Deadly Overtures: A Music Lover's Mystery (2 page)

JT had disappeared from sight and I figured he was probably in the control booth or wherever he’d set up his laptop and recorder. Hans was near the conductor’s podium, chatting with two percussionists. He didn’t look any worse for wear, his thick blond hair still in place, his tie straight, so I knew JT hadn’t given in to any urge to throttle him.

Not that I really thought he would have, but I was pretty sure that a few months ago JT wouldn’t have minded giving the maestro a knuckle sandwich he wouldn’t forget. But I’d moved on from the fact that Hans had two-timed me, and hopefully JT had too.

As the time for the dress rehearsal to begin drew closer, more musicians arrived on stage, tuning their instruments and warming up, sounds clashing all around me. Soon Hans signaled for quiet and the preparation for the next night’s concert began in earnest. I took comfort in the familiarity of the rehearsal process, in the act of creating music. Whatever animosity lurked backstage, out here in the theater I could easily forget about it. I lost myself in the music, and by the end of the evening the finalists’ petty differences had slipped away to the back of my mind.

Chapter Two

T
HE FOLLOWING EVENING
found me back at the Abrams Center, dressed in my black concert clothes. I was looking forward to the night’s concert, even more than usual. While I always loved performing music for an audience, this time there was an added degree of excitement. Knowing that the Point Grey Philharmonic was helping young composers get their work heard was gratifying for me and my fellow musicians. Classical composition wasn’t an easy profession to navigate and make a mark in, so it was nice to know we were doing something to help young composers.

As usual, I entered the building through the stage door and headed straight for the musicians’ lounge. Unlike the day before, I was the only one present in the corridor, although I did hear indistinct voices floating toward me from somewhere in the distance. As I passed the stairway leading to the second floor, the voices became more audible. There were two people speaking somewhere up above, and whoever they were, they didn’t sound too happy.

I probably should have kept walking, but my inexhaustible curiosity brought me to a halt and I stood at the foot of the stairs, listening.

“What do you think people will say when they find out about your . . .
liaison
with Pavlina?” a woman asked, spitting out the word “liaison” as if it repulsed her.

“When they find out?” a man’s voice echoed in an unconcerned drawl.

I recognized the voice right away as belonging to Jeb Hartson, one of the competition’s judges. He always dressed like a cowboy and spoke with a drawl, even though he was born and raised in Halifax, Nova Scotia, the son of two lawyers.

“You going to tell on us, Liv?” he asked, still sounding unconcerned.

Liv. So the woman with him was Olivia Hutchcraft, the competition’s coordinator. Interesting.

“This could get her disqualified from the competition,” Olivia said without answering Jeb’s question. “She
should
be disqualified.”

“And why’s that? You really think a little hanky-panky’s gonna influence my decision?”

“Of course I do! And so will everyone else once they know.” Olivia let out a sound of disgust. “And you strutting around like some ridiculous, self-absorbed peacock. You do know she’s only sleeping with you to ensure she wins the competition, don’t you?”

Jeb laughed. “You think that’s the only reason? You should know better than that, honey buns.”

“Don’t call me that.” Her words almost sizzled with hot anger.

“Aw, don’t be jealous, darlin’.”

“Jealous?” Olivia seethed. “Hardly.”

“Really? Don’t you miss what we had back in the day?”

“Not in the least,” Olivia said, her voice full of scorn. “This isn’t over, Jeb.”

Her voice was closer when she spoke those last words and I jerked myself into motion. I dashed away from the foot of the stairs, only slowing my pace when I was within a stone’s throw of the open door to the musicians’ lounge. Before passing through the doorway, I cast a look over my shoulder in time to catch sight of Olivia reaching the bottom of the stairway, one hand clutching her clipboard in a death grip, her nostrils flared.

Not wanting to give any indication that I’d overheard the argument, I slipped into the lounge and made my way over to my locker. All four finalists and a handful of musicians were already in the room, but I barely registered their presence. Jeb and Olivia’s conversation occupied too much of my attention.

So Pavlina was sleeping with one of the competition’s judges. That was potentially scandalous, and Olivia was right—it was more than enough to get Pavlina disqualified from the competition. Would Olivia reveal what she knew and take Pavlina out of contention for the top prize? She’d certainly sounded angry enough to do so. It wasn’t any of my business, however, so I tried to forget about the matter.

As I hung my coat up in my locker, Elena flounced into the room and sat down on one of the couches with a toss of her blond hair. She didn’t so much as glance in Pavlina’s direction, and the finalist took no notice of her either. That was probably for the best, and I hoped they’d continue to ignore each other, for the sake of everyone else in the room.

Janine, one of the PGP’s first violinists, approached Pavlina with two other female members of the orchestra. They gathered around the finalist, exchanging a few words before Janine asked, “What was it like being on the cover of
Classical Spotlight
?”

“It’s been great,” Pavlina replied. “Everyone’s been really excited for me. And, of course, the exposure is good for my career.”

Elena let out a short, disdainful laugh. Everyone’s attention focused on her, and I could sense the tension in the room rising.

Pavlina raised her voice. “Do you have a problem?”

Elena stood up, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “A problem, no,” she said, her accented words scathing and condescending. “I simply find it amusing that one bit of media attention has inflated your head to the size of a beach ball.”

My eyebrows shot up and I had to slap a hand over my mouth to stifle the burst of incredulous laughter that tried to escape. If anyone in the room had an overly inflated head, it was most definitely Elena.

She shot a glare in my direction but spared me no more attention than that.

“At least I’m not a sore loser,” Pavlina retorted.

“Sore loser? I haven’t lost anything. I’m in the midst of a successful career.”

“You lost the cover of
Classical Spotlight
. Everyone knows your story got buried in the middle of the magazine when they put me on the cover instead.”

Yikes. I had no desire to get caught in the crossfire of Elena’s reaction to Pavlina bringing up that subject, but at the same time I was transfixed by the exchange, unable to tear myself away. The same seemed to be true for everyone else. Every set of eyes was focused on the two blondes facing off in the middle of the room.

Elena’s perfectly plucked eyebrows drew together and a flush of color touched her cheeks. “For your information, I
chose
to give up the cover. I’m already so successful that I thought it was only kind to give the publicity to someone much less fortunate than myself.”

I didn’t believe that for a second. There was no way Elena would have given up the spotlight for anyone or any reason.

Pavlina obviously didn’t believe her either. She let out a harsh laugh. “Nice try. I’m sure the magazine’s editor would dash that claim to pieces in a matter of seconds.”

The color in Elena’s cheeks deepened and I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if white-hot sparks of anger had flown from her narrowed blue eyes. “You might think you’re something special. But you’ll see—
everyone
will see—that your time in the spotlight will be fleeting.”

With that, Elena strode from the room, her chin up, ignoring everyone she passed.

Pavlina shook her head, smirking. “Can you believe her?”

She directed the question at Janine and the others gathered around her, but none of them would meet her eyes now. Janine in particular kept her gaze toward the floor as she led the others in drifting away from Pavlina.

I wasn’t surprised. Janine practically worshipped Elena—why, I never could quite fathom—and although she’d momentarily become enthralled by Pavlina, no doubt she still didn’t like seeing her idol cut down to size. Heck, I hadn’t enjoyed the scene and I didn’t even like Elena.

An awkward silence had fallen over the room and I had a sudden urge to run from the theater to escape all the tension and animosity. But of course I couldn’t. The concert would start before long and I needed to get ready.

Pavlina stared at everyone for a moment before dropping into a chair and focusing all her attention on her cell phone. I turned my back on the room and busied myself with removing my instrument from its case and tightening my bow. If the past two evenings were a good indication of what the atmosphere would be like at the theater until the competition was over—and I figured that it was—the next week couldn’t go by fast enough for me. Playing in the orchestra was normally something I thoroughly enjoyed, but putting up with all this backstage drama was anything but fun.

As I rubbed some rosin on my bow, Olivia Hutchcraft strode into the room, all signs of her earlier anger gone, her face a mask of bland professionalism. Her gaze flitted ever so briefly in Pavlina’s direction, but aside from that there was no sign that the young woman was on her mind to a greater degree than any of the other finalists. When she called them over to gather around her, I held my breath, wondering if she would announce then and there that Pavlina was disqualified and why. But instead she simply went over some final instructions before shooing the finalists out the door so they could go take their seats in the front row of the theater.

Strange
, I thought.

Why hadn’t she disqualified Pavlina? As far as I knew, Olivia was the person in charge so surely she had the authority to do so, based on the information she had. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe there was someone else not present at the theater who was ultimately in charge of such decisions. If that were the case, it might take some time before a disqualification could be made official.

I didn’t bother to mull the matter over any further. Mikayla had arrived, and minutes later we left the lounge together, our violins in hand. On our way to the stage, I spotted Elena speaking with a scowling young man. She didn’t appear much happier than he did, but since they were conversing in Russian, I couldn’t tell what they were so displeased about. As Mikayla and I drew closer, Elena spat out one last word and stalked off toward the lounge.

Mikayla and I exchanged a look, but then we both shrugged and continued on to the stage, forgetting about the concertmaster within seconds. We took our places on the stage, our fellow musicians joining us over the next few minutes. Once we’d all tuned our instruments and the audience members were settled in their seats, Maestro Hans Clausen stepped up to a microphone set near the edge of the stage. A hush fell over the theater, broken only by a man’s cough. When that too subsided, Hans addressed the full house.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming tonight. The Point Grey Philharmonic is proud to have the honor of hosting the bi-annual young composers’ competition, a contest which showcases the incredible talent of composers in our country. While the competition was stiff this year, with many worthy entrants, the judges have narrowed the field to four rising stars among today’s classical composers.”

After a brief moment of applause, Hans continued. “Before moving on to the music, I would first like to introduce the three esteemed classical music experts who are serving as judges for this year’s competition.” He outstretched his left hand toward the wings where the judges waited. “Please join me in welcoming Jeb Hartson, Yvonne Charbonneau, and Harold Dempsey.”

As the audience applauded, Jeb Hartson led the judges’ procession across the stage, wearing a bolo tie and cowboy boots with his gray suit. He waved and winked at the audience, a big smile on his face as he strode across the stage, enjoying every second of his time in the spotlight. Behind him came Yvonne Charbonneau, gray-haired and in her early sixties. As reserved as Jeb Hartson was outgoing, she held herself primly as she walked toward Hans, only the barest hint of a smile on her face.

Bringing up the tail end of the procession was Harold Dempsey, a professor of music at the University of British Columbia here in Vancouver. I’d taken one of his classes when I was a student there, and he hadn’t changed much in the intervening years, except perhaps for the addition of little more gray in his wavy dark brown hair. He raised a hand to the audience, giving them a nod and a smile on his way across the stage. When all three judges had shaken hands with Hans, they descended a short flight of stairs and took the seats reserved for them near the front of the theater.

When the applause for the judges had died down, Hans introduced the first piece of music we were going to play, Pavlina’s
Storm of Sorrows
. He provided a snippet of information about Pavlina herself, including an outline of her musical education. Then he moved on to speak about her composition, describing it as innovative and beautifully eerie. After he added a few more words about the piece, it was time to begin.

Hans took his place on the conductor’s podium and I raised my violin to my shoulder as my fellow musicians readied their own instruments. A short stretch of silence hung over the theater. Then, with a signal from Hans, we were off, bringing Pavlina’s composition to life.

Storm of Sorrows
had a distinctly modern flair, with the occasional dissonant, jarring phrase. Those parts weren’t quite to my personal musical taste, but overall, I couldn’t deny that the piece was beautiful, that it was uniquely Pavlina’s. The mournful and at times turbulent sounds created by each section of the orchestra blended together to create a haunting and memorable piece that I knew would leave a lasting impression on many members of the audience.

When we reached the last note and drew it out until Hans signaled the end of the piece, barely a second of silence held the theater in a captivated hush before a roar of applause erupted from the audience. The bright lights hid Pavlina from view where she sat in the front row of the theater, but I knew she had to be pleased. We’d given life to her musical vision, and the audience had accepted it with appreciation and gratitude.

Eventually, the applause died down and Hans approached the microphone once more. This time he spoke about Sherwin Banes and his composition,
A Winter Symphony
. While Sherwin hadn’t had the same media attention as Pavlina, he was still exceptionally talented.
A Winter Symphony
adhered more closely to the classical music of old than Pavlina’s did. In his music I could detect influences from Vivaldi, one of my favorite composers of all time. Although Pavlina’s
Storm of Sorrows
was arguably the most innovative of all the entries, Sherwin’s was more to my personal taste and I thoroughly enjoyed every movement of the symphony.