The Great Conductor

Dr. Korpacheff put her glasses back on and took another note. “How are things at work?”

“Busy. New cases come every other day.”

“Relationship with coworkers?”

“No screaming this week.”

Dr. Korpacheff nodded. “Things at home?”

“Well, apart from the blind date, nothing to write home about.”

“How are your hobbies going?”

During their first session, Christine had told Dr. Korpacheff about her obsession with stones and shooting, which helped her to relax and get her mind off some of the gruesome details of her job.

Christine believed that stones had energy that could cleanse her mind and protect her from negative energy from the outside world. Her mother, Connie, used to wear some beautiful beads, and little Christine used to like to touch them on her mother’s wrist. One day Connie showed her how to make a bracelet, and it slowly transitioned to amateur lapidary after finding some interesting stones—turquoise, agate, mother-of-pearl, tiger’s eye, and black onyx—that belonged to her mother. Back in the day, it was the only thing Christine liked to do whenever she had a break from her music.

The other hobby that helped Christine forget about the criminal world, to her grandparents’ surprise, was target shooting. “Don’t you get enough of that at your work?” her grandma would ask her every time Christine returned from practice. It was a sport that did not allow distractions from outside the shooting range, requiring total focus and calmness if one wanted to be good at it. If Christine was thinking about other things, it would show in her performance, and she would receive a quick reprimand from her coach. She was almost expecting Dr. Korpacheff to talk about the sensual aspect of shooting—Dr. Sigmund Freud definitely had something to say on that subject.

“Well, I don’t know what to say.” Christine shrugged. “I still make gemstone bead bracelets and target shoot regularly.”

“What do you do with the bracelets?” Dr. Korpacheff asked.

Christine showed her the beads she was wearing today—turquoise stones with a couple of silver beads. “I wear them, give them to people I care about, and sell them online sometimes.”

“Is there good money in it?”

“Not really. It’s just, they give people energy. I like to think that someone is wearing something I made.”

“What kind of energy would that be?”

“I don’t know. They promote healing and protection from negative energies, I guess.”

“Is that why you wear them?”

“I don’t know.” Christine looked at and played with her bracelet. “I think they’re pretty. I enjoy making them and . . . they remind me of my mother.”

Dr. Korpacheff nodded and made a note in her notebook. “What about shooting?”

Here we go, thought Christine. Now they would talk about the psychiatric significance of a woman operating a gun. “What about it?” Christine asked.

“I thought we’d agreed that I ask the questions here, Detective,” Dr. Korpacheff said with a smile.

“Right.” They indeed had agreed on that during their first session. Christine did not really need to think about this one. “I have to be ready when a critical situation presents itself,” she said.

“What happens when it does?” Dr. Korpacheff asked, taking her glasses off again.

Christine stopped playing with her bracelet, her mouth twitched with a smile, but her eyes remained serious. “I’ll be ready.”

Chapter 8

Sebastian was flossing his teeth in the second-floor bathroom of their rowhouse. This was where he performed his morning routine every day. He flossed twice a day, in the morning and evening. The process took two minutes and lasted until his gums began to bleed. After that, he rinsed his mouth with water and started brushing his teeth.

Paul complained that it was not healthy to floss so hard, but he could not change this habit that Lydia had hammered into him when he was young. “It’s not clean if it doesn’t bleed,” she would say through clenched teeth as she flossed his gums while he cried and asked her to stop. When Sebastian was old enough, he only flossed when he felt stressed. Then, it became part of his daily routine without him even thinking about it anymore, and the pink water that he spat into the sink became a part of his hygiene ritual.

When he finished flossing, he took his toothbrush and reminded himself once again to get a new one. The bristles on this one were all frayed and worn down, and it looked like it had been used to brush stones, not teeth. Sebastian once read an interesting story about the origin of toothbrushes with bristles, which were invented by the Chinese two thousand years ago and were made from coarse hog hairs. He looked at his brush and wondered if hog hairs would look equally frazzled after a few months of use.

Brushing his teeth properly was another ritual that came from Lydia, who believed that a good musician had to have a nice, toothy smile when they were onstage. “You may play brilliantly, but if your teeth aren’t white and straight, the image will not be complete. It will not be perfect. If you want to be a great musician, you must be perfect in every way,” she used to say. A powerful piece of music came to mind, “Nessun dorma,” from Puccini’s Turandot, an opera inspired by a Chinese music box the composer received as a gift. The opera contained Chinese tunes that Puccini found fascinating and tried to incorporate into his work. He loved the music and enjoyed hearing Luciano Pavarotti sing it.

Funny how the brain sometimes connects seemingly random things, he thought.

After he brushed his teeth, still humming “Nessun dorma,” Sebastian went to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee for himself. The house was quiet, and he decided not to bring the cup to his music shrine, but to enjoy the morning silence in the living room.

The Victorian house was built in the early twentieth century in what was now considered a historical district called Reservoir Hill. Sebastian’s grandparents on his father’s side arrived in Baltimore via Ellis Island, New York, in 1903, after leaving the Russian Empire, looking for a more stable environment for their family. They changed their surname from Kopalev to Copeland in order to assimilate into the new world, and with the money they brought, they purchased the rowhouse that Sebastian had called home all his life. Legend had it that they brought most of their wealth in the form of diamonds hidden in a leather pouch sewn into his great-grandfather’s underwear, which he never changed during their journey to America. Sebastian often wondered if those diamonds still smelled like his great-grandfather by the time the family had to make the purchase.

Before Lydia became the owner, the Copeland family had taken very good care of the house. It still had original pocket doors, wooden floors, decorative fireplaces, mantels, window shutters, four bedrooms, two half bathrooms, and just over three thousand square feet of space. This was more than enough for the current residents. The mahogany front door had a mail slot with an unlacquered, polished brass frame. Sebastian used to watch pedestrians through it when he was little. Polishing the thing was one of Sebastian’s chores, for which he sometimes received his ice cream allowance from his father. Lydia did not want him to go out alone in this neighborhood. Although it was not as fun as walking outside, Sebastian made the best of it by imagining himself as a submarine captain looking through his periscope at the “sea.” Dad’s record with “Yellow Submarine” on it helped to enhance the illusion when Lydia was not home.

He did not have to use his “periscope” to enjoy the street view anymore. Sebastian was sitting in Lydia’s armchair in her narrow living room, watching the lazy clouds through the bay windows, with a cup of coffee in his left hand and waving his right hand in time to the famous tune in his head. He was in a good mood, and it seemed as if it was going to be a beautiful August day with no private students today. Instead, he was going to practice, work on his music, take a long afternoon nap, and start looking for a concertmaster for the small ensemble that the Great Conductor had recommended for rehearsals as part of the second condition yet to be announced. He had even graciously suggested specific instruments that would be best for the early stage of rehearsal.

Yes, it would definitely be a great day, but first he had to do some things and needed time to get mentally prepared for it.

Fortunately, Lydia was not going to disrupt this tranquility with her constant demands. “Bring me some coffee, please.” Or “What’s wrong with you today? Why are you being so slow?” Or “Where are my pills?” Or . . . Whatever it was, it would no longer be a problem, because Lydia was sleeping, and she would not wake up anytime soon. In fact, she would never wake up at all.

Sebastian finished his coffee. It was time to make a phone call. He needed to contact emergency services and report his mother’s death. She had died in her sleep.

No more boiling eggs in the morning. No more distractions.

Chapter 9

It was a nice August day, and Christine was looking forward to enjoying her day off with her grandparents. She woke up pretty early in the morning to make sure she had enough time to do her chores.

She felt a dull ache in the muscles of her right hand after target shooting the night before. She’d had a stressful day at work—a witness in a case had changed his mind about testifying—and she’d decided to blow off some steam at the shooting range. It turned out that she’d had a lot of steam to blow off, which this morning manifested as a bruise in the webbing between her thumb and index finger. She would have to take it easy—no shooting for a day or two. She reminded herself not to forget her shooting glove next time.

Christine gently stretched her fingers, wrist, and forearm, and went to make herself a cup of coffee.

Her chores usually took up most of her day: laundry, cleaning the house, grocery shopping, and bead making. Although the work took most of her time, she still managed to get enough sleep. With a salary of forty-five dollars an hour as a homicide detective, she could afford to hire someone to help her clean the house weekly, but she preferred to do it herself.

Her house was big enough for a family of three or four, and she sometimes thought about this while doing laundry. It was something that definitely didn’t align with her income, as she had inherited the property after her parents passed away. Once her chores were done, she drove her nearly antique BMW 3 Series—still in great condition and affectionately named “Lucy”—to her grandparents’ house. The car had once belonged to Christine’s mother and was one of the first things her parents had indulged in when their business took off. In fact, it had been her father’s idea to buy it because he thought his wife looked “so cool in it.”

Today was going to be a special day because her other grandmother—Nancy Brooks—was going to join them. Christine had a small present for her. She’d made a new bracelet with opal triplets—one of Nancy’s birthstones—and was excited about giving it to her, adding to the substantial collection of bracelets that she had already given her grandmother.

Nancy was visiting from Phoenix, where she lived alone and stubbornly refused to move to Baltimore, closer to her family. She was known for her ironclad decisions that she rarely changed.

Fifty years ago, Nancy, a young army nurse, met Robert Brooks, her future husband and a military officer, while they were both stationed in West Germany during the Cold War. There were two Germanys at that time: West and East. Robert had gone to the infirmary for some pills and met Nancy, who he thought was the most beautiful woman in the world. He had been under her spell until he took his last breath shortly after his daughter’s death. Sadly, his heart could not handle it.

According to Veronica, Nancy was “a tough cookie,” which she had proven many times over. When the accident happened, she was the rock that the Hearts, her husband, and Christine could lean on. She took care of the funeral and all the paperwork to make sure Christine was protected from unnecessary meetings with lawyers dealing with the inheritance. She then buried her husband and stayed in the house they had shared all their married life. During that time, Nancy continued to follow up on the investigation into the accident, keeping the detectives on their toes, until Christine graduated from the police academy and took over. Christine always thought that the persistence and discipline she had acquired came from the Brooks’ side of the family.

“How long are you going to be in town, Granny?” Christine asked Nancy when they were sitting in the living room, each holding a cold drink while Veronica and Sam were making preparations in the kitchen. Nancy was admiring her new bracelet.

“It depends, dear,” she said mysteriously, and added, anticipating the question: “On you . . . actually.”

“Me?”

“That’s right, Detective.” Nancy smiled, looked in the direction of the kitchen to make sure they were not being heard, and leaned closer to Christine. “I hear you’re finally going on proper dates.”

“Well, one date is hardly—”

“It’s not about the quantity, dear, it’s about who you’re dating.”

Christine could not argue with that.

“Anyway,” Nancy continued. “I’m here for the intervention.” And, as if to make sure Christine understood whose intervention her granny was in town for, she added: “Your intervention, which was . . .” She sighed. “Well, it was actually planned before the date you’ve just been on, and I guess it’s not really necessary anymore, but I just wanted to see you. And perhaps the word ‘intervention’ is a bit too strong anyway; it was Veronica’s choice, not mine. We just wanted to have a chat with you about your life—that’s all.”

Christine laughed. “OK. Well, I’m glad you’re here either way, but what exactly did I need an intervention for?”

Nancy gave her a look as if to say “you know what I’m talking about” and took a slow sip from her glass—a cold Dr Pepper was one of the few sugary indulgences she allowed herself.

“I mean, I do get carried away with beading sometimes, but it doesn’t hurt anyone as far as I know,” Christine said, still smiling.

“Funny,” Nancy said. “If you think about it, though, there is a victim. And it’s—”

“Let me guess. It’s me. Right? The beading stands in the way of my being properly happy, doesn’t it?”

“That bruise on your hand didn’t come from beading, did it?” Nancy asked, and Christine covered her right hand even though it was too late. Her granny smiled. “We want you to be happy and to consider this nice young man as a possibility.”

“A possibility?”

“For a life that doesn’t involve chasing psychos, shooting, and being bullied in the office.”

Christine looked in the direction of the kitchen. “You know about my office incidents, huh?”

Nancy put down her glass and took Christine’s hand. “Veronica is only a phone call away, darling. We talk, and she gives me updates when you forget to call.” She gently patted Christine’s hand, “Have I told you the story of how I met your grandfather?”

“Only half a dozen times,” Christine said, putting down her glass and getting ready to hear the story again.

“Well, it won’t hurt to hear it one more time, will it?” When she saw Christine shaking her head, she continued: “I asked to be transferred to Germany because I’d just finished a nasty relationship with a pretty violent man and desperately wanted to turn over a new leaf. I had lost hope in men and thought that I would never get married, but then I met Bobby, Captain Robert Brooks, and my life has never been the same. He not only restored my faith in . . . the opposite gender but in people in general, you know?”

“I do,” Christine said.

“That happened only because I was willing to take that leap of faith and trust someone else again. It was not easy, and I had a lot of doubts, but everything turned out well.” Nancy paused for a moment and gave a rueful smile. “You know, I have you. And it wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t go on a date with your grandfather. Do you understand what I mean?”

Christine nodded and pondered for a minute. “For the record, I don’t get bullied in the office. I take care of my problems.”

“I know you do, but . . . are you going to live the rest of your life like that? Taking care of other people’s ‘problems’?”

“You took care of many people’s problems, didn’t you?”

“I won't lie to you; I take pride in what we did when I was in the corps. But . . .” She smiled. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to share your life with someone? You know, talk to someone when you get home. Go to the movies and, I don’t know, shop together. What do young people do these days? Besides, you’re my only chance to see my great-grandchildren.”

Christine laughed. “Not sure if going to the movies will get you any great-grandchildren soon, but . . .” Christine covered her granny’s hands with her own. “I get what you’re saying. I do. I just . . .”

They had been having different versions of the same conversation for a few years now, but it was mostly over the phone. Her grandparents were always tactful enough not to use the “your parents would want you to do it” card; that could have definitely triggered some serious defense mechanisms that Christine always knew were inside her.

She felt their love, she truly did, but there was an impenetrable obstacle between her and her happiness. It was as if she could never allow herself to enjoy life because she felt responsible for her parents’ lives that had been taken from her. Why? Because, deep down, she blamed herself for having insisted on them being there. If only they had done something else that day . . . That was something she tried very hard not to think about, but she couldn’t help it.

“You’ll never feel ready to be with someone without trying, but . . . you do need to try and put behind you whatever is holding you back. You know what I’m talking about. Oh, look at that!” Nancy exclaimed, pointing at Sam, who came in holding a big steaming dish of pot roast and carried it to the dining table, which had already been set for lunch.

“I hope you girls are hungry because there’s a lot more food where this came from,” he said, smiling.

“Let’s eat, shall we?” Veronica said, coming out of the kitchen with a plate full of steaming corn on the cob—Christine’s favorite.

***

During lunch, Veronica gave everyone an update on the local news: An old couple whose house was two doors down had been sent to a nursing home by their children (“They were actually happy to go because they couldn’t take care of the place anymore”) and the house had gone up for sale (“They might get a good price for it”), there had been some untimely deaths (“An old friend’s neighbor passed away in her sleep. She wasn’t very nice, but . . . it makes you think”), prices were going up (“You can’t believe how much we have to spend on groceries”), and she told Nancy more about Victor, leading to an obvious segue to the upcoming “intervention.”

“Why don’t we eat dessert in the living room?” Sam asked everyone and looked at his wife as if it were some code word.

Christine smiled. “You can start your interrogation here; I don’t mind.”

“What are you talking about?” Veronica asked innocently.

“Come on.” Christine waved her hand as if inviting them to start talking. “Let’s hear what you have to say about my date and what I should do next.”

“What about dessert?” Sam asked.

“We can multitask,” Nancy piped in. She stood up and went to the kitchen to get the éclairs Veronica had bought that morning. “Coffee, everyone?” Her voice came from the kitchen.

“I’ll help her,” Sam said and hurried away.

Veronica shook her head, looking as if she was abandoned by her conspirators, then, glancing at Christine, and smiled. “That was a lovely bracelet you made for Nancy,” she said, stalling for time.

“Do you want me to make you a new bracelet as well?” Christine asked, not wanting to put her grandmother on the spot.

“Well . . . I love the garnet bracelet you gave me for my birthday.” Christine knew that it was her granny’s polite way of telling her she already had more than enough.

“You aren’t wearing it now,” Christine said in a mockingly accusatory tone.

“Oh, I was just . . . do you want me to?” Veronica was getting ready to stand up and get the bracelet.

“No, it’s fine, Granny.” Christine put her hand on Veronica’s shoulder. “I’ll make you another one, though,” she said and kissed her on the cheek. It would make the fifteenth bracelet she would make for her granny, but who was counting?

Veronica smiled back and seemed to relax a little.

“Here’s the dessert,” Nancy said, walking in with a big box of éclairs, followed by Sam with a coffeepot and cups. “Let’s eat and talk.” She placed the box on the table, opened it, and started placing delicious-looking éclairs onto plates.

“We were just talking . . .” Veronica began.

“Oh, good,” Nancy said and added, cutting to the chase: “So, love, when are you going to call that Victor person and ask him on a second date?”

“Well . . .” Christine looked at her grandparents, who seemed to freeze, waiting for her reaction. “I guess I’ll call him tonight, then,” Christine said, taking a plate with the dessert and unfreezing the scene.

“That’s what people who decide to move forward do. Right?”

“And don’t let others tell you otherwise,” Nancy said, taking a healthy bite from her chocolate éclair. “Oh my goodness. This is a delicious éclair,” she said, still chewing.

“You should try the one with caramel, hon,” Veronica said excitedly and took her plate. “It’s out of this world.”

“So much for intervention,” Sam said with a smile, pouring the coffee into mugs.

Chapter 10

Vincent Addario had always considered himself an extremely lucky man. He was number one in his music class, gave inspiring violin performances as a teenager, and became a soloist for a short time after winning a regional competition. He wasn’t even terribly upset when his agent told him that his solo career would end soon, because he had lined up some promising auditions with respectable orchestras.

Vincent always knew that he would eventually become a great concertmaster, and he believed it was his destiny to work with great conductors. So, when one of his former, well-connected colleagues told him about an upcoming, secret audition for the position of concertmaster, Vincent gladly agreed to attend the meeting at an unknown location, even though it was late. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and Vincent did not want to miss it. Following his colleague’s advice, Vincent kept the meeting a secret, not wanting to jinx his chance of getting what he wanted so much. Finally, his old violin, on loan from a wealthy lady who had faith in him all this time, would be given the proper attention it deserved from the audience.

The colleague was waiting for him at the designated place, and Vincent felt a tingling sensation of excitement in his stomach, anticipating big changes. The colleague showed him to a door in the redbrick building, which looked like an old warehouse, and let Vincent walk inside first. Vincent smelled a whiff of alcohol on the colleague. He can probably afford to have one at this hour. He’s not auditioning, Vincent thought and smiled. Vincent could use a drink himself to steady his nerves. Perhaps later, after he got the position?

Just as Vincent stepped inside, he felt something cold around his neck. When he tried to touch it to see what it was, he felt a strong push from behind, and the thing around his neck became excruciatingly tight, painfully digging into his flesh. He tried to remove it, but he couldn’t get a grip with his fingers and felt it cutting in deeper. He wanted to scream for help but couldn’t make a sound as he was holding his breath. He jerked back and forth, trying to get away, but was held in a strong grip, as if in a vise. While his body fought for survival, part of his mind hadn’t yet registered what was happening; it felt too surreal.