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IN THE MORNING, WINSTON still felt happy about his telephone conversation. He couldn’t help but hum a few bars of “Chances Are” in merriment as he neared the breakfast table, where Marcy was nursing a cup of coffee. Jazzman had really set the mood for romance that night. He thought about the old piano player with a fond smile—and then slapped his thigh. “That’s it!”
Marcy let out a small yelp. “What are you doing?”
“Grumpy much?” Winston asked, pouring himself a bowl of Lucky Charms. He made sure to give himself extra shamrocks. “We should talk to Jazzman.”
“The pianist? Whatever for?”
“He was playing during the party—”
“And observing,” Marcy said. She gulped down her coffee. “After you finish your bowl of sugar, we’ll get going.”
* * *
JAZZMAN LIVED IN A nice senior residential home called Green Pastures. The minute they walked into the place, Marcy and Winston knew where to find the old man. A lively tune permeated the home. They followed the music to find Jazzman seated behind a piano, tickling the ivories.
“Of course,” Winston mumbled to himself. As always, the gentleman had dressed up, today in a top hat and tails.
The last notes lingered in the air as Winston and Marcy approached him. A smatter of applause came from the residents seated nearby in plush armchairs. Winston even heard a wolf whistle from down the hall.
“You’ve got fans,” Winston said to Jazzman. “Me included.”
Jazzman dipped his top hat. “I aim to please. Good to see you again, Winston.” He turned to Marcy and kissed her hand. “A delight.”
Jazzman scooted over on the bench and motioned for Marcy to sit down, but she shook her head. She and Winston remained standing on one side of the piano bench to chat.
“We won’t be long,” Marcy said. “My brother has a few questions for you. About Halloween night.”
“During the party,” Winston added.
“A swell evening,” Jazzman said. He slid his fingers over the smooth piano keys, creating a whisper of sound. “Lovely neighborhood.”
“Actually, not so nice,” Winston said. “One of the residents recently died over there. And I don’t think it was of natural causes.”
“Another murder investigation?” Jazzman’s hands paused above the keys.
“Unfortunately,” Winston said. “It was Bill, the captain of the neighborhood watch.”
“A shame.” Jazzman put his hands at his side and hung his head.
Winston could see Jazzman’s face reflected in the glossy surface of the piano. The old man’s eyes looked half-closed, as though deep in thought. Maybe he was remembering Joe, his friend from Sweet Breeze who’d been murdered. But Winston had solved that case and provided closure. Maybe he could do the same now. “I promise to find out what happened.”
Marcy added, “My brother can do it.” Her encouragement surprised Winston. How long had it been since she’d actually rooted for him instead of bailing him out? Had he actually leveled up in her eyes?
Winston gave her a head nod, and she smiled back at him.
“How can I help?” Jazzman asked. He lifted his head and stared straight at Winston.
“Bill lived in the house right behind the neighborhood watch sign,” Winston said. “Do you remember when those floodlights turned on?”
“How could I forget?” Jazzman seemed to cheer up as he winked at Marcy. “There was some fabulous singing going on.”
Marcy shifted her feet and looked away.
“Do you know why the lights went on?” he asked Jazzman. “Did you see anything?”
“Can’t say that I did,” Jazzman said after a moment’s reflection.
“Oh.” Winston felt his excitement deflate as though his stomach had been punched. Crit happens, as his fellow gamers would say.
He wondered if he’d catch a break, when Jazzman continued, “That’s because I was focused on something else. An argument.”
“Between?”
“Heather and this real suave guy.” Jazzman described the man in question.
Marcy must have been thinking the same thing as Winston because they both spoke the same name: “Ryan.”
“Could you hear what they were saying?” Winston asked.
“No,” Jazzman said. “They were too far away. Under the awning of Bill’s house, in the shadows—besides, I was still playing.”
“So how did you know it was an argument?” Marcy asked.
Jazzman ran a hand through his short hair. “Looked heated,” he said. “Ryan was shaking his fist at her.”
Marcy gave a little gasp and braced herself against the piano frame. “Did he hit her?”
“No, it was all verbal.”
“What happened afterward?” Winston asked.
Jazzman shrugged. “Don’t know. The floodlights came on. And Miss Mystique over here distracted us.”
Marcy ducked her head. Winston knew she would never be left alone about her grooving. “Wipe that silly smile off your face,” she said to him.
Winston moved from his sister’s side to get away from her angry vibe and focused on Jazzman. “Well, thanks for the info. That’s interesting to hear that something was brewing between Ryan and Heather.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” Jazzman pressed a few piano keys, and Winston knew the gentleman was itching to play again. “You know who might be able to tell you more, though? Pete.”
“Pete Russell?” Winston pictured the veteran who’d shown up at the party.
“The one and only. Grumbling about seeing somebody trespassing Bill’s land, he went to chase whoever had tripped the lights.”
Jazzman started playing an upbeat tune, and Winston and Marcy took their leave.