, told her to match pitches with the first flute, Sandy Baines. “But if I do that, we’ll be flatter than my momma’s pancakes.” Not a wise response for Olive to make, particularly in front of the entire symphony. But, unlike me and just about everybody else in the orchestra, Olive didn’t worry that first flute was royalty, while second bassoon was lower middle-class merchant. Nor did she worry she might be wrong.