Cat With a Fiddle (9781101578902) Page 6

  Instead I simply said, “I would like to offer you whatever help I can in what has been happening here.”

  “Sure,” he said, “we’d really appreciate it.”

  His tone was so patronizing that I think it embarrassed even him. I wouldn’t have been surprised to receive a pat on the head. And to make sure I wouldn’t get one, I quickly got out of the car.

  I stood shivering on the cold path, watching him drive away. Dispirited as I was, I knew I had to organize my thoughts carefully and make a thoughtful move. I knew I had to go back to the beginning, so to speak. I had to look behind the stated reason for the Riverside Quartet’s decision to shut themselves away up here—and find the real one. That inquiry was going to begin with the man who made all the decisions for the quartet: Mathew Hazan.

  I was just about to turn into the gate when I heard the sound of a motor. Coming back up the drive was the clean, state-issued vehicle I’d come to know so well. Ford Donaldson had forgotten something, perhaps. Or maybe he was in the mood to laugh at me some more.

  He motioned me over to his rolled-down window.

  “Look, er . . . Alice . . . I don’t like to think you’re going away mad. I just wanted to apologize . . . if I offended you. And to say that I really would appreciate your help. Look, here’s a number where you can always reach me if you learn something else.” He pushed a white business card into my hand. I continued to stare daggers into his heart. “Seriously,” he said, “I want your help. Understand?”

  “Oh, I think I do, Ford,” I said, my face a mask. “You need a punch line to the story when you tell it to the boys in the locker room. And don’t think they won’t appreciate it.” The man was cruel. I backed away swiftly and started in through the gate.

  “Just a minute!” he exploded.

  I froze where I stood.

  “Please, just listen for a minute! Let me tell you something about this case for a change. Okay?”

  I turned and went back.

  “Everything about this murder points to some juiced-up local bad boy who went into this thing just looking to rip off some rich people and ended up way over his head. He probably thought that barn was empty—who knows? Gryder may have fallen asleep in that chair. He wakes up to find someone robbing the place, and the kid panics and kills him. That’s a sensible approach to the case, and so it’s the one we’ve got to pursue. Except there’s a hitch with that theory—a great big one. And I wouldn’t be telling you about it if I didn’t think you had a brain.” He paused for a minute. “Or if I thought you’d killed Mr. Gryder.”

  I nodded my understanding.

  “The hitch is that someone in the main house took Gryder’s room apart the night he was killed. We know what time he was murdered, but not what time the room was tossed. And if the search happened before the murder . . . You’re following me here, Alice, right?”

  Indeed I was. It sounded as though someone in the house might have been desperately looking for something in Will’s room. And when they didn’t find it, they went to his studio. However the scenario had unfolded there, that person probably ended up killing him.

  I looked deeply into Ford Donaldson’s strong face, realizing that he was no longer mocking or patronizing me. Not that I understood the man—far from it. Maybe he was a genuine New England eccentric, maybe he was a tortured soul, or maybe he just had a mean streak. But he would never have imparted information like this to me if he didn’t take me seriously.

  I stepped away from the car. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said.

  “See you around, Alice.”

  Chapter 8

  It was getting harder and harder to maintain the fantasy that we were all part of a merry house party. The remaining residents—Mat and Beth and Darcy and Miranda—talked to one another, ate together, listened to music, and sat together by the fire with their brandies. But each seemed to have some private grief or depression gnawing at him or her. Each would briefly emerge from a funk, be communal with the others, and then drop back into silence.

  Only one of our number seemed to have no worries: Lulu. She had spent the bulk of the evening snoring peacefully in my lap, having forgiven me completely for my attack on her mousing proficiency. In fact, I guess I had libeled Scottish Folds everywhere. Meanwhile, the field mice were expanding geometrically in the main house. Becoming bolder every day, they had now established residence in the library.

  I felt a little weighted down from Mrs. Wallace’s all-out bouffe—course after course after course of it. But the gloomier we were, the more she fed us. The centerpiece of tonight’s meal had been a glorious crown roast of pork with prunes, and I had eaten like a fool.

  Mathew Hazan was doing his part as peacemaker/master of ceremonies/hand-holder/what have you. Early in the day he had been sequestered behind closed doors with Darcy as she rehearsed a difficult Smetana piece she was to perform as guest soloist on an upcoming recording.

  Later in the afternoon I had come upon him and Miranda on the porch swing. She was asleep in his arms. There was a huge bottle of Tanqueray gin perched precariously on the railing, and a tumbler sweating with melting ice at her feet.

  Just before supper he had stood behind Beth’s chair delivering a vigorous back rub, she moaning with the pleasure of it. My muscles were tense, too. I had gone outside and walked around until dinner was called.

  Mathew Hazan was such a tireless, devoted, cultivated man. I wondered why I didn’t like him more.

  It seemed I wasn’t the only one who was a bit stupefied by the evening meal. All bundled in sweaters against the evening chill, the group members were sitting around listlessly sipping decaf or after-dinner drinks, someone halfheartedly picking up a magazine now and then but soon abandoning it. Mat was still doing duty as spiritual guardian and cheerer-upper. I watched him drop down on cushions to “visit” with one lady and then the next, speaking quietly, joking, reassuring. It was amazing how much time he spent ministering to the needs of these women, but I supposed that as their manager that was his job. Still, there was only so much he could do.

  Finally he said good night and climbed the stairs, an outdated issue of Opera News tucked under his arm. This was my cue, my chance.

  I lingered downstairs another ten minutes or so and then, surrendering Lulu to her rightful mistress, I too went up.

  Mathew’s door was ajar and there was a light on. I knocked gently and immediately heard his friendly, “Come on in.”

  I closed the door behind me. He was lying across the bed, still fully clothed, his hands clasped behind his head.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said. “Might I talk to you for a few minutes?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Sit down.” He smiled pleasantly at me, but as I was lowering myself into the straight-backed chair nearby, it was as though he were suddenly gripped by panic. He sat straight up. “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  “No, no. We’re all fine.”

  I had to play this carefully, remembering to act the naïf.

  “This is probably a very bad time to ask what I’m going to ask you,” I began haltingly, “but I’ll be going home shortly, and something Beth told me is so . . . interesting . . . that I just want to know a little more about it. I guess I could ask her, but . . . well, you know what shape she’s in . . . ”

  “Why don’t you just ask?” he said. “Go ahead.”

  “Okay, I will. You see, Beth told me the quartet’s here on a spiritual retreat, which is a little difficult to understand. Because these women are . . . well, professionals. They aren’t some church basement group on the run from a few bad notices in the European press.”

  “Hmm.” He nodded. “Well, you couldn’t be more right about their professionalism. But the truth is that I did bring us up here for a kind of spiritual renewal. Not to sound too hocus-pocus about it—I mean, I
don’t consider myself a guru or anything.

  “But those reviews really killed us. It was quite a comedown after almost two decades of being one of the premier string quartets in the world—and they particularly loved us abroad.

  “I guess Beth told you about the going over they gave us.”

  “Yes, she did,” I said. “I was sorry to hear it.”

  “Let me tell you, it was brutal. Brutal! But you know, all that claptrap about our having lost our communal passion hit home in a strange way. The mesh was gone, and we knew it. And I knew we had to do something to get our chops back. It’s been rough on everybody lately, but I had to do something.”

  There was a long silence. He unclasped his hands then and swung his feet around to the floor, staring hard at me as if trying to determine whether I understood the danger confronting the Riverside Quartet.

  His voice became even more animated. “I had to do something for these women—my friends, my . . . It occurred to me to bring everybody all together in a kind of naked state, if you’ll pardon the expression. To get at those things that seem to be tearing at us. And to make some sort of . . . primary contact with each other again. The way we once were. Friends. Comrades. What have you.”

  He stood up suddenly and brought the fist of one hand violently into the palm of the other. The movement startled me, and I sat back hard in my chair.

  “But it was all a fantasy,” Mat said bitterly. “Not only did I fail to pull everybody together—look at the horror that’s happened up here. Will is dead. It was futile from the very beginning. All my fault. I had forgotten the way great string quartets are made. I guess I just . . . forgot.”

  He sat down, calmer now. “You don’t know what the hell I’m talking about now, do you?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “I’ll try to explain. See, it used to be that groups like ours—chamber music groups, string quartets, whatever—were made up of musicians who realized they would never make it big as soloists on the concert stage. They accepted that they weren’t individual giants—stars.”

  “Like Heifetz,” I put in. “Or Jacqueline Dupré.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Like them. Well, musicians in groups like ours accepted that they would never fill Carnegie Hall to the rafters with people who’d paid top dollar to hear them and them alone. So they went along in their careers, playing well, even playing brilliantly in some cases, but playing with . . . what? ‘Modesty,’ I think is the word. Good work, but without the panache of conceit. They didn’t have the manner of the virtuoso.

  “So you had a lot of fine, well-balanced string quartets around. And they were a big yawn.

  “And then some genius asked himself: Why should a quartet mesh at the lowest level of energy? Why not come together at the highest level? What if each of the musicians in the quartet played and thought of herself as a virtuoso—why not let loose with all the panache and conceit the audience can handle?”

  I couldn’t help pricking him a little. “So you introduced a little show biz into the world of high culture. This unnamed quartet was the Riverside . . . and the genius was you.”

  “Right! It happened. And the quartet became a real musical force. Now, you must understand. There’s no doubt that at first the Riverside was looked upon as some kind of cute novelty act—like an all-woman band from the forties. And naturally, it didn’t hurt that they were all pretty and smart and vibrant. It was all very sexy. Some even thought it was a kind of sop to the feminist movement, which was very strong in the seventies. But what made the Riverside Quartet succeed and prosper and endure was the fact that each and every musician in the group was playing with an unfettered ego. As though she and she alone were the show the people had come to see. That was the secret of our success. Until now, that is.

  “And of course, now we’re in worse trouble than ever. No ridiculous little month in the country is going to get back what we had—that virtuosity, that fire. I guess I was underestimating how bad off we were. Or overestimating my own abilities. However you look at it, I made a horrible mistake dragging everyone up here. And my mistake cost Will his life.”

  “But how could you have known he was going to be killed?” I said calculatedly. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”

  Hazan nodded slowly, silently thanking me for my words. He walked to the window then, and stared out into the blackness. The wind had picked up and was starting to rattle the panes.

  “You’re an actress?” he said quietly.

  “That’s right.”

  “Ah. That explains a lot.”

  “About what?”

  “Most actors don’t have a very high opinion of agents and managers. We always get the job done, but you think we’re fools.” He turned and looked directly at me. “You may be giving a decent enough performance, as far as it goes, but I don’t believe for a moment that you came in here to get my opinion on spiritual retreats in the world of classical music.”

  I couldn’t think of a reply. He had nailed me, stripped away my artifice.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what you really want?” he said, tapping on the desk with his nails.

  I thought it best to go ahead and level with him. But what and how much should he be told of what I had already found out?

  “I came into your room to ask for your opinion,” I said, “but not about the retreat.”

  “About what, then?”

  “Whether you think one of the members of the quartet could have murdered Will Gryder.”

  “Oh, please!” he said in disgust. “Jesus! Don’t we have enough police crawling around?”

  “I’m not with the police, Mr. Hazan.”

  “What is it then—morbid curiosity? More of your amateur detective nonsense?”

  I kept my emotions in check. “Something like that.”

  “Well, here’s my opinion, Miss Nestleton: there is no way—repeat, no way, ever—that anyone in this house could have killed Willy or had anything to do with such a crime. And anyone who thinks they could is just plain crazy. You obviously know nothing about Will Gryder and the affection we held him in.

  “Will had his faults, he was only human. But he was the very best example of a musician. Understand? The music permeated his behavior. Sure, he was a show-off—but what performer isn’t? And he may have been a little too wild and impulsive for his own good. But he was an honorable man, and extremely generous—yes, above all, generous. God knows how many musicians he helped out with money, jobs, putting them up at his apartment. And what about the lessons he taught at no charge? What about the hundreds of favors he did for people, never calling in the debts? No, he never became the great pianist he yearned to be, but he was a good musician and people respected him. You know what Glenn Gould once said? He said that if he had to listen to the romantic Russian composers, the only one he could bear was Willy Gryder!”

  He paused there, staring at me in hostility. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  I said nothing.

  “So you think one of us murdered Will,” he said scornfully. “Well, do me a favor, Miss Nestleton. Tell me why. Why would any of us want to kill him?”

  “Jealousy,” I said simply. “Rage. Passion.”

  “What do you mean—sex?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you . . . but you can’t be serious.”

  “Quite serious.”

  “Oh, for godsake, lady! Where are you from—the farm? Listen, these women are sophisticated, independent, grown-up people. They spend three-quarters of the year on tour—away from their homes and families. They get lonely—as anyone would. And sure, some of them have been to bed with Will Gryder. So what? He was a grown-up, too—unmarried, and more than willing to accommodate. Are you telling me one of them was so hung up about a brief affair that they would kill him? It’s a
bsurd!”

  “It isn’t absurd, Mr. Hazan. Will was murdered by someone intimately connected to him.”

  “Then maybe I should live in fear for my own life!” he snorted.

  “By that, do you mean you also have had affairs with some members of this group?”

  “Yes, if it’s any of your business. I told you, we’re all friends. But I guess you really don’t understand that kind of friendship. You seem to be stuck in some puritanical time warp.”

  “Jealousy is timeless, Mr. Hazan. And passion can be that way, too.”

  “Bullshit!” he cried vehemently. His academic veneer was peeling. I knew it was time for me to leave.

  “All right, Mr. Hazan. I think I’ve taken enough of your time. And I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.” I rose and walked quickly toward the door.

  “Just a minute.”

  I turned back to him.

  “I guess I owe you an apology, too,” he said, “in spite of the fact that you’re insane to suspect us. But I shouldn’t have insulted you that way. I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Oh, yes it does.” He even laughed a little then. “But as long as you’re so curious, and as long as your whole line of thought is so absurd, why don’t you interrogate that nutty cook of ours? She’s the one who hated Willy.”

  “Hated?”

  “That’s right. Willy just got on her nerves, always harassing her about the meals. He thought of himself as a gourmet, a culinary expert. But then he fancied himself an expert at everything. That’s just the way he was. Other people might take it with a grain of salt, but it drove her crazy. He didn’t mean anything by it, but she detested him.”

  “I see. Well . . .” I said tentatively, “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Yes, you do that,” he said, humoring me. “Who knows? Perhaps you’ll be able to prove the butler did it—more or less.”

  I said coldly, “Good night, Mr. Hazan.”