Death by Saxophone Read online

  Death by Saxophone

  A Cin Fin-Lathen Mystery Novel

  By Alexie Aaron

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ~

  Copyright 2012 – Diane L. Fitch writing as Alexie Aaron

  Revised 2015 dlf

  ALSO BY ALEXIE AARON

  HAUNTED SERIES

  in order

  The Hauntings of Cold Creek Hollow

  Ghostly Attachments

  Sand Trap

  Darker than Dark

  The Garden

  Puzzle

  Old Bones

  Things that Go Bump in the Night

  Something Old

  The Middle House: Return to Cold Creek Hollow

  Renovation

  Mind Fray

  The Siege

  NOLA

  Never Forget

  PEEPS LITE

  Eternal Maze 3.1

  Homecoming 3.2

  Checking Out 9.1

  Ice and Steel 9.2

  CIN FIN-LATHEN MYSTERIES

  Decomposing

  Death by Saxophone

  Discord

  The Wages of Cin

  In memory of Florence Smith and William Wells, two extraordinary musicians and friends.

  To Janet and Ronald Hakala who wrote my first fan letter. Your support has meant a lot to me. I would also like to acknowledge the south Florida community bands, which I’ve had the pleasure of playing with, and listening to, for many years. Thank you for taking this alto clarinet player into your midst and showing me the best place to listen to a concert is onstage.

  Thank you to my dear family and friends who inspire me daily.

  Table of Contents

  Performance

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Alexie Aaron

  Performance

  Carl picked up his napkin and announced to the table that he would have to leave them as he had an important concert. The band would not be able to start without him. He smiled as he pushed his chair away from the table, failing to see the relief of his hostess.

  “I will send you a tape, so don’t be concerned about not being able to get tickets tonight.” He patted the shoulder of his wife explaining, “I have to put this one on Beverly. She should have been on the ball. I don’t what happened this time, maybe the menopause?”

  Carl didn’t see the conspiring looks between the hostess and his long suffering wife because he was walking into the kitchen to instruct the Henderson’s maid for a desert plate to be made up for him of all the marvelous confections he would miss.

  He left the kitchen and made his way down the hall. Easy conversation drifted from the dining room. He was a bit amazed, as he was sure that without his clever anecdotes the group would have nothing to talk about. His tuxedo lay over the bed in the guest room. He quickly donned it, trying twice to tie his bow tie. He gave up and tucked it in his pocket before leaving his dining attire scattered across the room. It didn’t occur to Carl that this was an imposition to his hostess, an embarrassment to his wife or would disgust the maid, who would have to assemble the clothes from lamp to floor, noting the odor that seemed to follow Carl everywhere.

  Tonight’s performance was too important to miss. Carl drove like a maniac to the Avery Theatre, where he was sure the conductor was sweating bullets at his absence. He knew that he should have arrived a half hour earlier to warm up and tune with the others, but dinner at the Henderson’s was not to be missed.

  Carl slammed on his brakes just in time to stop the Cadillac from becoming one with the loading dock. He gathered his equipment and ran up the ramp and stepped into the backstage of the theater.

  The bright, Florida evening sun made the transition to the dim backstage almost impossible. Carl with both his arms full with his instrument case and other sundry musical aids bounced off stored backdrops, percussion equipment and music stands like a pinball. The path of least resistance led him to the back of the theater where, to his surprise, hands relieved him of his burdens.

  “So nice of you...” he said, and before he could launch into an oration about how common courtesies were actually not very common, he was cautioned by a finger to his lips indicating that silence was required.

  “You’re late,” a voice hissed behind him. His bow tie was withdrawn from his pocket and his top button secured before his helper began the arduous task of tying the silk.

  “Ouch!” Carl exclaimed as he felt a pin prick. Did his wife leave a straight pin in his collar?

  But before he could voice his complaint, his vocal chords ceased to function. His lungs pulled hard in his chest before stopping, and whatever air he had left in them eased out as his mouth was opened and his mouthpiece inserted.

  “There Carl,” another voice hissed as his saxophone strap was placed around his neck and his instrument placed in his hands, “you’re ready for your last performance.”

  Carl’s eyes took in the change of light as the curtain rose, and just before his brain could no longer compute the data sent, he heard applause. As life ebbed away, he assumed it was for him.

  Chapter One

  A scream pierced the air which caused me to turn my head towards the percussion section. Sally, to whom the responsibility of the Phantom of the Opera’s scream had been given, held up her hands in confusion. She waited, and as the right moment approached let loose a spine chilling shriek that left the earlier sound all but forgotten. I sat back, found my place in the music and continued to play along with the rest of the Coconut Palms Community Band.

  As the music swirled around me I became caught up in Andrew Lloyd Webber’s wonderful arrangement. I smiled, remembering that just a few months ago I had been sitting in London’s West End watching a performance of this musical which our band was trying valiantly to honor. We were a motley group of former professional and amateur musicians, but we did rise to the challenge, and soon after our last note, the audience was on their feet applauding.

  I would be a liar if I didn’t mention that some of them were on their feet to get the jump on the others, pushing past them to get at the free refreshments that were being served in the lobby at intermission. And in several cases a trip to the bathroom was in order. Our audience’s average age was in the seventies. This was senior citizen heaven, a cheap concert with free eats.

  I carefully placed my alto clarinet in its stand and waited for the majority of my band mates to leave the stage before rising. They too had bathroom visits on their mind. Don’t get in the way of a man and his wonky prostate. Nothing good can come of that. I turned around and smiled at Art and Bernice, two of the oldest musicians in the band. I enjoyed the company of many of the players of Coconut Palms Community Band, but one of these two clarinetists behind me was my favorite. I would be helping Bernice to walk over the wires and other hazards of the di
mly lit stage.

  Art and Bernice were fidgeting, staring at something on the black-painted wooden floor. Art, in his tattered tux he had purchased for the USO tour in Korea, was raising his feet as if he had stepped in gum.

  I got up and walked over noticing a widening pool of a dark watery substance on the floor coming from behind the backdrop curtain.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked.

  Bernice handed a handkerchief to Art before replying, “Cin dear, it seems that someone must have knocked over a bottle of water.

  Art rubbed the wetness off his shoe, and as he did, the freshly starched kerchief turned red, blood red.

  I snatched it out of his hand before Bernice could take in that there was blood pooling under their feet. I didn’t need anyone stroking out onstage.

  “Is there a problem?” the gruff voice of the stage manager Miles asked behind me.

  “Miles, be a dear and help Bernice and Art off the stage. There seems to be water or something here. We don’t want a replay of last year.”

  “That wasn’t my fault,” Miles growled as he held out his elbow to Bernice and shimmied his way out of the row of chairs and stands.

  Art accepted my hand and raised himself, stepping over the puddle in front on him. “That weren’t water. It be blood,” he said, mimicking a pirate

  “I hope you’re not right,” I hissed as I led him to the front of the stage where he followed Miles and Bernice to the break room. I waited until the trio exited, stage left, before I moved slowly towards the heavy, black sound curtain that kept the music flowing out into the theater while shielding the audience’s view of the cavernous back stage.

  The curtain swayed a little as a draft somewhere caught in its folds. I grabbed the edge and pushed it back slowly. This area wasn’t lit during intermission. Not many used this particular alcove as it was too far from the practice room and, more importantly, the refreshment tables. I hoped the spotlights would be enough to find the source of the pooling fluid.

  I continued to push the curtain back until I was greeted by Carl, our first-chair saxophone player. “Carl?”

  As I gripped the curtain for support, I took in the macabre image in front of me. I finally understood why there had been two screams in the Phantom of the Opera piece earlier. The first had come from this hideous tableau of death in front of me.

  Before me suspended in midair, with the aid of a microphone stand through his chest, was Carl. My irrational mind wondered why anyone would go to the trouble of constructing a waxen image of the man in the first place, let alone have him holding his saxophone caught in a comedic pratfall. The evidence of the copper smell, blood congealing, along with the staring eyes and the pale blue skin, shattered the illusion.

  Still trying to keep my happy little world together, I walked up to Carl and dared to touch his face. Cold, dead-cold flesh greeted my fingertips.

  “Ew,” was all I let escape my voice box. Silently I screamed for a very long time.

  I heard footsteps crossing the stage, and I moved to intercept the owner of the size thirteen’s plodding across the wooden expanse.

  Miles was a tall man. Not bad looking if you enjoyed the lounge lizard look. He leered, ogled, or something in between, at me. It would occur to me later that he thought I was luring him backstage for a little slap and tickle. This would cause me to groan in revulsion for weeks to come.

  I held up my hand to stop his progression. “Are you a fainter?”

  “No, why?” he asked dryly.

  “Because you’re a big guy, and I don’t want to get squashed,” I explained.

  “I’m not a fainter. What’s the problem?”

  “There’s been an accident.” I directed him around the curtain. He had lied. He fainted. I tried in vain to catch him, but he and I ended up on the floor with Carl looming over us like a Madame Tussaud’s figure.

  The sound of our fall brought the security guys from the orchestra seating up on the stage.

  “Oh, my lord, what have we here,” exclaimed Buck Murphy. He backed up and collided with Eddie Simpson who was lost for words for a moment.

  “Is that real or.” was all Eddie could manage.

  “Don’t touch anything,” I advised from the floor. “Hey, guys, could you help? Hello. Down here.”

  Buck looked down at me and back at Carl. He was either mesmerized or in shock. Fortunately Eddie’s prior career in law enforcement kicked in. “Wake up, Buck, let’s help this woman and then we will deal with the corpse. They shifted Miles’ weight so I could get on my feet.

  I lay there a moment. In my haste to get up, I tried to use my previously injured left arm which couldn’t hold my weight, and I fell back. I rolled to my side and used my right hand to push me to a sitting position. I stared up at Carl and could have sworn he smiled at me. I started to lose my wits and pushed myself away with my feet.

  Buck cooed, “He can’t hurt you now, miss.” He reached down and helped me up and over to a chair. “There, just sit down and let Eddie and I sort this thing out.”

  “Buck, I’m going to have to call this in. I don’t know exactly what to call it, but I better get started.” He left the stage, and I could hear his feet pound down the stairs and as he made his way up the right aisle the sound of the entrance doors being pulled shut. He circled around and did the same for the other side of the theater. I heard him order the ushers to not let anyone in as he left the dress circle seating. The door closed behind him with a clank.

  I heard more clanks from the balcony as they closed off the interior of the Avery theatre to the viewing public.

  Chatter and hushed responses started coming from the walkie talkie Buck had secured to his belt. Retired police officer Eddie Simpson was issuing orders.

  “Buck, you there?”

  Buck clicked a button, “Yes, Eddie, I’m still here.”

  “Get the band secured in the break room. We got officers and EMTs coming in. Do not let anyone leave.”

  “Gotcha, buddy. What about the corpse?”

  “He ain’t going anywhere. Get the scene secure, you comprehend?”

  “Yes, sir.” Burt clicked off and looked at me a second before repeating my words to him back to me, “Don’t touch anything.”

  I nodded. He seemed satisfied with that, mentally checking me off a hurriedly penned list in his head before he ran off stage left. I turned in my chair and watched him corral tux adorned sheep off the stage and back down the hallway with the precision of a collie, barking orders, and taking on the persona of a television cop.

  Miles just lay there. I wondered for a moment if the shock had killed him. I saw his chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. His color looked good. I breathed a sigh of relief that I was only in the company of one dead male.

  Eddie returned to the stage and put two fingers to Miles’ neck.

  “He’s alive,” I said from my perch.

  Eddie looked over at me and blushed, admitting, “Forgot to check before.”

  I winked at him. “It’ll be our secret.”

  “Miss.”

  “Ms. Ms. Fin-Lathen,” I supplied.

  “Are you alright?”

  I tried to smile although I didn’t think I succeeded. “Eddie, under the circumstances, I’m just peachy.”

  “I’m at a disadvantage here. Back in Maine, where I’m from, I never had anything like this happen before.”

  “Don’t worry, from what I’ve seen, you’re doing just fine.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Well, you have a news reporter roaming around. David Thebes. You may want to contain him.” I nodded my head to the right dress circle door where a valiant battle was being fought to keep the door closed by an elderly female volunteer and the announcer. I saw the petite, brave soul manage to get several kicks to his shins while holding the door.

  Buck shouted, “You there, stop!” He left the stage, and I saw him run up the aisle shouting orders into his walkie as he approached the scene.

&
nbsp; The volunteer lost her hold on the door, and Thebes burst in and started to make his way down to get a better look. Buck waved his hands.

  “Stop right there and leave the theater,” he ordered.

  “Do you realize whom you’re talking to?” Thebes’ arrogant voice echoed across the empty seats.

  “Yes, sir. I do. I will ask you one more time to vacate the theatre before...”

  “What is happening up there?” The newsman started to run down the center aisle.

  Not to be outdone. The little old lady usher started running from her post and tackled Thebes with the energy of a Chicago Bear. She not only knocked him off his feet but held him face down until Eddie could reach him.

  A warm breeze blew by my legs. I forced myself to turn away from the spectacle and saw that, unnoticed by me, the police had arrived. They stood dumbstruck by Carl a moment before heading out into the audience to help Eddie secure Thebes.

  The paramedics arrived and started to work on Miles who received more attention than Carl did. They got him on his feet, and he left mumbling that he would be in his office.

  I stayed with Carl even though I hadn’t like him in life. Maybe this was why I felt I needed to even the karma after his death. His wife would need to be contacted, but I would leave that to the professionals. I turned my chair around and sat back in my seat facing Carl. With the sound curtain pulled back and the lights up, Carl finally had center stage.

  Chapter Two

  There comes a time in life when the knowledge gained by television watching and reading books comes in handy. It also allows us to separate ourselves from the horror around us. This is one of my explanations for continuing to sit on the stage watching Carl. The other, I was covered in blood, Carl’s blood.

  Two police officers dressed in motorcycle uniforms arrived first followed by the paramedics. After a cursory examination the EMTs pronounced Carl dead of an accidental fall. The Coroner was called.