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 happened.
“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.”
Marta mounted the podium. In her left hand was a sheet of paper, which she placed on the black music stand before her. The room hushed as everyone took their seats and waited for her announcement.
“I want to say first of all that everyone who auditioned did a wonderful job, and I thank you all very much. Without your hard work and, yes, courage to get up here in front of a room full of other singers, we would not be able to perform such a glorious work as the Mozart Requiem. Okay, bene.” She picked up the paper, and the tension level in the room increased several notches.
“For the first movement, the soprano solo, it will be Roxanne.”
I swiveled in my chair to see how Jill was taking this news. Not well. Whereas all the other sopranos were clapping and congratulating Roxanne, Jill was staring down at her lap, her face scrunched up in a scowl.
Next up was the Tuba mirum, and it was no surprise that the only tenor who had auditioned was given the part—plus Wendy and a soprano and bass I barely knew. I turned to give Wendy a high five but then stiffened when Marta said, “The Recordare.”
“For this one, our quartet will be Paul for the bass, John for the tenor, and . . . George and Ringo,” she finished with a laugh. Everyone in the room cracked up along with her. Everyone except me, that is. I was way too nervous.
“Sorry,” Marta said. “I could not resist.” She raised the paper once more to study the names. “Okay, so the soprano for the Recordare will be Cheryl, and the alto will be Sally.”
Allison clapped me on the back, and I finally let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Way to go!” she shouted. “I knew you’d get it.”
It was hard to concentrate on the rest of the solo announcements, but I did manage to pay enough attention to hear when Allison was awarded the alto part for the Benedictus and to give her a congratulatory hug.
Jill, I also noted, had gotten the soprano part for the Benedictus, but the solo in the last movement had gone to Roxanne. Which meant that both times the two sopranos had vied for a part, Roxanne had been the victor. Jill would not be happy about that.
“Okay, everybody,” Marta said, “now back to the full chorus parts. I want to review the ‘quam olim Abrahae’ fugue, which some of you seem to still be having problems with. Let’s start at letter O,” she said to Nadia and raised her hands to conduct. After only eight measures, however, she cut us off.
“Remember, this is a sort of call-and-response,” she said. “Think the style of Handel, especially his Messiah. So I need shaped phrases all through this part, like little waves in the music. Write it down on your music. Now,” she added when some of us failed to take up our pencils. “Little—how do you call them?” She made Vs with her fingers, pointing the pairs at each other.
“Hairpins,” someone called out.
“Sì. I want you to draw a pair of hairpins above each short phrase in this section, so you will not forget again.”
While we dutifully scribbled our dynamic phrasing all through the fugue, Marta continued to talk. “It might interest you to learn,” she said, “that most people who study such things believe that the very last musical notation Mozart made before his death was regarding this section of the Requiem. He wrote the words ‘quam olim Da Capo’ at the end of the Hostias movement, instructing that the fugue was to be repeated at that point. From there to the end of the mass was left unfinished—blank pages, niente—to be subsequently composed by Franz Xaver Süssmayr.”
She paused a moment as we finished up our notations, clucking softly in a manner that struck me as peculiarly Italian. “Such a pity. If only he could have lived to have completed his masterpiece.”
* * *
As soon as break was announced, I wandered over to the dessert table. On arriving at the church hall that evening, I’d spied a platter piled with slices of poppy seed pound cake, which had been calling to me throughout rehearsal.
Neither Brian nor Carol were at the table yet, but a group of hungry singers had already lined up and were helping themselves to cake and cookies. As I finally made it to the front of the line, Brian came hurrying over and set a stack of insulated paper cups down on the table. “Sorry,” he said. “I had to dash out to my car to get these.”
“Oh, good,” said one of the tenors, taking a cup and helping himself to hot coffee from the stainless steel urn. “I was wondering where they were. Oh, and is there sugar somewhere?”
Brian looked around the table, but the basket of sugar and fake creamer was nowhere to be seen. “Damn,” he said. “I’ll have to go upstairs and get it.”
“I’ll do it,” I said. “No worries.” And before he could answer, I turned and headed for the doorway to the office building. I’d been wanting to take another look around the storage room, and this time I’d be able to turn on the light and really see the place, actually having a reason to be up there.
The room was once again dimly lit, since they had yet to replace the old window and it was still boarded up. I felt along the walls on either side of the door until I found the light switch and flipped it on. There, on the table next to the choir robes, was the basket of sugar and creamer, along with another basket of tea bags, which Brian probably also needed.
Glancing at the floor and checking on top of the other tables for clues as I went, I walked across the room. Nothing. Just the same tools, cleaning supplies, and boxes of music I’d seen before. Oh well. It wasn’t as if I’d really expected to find anything new. I grabbed a basket in each hand and turned to head back out the door but then stopped. What was that behind the rack of robes? It looked as if someone had dumped a pile of clothes on the floor.
Setting the baskets back down, I rolled the rack away from the wall. I was right: a pair of jeans, a striped shirt, and a pair of shoes lay on the floor. Now why . . . ? And then a jolt shot through my body like an electric shock as I realized what I was looking at. It was Carol, the alto who helped with the desserts.
And she looked very dead.