The Haunts & Horrors MEGAPACK®. Lawrence Watt-Evans
I’ll put water on.”
“Or open a bottle?” Faster asked. “Some of that Pinot Grigio?”
“Sure,” said Vanessa as she coded the alarm and opened the door. “Thirty seconds to get out.”
“Coming,” said Faster, moving past her with a wink. “You take good care of that.” He waited while she locked the door; following her across the small, green yard to the rear door of her house, he pondered how to bring up the most recent request he had received about the Dziwny forte-piano.
“Well, I can’t afford to have anything happen to it, can I?” she asked as she went ahead of him toward the house.
There was a mud-room that was mostly used for garden storage just inside the back door, and a good-sized pantry, then the handsomely remodeled modern kitchen with its island range on the central diagonal of the room, and double ovens against the wall. At the end of the island was a bar, three stools in place for informal dining, and Vanessa motioned to one of these. “Sit. I’ll get the wine as soon as the kettle’s on; I’ll be right back.” She grabbed the kettle and filled it at the sink, then set it on one of the six gas burners and lit it. For a long moment she stared at the yellow-tipped blue flames.
“Something wrong?” Faster inquired.
Vanessa shook her head. “No. No, I’m just tired.” She bustled out of the room and returned with a bottle, two stemmed glasses, and a corkscrew, all of which the thrust at Faster. “Here.”
He took them all and set about opening the bottle. “I had a call from Shotwell today.”
“Not more money,” Vanessa said at once. “Until I start getting receipts from concerts, I’m on a budget.”
“No, not more money.” He pulled out the cork and sniffed it, then poured wine into the two glasses. “Someone’s approached him about the forte-piano.”
“Oh, God,” she exclaimed, her heart sinking, “He’s had an offer to buy it.”
“No,” Faster assured her. “Nothing like that. A parapsychologist wants to run some tests on it.”
“A what?” She stopped in the act of taking down her favorite teapot.
“Parapsychologist. He’s supposed to have a pretty good reputation for psychometry.” He held one of the wine glasses out to her, feeling abashed.
“And Shotwell’s interested?” Vanessa was incredulous. She took the glass, but paid no attention to it.
“Apparently.” Faster said drily. “He’s accepted a hefty fee from the guy.”
“I’m surprised Shotwell didn’t try to find a psychic,” said Vanessa nastily.
“Now, now,” Faster warned her as he lifted his glass.
“Well, it smacks of the worst kind of sleaze, if you ask me.” She hurriedly turned off the flame under the shrieking kettle. “Sorry. I’m jumpy.”
“Rehearsal nerves,” said Faster at his most understanding.
“I guess,” Vanessa said without much conviction. In order to change this uncomfortable subject, she asked, “So who is this parapsychologist and what is he looking for in the Dziwny forte-piano? If it is a he?”
“Yes, a he. Doctor Christopher Warren.” He waited for her to say something, then went on. “He’s actually pretty well-known, and his work is taken seriously. He’s got a couple books out, and he’s on the lecture circuit.”
“Doing what? Psychometry?” She drank a little of the wine and then poured some of the hot water into the teapot to heat it. “I’m sorry. That was bitchy.”
“No problem. You’ve had a hard day. You’re allowed to blow off a little steam.” He watched her while she got down the cannister of tea. “Do you think you could use a day off?”
“No,” she said. “Why?”
Faster shrugged. “I just thought it might be easier to let Warren do whatever it is he intends to do while you’re out, is all.”
“You might be right about that,” she said after a moment. “But I think I should stay around. I’m responsible for the instrument, and who knows what Doctor Warren might do if he’s left to his own devices.”
“Okay. I’ll let Shotwell know and we’ll set the tests up,” said Faster. “How soon would you like it?”
“I don’t like it at all,” said Vanessa. “But do as you think best.” She went to empty the water from her teapot, then set the kettle boiling again as she loaded in two measures of Dragonwell leaves. “Just give me a couple days’ warning.”
“Will do,” Faster promised, pledging with his glass to make his point as emphatically as he could.
* * * *
Cummings Hall was small enough to be called “intimate” by critics, seating five hundred twenty-four, all with clear sight of the stage. The Dziwny forte-piano had been put on the broad apron, and the tuner was finishing up his work as Vanessa arrived to practice.
“Looks good,” said the tuner, removing his damping felts and giving the keys a cursory run. “Sounds good, too.”
“You’ll be staying here, to retune?” Vanessa asked.
“That’s the deal,” said the tuner. “I’ll be in the house-manager’s office, if you need me. I want to catch the game, if I can, while I have my lunch.” He strolled away, his attention no longer on the instrument.
Vanessa went over to the forte-piano and sat down, remaining still for a short while, letting the place and its ambience sink into her. She frowned as she thought about Professor Warren, who would arrive in an hour. The last thing she wanted was a publicity-seeking loony poking around the forte-piano, but Shotwell had agreed, so she had to make the best of it. Flexing her hands, she began a few Czerny exercises, her fingers moving automatically with the familiar cadences. Satisfied, she took a little time to collect her thoughts, and then began to play. The Six Fugues on Themes of Handel came more easily than she would have supposed. Fugues One and Two came and went, and Three began with a simple theme in G-minor, and Vanessa let the music carry her. The hall whispered, and the forte-piano rang, a thrilling sound that seemed to fill the space.
By the Fourth fugue, she was wonderfully lost in the music, caught up in Dwizny’s vision so completely that she was no longer aware of Cummings Hall, but felt as if she were at Lowenhoff, all those decades ago, caught up in a passion that had no place to go but into the notes being played. The fugue unwound elegantly, the melody moving from bass to treble, then flitted through the mid-range only to emerge in the treble again in a dazzling display of talent and training. Starting the Fifth fugue, Vanessa was unaware that she was being watched. Her hands played as if the movements were a martial art and she its greatest exponent. The sound came out flawlessly, the repeated musical images piled one atop another into an astonishing edifice of patterned tones. Without pause, she launched into the Sixth fugue, playing brilliantly until she suddenly stopped in the middle of a thematic statement, as if she had lost track of the music.
Trembling, she moved back on the bench and sat there, dazed and breathing hard. Her face was pale. She began to rub her palms on her skirt, nervously blinking as if she had finally become aware of her surroundings. Abruptly, she stood up and walked a half-dozen steps away from the instrument.
“Why did you stop?” asked an unknown voice from the middle of the empty hall.
Surprised, Vanessa looked up. “Who’s there?” she demanded sharply.
“Christopher Warren. I was told you’d be expecting me,” came the answer.
“Professor Warren,” she said with a hint of distaste. “I didn’t expect you so early.”
“It’s after twelve,” he said, leaving his seat and coming forward.