Tuesday, November 30
This was an even worse idea than Brock’s crazy trip to Alistair’s island. Drayco should never have said “yes” to this whole scholarship recital. When he got up earlier in the day, he’d picked up the phone and put it down several times to call it all off, last minute or not.
He had the perfect excuse, too, after his little drama yesterday evening at the remains of the burned hardware store. He was lucky he hadn’t injured his gimpy arm any further when the wall almost fell on him, but he still sported a few new aches in his good arm.
Besides, he had a client and a case, his top priority and his real job. The piano bit . . . that was in his past. Not to mention the fact this recital business wasn’t just a bad idea, it was the definition of insanity. But, setting aside any loyalty—or lack thereof—to his Uncle Alistair for setting up the thing, Drayco couldn’t back out of it now.
After spending the morning psyching himself up for the first public musical performance pressure in years, he made his way up Rhode Island Avenue and US-1 to College Park. Once there, the scholarship committee liaison who greeted him was gracious, which somehow made it even harder to take. He’d almost prefer she be distrustful or condescending.
She showed him to the green room behind the stage, where Drayco filled the sink half-full with hot water. He leaned over it to plunge his right arm inside, turning on the tap to add a little more water until it covered his entire lower arm.
Usually, he timed his soaking sessions by the minute for good measure. But instead of looking at a timer, his mind kept drifting back to the case. Alistair, kidnappings, puzzles, treasures . . . and if Brock’s new girlfriend was involved, espionage might also be in play. So why was he wasting time here?
The liaison popped her head into the green room to tell him the committee was ready for him. How long had he been soaking? About fifteen minutes, he guessed. But would it be enough? That was the “million-dollar” question—the amount Alistair had given to endow the scholarship.
The committee he was to play for was very understanding about the repertoire mix-up when they realized whoever provided the revised list hadn’t done so with Drayco’s knowledge. Since that list came via someone claiming to be his agent on the phone, they were even more mystified.
Unfortunately, an after-hours answering service took the call and didn’t get a name or return number, so the committee—and he—were still in the dark about the identity or motives of the culprit. Had the attempted intervention been well-intentioned? Or an attempt at sabotage?
Not that it would matter if he didn’t do well regardless of what pieces he played. The setup was like a traditional contest “jury,” with the committee seated in the row below the stage. And like most juries, they were essentially there to pass judgment. Alistair had questioned why this committee step was even necessary.
But Drayco knew the music school staffers were well aware of the injury years ago that cut his concert career short. They wanted to save themselves the embarrassment of a gimpy pianist having to quit mid-recital, leaving ticket-holders disappointed. It wouldn’t reflect well on the music school or the university.
It was years since he was up on a concert hall stage alone with a piano while an audience waited expectantly. What would it feel like? Time to find out.
He strolled out on stage, but he wanted to turn right back around and escape to the green room when he saw the piano. They’d told him it would be an older-model Steinway, but this was a shiny new Kawai. The action would likely be stiffer and tighter than he was used to—requiring more muscle and finger strength.
He forced himself not to turn around and gave a quick bow. He slid onto the piano bench and sat still for a moment to focus his thoughts. Then he launched into Bach’s Prelude and Fugue No. 9 from the Well-Tempered Clavier, getting lost in the notes as he’d hoped he would. When the last sounds of the Bach faded away, he leaned back a little with a smile. That had gone better than he’d feared.
He placed his hands on the keyboard to play the next piece when the air handler for the heating system cranked on with a loud whooshing sound he could hear on stage. Shades of what happened on Alistair’s island all over again. The noise was annoying, but the fluttering gray-brown veil with silver dagger crosses it sent into his brain wasn’t helping. Great. Why now?
He plowed ahead and made it through a couple of Chopin études from Opus 10, the third and the twelfth, the so-called “Revolutionary,” which buoyed his confidence. His right arm was throbbing, but that was normal these days after playing for twenty minutes. Next, it was time for Debussy’s Suite Bergamasque. He took a deep, calming breath and eased into the opening Prélude. So far, so good.
He reached the Menuet section, feeling the adrenaline rush of what came next, the iconic “Claire de Lune.” But right as he started the movement, he felt the familiar cold tingling sensation tunneling up his wrist and arm. The cramping exploded with full force, making his fingers curl up into his palm.
It took every ounce of control he had not to pound his fists onto the poor hapless piano. Instead, he stopped, took a deep breath, and swung his feet around on the bench to face the committee. They glanced at each other with knowing looks.
One member cleared her throat and said, “We could give you a few minutes and try again?”
Drayco rubbed his arm to stop the contractions. “I don’t think that’s going to help, but I can go soak the arm in warm water again.”
The committee members looked at each other again, nodded, and appeared relieved not to discuss it with him further. He gave them a little wave and headed back to the green room. Should he give it one more try? In the great cosmic scheme of things, would it matter now if he did? Or didn’t?
He made his way to the sink and ran more hot water from the tap. Sarg was right—Drayco rarely ran away from a challenge. Well, he wasn’t about to start now, injury be damned. One way or another, he was going to make this work.
After only five minutes of soaking, he dried off and headed back toward the stage. It was now or never. But when his second attempt ended in even worse arm cramping only two minutes after he started playing, he stopped again and slid off the bench with a grim smile. “Obviously, this is a problem. However, I think I may have an idea . . . ”