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  Death Is the Cool Night

  Title Page

  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 Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Epilogue

  Notes from the Author

  About Libby Sternberg

  ISTORIA BOOKS

  —Books You Want to Read—

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  DEATH IS THE COOL NIGHT

  A mystery novella by

  Libby Sternberg

  Copyright 2010 Libby Sternberg

  Istoria Books

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  Books written by Libby Sternberg are available through the author’s

  official website:

  www.LibbysBooks.com

  Other Istoria Books titles are available through the publishers

  official website:

  http://www.istoriabooks.com/

  With much love and gratitude, to Matthew

  Dearest,

  If you sign the papers and return them to my lawyer, that is sufficient. In the meantime, I am grateful for your letters, which are a welcome thread to the “outside” world. All I seem to be capable of doing is waiting … .

  Do you know what I think of often? My hands and their hideous scars! That’s because you hear of so many injuries of one sort or another here, and I feel the need to hide my ugly hands—before, they were the mark of a disgraceful carelessness, but now they signify something not mine to claim. The other men will think I “earned” them in some way.

  My sacrifice—a future as a “renowned” concert pianist—seems small compared to that of others. It seems so silly here, to have a dream of anything except reprieve.

  I have to explain that no, my hands were injured eight years ago, when I thought pleasing my family was the path to peace. I know now such a path doesn’t exist, neither in my own life, nor the world’s. It is, after all, the spring of 1942, and like many of the men here, I’m tired and hungry most of the time. I’m sick of lots of things. But not of hearing from you, my darling. I hope you don’t mind if I call you that. Other men have sweethearts outside. Let us pretend you are mine.

  Write again soon. Write every day. Every hour. When many letters come at once, it feels like Christmas morning … .

  Yours,

  Gregory

  Chapter One

  One year earlier: Fall 1941

  “He’s dead. I don’t know how yet. Just got the call this morning.”

  You’d think I could have kept a straight face at such news—the death of the conservatory’s opera conductor, Ivan Roustakoff. You’d think I could have managed a pang of regret. Instead I found my lips curling up into a smile and my breath easy, as if news of a disaster being averted had just reached my ears.

  Ivan, the bastard who made my life as rehearsal pianist miserable, was dead. Well, well, well.

  I cleared my throat. “So sorry,” I managed to murmur, looking down. I’d had a quick shot of gin to fortify myself for the day and didn’t want my breath giving it away.

  “It’s terrible, of course. He has a sister—she’s a wonderful supporter of the conservatory. And that fiancé of his—”

  “Renee,” I said, providing the name to the conservatory dean.

  Not Renee. Renata. But she, like many singers, had changed her name to appear as if she were a refugee from a more sympathetic country. Aggressor names were unfashionable. Despite a thick German accent, the tenor singing Calaf was Hank Miller. Teutonic blonde hair and shining blue eyes, and a father who served in the Freikorps, beating back forces of rebellion in Berlin. Hank! Hans was more likely.

  Dean Whiley stubbed out a cigarette with perfectly manicured fingernails. He wore a suit so neatly tailored and pressed that someone might have finished the last seam just that morning. His thick gray hair needed no pomade to stay in place. His blue eyes reflected the color of his bloodline. He sat behind an ornately carved desk, probably some gift from a philanthropist’s trip to Europe. The desk was too large for most rooms, but the Dean’s office was spacious, with arched windows nearly to the ceiling letting in the cold light of morning.

  “You want me to notify the cast and orchestra of the cancellation?” I asked.

  We had been rehearsing Puccini’s Turandot, an overly ambitious piece for student performers. But Roustakoff himself had been consumed with ambition. His plan had been to entice the great Rosa Ponselle, retired and living at Villa Pace outside Baltimore, to his production, and to so mightily impress her with his ability to squeeze something sweet from these sour lumps of students that she would lend her grand name to an opera company he wanted to start. He hadn’t been stupid, though. He’d known he might be able to coax beautiful performances from chorus and comprimario players, but he wouldn’t risk the leads on neophytes—thus the contract players Renata and Hans—nor would he allow students to bumble around the stage, demonstrating their lack of acting ability. It wasn’t a staged production. It was opera in concert.

  “Not a cancellation. A change in plans.” Dean Whiley let a flicker of a grimace cross his face, telegraphing this was a decision with which he didn’t agree.

  “You have conducting experience,” he said, looking me straight in the eyes. The gaze said something else. It said “you’re not up to this.”

  “Yes,” I said, countering his assessment. Conducting didn’t require supple hands.

  “Davidson is on some tour,” he explained, referring to the other conservatory conductor. “And, of course, the rehearsal schedule is unusually long—several months, I believe. You’d have more than adequate time. And if you need more than what’s already planned, I’m sure we can fit other practice days on the schedule.”

  “I can do it.” Even if I couldn’t, I’d not admit it to him. “I know the score. I’m ready. I knew I’d have to fill in if Maestro Roustakoff were ill. So I’m ready.”

  He looked surprised, as if I’d violated a rule of etiquette, talking about how capable I was.

  “All right. I suggest we make the announcement at rehearsal. We’ll compensate you, of course. Teaching assistant level, most likely.” He waved the air as if these details weren’t important. But they were crucial to me. My pantry was bare. I didn’t wear tailored suits.

  I knew not to press. These moneyed people thought talking about money was crass. I’d work that out with some paymaster in the basement.

  He stood, and I followed his lead, holding out my hand as a gentleman, an equal. He smiled and nodded and reached for my hand to shake on this deal.

  And for one second, or a sliver of a second, I saw him hesitate, just the tiniest retraction, the smallest revulsion. But who wouldn’t be rep
elled by the gruesome mitt poking from beneath my frayed cuff? It looked something raw, caught in a meat grinder, a bulging red and purple scar covering the top, and white ridges on the palm. I was lucky I could feed myself, let alone play a piano at all.

  “Good luck, Gregory,” he said, hardly gripping my hand. He shouldn’t have been afraid of hurting it. I’d grown used to the constant ache.

  ***

  I spent the rest of the morning studying the score in a corner of the library—the big Peabody library with its four stories of wrought-iron balconies lining the walls. My hands floated in the air in my shadowed nook as I looked at each page, stopping to make notes on entrances, interpretation. I didn’t need food. Puccini’s glorious last opera sated me, playing in my mind’s ear at a volume that kept the rest of the world in muted darkness. Only this creative burst glowed deep. From time to time, I sipped from my flask, letting the liquor burn my throat and clear my inner vision.

  This all would have been ecstasy except for an occasional pinch of pain. Not pain in my hands—I was numbing that with the alcohol—but pain of remembrance. Or rather, lack thereof. I had lapses, you see, starting with the time after my accident when medicine and liquor combined to erase whole mornings, afternoons, and evenings from my history.

  Now I struggled to conjure up memories of the last time I’d seen Ivan. At a practice with the leads. In the big hall on the second floor. He’d abused me as usual. And then…

  What exactly had I been doing last night, the night Ivan died? Where had I been—oh yes, the practice building down the street with its four floors of studios. I’d been there. That was it. I could breathe.

  ***

  From salvation to jeopardy, all in one day.

  As soon as I entered the cavernous rehearsal hall that afternoon, a brown-suited man with pasty complexion touched me on the sleeve and asked for a word. I noticed he glanced at my hands but didn’t comment on them. He must have been told by someone to look for the one with the damaged paws.

  In the corner, by the door, he introduced himself.

  “Sean Reilly.” He flashed a badge. “Can we go somewhere not so noisy?”

  Optimistic—that’s what this Sean fellow was, if his suit was any indication. It pulled at the buttons and cramped his shoulders. Maybe he hoped to fit it one day. I nodded to the hallway, and we stepped outside.

  “Where were you last night?” he asked after asking my name.

  Funny—I’d been pondering that question all throughout the day. I thought I had enough detail to stand up to scrutiny. I’d soon find out.

  Somehow I’d already guessed that Ivan wasn’t just dead. He had been killed. How, I wondered, glad to be able to wonder. If I didn’t know…

  “Home.” Yes, I’d gone home after sitting in the studio. That recollection was clear.

  “Anyone with you?”

  “No, I was alone.”

  Damn but I wanted a smoke. I wondered if I had time for one before rehearsal. I didn’t want to light it and let it go to waste. And maybe lighting up a cigarette made one look guilty?

  “You weren’t here for the practice?”

  So he knew about the practice, a private affair that had made me so angry I’d drank myself to sleep after walking half the way home through misty rain.

  Ivan had been there with his two stars—Renata and Hans—and that simpering vocal student Laura, who turned pages for me.

  Ivan had told me to meet him at the conservatory at five and we’d all “get to know each other.” I’d assumed he’d take us out to dinner. I’d counted on it. He’d made it sound so festive, so gay. But no, once at the conservatory, he’d immediately mocked me. I’d been dressed in my best jacket, and he noticed. And when I’d divulged the reason—my assumption we were dining out—he’d guffawed. This early, my boy? Oh that’s right, you’re used to sitting down to supper once the afternoon shift’s over, I imagine.

  Nothing was too obvious or too low for Ivan, yet everyone laughed because they assumed he was clever. He forced them to believe it.

  Here, hold this, will you? His blasted cola, his constant drink during rehearsals. Sometimes it smelled of rum, which didn’t bother me, a fellow boozer, but made me envious of his ability to hide it so well. He joked about satisfying his sweet tooth, about it being his peculiar American vice. But it wasn’t his only vice. My god, you only needed to look at Renata to see the other—he introduced her as his fiancé! Or the besotted Laura, who was nervous as a bird around him.

  And so for more than an hour we’d pounded out Turandot. My hands, already sore from an afternoon of play at my friend Salvatore’s house where I’d entertained his sisters with the latest popular tunes, rebelled. After too many octaves—that score wasn’t made for piano, dammit, it was for orchestra—a pain shot through my wrist and up my arm like a knife sluicing through the skin. I’d cried out and retracted my hand, holding the wrist and sucking in my lips.

  And Ivan—he must have seen the look of pity in Laura and Renata’s eyes—he quickly doused their sympathy with lightheartedness, making a joke about how it was time to stop and put them all out of their misery. He knew his audience well. People don’t like to think of my suffering. So he’d provided them with the distraction from those unpleasant thoughts, turning compassion into mere camaraderie. How he forced people to love him!

  But that Laura girl, she didn’t succumb. Not that evening. She’d asked me after the rehearsal if I was all right. I’d said yes, seething with anger. My hand shaking from anguish and rage, I couldn’t even light my cigarette. She lit it for me. And later, I noticed her heading to the practice rooms in the building down the street. I followed her there—for what? For nothing.

  I ended up in a studio alone, watching the rain fall on the city, listening to random voices in the stairwell, wondering what they meant. I don’t remember how long I was there. It was a black swath of time with intermittent memories. And here was one:

  Before sitting there alone, I’d had my own encounter with Ivan on the stairs. Away from his audience, he didn’t sweeten his cruelty. You’re not up to the task. It will only get harder. I can use Chalmers to play instead.

  He’d fired me.

  And then I’d gone home, poured myself a whisky, and fallen asleep at my kitchen table in the basement of my Baltimore rowhouse, a far cry from the expansive homes that Ivan and Whiley and even that Laura girl lived in.

  All this—without detail, especially the one involving the firing—I told the detective. He wrote notes in a small pad he kept in his jacket pocket. He thanked me, asked me where to find a few folks, like Renata and Hans who were not on the schedule today, and stepped out of the way, as if looking for others whose names he didn’t want to divulge.

  Laura arrived and scanned the growing crowd as well. She was met by the detective. Someone must have described her to him as well—golden hair, porcelain face, green eyes. She was a beauty. She shook her head. She nodded. She said things too low to hear. He let her go, and she immediately approached me.

  “Maestro Silensky,” she said.

  “Please, call me Gregory.”

  “I just told the detective that we were in the practice studios last night. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Yes, but I’d not known she’d noticed me.

  “Of course.” Now, however, I’d have to amend my story with the detective, letting him know I’d seen Laura there, implying perhaps, as she’d implied, that we’d actually been in a room together. Or had we? Had she visited me—had I visited her? Each other’s alibi. Was it a kindness she’d done for me, or one I was doing for her?

  I was already uneasy—I didn’t want to make a fool of myself before the musicians—and now the smallest tentacle of another kind of fear began curling its way up my spine.

  I shook it away and entered the rehearsal room. This was where I belonged. This, at last, was payment for my suffering.

  ***

  I stood at the podium, baton at my side twitching out an unheard beat
while with my right hand I flipped through the pages of the opera score.

  Once a sculpture gallery, the hall was vast in proportions, its walls reaching up nearly two stories and its windows large enough for a crowd to stand in comfortably. In an attempt to dampen the room’s overly-live acoustics, some long-forgotten administrator had hung a large, faded tapestry on one wall. But still the room reverberated with sound. Students joked that they could sing duets with themselves in it.

  At that moment, I wished I could sing. Immersing myself in the score had restored my equilibrium. Now Puccini’s glorious music filled my mind again, pushing out all other anxiety, framing bad memories as operatic scenes to be felt from an emotional distance.

  Last evening in this hall, Roustakoff had humiliated me. The detective’s questions had brought back more memory and I now filled in the history.

  Once in the hall, Roustakoff had lost no time, immediately calling out “The second act,” as if the room had been full of adoring students. He’d waved the downbeat and I had played the B flat minor chord that signaled the start of the section in which Turandot poses her three riddles to Calaf.

  And as soon as my hands had found the first chords, I knew it would be a disaster for me, that I’d be soaking my hands all night because of the stinging pain.

  The Reed girl had fed my irritation. She had stared at my hands when she thought I wasn’t looking. As soon as she sensed my gaze, she looked away.

  “Straniero, ascolta!” Renata had sung into the empty hall yesterday. Stranger, listen! Her voice—dark and large, but a fast vibrato that made it warm, not sloppy.

  As she sang the first riddle—“everyone invokes it, everyone implores it, but this phantom vanishes at dawn and is born again in every heart”—I had to reach up to turn the page myself because Laura was staring slack-jawed at Renata—no, not Renata, at Turandot herself, cold, bitter, yet eerily sympathetic, someone who had been branded by pain so deep that she struck out at those around her.