Murder with Strings Attached Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Murder with Strings Attached

  Copyright

  Dedication

  “The older the violin, the sweeter the music.”

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  I saw nothing interesting in plain sight, so I checked the bedroom closet and then lay flat on the carpet and peeked under the bed.

  Still no violin.

  I was beginning to think that Aaron Levy had deliberately thwarted me by taking his violin with him or putting it in the safe—an ungentlemanly thing for him to do, given all the time and effort I was putting into finding it. I returned to the front room and was about to check the last remaining door—probably a connection to the neighboring suite—when I almost tripped over something sticking out from under the sofa. I reached down to shove it back out of the way.

  The violin.

  How could someone treat an instrument so valuable in such a cavalier manner? More and more it seemed as if Mr. Aaron Levy was entirely too careless and had to be relieved of this heavy responsibility before someone…well…stole the damn thing!

  And I was just the woman to do it. I opened the case and lifted up my trophy, held my flashlight close to it, and with great satisfaction, began to examine it lovingly.

  And that’s when the lights came on.

  Murder with Strings Attached

  by

  Mark Reutlinger

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Murder with Strings Attached

  COPYRIGHT © 2021 by Mark Reutlinger

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Jennifer Greeff

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2021

  Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3321-2

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3322-9

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Analee and Elliot, and all the horses

  “The older the violin, the sweeter the music.”

  ~Larry McMurtry

  Chapter 1

  It was pitch dark in Aaron Levy’s closet.

  But then, that’s the way most closets are, I suppose.

  It was crowded. It was hot. It was stuffy. I was getting a cramp in my legs from crouching, and I was trying desperately to suppress a sneeze. Fair to say I was totally reassessing this entire enterprise.

  Finally the suite door closed and I could assume I was alone. Slowly I opened the closet door and peeked out.

  No one seemed to be there. I stepped out.

  But of course I haven’t yet explained what I was doing hiding in the closet of a famous violinist in the first place, have I? Or how a fairly simple case of burglary turned into a not-so-simple case of murder.

  So perhaps I should begin at the beginning.

  ****

  As you’ve gathered, I’m a burglar. Florence Palmer, second-story woman extraordinaire (or so I’d like to think), but you can call me Flo—everyone else does.

  Of course, I wasn’t always a burglar. Long story short, I couldn’t afford college and took a job as a house cleaner to put myself through. Maybe that was a mistake, because being exposed to all those beautiful and obscenely expensive tchotchkes, all of which my clients could easily do without, wore me down. So one day I decided I was tired of dusting, and drooling over, other people’s treasures. If I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I’d just have to borrow someone else’s.

  But getting back to the story, I learned from a friend of mine—a woman named Janice Bailey, to be exact—who’s a housekeeper at the posh Regency Hotel here in Seattle, that Aaron Levy was staying there in one of the fancy-shmancy suites. Yes, I mean the Aaron Levy, the renowned concert violinist. Anyway, she told me that, while cleaning his suite—the Royal Suite, no less—she came across Levy’s violin case, stacked up with his luggage in his closet. She peeked inside, and there was his violin, just lying there. “It must be a Stradivarius,” she said, “’cause isn’t that what all the famous violinists play?” Sounded right to me.

  “But surely he doesn’t really keep a priceless violin in his hotel closet,” I said. “That’d be pretty stupid.”

  “I suppose so,” Janet said. “Anyway, I took a picture of it for my nephew. He’s taking lessons. Here, I’ll show you.” She took out her phone and, after a bit of searching, found the picture and showed it to me.

  Nice looking violin, but they all look alike to me. So I took out my own phone and found a picture of Aaron Levy’s violin online, in a biographical article. I compared the two pictures.

  They were identical, to every detail.

  But it’s not a Stradivarius, like we assumed it was. It’s something called a Guarneri, which apparently is just as valuable.

  And that’s when I got my great idea, and how I ended up in that closet. I decided this was too good an opportunity to pass up. I mean, how often does an ordinary (if extremely talented) burglar get a chance to score a multi-million dollar prize?

  Not bloody often.

  ****

  I talked the idea over with my best friend, Sara Mandel. Sara’s the only person who knows what I do for a living. She doesn’t participate in my little escapades, but she’s a good listener and is always ready to give me her opinion of my hare-brained schemes. So I told her about the priceless violin, just sitting there waiting for me. She thought I was crazy, of course.

  “What would you do with it if you did get hold of it?” she asked. “It’d be too hot to sell, and last I checked, you don’t play the violin.”

  “I wouldn’t try to sell it,” I said. “I wouldn’t have a clue how or where to find a buyer for something that valuable. And that hot. No, what I’d do is ransom it back to Levy, for a reasonable price, of course. Enough to make the job worthwhile, but too little for him to resist very strenuously, given how wealthy he must be and that he really needs it for his p
erformances.

  “Besides, I’d be doing Levy a favor.”

  “How so?”

  “You can see how careless he is with that violin. It would be in much safer hands if the hands it was in were mine. And as an added benefit, he’d learn to take much better care of it—like keeping it in the hotel safe—in the future, don’t you think?”

  Sara had to agree, although reluctantly. “Sure,” she said. “Makes you a genuine good Samaritan.”

  I hate it when she gets sarcastic like that.

  ****

  I did a little more research on Guarneri violins, then reported back to Sara.

  “Turns out some concert violinists consider Guarneris to be superior to Stradivariuses—no wait, that isn’t right, is it? Superior to Stadivarii, I think it is.”

  “Whatever. My Italian’s a little rusty. So who was this Guarneri?”

  “Actually, there were several famous instrument makers in the Guarneri family, but the greatest was…” (I consulted my notes) “Bartolomeo Giuseppe Guarneri del Gesu.”

  “That’s a mouthful.”

  “It is, isn’t it? That Guarneri not only made Aaron Levy’s violin, he also made those of other famous violinists like Heifetz and Paganini. Paganini’s, it seems, was nicknamed ‘The Cannon’; must’ve had a helluva sound. Anyway, I learned that the way to tell if it’s the genuine article, other than how it looks, is by its label.”

  “Violins have labels?”

  “Apparently these do, on the inside. The labels on Del Gesu violins incorporate the Greek abbreviation for Jesus, I.H.S., and a cross, because Del Gesu means ‘of Jesus.’ And the most exciting thing is that because he died young, Giuseppe created only 174 violins, far fewer than Mr. Stradivari, and they can fetch—are you ready?—ten million dollars or more at auction.” I broke into a sweat just repeating that.

  And from the way her mouth fell open when I said it, I think Sara was pretty impressed too.

  ****

  We adjourned to my computer. I recalled seeing an article about Levy in the Seattle Times. “Here it is,” I said, with Sara looking over my shoulder. “Let’s see: Born in Tel Aviv, graduated from Julliard, lives in New York. Started playing the violin at five years old, something of a prodigy. Now he travels all over the world performing.…And here’s his schedule.” I checked the dates.

  “Damn! Gonna be in town for only about a week. He’s performing twice in Seattle—Tuesday and Thursday—and once down in Tacoma, on Friday. He’s also giving a radio interview on an FM station on Wednesday morning. ”

  “So when do you think it’d be best to do this?” Sara asked. “Looks like Wednesday and Friday are the best bets.”

  “I think Wednesday,” I said after thinking it over. “We can be sure he’ll be out of his suite in the morning, and not sleeping in."

  “You’ll have to act pretty fast—tomorrow’s already Monday,” Sara said, stating the obvious. But she was right. I had no time to lose.

  I decided the best way to get into Levy’s suite was by pretending to be what I once was—a cleaner, or in this case a hotel maid, like Janice. I’d have to do it on Janice’s day off, of course, so I didn’t run into her somewhere in the hotel and have to explain what I was doing there in her uniform. But there I was lucky, because I knew Janice was off until Thursday.

  Monday morning I phoned local uniform supply companies until I found the one that supplies the Regency. I told them I was hired as a temp and needed to rent a uniform. No problem—they even had my size. I zipped downtown and picked it up.

  I then decided I needed to make a “dry run,” to get the lay of the land, before Wednesday. On Tuesday I would don the new uniform and head for the Regency Hotel for a little reconnaissance.

  I was excited. Operation Violin was about to begin.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning, Tuesday, my alarm clock went off at seven, not a time familiar to me since I adopted a mostly nocturnal profession. I batted the offending clock into submission and reluctantly slid out of bed. I took a quick shower, found my way into some underwear, slipped on my newly acquired uniform, and put my hair up in a ponytail. Looking somewhat respectable, I headed for the Regency.

  The Regency Hotel is one of the venerable survivors of many layers of urban renewal, exhibiting a turn-of-the-century style that has been updated only as necessary for the comfort and convenience of its guests. It’s not to my taste, but its art deco design and its stubborn embrace of the early Twentieth Century gives it a certain cache that appeals to celebrities and to anyone who is tired of sheer glass walls and severe minimalist architecture. And who has a pile of money. In any event, I was not there to critique, but to work. I first had to find out how to get onto the Concierge Level, where the Royal Suite was located, and which I suspected would not be accessible to just any riff-raff.

  I entered the hotel wearing over my uniform a long, threadbare coat that had once been French blue, which I’d purchased at the Salvation Army thrift store for three dollars. I ignored the disdainful look I and my coat received from the liveried doorman. Fortunately, he was not charged with preventing citizens from entering on the basis of their attire, although he looked as if he wished he were.

  My first destination was the Ladies’ Lounge, which I found by following a sign that pointed down a flight of stairs to the lower level. There I got my first real taste of the Regency’s ambiance: marble floors, stalls and counters; gold-plated fixtures; and art deco sconces casting soft light around large, oval mirrors. I entered one of the stalls and hung my coat on the elegant cast-brass coat hook. It looked totally out of place, like a hobo sitting on a throne. And speaking of thrones, I took the opportunity to use the toilet—who knew when I’d have another chance—then stepped out of the stall, leaving the coat inside to be picked up later. If it was still there, that is. If it was gone, I was out three bucks.

  I was finally ready for action.

  The lobby of the Regency follows the hotel’s theme of nostalgic elegance. Its ceiling is high, and from it hang several massive crystal and gold chandeliers. The front desk is of polished marble, with the obligatory computers and other electronic aids discreetly concealed. My destination was the bank of elevators just across from the front desk. There are three elevators, and although they have the appearance of having been installed when the hotel was built, complete with a mechanical pointer over each to indicate the floor it’s on, the hotel has long since updated the mechanisms and retired its human elevator operators in favor of self-service buttons. The buttons cannot make small talk or direct one to the hotel café, but neither do they require a salary, an eight-hour workday, or health benefits.

  I pushed the ornate button marked “up,” and within a few seconds the doors of the center elevator opened. Armed only with my uniform and a small duster I had brought for effect, I took a deep breath and marched into the elevator as if I knew where I was going. Inside it was as plush as the lobby itself, if not more so, with rich walnut paneling, inlaid rosewood trim, and polished brass rails. I had seen pictures of the interiors of the luxury rail cars on the Orient Express that were less imposing. Turning, I glanced at the brass-framed console. The display revealed that floors one through eight could be reached simply by pressing the appropriate button, but floor nine, labeled “Concierge Level,” required an extra step. In the old days, that step probably would have been to show one’s room key to the operator. In the electronic age, those guests with rooms on that hallowed level have to swipe their magnetic room key through a card reader before they can direct it to floor nine. I assumed employees could do the same using a universal key card of some sort. I, of course, didn’t have a key card and had little prospect of acquiring one in the next few minutes.

  Following behind me onto the elevator was an older gentleman who reeked of cigar smoke. At least in the case of cigars, I said to myself, smokers as well as smoking should be banned from elevators. I almost wished he were still smoking the horrid thing; at least then I coul
d, with righteous indignation, tell him to put it out or get out. It was more problematic to insist he take off his clothes. Instead, I stepped off the elevator just before the doors closed. Let him reek alone.

  ****

  Back in the lobby, I continued my survey of access points. Around a corner from the front desk I spied what appeared to be a service elevator. As I approached, its identity was confirmed by a sign printed in black on the wide gray door reading “Employees only.” Apparently employees could call the service elevator by punching a code into a keypad where the “up” and “down” buttons would ordinarily reside.

  Given, then, the two possible ways to reach the Concierge Level, my choice was easy: I would have to learn the secret code of the service elevator.

  I considered several possible ways of obtaining the magic numbers, from bribing one of the housekeepers, which I dismissed as too risky, to seducing one of the bellhops, which I dismissed as lunacy. I finally settled on the tried and true method by which safe combinations, and more recently credit card and PIN numbers, have been obtained over the years: close observation. I would have to hang around the elevator long enough, and see the code punched in often enough, to learn the sequence.

  It took me three separate five-minute sessions dusting the display cases adjacent to the service elevator, as various employees came along and punched in their codes, before I had worked out the four-key cipher. Twice I had to abandon my post when passing manager-types eyed me quizzically, returning only when the coast was again clear.

  By fitting those five-minute sessions into a 45-minute time frame, I eventually had the numbers I needed. Finally, I checked out possible escape routes, including the fire stairs inside and the fire escape outside. The management could make the Concierge floor as difficult to enter as they liked; but the Fire Marshal would be greatly offended were there to be any difficulty in leaving it in an emergency. And I could think of no greater emergency than hot pursuit by the authorities.

  Having completed my reconnaissance mission, I returned to the Ladies’ Lounge to retrieve my coat, on the chance it was still there. I was actually very pleased—and a bit surprised—to see that it was. It apparently had encountered no thieves to steal it, no good Samaritans to turn it in, just ordinary folks content to leave well enough (and faded old coats) alone. Just as well, because I still had one more use for my thrift shop treasure.