Deadly Adagio

By Carole Howard

Was the murder of the Peace Corps Director’s wife in Senegal just random anti-American violence, as the official investigative team seems to think? Emily suspects it may have been something else. She ignores everyone’s warnings that she’s putting her life in danger to find out. But it turns out they’re right.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indigo Sea Press
• Release date: Jul 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781938101373

Carole Howard

Carole Howard is a world traveler and a former corporate consultant. Writing is her third career, so she knows full well the difficulties of change and its resulting need for reinvention. On the page, she draws from both the urban and village lives she’s experienced; in particular, it is her deep friendships and family relationships that lend spice and humor to novels that women relate to, no matter which stage of life they face. She lives with her husband in New York State’s Hudson Valley, with her daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren right down the road. When not writing and reading, she’s playing the violin, gardening, knitting, or practicing yoga.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Emily silently groaned when she heard that annoying tap-tap-tap of the baton on the music stand.  She braced herself for the conductor’s standard lecture about watching her instead of gluing their eyes to their music.  "I’ll decide when we get faster or slower.  I’ll decide when we get louder or softer.  And.  You.  Won’t.  Know.  Un.  Less.  You.  Watch. Me.   I honestly don’t know how many more ways I can say it."

Give it a rest,  Emily thought, smiling at her unintended pun.   Look up, look down, look up, look down.   It’s hard. By the time Amanda finished scolding, though, Emily had tuned her flattened A-string—for the time being, anyway.  She couldn’t believe how frequently the heat and humidity in Senegal wreaked havoc on her violin strings.  Good thing this was just an amateur—very amateur—orchestra for English-speaking expatriates.

Let’s take it again from measure 195.  Start very loud, sforzando,—Amanda  practically shouted as she spread her arms wide—and then,  she whispered as she crouched, get really really soft right away.  It’s the sudden contrast that’s important—especially you horns—and also, we’re going to take it a little faster.  It’s marked Vivace.  Lively, folks, lively.  The adagio is later.  Then you can go slow.

On the podium, she raised her arms high and looked at her flock.  Emily thought her long thin nose, echoing a similarly proportioned body, was made for looking down on others.  All the musicians got ready in their own way:  violins and violas under chins, cellos between legs, horns and woodwinds to mouths.

As she raised the baton to the top of its arc, Amanda inhaled audibly; but before she had a chance to lower it, in that moment as full of anticipation as the one between the trapeze artist's leaving one set of hands and arriving safely at another, a phone rang.  The baton fell to Amanda’s side.

Bruce, the Regional Security Officer at the American Embassy, was the only one with a mobile phone at rehearsals; and only the official emergency line with SOS in Morse Code as the ring tone, not his personal one with Duke of Earl.   Emily supposed it was in case the world as they knew it was about to come to an end and there was something Bruce could actually do about it. But it had rung once before during rehearsal and that time the world remained exactly where it belonged.

Maybe Bruce hadn’t practiced his flute solo coming up at measure 400 and he’d asked his wife to call before he actually had to play it in front of everyone.

He opened the phone and ran off the stage as the rest of them assumed the ready position again, then started with the sforzando at measure 195.  It went along pretty well, but Bruce was back by measure 210, shouting, Stop, stop, everyone.  Sorry.  Gotta clear the building.  Security alert.

You can’t be serious? said Amanda.

Very serious.  Right away.  I mean it,  said Bruce in his Regional Security Officer voice, emphasis on the Officer.

I suppose that’s the price of practicing at the American Cultural Center,  said the principal cellist, an Aussie businessman who could actually raise one eyebrow independently of the other.

"Let’s move it.  Vivace, extremely vivace.  Bruce was shooing everyone off stage with windmill arms, making like the captain of the ship who’s valiantly going to be the last to leave. Just leave your instruments on your chairs.  Sorry, Amanda."

Emily, perhaps more skittish than the rest at the thought of an emergency far from home, was one of the first to leave her instrument as instructed and descend the steps on the right side of the stage.  A few placed their instruments into the cases they’d left on the red plush seats in the audience, but only one of the brass players, a trumpet-playing American School high school senior, was bold enough to stop and clean the spit out of his instrument.  Pretty quickly, though, everyone had gone up the mildly-inclined seating area and out the door at the rear.

In the sultry air outside, fanning themselves with hands or sheet music, they gravitated into groups that were more-or-less nationality-specific, though in some cases instrument loyalty trumped country of origin.  Americans were the largest contingent in the orchestra so they had subgroups:  a Foreign Service clump, a business-person clump, and an American School clump. There were also Brits, Aussies, Canadians, and Senegalese.

Not surprisingly, the chatter in Emily’s group—American Foreign Service—was at a level of  high anxiety, one person interrupting the next with questions, speculations, or worries.  Emily found herself getting more nervous as she listened.  Meanwhile, someone from the American School group shouted over to Bruce’s stand-mate in the British group to ask if Bruce had said anything.  Did he let on whether it was all an exercise?  Or is it for real?

The clumps coalesced into one large group to hear the answer better.  Pedestrians had to detour around them while staring at this bunch of mostly-white people, some carrying musical instruments, in the middle of the block. One woman, with a baby on her back and a child by the hand, carrying a tray of colorful plastic-ware on her head, plowed right through the middle of their assemblage as if they weren’t there.

I have no inkling, but he seemed rather as surprised as the rest of us when his phone rang … and a bit frightened, too.  I think he actually jumped.  I don’t think it was a practice exercise, what you blokes call a fire drill.

A bomb threat, maybe?

You mean like the threat of his bombing during his solo?  said the math teacher at the American School.

An American oboist said, Do you think we’re in danger?  Should we move further away from the building?  He looked around for support.  Only a few people budged.  Amanda, did he tell you anything?

No, nothing, but it must be real and important  'cause he knows I’d kill him if he interrupted the rehearsal for a drill.  Maybe Tom is right.  Let’s move a little further away.

People started complaining more about the dust and sand from the Harmattan winds coming down from the Sahara than about the possibility of danger.  A Canadian horn-player actually said she thought she’d go to her air-conditioned car for the duration when Bruce emerged from the building, flushed and sweaty.  When asked what it had been about, he didn’t answer.  He just announced—in a subdued voice, lacking the previous air of self-importance—that everyone could go back in.

Once inside, Bruce gathered his flute without a word and sped off.  The rest stayed, though there seemed little enthusiasm for playing.  Amanda tried to pep them up, describing the beauty of a particular passage or the drama of another.  She even gave up on the Mendelssohn and switched to the Prokofiev, saying she thought Peter and the Wolf would be fun and they could use a little fun; but her pep didn’t seem to catch on.

For Emily, the peppiest part of the post-evacuation interlude was the tête-à-tête she overheard between the violinists at the stand in front of her.

Sue, in a discreet whisper, said, Do you think you could turn the page a little sooner, John?

Whatever you say. You’re the boss, said John.  Not a whisper.  Not discreet.

It’s just that—

I know what it is.  You sit on the audience side of the stand so I turn the page and then try to catch up.

Sue turned slowly to face him.  Sheesh, I didn’t make the rules, John.  If you want to change your seat, speak to–

Never mind.  Just nod when you’re ready for me to turn.  He concentrated on rosining his bow.  Holding the little cake of hardened tree sap in his left hand, he drew his bow through it with his right hand, over and over again.  There was no way that bow was going to slip on his strings.

Amanda must have heard the exchange, too.  Finished?  Amanda actually had her hands on her hips so the baton wiggled behind her back, as if she were trying to conduct the audience.

Sorry, said Sue.

You know what?  We’re all pretty tense and distracted.  It’s been a tough night.  Let’s just pack it in.  Would you all help me put the seats and stands away backstage?  They’re showing a movie here tomorrow morning and they’ve asked me to clear the decks.

Over the grumbling and the hubbub, she added, "Next week we’re going to dig into the second movement of the Mendelssohn, and then we’ll spend time on the third movement, the adagio.  It’s slow, but not easy. Quite the contrary. Practice hard to make up for leaving early tonight.  It’s a good thing we build extra rehearsal time into our schedule like for snow days in Vermont schools."

A snowy day?  Here?  What can she be meaning?  asked Amat, the Senegalese percussionist.

* * *

Juli’s car and driver pulled up outside. She was the horn-playing wife of the Deputy Chief of Misssion, the number two guy in the Embassy, and her status was a reflection of his rank. Being treated as royally as her husband, she could have been pretty la-di-da, especially since she was a lithe, fair-skinned beauty with strawberry blonde hair and a honeyed Southern accent;  but she wasn’t la, di, or da.

Their friend Margaret had once referred to them as the blonde Southern belle and the brunette Bronx bombshell.  They still hadn’t found a suitable nickname for Margaret—Missouri Margaret?  Svelte St. Louis sandy-hair?—but were having fun trying. 

Emily’s husband was a much lower rank than Juli’s and State Department hierarchy was nothing if not precise, so the two women lived in different neighborhoods.  Juli usually gave Emily a ride home, though, to save her walking to her car in the dark after rehearsal—and maybe also to be able to gossip right away before either had a chance to forget the juicy bits.  There might be uncrossable lines between Juli and Emily because of their husbands’ ranks, but orchestra gossip was protocol-free. 

What in the world was that security alert all about, Jules?  Has anything like that happened to you before?

Juli recalled a few similar incidents in previous postings, but they were always during some anti-American fever, like during the Iranian hostage-taking.  What a terrible time that was.  We were in Indonesia at the time and that’s another story—a long story for another time—but things aren’t nearly that bad now.

But just last week there was—

A little demonstration from time to time doesn’t count.  You weren’t in the foreign service during the hostage crisis, so you don’t know what ‘bad’ feels like.

Emily felt slightly less anxious.  Do you think you’ll find anything out from Lawrence when you get home?  Emily knew she was inching up to that uncrossable line.

Sometimes he tells me these things, sometimes not.  Right now most of our conversations are either about the gala next weekend—the President of Senegal is coming, you know, so it’s a very, very big deal—or Lawrence’s mom and the gossip in her neighborhood.  Sublime and ridiculous.

If you do hear anything about tonight’s—

If I hear anything, you’ll be the first, sugah.  Now how are your kids?  Are the twins still vying for the title of cutest little girls in the EN-tire world?  Is Chris deciding high school might actually turn out to not be the end of the world after all?

Oops, thought Emily, maybe I went too far and forced Juli to change the subject.  They’re all fine. Thanks.

For the rest of the ride, they dished about Bruce’s little-big-man routine, about John and Sue’s page-turning summit meeting, and about how fast Amanda was taking the Mendelssohn.

Here we are.  See you tomorrow at French class.  Thanks for the lift, Jules.  I really appreciate it—as always.

I figger if State insists on treating Lawrence and me like royalty, I can share some of my good fortune with my little Bronx bombshell buddy.  See you in French class tomorrow.

* * *

Pete was sprawled on the couch, long muscular legs on the coffee table, with his newspapers scattered around him, gin and tonic nearby.  Normal, like every other Tuesday night after rehearsal.  She put her violin down inside the door, then walked across the satisfyingly cool tiles to sit on one of the chairs facing Pete, looking up at the overhead fan and exhaling a deep sigh as she sank down.

Pete asked why she was home early.  She stretched out the story with details like sforzando and vivace before getting to the actual evacuation.

That’s when he put down his newspaper and sat up straight.

"Bruce’s phone rang just as Amanda was raising the baton.       S-O-S, S-O-S and he goes running off the stage, very agent, kind of scary.  Then he’s all ‘I’m in charge here,’ bossing everyone around."

Was it a fire-drill?

Don’t know.  Have you heard anything?

No, nothing at all.  He looked at his watch and shook his head.  No scuttlebutt about threats or unusual goings-on. But, then again, the security guys or political guys would be more likely to hear it than we would over in Admin.  It only lasted ten minutes, you say?

About.  Should I be scared?  Should we all be scared?

Not yet.  I’ll tell you when.

His reaction was unnerving her.  She’d expected him to brush it off, pooh-pooh her anxieties, tell her she was being like Chicken Little.  I’ll tell you when to be scared was more concern than she’d expected.  "But what could it be besides a bomb threat?"

I’m sure I’ll hear something tomorrow.

If there’s any kind of real danger here, maybe we should pack up the kids and—

Calm down, calm down.  I said I’ll find out tomorrow.

Will you tell me?

Depends.  Maybe.  But then, and he smiled broadly, I’d have to kill you.

Seriously, Pete.

He stood up and hugged her in a me-Tarzan-you-Jane sort of way.  It’ll be okay, Em. Really.

Chapter 2

"BonJOUR, Janine.  Leve-TOI, Janine.  The French teacher paused.  Repeat, please."

"Bonjour, Janine.  Leve-toi, Janine," came the chorus.

"BonJOUR, maman.  Pause.  Repeat, please."

"Bonjour, maman."

Emily thought if she heard this dialogue about Janine’s mother waking her up for school one more time, she’d have to learn how to scream in French.  The sing-song way you were supposed to say it in these State Department French classes was like a stand-up comedian doing a send-up of the French.  Still, she had to admit that every once in a while, some of the lines came in handy.  Not waking up Janine, for sure, but the one that took place at the market had supplied a few useful phrases.

She could see from Juli’s rolling eyeballs and Margaret’s shaking head that she wasn’t the only one feeling uncharitable towards poor sleepy Janine.

* * *

After class, the three friends scurried to their favorite lunch venue, a tiny café tucked away by Dakar’s old port.  The Café du Petit Port made chicken sandwiches on heavenly still-warm French bread; and they made their ice cubes from bottled water, at least that’s what they said, as a way to cater to the expat community.

The second they ordered, Margaret and Emily looked intensely at Juli, who raised her hands, surrender-style, and said, Don’t y’all be asking me.  I don’t know nuthin'  'bout last night.  She lowered her hands and her voice.  Lawrence didn’t know anything about it.

Or he did but pretended not to—or he told you and you can’t say.  Emily was looking out the window, watching the fishermen in their colorfully-decorated pirogues, paddling out from the shore, working hard to get past the waves.  She hoped she’d catch sight of them spreading their nets.

Either way, it’s not as if ….  She waved to three people entering the café, with one of those now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t smiles.

Emily turned to see who was there, but she didn’t know them.  You were saying? she prompted.

How about y’all?  Anyone hear anything?

I can say for sure it wasn’t an admin-type thing, or Pete would be the first to know, said Emily.  Besides, leaky faucets or saggy couches don’t call for security alerts.  The fishermen were gathering up the nets from the bottom of their boat.

Don’t look at me.  My lips aren’t moving, said Margaret, the wife of the Peace Corps Director.  She used her hand to zip her lip.  Mmm-mm-mmm, she continued, with overdone head and hand movements to emphasize her wordlessness.

Yes, yes, we know the drill.  Peace Corps doesn’t play kiss-and-tell between the host country and the State Department, but this is different, right?  At just that moment, the fishermen launched their circular nets in that ballet-like motion Emily loved, throwing them as far out as they could.  It was a particularly beautiful sight when the sun was behind the fishermen, casting their already-dark bodies in silhouette.  The net spread out into a perfect circle and then, as if to emphasize its shape, landed on the water with a circular splash.  She was glad she’d looked out in time to see it.

I guess it is different, yes, but it’s such a big deal that the Senegalese can talk to us without worrying about it getting back to State.  It’s always been that way, since Kennedy and Shriver, and it’s—

Yes, yes, we’ve heard the speech.

It doesn’t really matter, though, because I don’t know anything.

Sheesh, what’s the good of hanging out with the DCM’s wife and the Peace Corps Director’s wife if you can’t get information?  Emily was only half-joking.

Don’t forget yourself, girl.  You don’t know anything, either.

But what do you think it could be? asked Margaret.   The orchestra can’t be the target.

We’re not good enough to be anyone’s target, sugah.  Juli took a very large, very un-ladylike bite.

So it must be because we were in the Cultural Center.  Margaret wiped her mouth.  Yes. What else could it be?   Unless it was just random.

I think it was nothing—a false alarm.  Really, it’s what I think, said Juli, marking her seriousness by dropping her accent.

Maybe, said Emily.

By the time they got to dessert, they’d spiraled towards their conversational core, the frustrations of being the trailing spouse.

At home, I was a lot of things, said Margaret, "some better than others, but I was never invisible.  Some folks probably thought I was too visible."

Giving music lessons isn’t doing it for you?

No, I thought it might, but no.  You guys said it would get easier to be a sidekick, but I don’t know ….

It sure does get easier.  With a shake of her head that made her red hair look like a hula skirt, Juli acknowledged that she enjoyed her present life more than her former life in advertising.  I guess I do like taking people 'round town more than I liked peddling toilet bowl cleaner and back-to-school lunchboxes.  I get to see the place with fresh eyes.  Plus there’s an actual orchestra here, thanks to some Ambassador’s wife who wanted to be in one so she started it.

I like the orchestra, too, but ….  Margaret sighed and stopped picking the crumbs off her plate.

Emily, too, had been trying to find her own center of gravity.  When Pete had realized that being an insurance executive was not his cup of tea and he might be happier in the Foreign Service, she’d been supportive.  Ever since they met, when he was getting an MBA and she a Masters in Education, she’d been trying to lure him over to the non-corporate side of life, so she considered this a step in that direction.   They were more than halfway through the five-year trial period they’d agreed upon, but she still wasn’t convinced this was the life she wanted.  The orchestra helped, since Pete—and the whole State Department—had nothing to do with it. But it wasn’t enough.

Emily thought Margaret was kind of lucky.  She and her husband were at the 20-month point of his 30-month contract.  She’d probably get used to it, but by then it would be over; and even if Walter renewed, Peace Corps’s five-year limit would kick in.

As they paid, Juli brought them back to Bruce and his little-big-man routine of the night before.

Is he like that at home, do you think?  Juli deepened her voice.  "Wife, go to bed. And you kids, practice your times tables.  Presto, vivace."

Either of you know Bruce’s wife?  Want to invite her to lunch and find out?

No, no, no, came the chorus, and it was very vivace.

The fishermen pulled the cords that gathered the net into a pouch, now heavy with splashing and squirming silvery prey, reflecting the sunlight like a giant sequined handbag, and headed back to shore.

* * *

After lunch, Margaret offered to go home with Emily to help her with the part of the Mendelssohn she’d complained about.  That was one of the things Emily loved about Margaret—not only did she pick up on things said and unsaid, she often knew just what to do about it.

They’d been working at it for about a half hour,

Reviews for Deadly Adagio

[sheiladeeth_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In Senegal's tightly closed world of embassy employees and Peace Corp volunteers, the wives (or occasional husbands) struggle for identity and strive to fill the endless days of being defined by "other." Emily is one such wife, a musician playing in a volunteer orchestra, a mother, and a woman with few friends in her foreign world. When one of those friends is murdered, Emily could quietly accept that the men will solve the crime, or she could follow her heart and look for answers.Emily makes a pleasantly smart, believable protagonist in this mystery, neither too clever nor too foolish, but certainly determined. In the late ‘90s, Senegal reveals itself as a place filled with real people, local and foreign, with real needs and real desires. Women suffer genital mutilation as a matter of course, as Emily learns. Terrorists are an ever-present fear. Cultural divisions create amusing moments. And wounded relationships thrive.Author Carole Howard weaves authentic details and invaluable lessons seamlessly and unobtrusively into this novel, making it a truly evocative read, well-grounded in culture, time and place. Nicely drawn images of life in a different world invite readers to see through other people's eyes. The agony of needed change is beautifully balanced against the pain of change enforced through death, and hidden secrets reveal the need for and meaning of true friendship.Meanwhile the deadly adagio plays – slow in the heat of a Senegal day, whispering the need for change, and well-composed with mystery in the beginning, middle and end.Disclosure: I bought a free ecopy and I offer my honest review.