It was wonderful to be out with him, and especially in one of her favorite places, the Palm Court at the Netherland Plaza Hotel downtown. She gloried in its long, spacious, art deco expanse. She always expected to see Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers at another table. The rich, dark wood of the walls alternated with elaborate golden sconces and frescoes running up into the roof. The first time she ever saw the place, it looked like a combination of an ancient pagan temple and a glamorous setting from an old movie. The bar in the center of the room was right out of the 1930s and a pianist was playing jazz on a grand piano. They both appropriately ordered gin martinis.
It seemed like the right nightcap to the classical evening. Cheryl Beth also adored Music Hall, even though she hadn’t been to the symphony in two years. To live in Cincinnati was to be immersed in music, from the symphony and chamber orchestra, to the Pops and the May Festival’s choral extravaganza, which was coming right up. And Will had not disappointed. He had great seats in the orchestra section with as perfect sound quality as she had heard there.
As always, the stately old building seemed to levitate with an exciting glitter on a concert night. She didn’t really know much about classical music. She knew what she liked, what transported her. But from the day she had arrived in Cincinnati, the symphony had been part of her self-improvement program, to lift herself out of the small-town South.
Will, surprisingly, did know classical music. Now he talked in that calm, sexy voice about the night’s program, about the history of Beethoven’s King Stephen Overture and the Second Piano Concerto. But he wore his knowledge easily. His face was relaxed and happy.
“Beethoven turned the piano into the monarch of romantic instruments,” he said.
“You play, don’t you?”
He gave a dismissive shrug. “I wouldn’t call it that, now. It’s hard to sit properly at the keyboard after my surgery and impossible to use the pedals… And I’m lazy and now I’m a little afraid of the thing. But I would much rather have been a pianist than a cop.”
“Really?” This surprised her.
He smiled. “Who knows?”
“You wouldn’t have to carry that.” She indicated the small walkie-talkie radio sitting on the table next to his drink. “Maybe you’ll play for me sometime. I’ll sit next to you and stabilize you.”
“Maybe I will.”
“I thought the tribute to the cellist was very moving,” Cheryl Beth said. “So much has happened this week that I had forgotten about that.” She shivered slightly, and not only from the cool air on her legs. So much violence had been visited in a few days.
Tonight’s program had been modified to include a piece dedicated to the murdered musician, with the cello solo played by a tall, willowy blonde. Although the program’s listing of her accomplishments made it clear she was at least fifty, she looked much younger, with Nordic features and flawless fair skin.
“That was Stephanie Foust,” Will said. “She was Jeremy Snowden’s teacher and mentor.”
“She said he could have gone to Julliard, but chose to stay in Cincinnati and study at CCM. If he hadn’t stayed, he might not be dead. It’s so sad. She seemed really on the edge of losing it. But she did a beautiful job.”
Will nodded. “Rachmaninoff’s Vocalise arranged for cello and orchestra. It’s such a hauntingly beautiful melody. She chose well.”
“It almost made me cry,” Cheryl Beth said.
“I think it did the same to her. Remember the final statement of the theme, which actually occurs in the orchestra. Stephanie was playing a counter-melody. It closes the work in the upper stratosphere.”
“I remember. It was magical.”
“But if you listened closely, she was so spent, so devastated, that she missed her entrance to the final repetition of the melody.”
Cheryl Beth hadn’t noticed.
He said, “She recovered in time… Most people wouldn’t even hear it. Sorry, I sound pompous.”
“You don’t!” Cheryl Beth said. She was rapt listening to him. “I love to learn about this from you.”
“I’ve heard the piece many times. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Well, thank goodness the police got the guy.”
Will’s face was thoughtful. “They think they did.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.” Will gave a smile short of sly. “Only a feeling I have.”
She reached over and took his hand. The abrasions from his fall were healing, but she wasn’t examining him, only wanting the closeness.
“There’s so much to you, Will Borders.”
He gave a self-deprecating shrug.
“The symphony president thought so. She specifically came up to you at intermission to thank you for your help. All those important people were watching her and wondering who we were. A cop and a nurse.”
Will chuckled. “Notice how she avoided Dodds, even though he was no more than twenty feet away? He wasn’t deferential enough to the symphony, which is a high crime in Cincinnati, so I had to go over and smooth ruffled feathers.” His eyes brightened. “Here’s a secret.” He leaned in closer, still holding her hand.
“Her husband was one of Kristen Gruber’s lovers.”
Cheryl Beth felt her eyes widen.
“Yep. He berths his boat right next to hers at the marina. And he’s a middle-aged bald man.”
“Oh, my god…” She felt the big room closing in to envelope the two of them.
“He’s a very high-powered lawyer. I met with him. He was belligerent. Of course, he doesn’t want his wife to know he was with Kristen. He said he had an alibi, that he was with his wife last Saturday night.”
“Too bad,” she said.
Will leaned in closer. “It may be too bad for him. Remember when Mrs. Buchanan spoke to the audience before the Rachmaninoff tribute to Jeremy Snowden? How she said that it was only last Saturday night when she had heard him play there, and then she had gone to a party with him and other musicians after the concert. Her husband said they were alone at home Saturday night.”
“The bald man who stalked Lauren…”
“If only I can sell it to the bosses.”
Afterward, they walked across the street to Fountain Square. Will walked best when he could swing his left arm, but he took Cheryl Beth’s hand and moved even slower. She didn’t seem to mind. The most famous public space in the city was deserted except for the lights on the Tyler Davidson Fountain, illuminating the water falling out of the hands of the bronze woman who kept watch from her granite perch. Even many natives didn’t know the fountain was actually called the Genius of Water. They sat on the lip and felt the spray in the cool night.
He couldn’t keep his eyes off Cheryl Beth: she had never looked more beautiful.
“Are your friends watching us?” she asked.
He nodded. “See that Ford that’s illegally parked?”
“So I guess we can’t get naked in the fountain. Why are you doing this, Will? Making yourself a target.”
Things had happened so quickly he didn’t have an easy answer. It seemed to come naturally with the job. And with Dodds taking over as lead, he felt more insecure about even keeping the PIO position.
“Don’t try to be macho,” she said. “That’s not you.”
“No. I don’t want this guy to get away, and this way is our best shot at luring him back. I’m careful. If you’re worried about the cane and all…”
She touched his face. “I’m not worried about that. I want you to be safe. So I’m glad they’re watching.”