Death in a Major (3 page)

As we waited for the backed-­up crowd to file farther along the corridor ahead of us, I glanced over my shoulder and through the open door to the reception room. Although half a dozen ­people still gathered around Major, I caught a glimpse of him convulsing on the floor.

“Oh my God. That's awful.” I gripped Mikayla's arm and we hurried away from the room as soon as we had a chance.

Mr. Major wasn't my favorite person by far, but I never would have wished for anything bad to happen to him. Seeing him convulse was upsetting and a bit frightening as well.

“I hope he'll be okay.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounded doubtful.

How likely was he to survive whatever was happening to him? I didn't know, but I had a bad feeling that his chances weren't good. He wasn't exactly the picture of health before this terrible turn.

“Hopefully the ambulance will be here soon,” Mikayla said as we retreated to the musicians' lounge where we'd left our belongings.

I unlocked my locker but simply stared at my coat and violin without removing them. “Do you think we should leave or stick around for a while?” I asked Mikayla.

The thought of going home without knowing if Mr. Major would be all right left me unsettled. I knew there was nothing I could do to help him, but I still wasn't sure if I could bring myself to leave right then.

“There's nothing we can do here,” Mikayla said, echoing one of my thoughts. “I think we should go.”

“You're probably right.” I removed my coat from my locker and slipped it on over my black concert clothes.

“It's gone!”

The exclamation came from across the room. Even before I turned around I knew the voice belonged to Elena.

“What's gone?” cellist Johnson Lau asked.

“My brooch. My antique brooch.”

“Are you sure you were wearing it tonight?” Melissa asked as she removed her flute from her locker.

“Of course I'm sure,” Elena shot back. “I'm not a fool.”

Melissa rolled her eyes, and I couldn't blame her.

“It must have fallen off at some point,” Aggie said.

Elena's eyes roamed over the room. “I know it was still pinned to my dress when I came in here after the concert.”

“Then it must be in here, the reception room, or out in the hall,” Janine said. “I'll help you look.”

I wanted to shake my head at my fellow violinist's eagerness. Even after Elena's cruel words earlier that evening, Janine still wanted to please her.

A ­couple of other musicians jumped in to help Janine search the room while Elena stalked around, flicking aside bags and other belongings that were strewn about on tables and couches.

“It's eighteen-­karat gold,” she went on as she picked a coat off a table with her thumb and forefinger, as if it were a piece of smelly garbage. Once she'd had a look beneath the garment she dropped it back to the table. “With a sapphire that exactly matches the color of my eyes.”

I let out a resigned sigh and joined the search, Mikayla following suit. I didn't feel any particular need to be helpful to Elena, but I figured finding her brooch would be the best way to shut her up. Unfortunately, ten minutes of searching turned up nothing other than Aggie's favorite mechanical pencil, which she'd lost weeks ago.

Although Aggie was pleased, Elena was anything but. By that time we'd thoroughly searched the musicians' lounge and the hallway, but there wasn't a single karat of gold to be found, let alone eighteen plus a sapphire.

“It must have fallen off during the reception,” Mikayla said once we'd all returned to the lounge. “I guess you'll have to wait until the paramedics are gone and then have a look in there.”

Elena let out a huff and turned her back on the rest of us. She sat down on a chair in the corner, crossed her perfect legs, and focused all her attention on text messaging someone on her phone. No doubt the message had something to do with her precious brooch.

I shook my head and returned to my locker, more than ready to leave for home.

“Oh no,” Janine said, opening her own locker as she threw worried glances over her shoulder at Elena. “She's so upset. I really hope she finds her brooch in the other room.”

I didn't bother to comment, not wanting to waste another moment of my time on our ungrateful concertmaster. Although I could understand getting upset over a missing piece of jewelry, Elena hadn't exactly behaved graciously. She hadn't even thanked any of us for helping her search.

Knowing her as I did, I would have been willing to bet that she considered the medical emergency in the other room an annoying inconvenience, one that was keeping her from her brooch. She probably wasn't the least bit concerned with whether Mr. Major lived or died.

Sliding my folder of music into my quilted bag and gathering up my violin, I shut my locker and secured it with its combination lock. Mikayla and I said some subdued goodbyes to the other members of the orchestra and headed out into the hall. We were about to turn toward the stage door when I spotted Hans coming along the corridor from the direction of the reception room.

We stopped and waited as he approached. My stomach tightened as if a fist had closed around it. Hans's mouth was drawn in a grim line and his blue eyes telegraphed his bad news.

“Is Mr. Major all right?” Mikayla asked. Her voice betrayed the fact that she too had anticipated Hans's news.

He shook his head. “The paramedics arrived a few minutes ago, but it was too late. I'm afraid Mr. Major is dead.”

 

Chapter Three

W
HEN
I
ARRIV
ED
home at my apartment later that night, the first thing I did was go straight to the bathroom and run a nice hot bubble bath. After a good long soak, I dressed in my comfiest cotton pajamas and snuggled up in an armchair with a quilt and a mug of hot chocolate topped with mini marshmallows. The hot bath had relaxed my body, but my mind was still wide awake and buzzing.

I stared into my mug of hot chocolate as the marshmallows slowly melted into a layer of white, gooey foam. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to drink a sugary beverage at such a late hour, especially when I was already too alert to allow sleep to come easily. But after contemplating my melting marshmallows for another second or two, I took a sip anyway.

No matter how much I tried to turn my thoughts to other matters, Mr. Major continued to occupy the prime real estate in my brain. Although I'd had the unfortunate and unpleasant experience of discovering a freshly dead body a few months earlier, I'd never actually seen someone die. I hadn't been present at the exact moment when Mr. Major drew his last breath, but I figured his convulsions had probably marked the start of his departure.

I couldn't shake the memory of the violent spasms racking his body as he lay there on the floor and I couldn't forget poor Mrs. Duffy's face as I'd last seen it. Perhaps that was what bothered me the most—­knowing that Mr. Major's death would have an effect on his family, a family that included someone I cared about. My student Jordan was a good kid. After the scenes I'd witnessed that night, there was always a chance that Jordan didn't have a strong, positive relationship with his grandfather, but even if that were the case, I doubted it would be easy for him to hear the news.

With a heavy sigh, I finished off my hot chocolate and climbed out from beneath my quilt to take my empty mug to the kitchen. I brushed my teeth and got into bed, snuggling beneath the covers. Thoughts of Mr. Major, Mrs. Duffy, and Jordan continued to run through my head on repeat, but eventually my exhaustion got the upper hand and I slipped off toward sleep. As my mind grew fuzzy and my breathing deepened, one last thought chimed between my ears.

I wonder if Major's children are sad that he's dead.

B
Y THE TIME
I cracked open my eyes the next morning my clock had already worked its way past nine o'clock. I allowed myself to stay snuggled beneath the covers, enjoying the fact that I didn't have to work that day.

For the past thirteen years of my life, starting in my mid-­teens, I'd taught violin lessons on Saturdays. This was the first year I'd decided not to do so, cutting my work week back to only five days, except on the odd occasion when I had Saturday night concerts. I'd lost two students as a result, but the others had agreed to switch their lessons to weekdays. And I'd recently gained three new students, so I wasn't suffering financially because of the change.

After soaking in the luxury of lounging in bed for another half hour, I got up and switched my pajamas for jeans and a lightweight sweater.

My memories of Mr. Major in his last moments of life no longer had such a grip on me, and I was relieved about that. Yet the events of the previous evening still hovered at the back of my mind. As I sipped a cup of green tea and nibbled at a piece of toast, I recalled Ernest's strange behavior.

I didn't understand why he harbored such an intense hatred for Major, especially since he claimed he'd never met the man. But beyond that, I was puzzled by Ernest's mysterious piece of paper. What was it, exactly? And why had Ernest disposed of it with such anger at the moment he did?

As I finished my breakfast I tried to focus on other matters. I really did. Yet for some reason I couldn't forget about that pesky piece of paper. I blamed it on my inexhaustible curiosity. For as long as I could remember, my curiosity had been a force to be reckoned with. Whenever something piqued it, I couldn't simply turn my thoughts to other things. I knew that on occasion my curiosity bordered on nosiness, and more than once it had led me straight to trouble, but knowing that didn't make me any less inquisitive. I didn't like unanswered questions bouncing around in my head. They were too distracting.

I knew my interest in that piece of paper had reached a point where I wouldn't be able to forget about it, at least not anytime soon.

Unless I satisfied my curiosity.

After I tidied up my kitchen I stared at the hamper full of laundry waiting to be washed. I could stay home and take care of that chore or I could make a quick trip to the Abrams Center for the Performing Arts, home of the Point Grey Philharmonic, and see if Ernest's mysterious piece of paper was still around. I spent a full minute considering those options before I decided, with no shortage of reluctance, that I should be responsible and go with the laundry.

I gathered up my dirty clothes and a bottle of detergent and headed down the main hall to the laundry room. Every floor of my apartment building had its own laundry room, but with only one set of machines each. Before I reached the small room, I could tell someone had beat me to it that morning. Both the washer and the dryer rumbled away as they worked. I peeked into the room and checked the timer on the washing machine. I would have to wait awhile.

Perhaps I should have been disappointed, but instead I dumped my laundry inside my apartment and grabbed my purse and coat. Why sit around at home waiting for a chance to do laundry when I could pop out to the Abrams Center for a few minutes and take care of chores later?

As I wandered along the sidewalk to the nearest bus stop, I checked my phone for the first time that morning. Aaron had sent me a text message a few hours earlier as he waited at Heathrow Airport for his flight back to Vancouver.

I'll be on my way soon
, his message read.
Can't wait to see you!

Same
, I texted back to him as I walked.
I'll see you at the airport!

After the message was sent, I shoved my phone into my purse and dug out my bus pass. Guilt gnawed at me as I stood waiting at the bus stop. Aaron and I had started dating back in May and it was now September. Yet we'd only had time to go on half a dozen dates. Barely more than a month after he'd asked me out for the first time, he'd hopped on a plane for his hometown of London, England, and had remained overseas ever since.

His departure from the country didn't have anything to do with the state of our relationship. He'd arranged the trip long before he ever asked me out and had considered canceling so he could spend more time with me, but I'd told him that he should go. He hadn't seen his family in nearly two years and he had the chance to fill in for an injured drummer in his cousin's band during their summer tour of Great Britain and continental Europe. I knew he was excited about that, and I wasn't about to be the reason he missed out on such an opportunity.

So I told him I'd miss him but he should go. And he went.

We'd exchanged e-­mails and text messages and Skyped a few times to keep in touch. Now I would finally get to see him in person.

I was looking forward to that. Really, I was. Just . . . not as much as I should.

Admitting that to myself made me cringe.

I'm sure it doesn't mean anything
, I told myself.
We didn't know each other all that well before he left, and we've been apart for a long time. As soon as I see him again, the butterflies and excitement will be back.

That sounded perfectly reasonable to me.

My guilt eased as I boarded a bus that had pulled up to the curb. I had nothing to worry about. I'd meet Aaron at the airport that afternoon and everything would be fine.

T
HE
A
BRAMS
C
ENTER
for the Performing Arts was located on the west side of Vancouver, and the second-­story offices at the back of the building featured beautiful views of the water and North Shore Mountains. The theater stood out from the shops and other businesses located on the street because of its impressive size and eye-­catching appearance. At least twice the width of any other building on the block, the front of the theater featured a white stone façade topped with a fancy cornice, and a large marquee advertised the latest concerts and shows.

Although not the swankiest theater in the city, the Abrams Center held its own and was a nice place to work, especially since the recent renovations that had spruced up the restrooms and upgraded the seating in the theater proper. Sometimes I almost had to pinch myself to make sure my life was real, that I truly did have my dream job of playing violin in a professional orchestra, giving concerts in a beautiful theater.

Aside from a brief phase of wanting to be a marine biologist, I'd always wanted to be a musician while I was growing up. My dream had come true and I'd spent so much time at the Abrams Center over the past several years that it was almost as familiar to me as my own apartment.

Leaving the street for a side alley, I made my way toward the black door located a stone's throw from the base of the building's fire escape. I knew the stage door was likely to be unlocked on a Saturday. The theater was used by other groups aside from the Point Grey Philharmonic, and there were events and rehearsals happening almost every day.

Once inside, I followed a corridor deeper into the building. Although I heard a murmur of distant voices at one point, I didn't meet a soul. Outside the large room where the orchestra had held its reception the other night, I approached the garbage can where I'd seen Ernest dispose of his paper.

I glanced around to ensure that no one would witness me digging through the trash, but the coast was clear so I pushed at the swing top with one finger and peered inside the can with no shortage of apprehension. I hoped that the trash hadn't been taken away in the past twelve hours so I could retrieve the paper, but, at the same time, I didn't want to have to poke through anything disgusting to find it. Luck was with me, however. The hallway trash can was clearly not a frequently used one, as there wasn't much inside of it. There at the bottom, resting on two pop cans, was a crumpled piece of paper.

Jackpot!

I checked my surroundings once more to make sure that I was still unobserved. I was. Wrinkling my nose, I reached one arm into the trash can. Down, down, down, until my fingers brushed against paper. I snatched up the thin bit of trash and pulled my arm out of the garbage receptacle. Triumphant, I uncrumpled the paper to reveal its secret.

It took me several seconds to register what was before my eyes. Someone—­presumably Ernest—­had cut out letters from magazines and pasted them into a startling message.

Archibald Major, you are scum. May you rot in hell.

I swallowed as an unpleasant sensation rolled through my stomach. Talk about disturbing. Prior to last night I would have had trouble picturing quiet, unassuming Ernest authoring the note. But after seeing the anger on his face as he glared at the elderly man at the reception, I could picture it all too easily.

Shuddering, I folded up the paper, hiding the ugly message from my eyes. I wanted to get rid of it, to toss it back in the garbage can where I'd found it, but I slipped it into my purse instead. Something told me I should hold on to it for the moment.

Wrinkling my nose again, I reached back into the trash can and retrieved the two pop cans. My hands were already dirty so I figured I might as well put the cans in the recycling bin where they belonged.

I tossed the cans into the bin located next to the garbage receptacle and slipped into the ladies' restroom down the hall to wash my hands. Free of icky trash can germs, I returned to the corridor and headed for the exit.

“Ms. Bishop?”

I turned back at the sound of the female voice. A woman in a navy blue business suit stood outside the door leading to the reception room. She wore her honey blond hair tied back, as she had every other time I'd seen her.

“Detective Salnikova? What are you doing here?” I hadn't seen the police detective since I'd helped solve the murder of a cellist several months earlier, and she was pretty much the last person I would have expected to encounter in the back corridors of the theater on a Saturday morning.

“Working, I'm afraid.” She came a few steps closer. “How about you? It was my understanding that the orchestra wasn't rehearsing today.”

“No, I'm not here for a rehearsal.” I clutched my purse closer to me. I didn't have anything to feel guilty about, but somehow having Ernest's evil note in my possession left me feeling distinctly uneasy in the face of the police detective's gaze. “I came to pick something up.”

“Were you at the reception last night?”

“Yes.” As I recovered from the surprise of meeting Salnikova at the theater, I finally registered everything she'd said over the last half minute. “Wait. Are you here because of Mr. Major?”

“That's right.”

“But you're a homicide detective.”

A hint of a smile appeared on her face for a fleeting second. “I am.”

Okay, so maybe she thought I was stating the obvious, but there was something that definitely wasn't obvious to me.

“Then why are you here? Mr. Major was old. Didn't he die of a stroke or something?”

All traces of amusement disappeared from the detective's face as she replied, “Not a stroke, no. We believe there could be foul play involved.”

I stared at her for two full seconds before echoing, “Foul play?” I recalled Major's bizarre behavior in the moment before his convulsions. “Oh my God. Was he poisoned?”

Salnikova narrowed her eyes a fraction. “Why do you ask that?”

“He went all crazy before he collapsed. And as far as I know, nobody attacked him or anything, so if you suspect murder, then poison seems like a distinct possibility.”