Death in a Major Read online

  “Are you warm enough, Dad?”

  Major swatted her hand away. “Stop fussing. I don’t need your incompetent brand of help.”

  My eyes widened at the rancor in his voice. So did Mrs. Duffy’s. She choked back a sob and turned away from her father, quickly squeezing her way through the crowd.

  I glared at the back of Major’s head. What a mean old bastard.

  He continued to grumble under his breath. The frizzy-­haired woman patted his shoulder again and spoke to him in quiet, soothing tones.

  I set my empty champagne glass down on a nearby table and searched the room for Mrs. Duffy. I spotted her just as she slipped out through a door at the far end of the room. Abandoning my plan to join my fellow violinists, I worked my way through the crowded room until I reached the far door. I pushed it open and slipped out into a corridor lined with the same red carpeting as the reception room.

  There was no one in sight. I knew there was an exit around the corner, so it was possible that Mrs. Duffy had stepped outside to collect herself. I wasn’t sure if I should continue to look for her to make sure she was okay. Maybe she’d prefer to be left alone. After all, I didn’t know her particularly well. I’d taught her son, Jordan, violin for seven years, but had never talked to her for more than a few minutes at a time, and the topics of our conversations had always stayed confined to her son’s progress or lesson schedules. Certainly we’d never discussed anything personal or established any sort of friendship.

  I turned back to the door, intending to return to the reception room.

  “What are you doing here?” a female voice asked.

  I spun around, thinking the question had been aimed at me, but I was still alone.

  “I need some cash,” a man said.

  “And you think I have extra lying around?” I recognized the female voice as belonging to Mrs. Duffy. “You know I’m having my own financial troubles since I left Gregory.”

  I paused with my hand on the doorknob. I knew this was a conversation that wasn’t meant for my ears, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to go back into the reception room. I’d always been too curious for my own good.

  Two quiet steps took me farther along the corridor, closer to the branch that led to the exit.

  “Of course I know,” the male voice said. “I need you to get some money off Dad for me.”

  “Kevin, you know I can’t do that. If I even mention your name these days he goes through the roof.”

  The man let out a string of colorful swearwords, most of them unsavory descriptors aimed at Mr. Major Senior. “Can’t you pretend it’s for you? I’m desperate here, sis.”

  “I can’t.” Mrs. Duffy sounded close to tears. “He’s not much happier with me than he is with you lately. He thinks I’m a failure since my marriage fell apart.”

  “Has he been bullying you again?”

  Mrs. Duffy sniffled.

  I jumped as a loud bang reverberated along the corridor.

  “Kevin! Be careful!” Mrs. Duffy admonished in a hushed voice. “You almost put a hole in the wall.”

  “That damn bastard,” Kevin spat. “Always trying to make everyone else miserable.”

  A door opened nearby and a draft of chilly air wafted along the corridor toward me.

  “Where are you going?” Mrs. Duffy asked, her voice tight with worry.

  “I’ve had enough of the old miser,” Kevin said. “And I’m going to make sure we never have to deal with him ever again.”

  A door slammed shut, the noise jolting me into motion. Not wanting Mrs. Duffy to know I’d overheard the conversation, I slipped back into the reception room and pulled the door closed behind me.

  Chapter Two

  THE CHATTER OF dozens of happy voices was as soothing to my ears as a lullaby after the unsettling conversation I’d just overheard. Despite my initial curiosity, I no longer had any desire to know more about the dynamics of Mr. Major’s family. Clearly they weren’t a cheery, love-­filled bunch, and that saddened me, particularly since I was quite fond of Major’s grandson, Jordan. But perhaps the family was simply experiencing an unusual rough patch. The exchange between Mrs. Duffy and her brother led me to seriously doubt that, but what did I know? For Jordan’s sake, I hoped his family life was better than what my recent eavesdropping had suggested.

  As I made my way back through the reception room, I decided to switch my focus to something far more pleasant than Mr. Major and his family—­free food. I sampled a few fancy hors d’oeuvres and another delectable petit four. I chatted with some of my fellow musicians as I ate, enjoying both the food and the company. A viola player who’d studied music at the University of British Columbia at the same time as me had run into our music history professor the day before. We reminisced briefly about his outfits, which were always comprised of khaki pants and one of the same five hand-­knitted sweaters. Apparently, that hadn’t changed since our graduation.

  When the two of us had finished sharing our memories with the others, the group’s conversation shifted to football, a subject I knew nothing about and had little interest in. Finishing off my last morsel of cake, I decided to follow it up with a cup of tea.

  Detaching myself from the group, I headed for a hot-­water urn set on one of the white-­clothed tables. From a selection of pretty teacups set out on the table, I chose one decorated with red sweet peas and filled it with water. As I held my cup beneath the nozzle, Mr. Major wheeled himself toward me. Somehow I managed to keep my groan under my breath.

  Lucky for me, it turned out that the man was more interested in somebody else and didn’t notice me. I let out a sigh of relief as he wheeled past me to approach Dr. Daniel Beaufort, the PGP’s vice chair, who was helping himself to a cup of coffee.

  “Mr. Major,” Beaufort greeted when he looked up and saw the other man. He didn’t sound thrilled to be in Major’s presence.

  “Beaufort,” Major returned, his voice holding a note of condescension. “I hope you’ve thought about what we discussed the other day.”

  I inched my way along the table, hoping to distance myself from the men and their conversation. Still, I couldn’t help but overhear their next exchange, despite the fact that Dr. Beaufort lowered his voice to little more than a harsh whisper.

  “Threatening me will be ineffective. It’s also something I’d advise against.”

  Major sneered at Beaufort. “Something tells me you’ll change your tune if the symphony and your career suffer because of your inability to listen to reason. Why don’t we find out?”

  “Do your worst,” Beaufort snarled. “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Is that so?” Major’s watery eyes glinted with malice. “I wonder what the police would find if I called them tonight.”

  A dark flush crept up Beaufort’s tanned neck. “If you do that, you’re the one who will end up looking foolish.”

  A cold smile pulled at Mr. Major’s dry lips. “I doubt that.”

  Beaufort said something in return, but he’d lowered his voice further and I couldn’t hear his next words. I was glad of that. I didn’t want to spend any more of my evening listening in on other ­people’s unpleasant conversations. What was wrong with everyone, anyway? The reception was supposed to be a pleasant, happy occasion. Maybe it was for the majority of attendees, but Mr. Major seemed to have a special knack for spreading animosity and negativity.

  I resolved to steer clear of him for the rest of the evening. I didn’t want anything more to do with his bad vibes or his sleaziness. Plus forcing myself to be polite around him might not be so easy now that I’d had a few glimpses of his true personality. The guy might be rich and he might be the symphony’s most generous benefactor, but that didn’t mean he should get away with treating other ­people like dirt. The problem was, it seemed like he did get away with it, and I knew all of us musicians would be expected to treat him with
respect. After the last hour, I didn’t want to be in that position, so I figured it was best to keep well away from him.

  I watched out of the corner of my eye as Dr. Beaufort stalked away from Major, his expression clouded with dark anger. As I turned away from both men, I nearly collided with Mrs. Duffy.

  “Oh, hello, Midori,” she said as she brushed a strand of her brown hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear. She’d regained her composure and showed no signs of her earlier distress. “The concert was lovely.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  The frizzy-­haired woman I’d seen hovering near Mr. Major earlier in the evening bustled up to us and put a hand on Mrs. Duffy’s arm. “Sorry to interrupt, Andrea, but I think it might be time for your father to switch over to coffee.” She glanced at me before leaning closer to Mrs. Duffy and whispering, “He’s starting to slur his words.”

  Mrs. Duffy attempted to smile—­at least I thought that was the expression she was going for—­but it ended up looking more like a pained grimace. “Thank you, Marjorie. I’ll be right there.” She nodded at me. “Excuse me.”

  “Of course.” I remained where I stood and watched as she accompanied Marjorie back to her father.

  She snatched a half-­empty champagne flute from her father’s hand and passed it to Marjorie, who placed it on a table out of his reach. Mrs. Duffy grabbed a clean cup from the nearby table and headed for the coffee urn.

  Gareth Hollingsworth, the chair of the PGP’s executive committee, stepped in to meet her in front of the urn and took the cup from her, filling it with hot coffee as he spoke to her in a whisper. I had no chance of catching his words or reading his lips—­not that I wanted to—­because he had his back to me. Mrs. Duffy nodded at whatever he’d said, and he gave her the cup.

  She returned to her father’s side and handed him the coffee. He made a face of disgust but, to my surprise, didn’t argue with her.

  I realized why a second later. As soon as Mrs. Duffy and Marjorie had turned their backs to him, he slipped a silver flask out from beneath his jacket and added a dollop of something to his coffee.

  Sneaky.

  I felt bad for Mrs. Duffy. Dealing with her father couldn’t be easy. But at least the evening was almost over. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to put up with him much longer that night.

  Weaving my way around several clusters of ­people, I found Mikayla with Bronwyn—­another violinist—­and a percussionist named Anton. Bronwyn had a large shoulder bag hooked over her arm and seemed tense.

  “I need to get home,” she said after I greeted the group. “The baby is sick and I don’t want to leave my husband to cope on his own for too long.”

  We saw her off with goodbyes and well wishes for her sick baby, and then went back to chatting and—­in my case—­drinking tea.

  Janine Ko and cellist Nina Kim joined our group, and our conversation soon turned to our plans for the weekend.

  “My quartet is playing at a wedding on Sunday,” Janine said, “but I’m hoping to walk the seawall tomorrow if the weather’s nice.”

  “I didn’t know you played in a quartet,” I said.

  “It’s a new thing. A ­couple of friends asked if I was interested in forming a quartet and I figured it was a good way to earn some extra cash. I want to stay on top of my car payments and student loans.”

  “I hear you with the car payments,” Mikayla said.

  The conversation continued, but in my head I replayed what Janine had said. As mean as Elena’s words were earlier, maybe she wasn’t wrong. If Janine needed extra money to pay off her debt, it was unlikely that she could afford a genuine designer handbag. Although maybe such frivolous purchases were the reason why she needed the extra cash to make her loan and lease payments.

  Deciding it didn’t matter to me either way, I pushed those thoughts out of my head and tried to tune back into the conversation going on around me. Once I’d caught up, I added a few words of my own. But as I finished off my hot drink, I realized that my energy was draining out of me drip by drip. There was no clock on display in the reception room and I’d left my cell phone in my locker, but I figured it was late enough that I could quietly slip away and head for home. I’d had my fill of food, and the thought of a hot bath appealed to me far more than hanging around the theater and continuing to mingle. I liked most of my fellow musicians and considered some of them good friends, but it had been a long, busy week and I was ready to ease into its coda.

  As a waitress with an empty tray passed by, I held out my teacup and saucer. The waitress paused and I placed the china on her tray before she continued on through the crowd.

  Two other musicians joined our group but Mikayla pulled me aside and lowered her voice. “You didn’t have any other awkward moments with the maestro this evening, did you?”

  “No, thank goodness. One was more than enough. And I should be safe now because I’m going to head home.”

  She snagged my sleeve with her fingers. “But we never finished our talk about Aaron.”

  My stomach threatened to twist into knots again. “There’s not much to talk about. Besides, I’m beat. I want to go home and get some sleep.”

  Although her eyes narrowed with suspicion, she let go of my sleeve. “Okay, see you next week.”

  “Bye.” Relieved to escape, I waved to Anton and the others. Then I aimed for the nearest door.

  I smiled at a few familiar faces but didn’t stop to chat with anyone else, not wanting to delay my exit by getting pulled into a conversation. As I reached the edge of the reception room and approached the door, a man’s voice rang out above the chattering of the crowd.

  “Get away from me!”

  I swung around as conversations broke off throughout the room. Everyone’s attention, including mine, zeroed in on Mr. Major. He swore and threw his coffee cup at Mrs. Duffy. She jumped back with a gasp, barely managing to avoid the dregs of dark liquid that splashed toward her.

  Her expression as shocked as everyone else’s, frizzy-­haired Marjorie moved in to placate the elderly man. He lashed out at her as soon as she drew near, hitting her hard in the face. This time several gasps sounded from the onlookers.

  Major struggled out of his wheelchair. “You’re trying to kill me, all of you! Don’t think I don’t know. I’ll have you thrown in jail!” He staggered forward and the crowd parted to keep clear of him.

  Dr. Beaufort dodged around several stunned musicians and season ticket holders to close in on the scene. Hans and the chair of the Point Grey Philharmonic’s executive committee weren’t far behind him. Almost without realizing what I was doing, I moved in closer myself.

  “How about we calm down, Mr. Major,” Beaufort said in a level voice.

  Major swayed on his feet, patches of red on his perspiring face. He fixed his eyes on Beaufort, his nostrils flaring as he let out a wheezing breath. “Miscreant!”

  He charged like a bull with several years of pent-­up anger. One of his wild, swinging arms smashed several empty champagne flutes off a shocked waiter’s tray. A woman screamed and Mrs. Duffy let out a choked sob.

  Dr. Beaufort and Hans grabbed Major and attempted to restrain him. He struggled against their strong grip, his eyes crazed.

  “Get your hands off me,” he ordered, but the vigor had gone from his voice.

  A second or two later, he ceased his fight against the two men holding him and blinked at them in confusion. His head swiveled around as he searched for someone in the crowd.

  “Elspeth? Elspeth, where are you?”

  Mrs. Duffy rushed up to her father, her face pale. “Dad? It’s me, Andrea. Why don’t you sit down?”

  She motioned to Marjorie to fetch the wheelchair, but Major’s knees buckled. Dr. Beaufort and Hans managed to keep him from falling, but he sagged between them, his eyes drifting shut.

  “Let him down
gently,” Beaufort instructed as he and Hans lowered Major to the floor. “Give us some space, please.”

  I took a few steps back along with the rest of the onlookers.

  “Call an ambulance,” Dr. Beaufort said to Hans.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Tears ran down Mrs. Duffy’s face.

  Marjorie put an arm around her, but Mrs. Duffy didn’t seem to notice.

  Gareth Hollingsworth, the PGP’s chairman, addressed the stunned crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, in view of this medical emergency, I suggest we disperse so the paramedics will have room to work when they arrive. I appreciate everyone’s attendance and thank you for your continued support of the Point Grey Philharmonic.”

  Murmurs ran through the clusters of elegantly dressed men and women as they migrated toward the room’s two exits. As I moved with them through one of the doors, I spotted Ernest lurking outside the reception room. His angry, disgusted glare was back, and it was directed at the open door of the room we’d just left. I paused as he reached inside his tuxedo jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. His features still twisted with hatred, he crumpled up the paper and chucked it in a nearby garbage receptacle with startling vehemence.

  For the second time that evening I found his behavior odd. What was with all his ill will and why was it so strong that it survived in the face of Major’s obvious suffering?

  I didn’t have a chance to ponder those questions.

  Mikayla appeared at my side and took my arm, leaning in close to whisper in my ear. “What do you think is wrong with him?”

  I knew she wasn’t referring to Ernest. “I have no idea,” I said. “Do some ­people act like that when they’re having a stroke?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  As we waited for the backed-­up crowd to file farther along the corridor ahead of us, I glanced over my shoulder and through the open door to the reception room. Although half a dozen ­people still gathered around Major, I caught a glimpse of him convulsing on the floor.