The Lost Chord: Chapter 14

The Lost Chord

(a classical music appreciation comedy thriller by Richard Alan Strawser: you can read it from the beginning, here.)

In the previous installment, the explosion unlocked distant memories in Garth Widor's brain and triggered a possible realization in LauraLynn's. Fictitia, standing on the edge of the back parking lot is reminded of another explosion, years ago. D'Arcy and Kerr realize they are not alone...

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CHAPTER 14

“No time,” he growled at her, “No time – there is no time,” which he kept chanting in between his breaths as he ran past the figure of the girl dressed in black. Annoying, what she had done, rudely taking his picture with her phone, taking it without even asking his permission. He had no time, he kept stressing, to take care of things, to teach her the lesson of rudeness, to seize her phone, her camera, no time to destroy her proof.

He ran down the sidewalk effortlessly, past the girl who’d stepped back as he ran beyond her, witheringly disdainful, bounding with great strides, arms paddling at his sides as if swimming. He took off across the parking lot, headed for the dark woods – no time until he found his safety.

Chasing the woman in the dove-gray dress through the maze of darkness, he’d lunged for her, grabbed her too late as she slipped through a slender crack in the wall and disappeared. Some thoughtless Niebelheimer left a shop door open wide enough for her, too narrow for his own magnificent form.

The door started gliding shut as he reached through to grab her – he barely extricated his arm before amputation. He screamed, egregious and enraged: the wall rudely swallowed his left pants-leg.

He yanked desperately and tore himself away, diaphanous fabric wafting from the invisible rift that nearly devoured his leg when equally unexpectedly there was a reverberant blast that hurled him floorward, as if all the forces of evil pushing themselves against the Gates of Hell broke loose upon the earth.

“Holy Hell,” he screamed, “no time, no time,” as he scabbered against the floor through dust and settling debris, oblivious to the cause but conscious he would without question be blamed.

His beautiful composition, his “Symphony for One Whose Time Has Come,” was not going according to his original plan, that someone – some inconsiderate terrorist – had ruined its performance, inconceivably out-Stockhausened him. This required a pure improvisatory response, inspirational, immensity meeting gesture for gesture, an escalation in the warp of time.

But not now: there was no more time, his mind thought, reeling from the pain, eyes blinded by the dust, his hand smarting in imagined agony from its near-brush with extreme separation. Despite his inordinate strength and impeccable physique, a slender woman nearly destroyed him with a bit of ancient technology. He had been on the wrong side: she had the air-lock with the door’s crushing weight in her favor. One small miscalculation became an oblique resolution, a deceptive cadence – “not tonight!”

Again, he brought himself close to failure, to the very brink of success with all its acclaims and approbation, only to have it snatched by some unanticipated turn of unforeseeable events. Fate, forever rudely knocking at the door—flirtatious and fickle – managed once again to give him the metaphorical finger.

It will be difficult now to retrieve the notebook willingly from the hand of the Interloper’s cousin after her ordeal, too frightened by far to agree willingly to meet with him again. His challenge somehow will be to make her bring them to him, the notebook and the gizmo, both together.

He must find the fountain but it is getting late, too late, with each setback however slight, however discouraging. And so he, Tr’iTone, must fall back, regroup, not defeated – never defeated!

He knew he could no longer wait around until she’d think it safe enough to emerge from her hiding place, in one grand act of surprise seizing the manuscript from her hand. Security, once upon the scene, would automatically blame him for the explosion, the Style Police and their aesthetic profiling. He could not risk getting himself captured even if he could escape – the delay unwise and the outcome, dubious. There must be another way, plus he had to get the gizmo.

He’d hoped to get them peacefully from the Interloper with mere threats, handing them over simply out of fear, until he had found him already dead, killed by someone else's hand. But speaking of performance art, it had turned out so incredibly magnificent, the memory still could make him smile.

Every set-back, technical or emotional, required an immediate and inspired creative response, consciously or subconsciously working out the various details until, as if by magic, everything fell into place, the solution obvious. He must clear his mind, carefully preparing himself both mentally and physically, turning himself into a conduit for creativity.

Like any composer running up against a problem, he realized it was time to return to the drawing board, work out the problems, discover his options, trust everything to his inspiration.

The Interloper had been destroyed too soon by some rude avenging angel, dead when he’d arrived to demand, again only through the use of fear, the notebook and the all-important gizmo. If not there, where could they be, where had they been hidden? No time, alas, to challenge him again.

Hearing no evil, he will enjoy the blessings of inspiration no more; seeing no evil, composing it no more. Speaking no evil, he will no longer delude those who follow him.

Tr’iTone left the Festspielhaus far behind him, turning down the narrow path leading away from the old Falkenstein Farm. The woods grew denser, darker, as he dashed along the Fricken Road.

Soon, he’d arrive at the castle ruins on the Dark Side of the Schweinwald. Who would dare follow him?

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

“No time? What the hell did he mean by that?” she wondered, desperately trying to keep from losing her balance: if she hits her head, they’ll just say, “well, that explains it!” But wait a minute, her phone – she’d taken a picture of him – it – whatever it was – with her phone.

“No time, indeed,” she said, “I have got to tweet this ASAP!” fumbling with her fingers in the darkness. “Please, please, please don’t let me delete this by accident, not now!”

She didn’t try to come up with an explanation for the blast much less for what she thought she saw emerging from the hole in the wall shortly after the blast. If she dwelt on explanations, she might lose valuable time and her nerves were still shot from that explosion.

“Yes!” She pumped her fist in success once she saw her photo of the thing appear on her Flikr account, as clear as if he’d sat for his portrait in a studio. Or at least in one of those carnival photo booths – smile! click! “Yeah, he does look kind of surprised.”

She tapped in a caption – “WTF! Is this dude in the opera?” – then hit ‘post’ to Twitter and Facebook. It was so cool, she considered using it for her profile pic.

She tried getting another photo of him but it was too dark, some blur in the distance barely visible. (What did they call that thing – Sasquatch? Were there Yetis in Germany?) Besides, anybody who would see this one would claim it was photo-shopped, even that clear portrait shot she’d taken.

Then she turned back to the building to check out the wall, more dust settling than smoke and flames, and decided to take some pictures of the hole from different angles.

Maybe the explosion didn’t make the hole and this thing came crashing through the wall, escaping from the blast? She’d been standing with her back to the building when it happened. It wasn’t really a “hole,” she thought, more a kind of fissure, a tear in the brick and stonework.

Then she remembered flicking her cigarette butt away, wondering what to do next, how it must've rolled down this drain. The explosion couldn't have been a minute later, as she walked away. Did she cause the blast, igniting gas backed up in the drain? What gas did sewers produce, anyway – methane?

That’s when she noticed the ubiquitous “No Smoking” sign near the drain, but then they were everywhere, weren’t they? She, like most smokers, routinely ignored them, infringing her right to smoke.

Filthy habit aside, as her old Gran never failed to remind her, she tried to be more conscious ecologically, always a rough balance between colliding worlds, her pleasure and her responsibility. But seriously – “I mean, srsly!” – if you’d risk blowing the place up, they should be a bit more emphatic.

Well, whatever happened, she didn’t want to hang around till security arrived, knowing how they’d only blame her for it. There were already two officers running over from the trailer now, anyway.

“Damn,” she cursed under her breath, pocketing her phone, “time to roll,” no time to think of a plan.

So Fictitia took off after this creature, since she couldn’t very well run back into the building, could she? She understood the need to follow him – but at a discreet distance…

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

There was a genuine sigh of collective relief once the singers on stage had gotten through this very tricky scene where Old Dr. Bartolo confronted his nemesis disguised as a drunken soldier, which included slicing down a potted orange tree during some animated swordplay, the actor playing Ambrogio barely escaping injury. It was bad enough Septimus Huffington, the young singer making his European debut as Bartolo, was suffering from allergies, barely able to catch his breath during his big aria’s rapid-fire patter.

The audience reaction, till then, had been pure delight, especially for Cora DiLetto’s performance of “Una voce poco fa,” most of which she sang while sprawled precariously across a low-slung divan. Unfortunately, the response to Huffington’s “Un dottore della mia sorte” cooled considerably: perhaps he needed to lose some weight.

Ms. DiLetto was relieved to get through some hectic antics where she nearly got knocked over at the dress rehearsal, but then she felt this unexpected blast, like some deep, distant excavation. There’s a small explosion later, Figaro’s diversion during the up-coming music lesson, but what the hell was this one?

The singers looked uncertainly at each other, catching sight of the alarm on Figaro’s face when he rushed on-stage to warn them all this noise was attracting their curious neighbors’ attention.

Backstage, a look of anxiety passed quickly from one technician to another as they felt this ominous underground rumble which was much bigger than the sound effect for the next act. In the pit, the floor buckled and shook as the conductor took an unexpected pause after Figaro’s climactic “Olá!”

The musicians, seeing Maestro Maéstro’s eyes bugging out, realized this was probably not some last-minute change in the production. The conductor, after a deep breath, continued: the show must go on!

“Save it for intermission, there’s no time to worry about it, now,” Stage Manager Gottlieb prompted everyone on headset. “We’ve got a complex maneuver minutes away. Are the lights still working?”

Like his colleagues, his thoughts were running in all directions at once: perhaps Rita Pagliaccio was up to something?

In the nearly sold-out auditorium, the excitement was running high for Bartlet Sher’s innovative and, so far, well-received production, though there were some old-timers who scowled at what they probably considered typical Eurotrash mayhem perpetrated upon their beloved classics while younger ones sat back bored because it wasn’t going far enough.

Some noted how carefully that off-stage explosion was timed with the music, no doubt the benefit of computerized technology.

“Why,” the mayor said, “I even felt it under my seat! Marvelous!”

Ignoring their concerns, the crew silently rolled the large panel of doors across the back out of the way and a wagon full of pumpkins was ready to move on stage.

“Anvil in place?” Gottlieb, unnerved by the unexplained interruption, tried his best to remain calm. “Okay, everybody – it’s showtime!”

Scarpia, sitting alone in his box watching the stage, wondered what that earth-rattling noise had been – an earthquake? in Bavaria? – then wondered what was taking Fictitia so long in the ladies’ room.

His phone vibrated gently in his pocket – he was sure it was his phone – meaning Fictitia must’ve posted something.

“What the hell,” he wondered, “is this her idea of a joke?” The tracker indicated she’s on the move.

Annoyed, he decided he’d better follow her – but at a discreet distance.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

Officer Mobilé arrived at that storage room where this character wearing a towering wig and harem pants was seen leaving, the room outside Niebelheim – which they noticed Heidi Gedankgesang never emerged from. It was unlikely the perp would still be anywhere in the vicinity but she needed to rescue Ms. Gedankgesang. Her gun drawn, she cautiously swiped her ID-badge through the computerized lock, the door drifting open leaving out a soft creaking noise, a strong whiff of mothballs and something unsettlingly familiar.

But before she could enter the room and turn on the light, wondering what it was she might find, there was a sudden explosion that sent her sprawling across the hallway. The floor seemed to buckle and the walls swayed back and forth as she dashed for the nearest exit.

Captain Schäufel was leading his officers through the underground maze of hallways, making only two wrong turns before reaching Niebelheim. At the entrance, Schäufel gave orders, sliding his ID-badge through the lock.

Suddenly, they found themselves flattened against the floor by a tremendous blast, an over-powering shower of dust and debris.

Gradually staggering to his feet, Officer Sordino couldn’t believe what he saw: the heavy security door ripped wide open.

A strange shadow ran toward a considerable crack in the outside wall.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

The trailer rocked sideways as Cameron went to flush the toilet. “Holy crap!” he shouted, glad he’d just stood up. “What the hell was that,” he wondered, trying to keep his footing. The water in the bowl sloshed back and forth, reminding him of news footage he’d seen of California earthquakes.

Convinced this was Cameron’s attempt to escape, Leahy-Hu rushed into the restroom. “And what exactly, Mr. Pierce, was that?”

“Holy crap,” Officer Martineau shrieked, checking the security cams, “getta loada this?”

Officer Sordino radioed to the security trailer. “You'd better send back-up. There was a bomb. Now there's a hole. And... and… Well,” he hesitated before adding, “you'd better send back-up – fast!”

As they charged out the door, positive it was some terrorist attack, Leahy-Hu knew just who the terrorist was.

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to be continued...

posted by Dick Strawser

The novel, The Lost Chord, is a music appreciation comedy thriller completed in 2013, and is the sole supposedly intellectual property of its author, Richard Alan Strawser.
© 2014

The Lost Chord: Chapter 13

The Lost Chord

(a classical music appreciation comedy thriller by Richard Alan Strawser: you can read it from the beginning, here.)

In the previous installment, one of the Schweinwald Security agents discovers the presence of an oddly-dressed figure in the Festspielhaus basement as Fictitia, bored with the opera, decides to slip out for a cigarette break. Garth Widor, busily setting up the first of a series of bombs for an attack on the Festspielhaus, makes a mistake and LauraLynn, feeling the explosion, has a shocking epiphany.

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CHAPTER 13

He remembered the explosion after the gunfire as people ran around screaming, how he came to in a hospital bed, covered in layers of bandages, surprised that he’d somehow managed to survive. He had lost large quantities of blood, the doctor calmly told him, and there was something about a concussion. How many times had he tried to remember his world before that explosion, the gunfire and all the screaming, anything before all the pain and the long convalescence in the hospital? He always viewed that explosion, whatever it was, bringing down the curtain on the first act of his life and how it seemed like he’d just walked in late after intermission. He had no ID on him, no one knew who he was and he couldn’t even remember his name.

Had his brain been wiped clean in some scientific experiment gone wrong, every cell containing any trace of the past drained from his body along with all the blood that he’d lost? One thing he did remember was waking up from a deep sleep mumbling, they told him, the word “Heiniken.” They asked him if he was thirsty, did he want some beer, was it his favorite brand of beer? But he had no idea what it meant, what significance it had.

They were calling him a hero, having saved several lives including the wife and child of a wealthy businessman who, out of gratitude, was taking care of his considerable medical expenses. The man had visited him several times while he was still unconscious and spoke highly of his apparent valor. A bomb had gone off nearby as they walked in the park, killing several men dressed suspiciously in black. He’d knocked down the wife and son, shielding them with his body.

The nurses told him luckily his grateful benefactor happened to be one of the wealthiest men in New York, a prominent Wall Street banking firm’s CEO named Bernie “the Cooker” Steele, which made him wonder what he was doing in New York City? He spoke with a heavy German accent.

As the long process of recuperation continued, Steele came by to talk, telling him how he’d never have to worry, that once he was ready for it, a job would be waiting. The important thing was that he get better, get back his strength, leave the nightmares – (what nightmares?) – behind him. It was unimportant who he’d been, if he couldn’t remember his past, what he’d done, where he’d come from. Not everybody was given a clean slate, starting over completely from scratch.

Occasionally Steele’s wife, Vanna Mae, came by to see how he was, bringing her son Ronnie who was 10, an arrogant bastard who felt naturally you’d risk your life for his. The wife was a hot blonde with long legs and large breasts. The kid, a spoiled brat, was dangerous.

How would he go about creating a whole new identity for himself? He would need a name, first of all. Not knowing who he had been before, who’d he want to become?

The nurse switched the radio from the country station to the classical, neither of which he found particularly enjoyable.

His room careened from Garth Brooks to the Toccata by Charles-Marie Widor. That was it: he’d become Charles Brooks.

Later, he decided switching the names around sounded more exotic: Garth Widor.

If memories were like snapshots in time, he knew basically he must have a whole album full of them, somewhere. Hidden in a special place he’d forgotten, that ‘somewhere’ was the issue. He kept hoping he could find that room, its door slightly ajar, or be able to pick the lock. Maybe, doctors suggested, if he started imagining some scenes from his past, it would trigger some sense of recognition that would help him unlock everything else, unleashing a flood of memories.

But every locked door, every strongbox he discovered in these imaginary memories, he thought “I could pick this lock” until he wondered maybe he was… well, a handyman, good with tools. It was also curious that while he spoke English with an accent, he didn’t understand a word of German.

For the next thirty years, he worked as a handyman and bodyguard before discovering (or rather, uncovering) some hidden talents, later on becoming the Chief of Security Operations for the Steele Family until the senior Steele retired to his villa in Provence with his Swiss bank accounts and numerous off-shore holdings.

Widor had stayed loyally by the junior Steele’s side and been rewarded with increased responsibilities and increasingly familiar tasks which felt almost like some kind of home-coming, back on old turf.

But now, a curtain parting for the first time in thirty years, he saw the face of a woman, a woman who looked at him with expressions of love and tenderness. It wasn’t an attractive face, as faces went, but there was more to this face than just physical attraction.

Was this the long-forgotten face of his mother he was finally looking into after all these years? Perhaps not. There was too much class for someone who might be his mother.

Her hair was long and lustrously blonde, pulled back across the front before spilling in cascades down her back. Rapunzel, he had called her once, as she sat at her window.

Something must have happened – no, something had been discovered (or probably both) – and he was forced to leave her.

Who was she, this Rapunzel whom he found gazing into his face, a look of deep concern in her eyes? Was that a word of hope on her lips or of caution? Her face came gradually into focus, hovering there above him, the soft touch of a hand on his cheek.

“Lisl,” he tried to call out but couldn’t, feeling weak and broken, the taste of blood in his mouth. His legs hurt to move and his head ached, racked with pain.

Once again, he could taste blood in his mouth, his legs still hurt and his head continued to ache. But he remembered he called her Lisl and felt her loving touch. She said something to him like “forget me” and “it cannot work.” Apparently, she was right – he’d forgotten her.

In the darkness as the dust continued settling around him, he scrunched his brows together trying to force his memory.

“So close,” he said over and over, “so close. Come back, Lisl…”

He had no idea where he was, what had happened to him. Was he in the garden, hurt again?

His eyes were uncooperative, refusing to adjust, though it seemed so familiar, lying there on his back, looking up. He’d been discovered, lying underneath a balcony, beside a broken rose trellis.

No, not this time, he realized, sensing it in his aching bones: this is different; that, somehow, was then. There was no face, no loving touch, it was all a memory. This, he remembered, was supposed to be his last job for SHMRG – “too old” – how he’d hoped to retire.

What was that all about, he wondered, sinking back, exhausted and confused. “Stay alert,” he told himself, “hang on.” He wondered who Lisl was, where the garden was, why he’d fallen.

He heard the taunting voices of children calling him “eine kleine Heineken” – was he fond of beer, even then? – chasing him across the school playground and down the alleys toward home.

No, because that was his name: not the beer but like some obscure Baroque composer – who…? Johann David Heinichen?

He knew if he could just name it, he would own it, part of the process toward reclaiming his past. He needed names and now he knew his name and her name. He could hardly imagine who he’d been, those years before the explosion in the park, but who was she? She was older by perhaps a decade, she was lonely and attractive and – oh yes, she was terribly rich. He remembered vaguely that he was working for her brother, wasn’t he?

Lisl had been the younger sister of the old man who ran a music festival at that ruined castle – what was the old man’s name, Frankenstein or something; no, more Falkenstein...? What was her name, he kept trying to remember, thinking of champagne: not Falkenstein – she had been a widow.

That’s right, her married name had been Riesling, just like the fine sparkling wine that suited her personality so well. But his name was Heinichen: everyone knew beer and wine didn’t mix. It had been a running joke in those sweet hours after love-making, what name they would give their baby.

He remembered giving her something, some memento before he was forced to leave her, something to give the baby.

“Wait a minute,” he thought, “there was going to be a baby?”

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

It amused her as they worked their way through the soup course – too salty, he winced; too bland, she muttered – how they’d become comfortable with each other like an old married couple, despite the miles between them and the few times they had to spend together, chatting over a pleasant dinner. LauraLynn wondered if they might not be seeing more of each other now that he’d be living outside Munich and she was shedding more of her foundation’s day-to-day work in London. An only child who never married, she assumed Rob had never remarried because those years with Beatrice may well have been enough to put any man off the idea of marriage. She was never quite sure what her own excuse would have been, if he were thinking the same thing.

When Rob called and said he was flying back to the States after having attended the funeral for Franz-Dieter Zeitgeist, hoping to put the finishing touches on his opera before rehearsals began, she knew he would want to have dinner with her that night without even mentioning their favorite restaurant’s name. It was just one of the many things left unspoken between them: dinner in London meant Piccoloni’s at seven, a little earlier if there was a concert they’d be going to.

After the entrée – he’d gotten his usual salmon; she, the apricot chicken – Rob started talking about the opera’s plot, something he hadn’t even confided to the Festival board aside from Zeitgeist. Whatever reason he’d kept it to himself, if he’s this close to finishing it, he could break his secrecy. Calling it Faustus, Inc., he knew the basic plot was fairly obvious, joking “the details were in the devil,” an up-dated version of the classic legend set in the corporate world.

Writing his own libretto, based on his own adaptation of Goethe’s setting, Rob apologized he was like many writers uncomfortable with giving away too many details of their new novel’s plot for fear of losing that delicate thread, waking up some foggy morning with no idea where it was going.

All she knew was he’d long been dissatisfied with the original ending and that Zeitgeist had thought much the same, even though most of this second, final act had already been finished. Rob figured he would have to start over again, rewriting all of the text, probably most of the music. The second act was now too long but if he broke it into two separate parts, finding a balance, this new third act was relentless in its drive to the conclusion.

Rob had become more animated as he recalled his old Harvard adviser who'd suggested he look for ways to combine his economic and financial background with his love of music which for years he thought meant creating a corporation antithetical to SHMRG or working philanthropically as LauraLynn had done.

“After those years I’d spent in training, learning my father’s corporate mentality, all those years of working with his company – no wonder he never understood why I wanted to be an artist – not to mention having been married to that avaricious little bitch, Beatrice – I’m combining what I love… and hate.”

Rob laughed, hastily waving away invisible concerns. “I’m sure Dad would disown me completely if he were still alive. So let’s just say it’s ‘very controversial,’ and leave it at that.”

Later, she recalled how surprised she had been at Rob’s sudden outburst which seemed to well up out of nowhere, a man who was usually placid even in the most challenging situations. Very little ruffled him enough to break through that generally calm exterior most people considered to be Robertson Sullivan. She also remembered how, at the wedding reception where Aunt Katie was killed, once the immediate numbness wore off, there’d been this flash of violence about his blaming himself for everything. LauraLynn had no idea why he would feel that or why he was suspicious about his friend Zeitgeist’s death, or what he meant by SHMRG, the reference went by so quickly. (At first, she thought he’d said merde! since he occasionally enjoyed using foreign profanities to spice up his conversation.)

Perhaps it wasn’t some unhinged conspiracy theory coming out of nowhere that he’d suddenly fallen into after all, she wondered. God knows, classical music had enough of its own crazies – but murder? Could he actually be the victim of someone he knew, some rival who would be out to “get him”? Who would have threatened him to stop writing his opera, if they felt it was too close to reality? Someone who knew enough about their family – maybe somebody in their family?

Could this insider be their cousin Maurice Harty? The “family pipsqueak,” they used to call him when they were kids, the one who inherited Rob’s father’s company once he himself declined it? Even as children, Maurie was jealous of Rob’s height and good looks, much less his success as an adult.

Maurie divided his time between London and Manhattan, always keeping his distance, but called her shortly before Zeitgeist's funeral. They’d even had dinner, detestable as it was, in that same restaurant.

Had he, she wondered, planted some kind of bug on her during dinner – wasn't she carrying the same purse? – was that how he might have learned the truth behind Rob’s opera?

Was he intent on eliminating her, now, assuming she knew too much? This unexpected realization practically knocked her sideways.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

It was enough to make Fictitia consider giving up smoking once again – “Ye freakin’ gods! Did I really do that?” – accidentally flicking a still smoldering butt into a nearby puddle of gasoline. The motel erupted into flames reaching sky-high, immediately alerting the fire department followed quickly by a battalion of policemen. Lucky to escape with her tattoos intact, Fictitia was convinced she’d spend the rest of her life behind bars – she could just imagine the tweet, now: “Reporter Turns Arsonist #accident #stupidthingsthatendcareers.”

What she hadn’t realized then, the hot young violinist she was stalking – a blonde bombshell in tight mini-pants named Skripasha Scricci with legions of fans in both pop and classical worlds – was in fact a notorious drug smuggler working for a syndicate of underground musicians, something mysteriously known as SHMRG.

The international police had been trying for most of the past year to pin anything on Scricci they could manage, but she had proven too smart for them with her dazzling technique. Scurrying from the concert hall or the latest club she’d been playing, her entourage easily lost them every time. While fans cheered every pelvic thrust in her Sibelius Concerto on stage, afterward they could purchase her “special” CDs, the ones with synthetic drugs artfully concealed in the jewel-case’s glittery lining.

Glitter, technique aside, was everywhere – her outlandish costumes, her make-up, even in the varnish of what was supposed to be a Strad worth $3,000,000 – the essence of Scricci as total package. Who’d notice a little glitter in the spine of a CD case? And her CDs always proved very popular. Drug agents disguised as concert security looked on oblivious to the distribution, looking instead for the usual clandestine dealing. Nothing seemed odd beyond the higher than normal price for her recordings.

This peculiarity was what tipped Fictitia LaMouche off in the first place, not that trendy teenagers raved about Sibelius but that they’d actually go buy something as antiquated as a CD. While others went to the laptop and downloaded direct to their iPods, there were long lines for the CDs.

It hadn’t been Fictitia’s plan, busting a drug smuggler – far from it. She just wanted to find out why Skripasha’s posse, after each performance, retired to some dreary, flea-bitten, barely respectable motel. A superstar of her magnitude holed up in the classiest digs available, given her image and equally inflated fees. Yet, moments after dropping her off at the local Hilton, the rest of them scurried off to Cheap Sleep, perhaps feeling uncomfortable in this affluent “milieu,” ironically stretching the poshest pronunciation.

This was the kind of tantalizing stuff Fictitia’s on-line followers drooled over, not just tweeting about the concert itself – how many ways can you say “awesome”? – but getting behind the scenes. No one’s seen Skripasha out of costume, what she really looked like: a posting like that’d be Internet Gold.

The motel they’d gone to was in the seediest part of town, dilapidated storefronts and burned-out vehicles littering empty lots, reminding her of by-gone aristocrats slumming like zombies in old-time opium dens. She’d slipped a tiny GPS transmitter into a carton of their CDs – child’s play, really – and followed them easily.

Then she’d set the place on fire – “like, really, an accident,” she mentally protested every time the memory returned. But where the fuck did all the coppers come from, so fast?

The next day, all the newspapers and TV reporters in town touted it as one of their biggest crime raids, blaming the dangerous combination of rock ethos and repressed classical music angst, while the authorities bragged of busting a notorious ring of CD bootleggers using the motel as their ramshackle studio. What irritated the police most were the crime-scene shots perps claimed were photoshopped to look like a drug lab, gone viral all over the internet before they’d even processed Scricci’s mug-shot.

The symphony, meanwhile, had to appease irate audiences with a substitute soloist, an innocent-looking conservatory student who played exquisitely but exasperated fans who knew Scricci’s video with the Siberian Transvestite Orchestra. Legions of rock purists protested loudly, tweeting “U call that teh f-ing Sibelius Cocnerto? Bugger off up-tight tux dudes!”

Skirting around the back of the motel, Fictitia managed to evade police and make a surprising but not unexpected discovery, getting several quick snaps on her phone through the room’s torn curtains. The flames racing toward them, Skripasha’s posse hurried to salvage anything possible, drug paraphernalia scattered across several makeshift tables.

Once police arrived, everything drug-related disappeared out the back door past Fictitia, carried by a heavyset man in black. Most disappointing was the discovery Skripasha was really a man in glam-drag.

That big hulking guy, she figured, must’ve been some kind of courier, chosen more for awesome power than sheer speed. More important was getting pictures of Skripasha Scricci led away in handcuffs.

But here again was a discarded cigarette, an explosion and a big hulking guy running away from the scene.

Emerging from the rubble of the explosion, this beast-like figure had clawed its way out through the smoldering hole, glaring right at her as she snapped a pic before stepping back.

The only difference this time was the heavyset man rushing past her didn’t seem dressed in anything at all, naked except for those diaphanous harem pants missing one of the legs.

Whoa, could this be the same big guy as Scricci’s courier – srsly?

This had “WTF” written all over it.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

The noise began sharply, almost hesitantly before reaching a highpoint, then pausing as I found myself holding my breath.

“What the fuck, indeed,” I wondered, sensing my companion’s equally breath-holding trepidation, as we turned to look at each other, our eyes bugged out realizing that neither of us had a clue.

The unmistakable screech of metal on metal shredding through the oppressive silence brought me out of my verge-of-doomsday musings, whatever D’Arcy’s role in these events or if I might survive them.

It was bad enough being alone in this vast empty blackness with a man who possibly could be Rob’s killer, but now it was clear we were ourselves not totally alone. Had the agents who’d been pursuing us finally located our hiding place and if so, what were our options?

D’Arcy pointed up ahead as this metallic swoop resolved into anticipated exhalation, a crunching reverberant downbeat following its prolonged upbeat, itself followed by the distant scream of a man in great pain.

"It appears someone else has entered the shop," he whispered to me. "I just heard the security gate close."

"But the scream was on the outside," I suggested with some caution. "Though I can hear someone breathing inside."

"Could be," D’Arcy observed, "but who screamed? Someone caught in the door?"

More to the point, perhaps, was who’s now inside the shop with us, but I kept this to myself. There weren’t many possibilities to choose from and no time for consideration. Still, for each choice, I calculated there wouldn’t be many useful options beyond getting the hell out of there.

But the question was, whether it was the murderer or the agents from the IMP up ahead of us, I'm here beside a man who may be collaborating with the murderer.

I was pretty sure that wouldn't have been Cameron screaming like that, but what if he'd found our location? What if he was wandering around out there and had found LauraLynn?

It was more likely we'd heard Dhabbodhú scream but what caused that? And where was LauraLynn? Was she safe?

Then there was a slight click off in the distance behind us, a barely perceptible disruption echoing in the silence like a door pulled shut triggering the latch, then someone going “Shhh!”

“Two people,” D’Arcy said, nodding behind us, “but only one this way.”

Not to mention the guy who screamed.

Motioning to start crawling behind him, he whispered, “Hand me your phone,”

“Yours probably works better than mine, here.”

“Not the point,” he muttered, turning toward me. “I need a diversion.”

“I need my phone,” I protested, trying not to sound too defensive. “How would the murderer continue texting me?”

Reluctantly, I handed it to him since it was, after all, Cameron’s.

He tapped my number into his own phone then slid mine down the aisle back toward our latest arrivals.

Something metallic got knocked over onto the floor, a woman cursed under her breath and two people, apparently, shushed her. Turning back, D’Arcy held up his phone and, with determination, hit “send.”

“Look,” I said, barely breathing, “up ahead, can you see that shadow? Looks like a woman – maybe it’s LauraLynn!”

Just as Cameron’s phone began its familiar annoying ring-tone, everything around us was rocked by an ear-splitting, earth-shattering blast.

I never thought he’d booby-trap his phone with an anti-theft explosive app.

= = = = = = =
to be continued...

posted by Dick Strawser

The novel, The Lost Chord, is a music appreciation comedy thriller completed in 2013, and is the sole supposedly intellectual property of its author, Richard Alan Strawser.
© 2014

The Lost Chord: Chapter 12

The Lost Chord

(a classical music appreciation comedy thriller by Richard Alan Strawser: you can read it from the beginning, here.)

In the previous installment, the Chief of the IMP's Special Forces, Yoda Leahy-Hu, begins interrogating the recently captured Cameron Pierce in the only available space, the rest room of the security trailer in the Festspielhaus' back parking lot. D'Arcy and Kerr discuss their limited options, cornered in the darkened scene shop. LauraLynn recalls a recent wedding reception, the one where her Aunt Katie was killed, and realizes Rob had said something about a 'gizmo.' Meanwhile, Dr. Kerr comes to a realization of his own.

= = = = = = = 

CHAPTER 12

“Oh – my – gosh, look at this?”

Officer Ondine Martineau – ‘Onde’ to her friends – finally accessed the footage recorded by the few working security cameras on the underground parking garage’s dimly lit margins.

Other agents in the Festspielhaus’s cramped temporary Security Headquarters looked over at her workstation with varying degrees of curiosity.

“It seemed weird these files wouldn’t open until I realized no one had upgraded the software in, like, months?” Her voice invariably swooped upwards, annoyingly turning each statement into an interrogative.

“Captain Schäufel,” she asked, “would you take a look at this, sir?”

Damning their temporary congestion, he had to crab-walk down the crowded aisle between lines of cubicles and file cabinets.

“I think you’ll find this very interesting?” After fiddling with some frames, she quickly enlarged it to view full-screen.

And there it was, a well-dressed man who must have been a good six and a half feet tall or more, meeting a woman Martineau identified as Robertson Sullivan's former assistant, Heidi.

“Where is this footage taken?” Schäufel leaned in for a closer look.

“Near the lady’s room just outside Niebelheim?”

After a bit of conversation, the two grainy figures moved out of the light, headed toward a storage room.

“You’re asking me or telling me, Onde? Who’s the big dude – anyone?”

It didn’t surprise him no one responded but if anybody'd seen this guy, they’d be sure to remember him, especially if he were sitting in front of them at the movies.

“Must be lost and asking for directions,” Officer Barbara Seville suggested confidently.

“Somehow, I’m thinking that’s unlikely,” Schäufel said.

“Now... look?” Martineau added, scooting ahead, “this is where it gets interesting?” She stopped the film just in time.

After the two disappeared into the room, she fast-forwarded another several minutes.

Then a large-built figure appeared in the doorway, too deep in the shadows to be seen with any clarity, wearing a towering wig, a waistcoat and what looked like harem pants.

“I kept fast forwarding, sir? That other man never makes another appearance?” Her voice swooped lower. “Neither does Heidi?”

Something was definitely not right, Schäufel concluded, thinking what these cameras cost: for one thing, the angle was all wrong and looked like an old ‘50s television show on some cheap retro-channel. What he couldn’t see was where this creature was going from here. Enlarging the image only made it worse.

“Perhaps we should send somebody down to check on Ms. Gedankgesang, sir,” Officer Seville hinted, “see if she’s okay.”

“Hmm? Oh yeah, sure – sure,” Schäufel responded, waving her on her way.

“What’s going on, here,” Leahy-Hu barked, back from her recent men’s room interrogation, smoothing down stray wisps of hair. She peered up at the computer with pursed lips and studied indifference.

“So from there,” Schäufel suggested, “that thing can only go out onto the plaza or up into the lobby?”

“The thing is, sir?” Officer Martineau mentioned, pointing to another screen next to her computer, “you’ll notice a minute later? – well,” she added, “making allowances for the faulty time-stamp on the camera? – someone accessed Niebelheim via the parking garage entrance with an ID badge? A badge number belonging to Heidi Gedangkesang?”

IMP Special Agent Kaye Gelida Manina leaned down to Director Leahy-Hu’s ear to tell her they’ve managed to track down the GPS location for that cell phone in Dr. Kerr’s possession.

“Looking at some earlier security accesses, sir, it seems there’s been lots of activity around the scene shop this evening?” Officer Martineau dropped to a confidential tone, mentioning Heidi’d used it earlier. “And Mr. D’Arcy” – she pointed to a different read-out window – “entered through the other entrance not long before that?”

“That would explain why he missed his back-stage interview and never showed up at the major-donor reception,” Schäufel muttered, “but what the hell is he doing running around in the basement?”

“And that dratted professor’s with the tall guy, Mr. D’Arcy,” Leahy-Hu squeaked. She was immediately suspicious of anyone tall. “Those bastards! Give my agents immediate access to Niebelwattzit,” she shouted triumphantly.

She immediately got on her phone and snarled orders to Agent Manina. “And take Agents Menveaux and Leise, too!”

“Someone else accessed Niebelheim?” Martineau continued, “a key-card registered to… Robertson Sullivan!?” Her voice leaped up to its highest register.

Shouts of general confusion broke out from all the assembled security officers.

“Then that must mean,” Schäufel wisely concluded, “Robertson Sullivan’s murderer is here and Mr. D’Arcy must be in danger!”

“Is something wrong nobody can hear me from down here?” Leahy-Hu shrieked. “I want access to that scene shop!”

“Then follow me,” Schäufel said, “because that’s where we’re headed. Let’s go!”

Schäufel contacted Arabesk and LeVay who were still positioned in the lobby. They quickly moved back toward the elevators. Mobilé and the others grabbed their gear, hurrying out of the trailer.

“Captain Schäufel?” Officer Martineau piped up. “Officer LeVay's reporting the parking garage entrance is jammed? – says it won’t open?”

“Listen up, everybody,” Schäufel barked into his phone, “take the West Lobby entrance down to the scene shop, now! With any luck, we’ll catch him before he gets to Mr. D’Arcy.”

“Nothing doing, Captain Schäufel.” Leahy-Hu stepped forward. “Go ahead, take your officers after that refugee from the costume shop. But, to put it bluntly, Mr. D’Arcy and the professor are mine!”

Schäufel had to admit that chasing after maniacs in harem pants was far better than hanging out with Leahy-Hu.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

It seemed to be taking forever, yet she knew this was one of the quicker paced operas in the repertoire with sparkling humor as close as you can get to a farce. Her father always quoted that famous line some famous author said about opera being “an irrational entertainment.”

Also long.

As much as she hated admitting she liked classical music, it’s always been difficult sitting still for so long, used to TV with frequent commercial breaks or pausing a DVD whenever.

The mezzo was good – nice voice, pretty in an overdone sort of way (too flouncy for her) – the audience certainly enjoyed her, and she definitely had that elusive “star power” quality. She wanted to keep thinking “positive observations,” considering her demographic’s limited interest: she wasn’t here to review the performance.

She liked her big florid song, most of it sung lying on her back, wimping on about this would-be boyfriend. After this drunken soldier came in, the old fart got all arrogant. Anybody with half a brain should see through that ridiculous disguise, anyway. They didn’t call it “irrational” for nothing.

She told Scarpia she was going to visit the loo – he wrinkled his nose at her choice of slang – slipping out as unobtrusively as she could (why’s everybody staring at her?)

Fictitia needed two more things: a chance to post a few tweets – how could you cover an event if you couldn’t tweet during the performance? – and, o.m.g., she needed a cigarette. Sitting there in the dark without lighting up was, like, so stressful! She’d just slip outside for a break. And how could she just sit there, anyway, when she knew something’s going on that was way more interesting: like, what happened to that Cameron guy? Any more texts from DeadGuy?

The lobby was empty, now. She figured she’d slip out the back entrance, hang out on that big patio when suddenly all these security types started running out of that trailer. They ran past her hiding place, including the agents who’d arrested Cameron but he was nowhere to be seen.

Once all the guards streamed inside through the stage door, Fictitia skulked over to the trailer, where an open window let her overhear two women talking, answered by some indistinguishably hoarse voice. She peeked inside as they laughed about the young man under interrogation: not much to see, nothing of him. The trailer wasn’t that big – they couldn’t afford a double-wide? – and there were no windows at the far end, so that was probably the interrogation room where Cameron was locked up.

It wasn’t like she could run in there, pretending her phone was a weapon, tie everybody up and rescue the young man, then ride off into the sunset before anybody’d notice. That would be great if this were one of those comic books, but it was reality and that sucked.

How could she get him out of there? It’s not like it was some fortress but even with three people – well, two-and-a-half, counting the short one – she’d need some kind of diversion. She sauntered through the shadows from the edge of the trailer back to the dark and disquieting stage entrance.

“What to do! Come on, girl, think!” She inadvertently tossed her cigarette butt down a nearby drainage grate. “Damn!” She liked to think of herself as more ecologically sensitive, but hey…

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

On the one hand, with so many people around, how would anyone notice sounds coming from the basement’s heating ducts, though he wished he’d waited until after the place had emptied out. He heard people running back and forth and couldn’t figure out what the hell they were doing down here. On the other hand, with the place empty, his activities might be more easily noticed by any security system. If he’s discovered now, he could always blend into the stage crew.

Garth Widor knew there were only four bombs he needed to plant, small devices meant to be warning shots, not intended to bring down the whole building like Steele originally proposed. For some reason, it turned out to be more problematic than usual: he’d just finished setting the first one.

Strategically placed in the network of heating ducts, they would collectively blow mildly substantial holes in the walls and ceilings of two rehearsal rooms, the scene shop and the backstage lighting panel, more a nuisance variety of damage rendering them basically (if only temporarily) useless, but definitely impacting the rehearsal schedule.

He could have constructed the kind of bombs Steele had in mind, reducing the entire Festspielhaus to mere rubble, but he felt it wasn’t necessary to go to such extremes – yet.

But as usual with N. Ron Steele, it was “hurry, hurry, hurry,” kicking the whole operation up a notch with so little planning time, right after pulling off that composer’s murder. And since the festival decided to go ahead with the opera’s premiere, it appears they hadn’t gotten the message.

Wanting to do it in the midst of the memorial service the next morning with lots of collateral damage, Steele wasn’t terribly pleased he’d let Widor talk him out of it.

Was he really going soft, Widor wondered, becoming more concerned about others, unlike the ruthless operative he’d once been? It was something he should start thinking about, if Steele wasn’t already.

Should he be serious about this being his last gig for SHMRG, going out in a blaze of glory?

There was no simple pattern to the locations he needed to incapacitate but maybe he should’ve started with the most interior one first, then worked his way back toward the outside wall.

“Have I painted myself into a corner? If the first bomb blows before I’ve set the last…?” He laughed.

Stealthily, Widor started crawling through the cramped ducts toward the next location, getting everything prepped for the second installation.

“Curses – forgot to bring more duct tape! Damn absent-mindedness and old age...!”

He didn’t need another delay, running back to the truck to get more tape, but he had no choice, unless, considering the likely possibility, there’d be some in the scene shop.

Popping the grill off the heating vent, Widor saw three futuristically clad security guards, weapons drawn, scurry past him.

“Now what…?” Scrunching hastily back into hiding, he heard the slightest sound of a crack followed by a soft hiss. He froze, wondering if his golden years would be all that golden.

“What the hell…?” Looking over his shoulder, he realized he’d somehow just released the trip wire. “Oh, holy crap!”

Next he heard a faint ticking sound: the timer’s now been activated. He had one minute to get out.

Plus he really needed to quit dwelling on this “getting older” stuff.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

Robertson Sullivan joked how the Festspielhaus basement must have been built following the burrows of a bunch of inebriated badgers, hallways in all directions making turns without reference to any perceivable logic. In the middle was this illogical fortress commonly referred to as “Niebelheim” after the subterranean workroom in Wagner’s Rheingold. This area, among further hallways, housed two scene shops, set storage space and various costume shops and storage rooms, older, less timely material relegated to smaller rooms outside the area's perimeter.

Completely self-contained, it was separated from various practice rooms and rehearsal spaces by broad corridors and thick sound-proofed walls except for access to several elevators connecting directly with the theater’s backstage, a connection LauraLynn was desperately searching for until discovering she hadn't dropped Rob’s key-card in the darkness after all.

The once well-dressed Dr. Girdlestone also soon discovered the physical limitations of this inhospitable underworld, darkness aside, without suitable identification, with doors he could no longer open and exits he couldn’t find, wishing he’d jammed the entrance with something more easily sacrificed than the badge ripped off Heidi Gedankgesang’s lifeless body.

Slamming into another corner after once again losing his elusive prey, he made intimate contact with a hot pipe, hearing an ominous hiss that could be steam or perhaps searing flesh.

Not far away, while Girdlestone dealt with the potential for impending pain, LauraLynn managed to locate a security gate that somehow hadn't completely closed, just large enough for her to squeeze through. Sliding the key-card through as carefully as possible, she prayed it would close behind her rather than open wider.

The monster grabbed for her, hoping to pull her back, but the door slid shut barely missing his arm. She broke away just as the door closed on his pants leg.

Then she felt a powerful explosion pound its fists into the wall behind her, knocking her to the floor.

This monster, so desperate to kill her, had been carrying a bomb?

What was it he was really after? She found no reasonable explanation.

Like a falling sandbag, it hit her.

= = = = = = =
to be continued...

posted by Dick Strawser

The novel, The Lost Chord, is a music appreciation comedy thriller completed in 2013, and is the sole supposedly intellectual property of its author, Richard Alan Strawser.
© 2014

The Lost Chord: Chapter 11

The Lost Chord

(a classical music appreciation comedy thriller by Richard Alan Strawser: you can read it from the beginning, here.)

In the previous installment, Lionel Roth checks out his room at the old Schweinwald Castle and confronts past memories, especially the time he met Dhabbodhú. LauraLynn, meanwhile, confronts something else entirely in the basement of the Schweinwald Festspielhaus as Fictitia attends the opera with Scarpia and begins texting with a fan. D'Arcy and Kerr find what they hope is refuge in the Festspielhaus scene shop and make an interesting discovery, an inscription on the Mozart 'gizmo' that reads "From the heart, may it go to the heart."

= = = = = = =

CHAPTER 11

Escorted by two new uniformed agents in their futuristic military gear – the others resuming the chase – Cameron marched silently along, given a wide berth by what wide-eyed passers-by the little entourage encountered. His stomach growled in indignant protest over his now confiscated butterscotch crumpet, so close but yet indeed so far. Undoubtedly, he was being regarded as a dangerous terrorist finally in custody. Excessive treatment, he thought, for stopping at a vending machine: was it enough to gain Dr. Kerr some time?

They trooped down long, seemingly aimless corridors and through panels of doorways, turning around corners leading to more corridors and panels of doorways like they somehow knew where they were going, none of this looking even vaguely familiar considering the route he and Dr. Kerr had dashed through minutes before.

Eventually, they reached a bank of elevators and waited several minutes before it opened onto the edge of the lobby, not far from that ancient door with the Ricercar clue on it. There was a sharp gasp as many of those streaming toward the staircase stepped back, making room for them.

Down another hallway, through more banks of doorways and around similar corners, Cameron shortly found himself being pushed outside, met by more plainly dressed security guards and the ominous-looking Yoda Leahy-Hu.

With equal ominousness, Director Leahy-Hu dismissed her agents with a curt nod and, turning with precision, they disappeared inside. Captain Schäufel took Cameron roughly by the arm and marched him forward. Some minutes later, they reached a trailer on the edge of the back parking lot, Festspielhaus Security’s temporary headquarters.

Leahy-Hu was disturbed by the cramped quarters compounded by the presence of several IMP agents assisting on the case. Worse, having no space available for interrogations left only the single restroom.

With little ceremony, she pointed the way, then, nodding, followed him in, courteously inviting her prisoner to sit down. With even less ceremony, Cameron lowered the toilet seat and sat down. Even without the presence of seat belts, he was pretty confident this was going to be a bumpy ride.

After ascertaining his full name and why, basically, he was in Germany, Director Leahy-Hu took a breath before beginning. Giving Cameron a moment to gather his thoughts and steel his courage, she leaned so close he noticed how her hastily applied lipstick bled into the cracks and wrinkles around her lips.

“Why, exactly,” she wanted to know, “did you bolt from the former director’s office, despite being told to stop?” Her voice was eerie as it creaked, an old man’s smoke-ravaged voice.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I was scared, kind of.”

“Kind of?” She cocked her head inquisitively.

Cameron shrugged his shoulders unconvincingly.

Just then, someone tried the restroom door.

“I’m holding an interrogation, here,” she announced.

“Yes, sir,” the voice said, “whatever you want to call it, sir.”

She carefully lit a cigarette. “Please, hand me your phone, Mr. Pierce.”

Cameron, looking at the floor, shook his head.

“Is there a reason, Mr. Pierce, you’re unable to follow direct orders?”

Leahy-Hu leaned in a little closer, leaving Cameron nowhere to back up. Again, he looked down, shaking his head.

Cameron winced. Her breath was really sour, turning his stomach.

“I’d loaned it to Dr. Kerr – he has it.”

“Ah, then in that case, could you give me your phone number?”

Cameron tried sitting back in resolute defiance but it was impossible to appear dignified while sitting on a public toilet: the best he could do was to scowl and look mildly petulant. Being a college student it was something that came natural to him, hoping it might buy him some time.

Leahy-Hu, however, wasn’t rising to the bait, staring at him, occasionally tucking back a stray wisp of gray hair. She waited patiently then, nodding deferentially, excused herself and left the room.

Now, it seemed, he had plenty of time but no real ideas. Since there was no plan, he knew nothing about what was going on, at least in any real sense. Would what little he did know jeopardize whatever Dr. Kerr was doing, now apparently up against Dr. Sullivan’s killer?

He weighed the pros and cons but nothing clear managed to present itself, no spontaneous solution, no great clarifying epiphany when suddenly he heard soft music, quietly, almost stealthily pervading the room. It took only three seconds before he was able to recognize it once they’d managed to adjust the volume.

“The cads,” he sighed. “It’s Pachelbel’s Canon…” Things were looking very bleak. “They probably set it on continuous play.”

He wondered if the mirror over the sink was really one-way glass.

Cameron sat there, brooding, wondering how long before they broke him down. Could he continue playing their dastardly game? The longer he lasted, the more time Dr. Kerr had to escape.

Time passed and he lost count how many repetitions he had endured.

Finally, he gave in when Leahy-Hu returned.

Cameron gave her his cell-phone number, knowing Dr. Kerr would be unlikely to answer it when they called him.

“Thank you,” she said, tucking another strand of hair behind her ear.

With that, she smiled then turned once again to leave the room, calling back to him, “Wait here, please.”

Where’d he go in a room without windows, only a ventilation grate?

“I'm hardly that desperate I’d flush myself down the toilet.”

Then, remembering that smile, he added, “or am I?”

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

“What’s that have to do with Mozart,” I asked, breath still gasping, thinking “what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” I ran my fingers around the medallion delicately painted onto Mozart’s breast-pocket. From the Heart, May It Go to the Heart, however, was the dedication Beethoven inscribed on his Missa solemnis.

“This is no time to go all musicological on me,” D’Arcy advised, whispering as if someone nearby could hear. “If this is what I think it is, there are clues that…”

He was about to continue when we heard someone try the door. He turned the light off and waited, then he picked up the artifact and headed deeper into the gloom.

“Clues to what,” I asked, still trying to keep up with him.

“That’s what I’m hoping you might know.”

“Wait, you’ve seen this before?” I had bumped into a workbench and stopped a moment to rub my aching hip.

“No, let’s say I’ve heard about it – I’ve never actually seen it.”

There wasn’t time to think much about anything, as he moved off to the left, leading me after him. God forbid anything should happen to him and I needed to find my way out of here by myself. After making so many turns, we were like rats in a maze.

If we were looking for a safe place to hide and regroup, this one seemed as good as any, and I could go for a chance to rest up a bit. It was difficult to get my bearings, but I assumed this was the middle of a large, crowded space.

“It’s called Niebelheim, a sound-proofed area around the scene shop,” D’Arcy said. “We’re headed toward the set storage area.”

Large flats loomed over us on either side, creating numerous hidden passageways.

“Many of these, I think, are being built for the new opera. Seems appropriate we should find ourselves here.” Handing me the artifact, D’Arcy suggested I put it in the tote-bag.

I went from being a rat in a maze to Peer Gynt trying to evade the mountain king’s trolls.

“So,” I said, carefully placing the Maltese Mozart back in my tote-bag, “do you have any particular plan in mind?”

“We’re going to go ahead with what he’d already completed,” D’Arcy began.

“That’s fine,” I interrupted him, “but I was thinking something more short term, like getting out of here alive?”

“Oh, that, right… Well, uhm…” He looked around and shook his head. “No, not really,” he eventually concluded. “You?”

“I just got here and that was basically to attend the festival.”

Then it occurred to me: wait, he doesn’t know, yet, does he, about the CD with the final score? I’d asked the police to keep it out of their final report.

He’d only know the computer was destroyed – the score, presumably, with it.

Just then, something else occurred to me.

It seemed very logical to me Rob would’ve made a copy of his sketches even before he finished the orchestration, so I suggested we tell people we’re looking for this back-up CD.

“It’d certainly draw out whoever’s trying to stop the premiere,” I said. “We’ll announce it tomorrow at the memorial.”

“But you don’t know for sure if there is a back-up disc?”

“No,” I lied, “I’m only assuming that.”

“Could the artifact lead us to where he’s hidden a back-up disc…?”

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

Mercifully, the music stopped abruptly and Cameron was left alone for what felt like several minutes, possibly longer, probably less. Unlike many people facing long periods of enforced silence, Cameron enjoyed them. He thought about where Dr. Kerr was, how far he’d gotten once those agents were no longer following him.

He worried about the safety of his phone. “It was expensive, too. I hope he doesn't accidentally damage it.”

How much longer would the others wait without access to their bathroom?

Eventually, Leahy-Hu returned, officiously thumbing her way through a rather lean file, looking up at him briefly with an awkwardly wistful smile before dealing with another strand of hair gone awry, an expression she had assumed might be found comforting but which Cameron took as just the opposite.

“(Soooo creepy.)”

She asked about his being present when Robertson Sullivan’s body was discovered and why they found this “BandanaMan” so interesting.

He shrugged his shoulders and said “I was there. I’ve no idea.”

“Fine,” she said, carefully setting the file down on the edge of the sink, “have it your way, then.”

It was difficult but she found room to pace back and forth.

“You were seen talking to a young woman dressed in Gothic fashion. We’ll verify that, check your Facebook page...”

When Cameron failed to respond, she stopped right in front of him, squinting at him with a malevolent expression.

“Hah,” he thought, “even sitting down I’m still taller than she is…”

She leaned in closer and hissed, “we have ways of making you talk, you know!” Her eyes glared balefully.

When Cameron tried not to wince, she chuckled and sauntered away from him. “I’ve always wanted to say that…”

She said they knew there’s more behind Dr. Kerr’s being in Germany.

“So, what was it he found in Sullivan’s office? What was in the tote-bag when you fled the room?”

There was a knock at the door, probably one of her agents.

“That phone number, boss? Got a signal…”

“Excellent, thank you,” she said, facing Cameron with a slightly triumphant smile.

“Crap!”

Leahy-Hu stopped and winced, looking at Cameron. “Excuse me, Mr. Pierce?”

“I mean, I have to use the bathroom – would you mind?” He pretended he was only trying to be polite.

It annoyed him how they’d used his phone to locate Dr. Kerr. He’d forgotten all about the GPS function.

“Certainly,” Leahy-Hu responded with equal politeness, turning to leave. “I'll wait outside. Let me know when the paperwork's done.” Suddenly, a whole nimbus of stray wisps of hair required her attention.

If nothing else, he needed time to think or, barring any ideas even remotely useful, at least to stall. Speaking of stall, it would’ve been nice to have a little privacy. He cautiously pulled his pants down and tried not to think about anyone possibly watching him through the mirror.

But what was there to be thinking about, what plans could he come up with, even if he could escape? He was unaware of any strategy Dr. Kerr may have already devised. Unfortunately, he found himself lacking the raw materials to patch anything together, like man creating art from almost nothing. Hungry for not having eaten since that brief stop on the train, especially having his snack-cake rudely taken away, he sat there feeling woefully, inadequately uncreative, coming up – not surprisingly – empty.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

In the darkness, D’Arcy checked his phone the way people used to check their watches – furtively, to “see the time,” whatever that meant – then announced they’d be well into the first act. We sighed, both knowing what we’re missing, but I noticed he lingered over something – checking a message? – sighing again.

“Why do you think the Director of the IMPs would have showed up while we were in Rob’s office?” His question sounded more rhetorical than actual: nothing that I’d know, anyway.

He explained they were casually referred to as “IMPs” – like Navy SEALs – at least privately: it drove them wild.

“It was like she knew someone was there, that we’d uncovered something.”

“And we still have no idea what it is we have uncovered,” he said, “but it must be important.”

“Not that we’ve had time – or enough light – to figure that out,” I added, wondering what lurked in the shadows. “Not that more time or light would be a guarantee, mind you...”

All I’d come up with was more questions, starting with “Why me?” Somebody thinks I know an awful lot.

“So far, the killer expects me to help him find a fountain and I’m holding a statue of Mozart – at least, we assume it’s Mozart, since he’s obviously lost his head…”

“And a heavy little statue, for one made of porcelain,” D’Arcy added. “Did somebody clobber someone, breaking the head off?”

“Didn’t look like it was broken,” I said, getting it out again.

D’Arcy groped around to find a lamp. “We need more light than this – maybe there’s a flashlight around here.”

“This ‘artifact,’ as we’ve been calling it, must be significant to someone or else Rob wouldn’t have hidden it. But is it something both Franz-Dieter and Rob would’ve been killed for?”

“Are we even sure it’s Mozart, if that would make any difference?” D’Arcy sounded skeptical. “Couldn’t it be Beethoven?”

“But remember,” I added, “Rob hid it right behind the Mozart bust.”

“You have to wonder,” D’Arcy pointed out, “if the killer knows what it is – perhaps Leahy-Hu does, as well?”

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

The conference room was brightly lit that morning as he’d walked in, facing thirteen reporters and a rack of microphones, as intimidating as the first time he’d done this the month before. It’s not the sort of thing that would ever get any easier, publicly announcing the death of a colleague. Taking a deep breath, he looked around the room, scanning the faces, most of whom appeared passive and unconcerned, covering a story but curious about two sudden deaths (“rotten luck, that...”). He knew they already had the basics but it was his responsibility to give them the official version, the details. They just needed something they can quote under an eye-grabbing headline. “Director of Schweinwald Festival Found Murdered. Second to die in two months.” There wasn’t much more to tell them.

“I’m Virgil D’Arcy,” he began, “once again acting director here at Schweinwald, and” – slight pause – “sadly I come before you…” – (“wait,” he thought, “that didn’t sound right – would 'stand,' maybe, be better?”) – “to announce Robertson Sullivan, recently appointed successor to Franz-Dieter Zeitgeist who died just a month ago, has himself died.” He paused for the expected communal gasp but there was no sound, no pen moved to jot this down. (“No, of course, they already know this: just get on with it.”)

He continued, giving them what few details he knew which was not everything, mentioning that with an on-going investigation, the American police were understandably reluctant to reveal certain bits of information but, yes, he was murdered and Schweinwald would proceed with the festival and the premiere of his new opera. They didn’t know exactly if he’d completed the opera as he planned, at least nothing has yet been discovered, but they’re going ahead with what they have, even without the ending.

“It’s too early to tell if there’s enough to go on for someone else to complete it in time. Besides, early rehearsals are already underway, the sets and costumes nearly ready. Next month, then, Faustus, Inc. will join Moses und Aron, Turandot, and Lulu as operas premiered as incomplete works.”

D’Arcy avoided terms the general media wouldn’t understand – like sitzprobe, rehearsals where singers learn their parts with a vocal coach – but he also wanted to avoid referring to Faustus as a ‘torso,’ given the rumors he’d heard about the ghastly disfigurement of Sullivan’s body, one detail the police hadn’t officially released. More newspapers, here, than the usual arts periodicals attending Schweinwald’s press conferences. Many of these reporters, he realized, were not interested in artistic details or their closed-circle erudition and froo-froo terminology.

His sole purpose, D’Arcy knew, was to present a united, positive, forward-looking front that would tell the arts world Schweinwald would weather this crisis also and, regardless, the festival would continue. This was all business, a strong corporation putting forth its best face, unconcerned with grieving a friend and colleague. Standing there flanked by board members and other staff, D’Arcy was aware the death of a mere composer, an American, even if he’s the Festival’s director, was small beans for the press: a brutal murder, the second Schweinwald director to die in a month – now that, certainly, was the real news.

When an American journalist asked if anyone they knew wanted to stop the production of Sullivan’s apparently controversial opera, Board President Barry Scarpia, leaning forward, nudged D’Arcy aside and said, “No.”

Sitting there in the still and chilling darkness, I carefully listened to my guide through the underworld of Schweinwald’s Festspielhaus describe his impassively announcing to the world the death of my friend. I’d skipped the one the police gave the day after the murder, everything still too fresh in my mind. But I couldn’t help thinking about comments Rob had made, especially concerning the politics he was dealing with, here. D’Arcy was suspicious of Leahy-Hu – but could I, in fact, trust him?

It had been my idea, initially, having discussed it carefully with LauraLynn, to ask the police not to reveal there’d been a disc containing the opera’s finished score which was stolen. Let the murderer – or murderers – think they’d pulled one over on us. It might come in handy, later on.

I’d considered letting D’Arcy know but chose not to, since he’d planned on going ahead with the opera, even incomplete. And besides, phones could be bugged and e-mails just as easily monitored. I was planning on telling him in person, now that I’m here, but just haven’t had the opportunity, yet. Whoever said they knew the opera had been finished would only have gotten that information through the murderer, right? But could they be sure there wasn’t another back-up disc around somewhere?

I went to say something but wondered, “What do I call him?” ‘Mr. D’Arcy’ sounded too formal, ‘V.C.’ strange, and using ‘Virgil’ only highlighted the uncomfortable reference to Dante’s underworld guide. Seeing my hesitation, he said, “Just call me ‘D’Arcy’ – everybody else does,” reaching out hospitably to shake my hand.

“Thanks, D’Arcy,” I said, “but is there anybody you’d know on the board or in the administration who’d want to become the next Director who didn’t want the opera premiered here?”

D’Arcy knew he wasn’t likely to get the job, but who’d want to have Rob killed to get it? And who at this point would be moving to cancel the opera? It was widely publicized (especially now) and tickets were selling very well. It was too late to cancel it.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

The old homestead Richard Shaw's family built on the outskirts of Palenville was at its brilliant best for the wedding, resplendently decorated, blending the colors and textures of autumn inside and out. Aunt Katie – the elder daughter of Cuthbert Harty and Uncle Rick's widow – worked her usual magic with the place. Her granddaughter Geraldine’s wedding became an excuse for her to throw, as she put it, one last family reunion for the Shaws, the Sullivans and the Hartys like the old days.

Katie’s son Bernard never looked happier or his wife Pashmina more exotic. LauraLynn’s mother Lucille, escorted by her brother, Lyndon Lewes, the groom’s father, reminisced with Cousin Ethel, Fred Clarke’s widow, recalling the comedy routines they entertained the family with back in the good old days as Lewes & Clarke.

Martin Lewes, the groom, despite being dean of students at Wembley College, was nervous meeting all his fiancé’s wealthy relatives. Still, Dean Martin and Gerrie Lewes would obviously make a fine couple. LauraLynn almost forget her anxiety when she and Rob had gotten themselves lost after they'd taken the Saugerties exit.

Then, glass flying everywhere, this big guy dressed in black crashed the reception, Rob shouting something about some “gizmo” and before she knew it, out of nowhere, Aunt Katie was dying.

Was that the same guy who’s chasing her through the basement of an opera house half-way around the world? Could this be the same guy who murdered her cousin Rob Sullivan? All these thoughts came crashing into her mind as she tried to find someplace to hide, to protect herself.

What if this “gizmo” he was talking about is Harrison Harty’s Journal which Rob had and she’s now holding? What’s so important about it that someone would kill people for it?

“Is that what he meant?” she wondered, almost aloud. “What secrets does it hold that it’s written in code? Is musicology so cut-throat, scholars commit murder to obtain some pointless manuscript?”

He’s desperate, maybe, but wasn’t this carrying the “publish-or-perish” thing too far?

And what’s he got against her family?

She heard running footsteps behind her but everything sounded so echoey, LauraLynn couldn’t tell how far away he really was. She had to get out of here before he killed her, too. Almost slamming into a wall, she was sure she’d been here before, running around in circles.

“Where’s the exit?!”

Carrying her purse was becoming a nuisance but she couldn’t afford to lose the old journal or her phone. Worried it’ll alert the monster to her location, she retrieved the phone.

Finding the phone number Terry Kerr had been calling from – wasn’t he using D'Arcy's phone? – she hurriedly hit re-dial. The call couldn’t go through: “not available or in a dead zone.”

“What kind of a cheap phone does he have, anyway?” she wondered. “This is no time for technical difficulties!”

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

D'Arcy's phone made an annoying beep and he quickly tried stifling it: that meant he was in a dead zone. He noticed two dropped calls but no indication whom they were from.

Then it dawned on me: if LauraLynn was surprised I was here, who'd made the arrangements for my trip?

D’Arcy hadn’t said anything about it when we arrived at the hotel. Then I started receiving those mysterious texts.

Could that mean D’Arcy might be working with the killer? Unless, maybe…?

= = = = = = =
to be continued...

posted by Dick Strawser

The novel, The Lost Chord, is a music appreciation comedy thriller completed in 2013, and is the sole supposedly intellectual property of its author, Richard Alan Strawser.
© 2014

The Lost Chord: Chapter 10

The Lost Chord

(a classical music appreciation comedy thriller by Richard Alan Strawser: you can read it from the beginning, here.)

In the previous installment, Dr. Kerr, Cameron & V.C. D'Arcy are being pursued by three IMP Special Forces agents: Cameron gets separated and is detained. LauraLynn runs into someone wearing a very strange costume who turns out to be the musicologist, Rothbart Girdlestone, and has a very bad feeling about this. In the lobby, Fictitia LaMouche is about to be expelled by security when she meets Barry Scarpia.
= = = = = = =

Chapter 10

The room was definitely large – spacious, even – just like he’d been told but it was dark and chilly, especially damp, considering the afternoon’s rain, and the electric light barely penetrated the gloom. The bed was huge and quite comfortable, the furnishings old-fashioned and picturesque, but everything else was distinctly, depressingly medieval. Narrow lancet windows, slits in the stone wall close to the ceiling, left in little of the waning sunlight. Lionel wondered if it was safe building a fire in the fireplace.

That fireplace, walking back and forth in front of it, was almost as big as his room at Benninghurst, and should warm the place up nicely, getting rid of the chill. He found nothing to build a fire, only a pile of old dry logs without any matches or kindling.

There was one real window, heavily curtained, with old-fashioned beveled glass panes which looked out toward the darkly sprawling woods. Lost in shadows, the old cemetery across the road was already fog-bound. If he listened carefully, he was sure he’d hear a wolf howl. No doubt there were bats around, too.

What stories would these stones tell him, he wondered, and if they talked, would he want to hear them? He carefully pulled the heavy curtains closed, hiding himself from the world.

Lionel Roth, feeling smaller than usual, like a doll being kept in a dollhouse too large for its size, paced around the room that, for the time being, was his home. The grand piano was certainly grand enough but unfortunately out of tune; the desk was very large, dwarfing him.

He checked if perhaps some matches had been stored in a drawer.

“That’s okay,” he thought. “I’d probably only burn the place down.” Or at least the stuff that wasn’t stone.

Was it wise, he considered, following Dr. Dhabbodhú’s advice to come here? Between his fear of planes and his agoraphobia, was it necessary distancing himself quite so far from Sullivan’s murder?

Funny, seeing Sullivan’s friend – Dr. Kerr, wasn't it? – on the Munich train. He certainly seemed nice enough, he thought.

What was it Dhabbodhú advised, recommending he stay in this place, not just sit locked away in his apartment? What he wanted was something that would help him procrastinate, postponing reality. He could work on a new composition though he hadn’t finished the last one (he rarely ever finished one, anymore). Not that it mattered: no one was ever interested in playing them, and now he’d largely given up trying. What was the point of composing more pieces if nobody performed them?

His stint at Benninghurst had been an intense and unmitigated writer’s block, two weeks of sheer agony and depression. Wouldn’t it have been better, staying home in New York, watching TV? And then, after all those anxieties, everything culminating in that gruesome murder. Poor Robertson Sullivan – he rather liked him.

He’d been given the boot at the store two years ago, now, convinced someone had wrongly accused him of stealing, but why had he never managed to establish himself as a composer? He kept going over and over the same tired obsessions, whether he had no luck or, instead, no talent.

Oh, he was aware that someone out there was against him, fighting him everywhere he turned, holding him down. But what if his unknown enemy really was, he gasped, Robertson Sullivan?

Lionel threw himself down on the bed in amazement – an astounding discovery: what if that’s what Dr. Dhabbodhú really meant, telling him he could never name names because that wasn’t really professional? He had stressed it was Lionel’s responsibility to make his own discoveries and, ultimately doing so, thereby heal himself. He was only inferior as a composer – as a person – if he allowed others to make him feel inferior. That was a challenge, considering he did such a good job himself.

So, if Robertson Sullivan was his secret enemy and he was dead, maybe there’s nothing left to worry about and Lionel would soon be on his way, getting his big break? That was almost enough to make him jump up and run to the piano to start composing right away!

Of course, there was always that image of his friend Billy Bupkis who, when they were in 7th Grade and Lionel already started composing, kept bugging him about doing something more constructive.

“Like what,” Lionel asked him.

“Like anything,” Billy said. “That’s just stupid.”

He suggested Lionel should collect baseball cards.

Naturally, Billy thought that would be “constructive”: he loved baseball, wanting nothing more than to play in professional sports, but he'd never even make it on to the high school team.

Whatever happened to that guy, Lionel wondered, thinking back to past reunions: his grades weren’t good enough to make it into college and there'd be no sports scholarships coming his way. He’d worked at a fast food joint for ten years, then went to a trade school for a while. He’s been working on home construction crews and makes more money now than any teacher or artist Lionel knew. “Can’t get more constructive than that,” Billy laughed, slapping Lionel’s aching shoulder.

They were both middle-aged and neither really succeeded at fulfilling their dreams. Of course, Billy was happily married, had two kids, coached the local little league team and made more money.

Lionel never married, had neither family nor career, no amateur standing in the local music scene: who’d notice him?

Lionel had the greatest respect for Dr. Dhabbodhú, a man who treated him professionally and personally like a worthwhile individual. “If anybody’d take notice of me – more therapist than agent,” Lionel thought, sitting back on the bed with a sigh that echoed softly through his room – or was it the wind? It had been a great stroke of luck, then, meeting Dr. D., right at the moment that should have been his big break which quickly turned itself into a huge disaster. He’d spent a small fortune renting the recital hall at Carnegie Hall, especially placing that ad in the Times, and then hiring professional musicians (including three rehearsals) to play his music. Lionel even sent invitations out to critics, agents and publishers all over town, hoping to gain some professional attention.

“But in the end, he was the only one who noticed,” Lionel recalled, “and he hadn’t even attended my recital.” His smile filled with gratitude, reliving how Dhabbodhú talked to him afterward. Only a handful of people showed up, most of them Juilliard students, several who’d left after the first piece. Even two of his friends had left before intermission after he finished playing his “Twenty-four Preludes on a Spiritual.” By the time the string quartet started, the hall was totally empty.

It happened in the men’s room afterward, Lionel hurling his lunch in one of the stalls, trying to figure out how he could drown himself in a toilet (death by “super-swirly”). Dhabbodhú was there to buy tickets for tomorrow evening’s recital – with Robertson Sullivan, ironically – when he felt the urge. If Dhabbodhú’s bladder hadn’t sent him that emergency signal, it’s possible Lionel Roth’s life might have ended that afternoon. All Lionel did was ask him to hold down the flush lever.

Every time he remembered this, he had to take deep breaths to keep himself calm – Dr. D’s first advice. It could’ve been his greatest disappointment if not for the porcelain lining. Instead of talking him down off the ledge like a normal suicide, Dhabbodhú talked him up from the commode.

They talked for fifteen minutes before Dhabbodhú suggested getting some Chinese take-out, then taking a brisk walk to his brownstone, just off Broadway on W.68th Street not that far from Lincoln Center. (Actually, it was made of gray, not brown, stone so technically Lionel thought it was more of a flintstone.) And then, over plates of orange beef and Buddha’s Delight, they talked some more, continuing long into the night. It wasn’t that they talked so much about “shop” – more about life.

A small world that Dhabbodhú was also a composer (a friend of his had once studied with Sullivan, too). He turned out to be an ideal friend for Lionel – understanding, kind. Now Dhabbodhú brought him along to Schweinwald, "just what the doctor ordered." Lionel knew he must not fail him.

Trying desperately not to hyperventilate, Lionel forced himself to think pleasant thoughts, imagining himself walking through some pleasant mountain pastures, listening to the birds sing and water bubbling by in little streams.

“Imagine me in Sullivan’s shoes at his premiere,” he thought, “how that could be me, except I’m still alive.”

One of many things to think about – there were lots of things he needed to take time and consider.

But he had to admit, regardless, this room gave him the creeps.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

Running deeper into the Festspielhaus basement didn’t make a lot of sense, but there weren’t a lot of options. Being chased by an odd-smelling hulk in a Marie Antoinette wig with harem pants didn’t make a lot of sense, either, but you rarely had a choice in picking your worst nightmares. LauraLynn had no idea where she was going, only hoping this beast was less familiar with the building’s layout, but regardless she was determined to get there as fast as possible.

She recalled seeing diagrams in Rob’s office how the Festspielhaus’s basement was divided into several areas like clustered units such as rehearsal rooms, scene shops or sets and costume storage areas, all of these just off the central underground parking garage which expanded under the new wing with comparable spaces.

The whole area was virtually black: if there were light switches down here, she had no idea where they’d be. On the other hand, maybe she’d be better off in the dark. While he might not see her, she could at least smell him. And she knew he was getting closer.

What was that smell? Like Proust’s madeleine, it brought back recollections of Grandmother’s house, childhood days spent playing upstairs. That’s it – that’s how she recognized the smell: in the closets.

Mothballs!

Turning another corner hoping to distance herself from that smell as much as from this unshakable monster who smelled, she wondered how he continued to track her in the impenetrable darkness. Did he possess incredible night vision or a predator’s keen olfactory sense, like some odious (if odorous) jungle beast?

She was getting used to the dark but this failed to keep her from occasionally slapping into a wall, her Louis Vuitton heels, such stylish-looking shoes, clattering over the concrete floor. Anxiety-induced perspiration was rapidly undermining the delicate scent of her favorite perfume, Cannabis Rose, a mixture of Bulgarian roses, bergamot and patchouli with subtle undertones of oolong tea and dark chocolate. Unfortunately, now, she realized she’d have to forgo attending the opera tonight, considering she must smell like a goat.

“I’m out of disguises,” the monster realized, chasing her through the darkness. “How do I get out of this mess?”

There’d been several in addition to his favorite, the agent Iobba Dhabbodhú. Girdlestone was only a tux and a wig since she had already seen Dhabbodhú and would recognize him easily. He hadn’t invested much in the bum though he’d become rather fond of the little old lady, Claire Güllendorf. A pity he had to dump their disguises and leave them behind. Peeling off one disguise after another – the tux under Claire’s gown under the bum’s bulky sweat-suit – what’s after this? He’d be down to his boxers and it’s a long walk home. Bad enough he had to throw away Old Claire’s gown and wig, he’d forgotten his keys in Girdlestone’s pants.

And what’s even more maddening was, LauraLynn’s proven very adept at evading him, when this should have been a cakewalk. Perhaps she has better night vision than he has, like a cat’s. It didn’t seem to matter which way he went, left or right, she always ran in the opposite direction.

“Wait a minute! That’s how she’s doing it,” he thought. “D’oh!” Stopping short, he realized he reeked of mothballs.

Very carefully, he stripped off the waistcoat and set the wig aside.

“The pants have to stay,” he reluctantly decided, “even in the dark.”

Undoubtedly, he was now totally shocking – awesome, even. Padding stealthily forward, he could easily follow the sound of her footsteps. The hallways were long but not wide and up ahead was a dim emergency light faintly illuminating a door. The shadow of a desperate woman, her beautifully coiffed blonde hair beginning to come undone, passed across the light.

Trying the door, she discovered it was locked. She turned and waited.

LauraLynn glanced furtively first left, then right, sniffing the air like a frightened deer unable to find her bearings. The idea of being hunted like those beautiful, delicate animals sickened her. There must be some way out of here, she pondered, peering as far into the murk as she could.

“Take a deep breath, dear,” the voice said, civilized but with a malevolent edge, coming from out of the shadows.

She froze, her eyes peering toward the unexpected sound. She smelled nothing.

“Perhaps you are pretending to see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil – like your cousin, hmm?”

Wait, she considered for a split second: he knows about Rob’s murder? How could he possibly know about that – those details weren’t in the papers – he must’ve been… there. Which means…?

“Something else I need to know and I might let you live: I know you're very close to your cousin. Wouldn't he tell you about the location of this Fountain of Inspiration? Not only do I want that journal, I need that and that gizmo he talked about – remember the gizmo?”

“What was this man talking about,” she wondered. Was he that big guy who'd broken into the wedding reception? “Is he the man who fired the shot ultimately killing Aunt Katie?”

It had been such a happy afternoon when Katie’s granddaughter got married, the room full of family and friends. What was it Rob had yelled at him – something about a gizmo?

If this monstrous musicologist allegedly killed both Aunt Katie and Cousin Rob, wouldn’t he now kill her?

“But why?”

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

Fictitia cautiously took the hand Scarpia held out to her and followed him up the great staircase to the mezzanine where ushers raised their eyebrows as they tried to stop them entering. After being pushed aside, did they think, “How nice, he’s trying to introduce his rebellious teen-aged daughter to opera”? Taking their seats in the Board President’s Box, just left of center, Fictitia was assuming those who knew him were more likely thinking, “Now look what the old cat’s dragged in.”

Hearing no singers, she noticed the conductor, some old dude on life-support. The audience leaned forward, paying close attention. Were they also wondering if this guy’d make it through the performance? She thought she heard a woman yelling – backstage? – but she wasn’t sure. Considering singers’ feuds, this could get interesting.

So far the curtain hadn't gone up, too boring for her taste. “There’s a problem, here,” she realized, skimming through the plot synopsis: “nobody dies! What kind of an opera is this!” Not that she cared for all that stupid emo stuff but really, like, not one lousy character gets offed?

Fictitia squirmed in her seat, which was the wrong thing to do: Scarpia quietly took her hand in his. Great, she thought, already grossed out, and they haven’t even started singing.

She recalled he’d said, promenading up the stairs, opera was like ice-cream, that you didn’t need to learn how to like it, you knew it the first time you tried it. Then he added, with that annoying leer of his, “kind of like sex, too, now that you mention it.”

“Not that I’d mentioned it, fucktard” but she kept her mouth shut, not that she ever liked ice-cream, either. Thinking of sex with him, she definitely considered heaving over the rail.

Now the singing dragged on – lots of guys lurking in the shadows – she wondered what he’d do if she suddenly tore her t-shirt off, exposing her boobs and yelled “Help! Rape!” Sitting back, she was glad she couldn’t read his feeble mind because that’s probably exactly what he was thinking.

Once the mezzo started singing – not bad; too perky for her taste – she pulled out her cell and checked Facebook. Over a thousand likes and comments plus dozens of new friend requests. She hadn’t posted any reports on Twitter since she ran into Scarpia and needed to get things caught up. She tapped in posts about being nearly expelled by the security guard, then getting escorted into the opera instead. She asked “anyone catch the TV pre-show? heard it was a train-wreck.”

The Director’s Box was practically empty, except for a few local dignitaries, and Scarpia had been irritated neither “Dead Beat” D’Arcy nor the dead guy’s cousin had bothered to show up. She snapped a pic of the box as some big-wig and his bejeweled wife saw her and sneered. Perfect!

Responding to various coughs and knowing nods from the next box, Scarpia leaned over, putting his hand around her cell.

“We don’t do that during a performance,” he smiled at her patronizingly.

“No,” she whispered back, “I didn't think you would,” then yanked her phone away from him and continued tweeting.

She realized there were no mosh pits in concert halls, but wouldn’t the orchestra pit here work really well? Snap! Post. The pic of the old codgers already had 150 re-tweets.

Scarpia was getting annoyed. Here he was, Schweinwald’s board president with some punk kid old enough to be his granddaughter – that was totally cool – but she wouldn’t put the damn cell-phone away. Now she was asking him what he knew about this mysterious BandanaMan. He’d seen her tweets – what’s the point?

“Maybe we could talk about that after the opera?” he asked her. “We could have some ice-cream.” (Or sex.) When she grimaced, he thought, “okay, fine, we can skip the ice-cream.”

“Game Time.” He slipped his own cell out of his pocket and logged onto his secret account as SlimTodLX. He sent Fictitia a private text, hoping she was enjoying the opera.

“No,” she texted back, “bored &c – U?”

“Its OK.” He reminded himself to abbreviate. “Wd rthr b w/u. Ltr?”

“What’s so interesting about an old bum falling into the fountain, anyway?” Fictitia mentioned even the security guys seemed to be all revved up about this one, still continuing under her breath. “Now, leave a severed ear on the fountain with a coded message, then things would start to get interesting!”

In fact, that would’ve been downright kinky, Scarpia thought. He liked kinky. And Fictitia was also kind of kinky. Nice ears, too, but he’d get his tongue caught in those piercings.

“im wrking,” she texted SlimTodLX back. “bzy 2nite &c. sry.” Who’s this? She checked his profile: typical – totally blank. If he’s German, “Tod” meant “Death,” but he didn’t sound very Goth. She wondered what was going on with Cameron, if he was okay. That’s who she’d like to see tonight.

“Hey tod u kno re:BandanaMan? need 2 find out more re:that dude.” If she’s a reporter, now she’s working.

“No, sry :-/”

“Nvrmnd. Thnx&c.” Damn…

“Thnking of U + ur &c…”

“Sry, i gotta go – im w/POF – ttyl” She went to hang up but the guy sent one more text.

“POF? like ‘person outstandingly fuckulent’?”

“lol i wish – pompous old fart ;-)”

Scarpia tried not to react but got an idea and quickly sent her a photo with a tracker virus.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

D’Arcy and I scrambled down the darkened hallways trying to avoid using his key-card to find a place to hide, still hoping we could reach LauraLynn before that suspicious-sounding musicologist found her. When we reached an open well-lit area, D’Arcy looked around and stopped. Too late – there was no one there. The parking garage was ahead of us, the library to our left. The hallway on the right looked inviting, but a potential killer would try keeping you from reaching those elevators.

Desperately hoping to catch my uncooperative breath, I tried asking him between puffs where she might have gotten to, preferably nearby in a direction that might have been more adequately lit.

“He must have chased her back toward Niebelheim,” he said. “Hear anything?”

“Other than my pounding heart? No, sorry…”

“With any luck, he’ll chase her right into the path of those IMPs running after us and they’ll rescue her.”

A nice bit of choreography, I thought, but somehow not very likely. We needed to rescue her and somehow avoid those very agents ourselves, not to mention find Cameron as well.

Without another word, D’Arcy grabbed me by the arm and dragged me back down the darkened hallway we’d come. He tried shushing me but my lungs, about to explode, were insubordinate.

Again, he stopped suddenly and I nearly fell over, banging into him, shushing me again with no better success. I desperately tried holding my breath but it didn’t seem to matter.

“Listen!”

I heard distant footfalls, someone running.

“What’s that smell?”

I croaked out, “I live with five cats, so...”

“It sounds like something's coming from over there, around the central unit.” He dragged me deeper into the maze.

“What if it’s those agents?” I asked, suggesting perhaps we should hide.

Not far ahead, there was a doorway underneath a dim security light.

“Looks like we’re in luck,” he said.

D’Arcy pointed out somebody’d left the door to the scene shop open.

“What if it’s a trap? And shouldn’t we be looking for LauraLynn?”

“We have to solve the gizmo.”

“Gizmo?”

Without further explanation, he pushed me through the door ahead of him. The room inside was vast, dark and silent. Pulled tightly shut behind us, the door locked with a resounding click. Occasional points of dim light along the side wall were barely enough to see where we needed to go.

While we stood waiting for our eyes to adjust to the gloom, he asked if I had the artifact. Looking around, I hugged the tote-bag close to my chest and nodded.

“Am I to take that as a no?” D’Arcy asked, sounding concerned.

“No,” I said, catching my breath finally.

“Did you drop it somewhere? We need that to catch the murderer!”

“No, I meant ‘yes, I have it.’ It’s here in my tote-bag,” I said. “What did you mean, ‘gizmo’?”

D’Arcy grunted, perhaps embarrassed to admit he couldn’t remember the word ‘artifact.’ He led the way down what appeared to be a narrow aisle between cluttered shelves and equally cluttered work desks. Turning on a small desk lamp, he told me to sit down: it was time to examine the artifact.

The first thing I saw was a hand-painted heart-shaped medallion on the doll’s breast pocket surrounded by fine letters, written in German.

“From the heart, may it go to the heart.”

= = = = = = =
To be continued...

posted by Dick Strawser

The novel, The Lost Chord, is a music appreciation comedy thriller completed in 2013, and is the sole supposedly intellectual property of its author, Richard Alan Strawser.
© 2014