“But you were able to keep Mr. Meyerhoff in the fold?” Wolfe asked.
“Barely. For the last eight months or so, my main function has been peacemaker, rather than fund-raiser and civic representative of the Symphony, which is what I’m supposed to be. It’s been rough,” he said, running a hand across his chin.
“Are you suggesting by all this that Mr. Meyerhoff might have killed Milan Stevens?”
Remmers jerked upright. “Oh no, no, not necessarily. There were others who probably disliked Milan every bit as much as he did. To name two, Dave Hirsch, the associate conductor, and Donald Sommers, the principal flutist.”
Wolfe shifted uneasily. He hadn’t rung for beer, and I knew why. “What were the causes of their animus toward Mr. Stevens?”
“Well, Hirsch had been associate conductor under the previous music director and seemed to think he was the logical choice at the time we brought in Stevens. But it was explained to him that he wasn’t even being considered for the post. Off the record, he just hasn’t got the presence or the depth for the job. Anyway, he’s resented Stevens from day one, and it’s gotten worse. Milan didn’t delegate much responsibility, so Hirsch was doing less than he had before. And to make matters worse, Hirsch had composed a symphony that he would dearly love to have premiered by the orchestra. But Stevens told him he didn’t find its caliber high enough for the Symphony. Since then, they’ve barely been on speaking terms. I’ve been expecting Hirsch to come in any day and tell me he’s quitting after the current season.”
“With Mr. Stevens dead, will Mr. Hirsch become the music director?” Wolfe asked.
Remmers shook his head vigorously. “Only on an interim basis. We’re making the formal announcement of his appointment this afternoon. I’ve already talked to Dave, and he seems resigned to never being the Symphony’s chief conductor. Down deep, I think he’s aware of his limitations, and he knows he could never handle the job in the long run. I suspect he realizes that any potential he has for growth in the music world is as a composer rather than a conductor.
“In fact, part of my peacemaking work in the last few weeks was trying to persuade Stevens to give the premiere of Hirsch’s symphony. And I think I just about talked him into it.”
Wolfe considered the wall clock, then looked back at Remmers. “And what of Mr. Sommers?”
“Ah yes, another case of bitterness,” he said. “Don Sommers performed a flute solo a few weeks ago that got so-so reviews, and not long afterward, in an interview in the Times, Stevens said one of his biggest problems was the lackadaisical attitude of a number of the principal players. Sommers chose to interpret this as a direct slap at him, although in the paper Stevens was quoted as criticizing ‘several soloists.’ Anyway, the two of them got into a shouting session backstage a day or two later, and since then, they hadn’t been on speaking terms.”
Wolfe frowned. “It would seem that the orchestra exists on a continuum of screaming matches and angry silences.”
Remmers threw back his head and laughed. “Based on what I’ve told you, that’s a natural enough conclusion. Actually, though, things aren’t nearly that chaotic most of the time. But then, you asked specifically about those people who had problems with Milan Stevens, so you’re hearing about the turmoil.”
“What I started out asking for,” Wolfe corrected, “were your suggestions as to who might have killed Mr. Stevens. Do you think any of the three you named — or anyone else within the orchestra — is a likely candidate?”
“A few days ago, I would have laughed off that question. But a few days ago, I’d also have scoffed at anyone who said that our music director would be stabbed to death in his own home. To be totally candid, I wouldn’t rule out any of them, although I wouldn’t presume to point at one as a more likely suspect than the other two. As far as the rest of the orchestra... no, these three and Milner were the only ones I’m aware of who’ve had particularly bitter experiences with Stevens.”
Wolfe scowled. “Let’s return to you, sir. Because you were instrumental in the hiring of Mr. Stevens, has some of the criticism of his performance been directed to you?”
“Indeed it has,” Remmers said. “One paper’s music critic has said that the blame for what he called the ‘Stevens debacle’ should rest with me. You see, at the time we were looking for a new music director, the music-policy committee was terribly split on candidates for the job. Meyerhoff is head of that committee, but they were going nowhere, so I stepped in with Stevens’s name. I got support for him from committee members, and finally Meyerhoff gave in too. In recent months, some of the same people on the committee who applauded that selection began saying I made a first-class blunder.”
“What has your response been to this criticism?”
“I’m pretty thick-skinned, Mr. Wolfe,” he said, coming on again with that engaging grin that you see in society-page photographs. “I’ve been involved in a number of civic projects through the years, and I’ve taken a lot of shots from a lot of people because of various decisions of mine. All of which has helped me grow a tough hide. The only thing that’s bothered me about the flap over Stevens is the realization I’ve come to in the last six months: Stevens wasn’t working out. I had made a bum call, and I was prepared to rectify it.”
“Were you planning to fire him?” Wolfe asked.
“In effect. His contract was up for renewal, and I was going before the board with the suggestion that we seek a new music director.”
“Was Mr. Stevens aware of this?”
“I hadn’t talked to him about it, although I would have in the next few weeks,” Remmers said. “I think he probably suspected it might be coming, though.”
“Would you have taken this as a personal failure?” Wolfe asked.
Remmers shrugged his lean shoulders. “Not really. Again, I’m used to criticism — you can’t have a position like this one without being a target. And considering the problems the Symphony had with its last few conductors, Stevens really wasn’t that much of a disaster.”
“Mr. Remmers, if I may shift to another subject,” Wolfe said, “do you know a woman named Lucinda Forrester-Moore?”
“I suppose you could say I know her,” Remmers said. “I’ve met her at a number of parties, benefits, that sort of thing, through the years. Her late husband, Baxter Moore, and I both went to Harvard, and we ran into each other at alumni functions; he was in the shipping business. I guess I know why you’re asking about her: She and Milan Stevens had become an item in the last year or so.”
“Did you perceive theirs as a serious relationship?” Wolfe asked.
“I couldn’t really say. They were together a good deal, of course, but I could never figure out whether it was romantic or just a handy pairing. Lucinda loves to be in the middle of things, and it’s pretty damn prestigious to have the Symphony maestro on your arm when you sweep into the theater or a dinner party. But then, since her husband’s death six, seven years ago, she’s had a history of attracting well-known men — it’s sort of her trademark.”
“Did Mr. Stevens ever mention her to you?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Remmers said. “However, there was no particular reason why he should. Our own relationship wasn’t such that personal matters were discussed. In fact, I can’t picture Milan Stevens discussing his personal life with anybody.”
Wolfe drew in half the oxygen in the room, then exhaled slowly. “Just two more questions, Mr. Remmers. First, if I want to see the three men you mentioned, could you arrange it?”