Stradella's Revenge (A Harry Grouch Mystery)

By Robert Tell

Who is killing classical composers all over America? A serial killer is on the loose and Harry Grouch must find out why and catch the murderer. "Stradella's Revenge" is based on the real life conflicts of two 17th century Italian composers, Tomaso Albinoni and Alessandro Stradella. It is the third in the entertaining Harry Grouch Detective Series that includes "The Witch of Maple Park" and "Nanobe." Dr. Tomaso Albinoni, a Medical Microbiologist at Bard Memorial Hospital (and a descendant of the baroque composer with the same name) hires Harry Grouch and Associates to investigate anonymous death threats. Could they be related to an unsolved series of recent murders of other composers? Harry discovers that in Tom Albinoni's case they may be revenge threats coming from a descendant of Alessandro Stradella, a composer who was assassinated in 1682, possibly by one of Albinoni's ancestors. These were real and talented composers whose music is often heard and celebrated today. Flashbacks to 1682 reveal what really happened. Stradella was a blessed composer and a cursed personality, a cad, a womanizer, and an embezzler from the church. Some would probably say he deserved assassination. The current day Albinoni is stalked by the current day Stradella. Harry Grouch investigates using clues from the composer's music. What is driving the modern day Stradella and will Harry catch him in time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Tell
• Release date: Feb 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310914362

Robert Tell

Robert Tell was born in Brooklyn, New York, and educated at Columbia University. He now lives in Farmington Hills, Michigan, and winters in Boynton Beach, Florida. Tell is grateful that his parents didn't name him William Tell. He last saw snow in 2004. His award winning fiction, poetry, columns, articles, and creative non-fiction have appeared in many periodicals. He has a growing catalogue of published books including works of fiction, memoir and poetry. "The Witch of Maple Park (Harry Grouch Mystery Series #1)" is an Eric Hoffer Book Award Grand Prize Finalist, and First Runner-Up in their Ebook Fiction category. It is compelling fiction inspired by a true story. "Nanobe (Harry Grouch Mystery Series #2)" is a hospital based medical thriller based on Tell's years as a hospital CEO and Public Health executive. "Stradella's Revenge (Harry Grouch Mystery Series #3)" retells the legend of Italian composer Alessandro Stradella's 17th Century assassination from the point of view of a modern murder mystery. In "Deep Pockets (Harry Grouch Mystery Series #4)," Detective Grouch busts up an international Mafia controlled scam bilking millions of dollars through fraudulent medical malpractice lawsuits. "Thirsty Planet" was a finalist for the prestigious Montaigne Medal award for thought provoking writing. It was recently translated and released in China by a Chinese publisher. "Dementia Diary, A Caregivers Journal" uses compassion and humor in a memoir about caring for a loved one with dementia.

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Stradella's Revenge

A Harry Grouch Mystery

By Robert Tell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 Robert Tell

License Notes

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

Stradella's Revenge

A Harry Grouch Mystery

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Some of the characters in this novel really lived. However, for literary purposes, the words they speak in this book, and all the scenes in which they appear, were invented by the author.

Prologue

This editorial appeared in Cold Comfort Magazine in March 1997:

"We have noticed a pattern in a series of recent unsolved murders. All victims were composers and musicians of Italian heritage. Could these killings be linked or are they somehow just bizarre coincidences? As far as we know, the police don't have meaningful clues for any of them. We think there is much food for thought here. What do you think?

"Case 1: Arthur Bartolotti, murdered in November, 1996 in Boston. The late conductor had just left the concert hall following a performance of one of his new compositions. As he hailed a taxi, an assault bullet took off the top of his head.

"Case 2: Charles Caproli, an organist murdered in a Pittsburgh church on Christmas Day, 1996. His organ keyboard exploded when he hit high C, killing him instantly. He was playing his latest composition at the time, a fugue. No one else was harmed.

"Case 3: John Granata, murdered in Cleveland on New Year's Eve, 1996, by poisoned guitar strings that cut into his fingers when he tried to play his modernized arrangement of Auld Lang Syne at a party for his friends. His Persian cat licked his fingers and also died.

"Case 4: Mike Falvetti, murdered between the acts at the January, 1997, Chicago Opera House performance of Verdi's 'Il Trovatore.' A 100-pound prop dropped on the tenor backstage while he rehearsed a love song he had composed as an encore.

While we wait for justice to be done, these composers are decomposing. Let the editors of this magazine know your tips for catching the killers. We'll pass them along to our connections and, if they lead to a conviction, you will receive all promised rewards. At the very least, you will get an additional year added to your subscription to 'Cold Comfort Magazine.' No charge.

Signed: The Editor

Part 1

Chapter One

Maple Park, Michigan-1997

It was late and all the other clinical lab staff had already gone. Dr. Tomaso Albinoni yawned and stretched and decided it was time he went home too. Just then, the telephone rang and, in the dark and silent labs, it chimed like a church bell at noon.

Albinoni glanced at his watch. At this hour, Bard Memorial Hospital's microbiology department was closed for the day, and he did not have to answer the phone. His palms grew clammy. What if he heard that threatening voice again?

He stared at the phone. On the sixth ring he decided to reach for the receiver, but the ringing stopped before his hand could get there. Relieved, he pushed back from his desk, put on his jacket, and prepared to leave. As he reached the office door, however, the phone rang once more. With resignation, he went back and lifted the receiver.

Hello?

Silence.

Again, Hello?

Again silence.

Albinoni started to hang up when he heard a muffled voice coming from the receiver. He placed it against his ear.

Hello?

Is that you, Albinoni?

This is Tom Albinoni, the head of Microbiology. Who is this?

What he heard was a male voice in a throaty whisper. You're a dead man, Albinoni, it said, followed by a click, and then dead air.

It was the tenth such call in as many days and Tom Albinoni felt unsettled about it. All week he tried to chalk it off to a crank, the kind of nut case sometimes attracted to hospitals after dark. But what if it's more than that, he wondered? What if I'm in real danger?

He took out his copy of the hospital telephone directory and looked up the extension for Dr. Fred Wilcox, the head of the Department of Psychiatry. He hesitated just a moment and then picked up the phone. As expected at this late hour, he got a recorded message.

Fred, he said. This is Tom Albinoni in the Labs. I have a personal matter to discuss with you and hope you'll have some time for me tomorrow. Leave a message on my voicemail with some time options and I'll get back to you. Thanks much.

Now, he thought, I'm off to the cafeteria for a lonely dinner.

It was an hour before closing time in the hospital's employee cafeteria and there were many empty tables. However, whom should he see enjoying a quiet and solitary meal but Fred Wilcox?

This is a piece of luck, he thought. May I join you? he asked.

As it turned out, Wilcox wasn't all that helpful. The gist of his advice was not to worry. It's rare for people who threaten to actually act. If the guy wanted to hurt you, he would have done it already without all the melodrama. So, relax.

Albinoni looked at his fingers. I wonder, he thought, if Fred would be so nonchalant about it if he were the one receiving these calls.

The microbiologist finished his dinner, said his goodbyes, and left for home. By 9 P.M. he was in his Maple Park, Michigan living room, relaxing in his favorite chair, sipping a glass of Cabernet, and trying to forget the annoying phone calls.

A concerto by his famous ancestor was on the hi-fi. His eyes kept closing and soon he was fast asleep. A book he'd been reading, an exciting sci-fi/mystery novel about climate change called Thirsty Planet, slipped from his lap to the floor, jolting him awake.

But it wasn't just the book noise that he'd heard. Suspicious sounds hung in the air from outside the house. They lasted just a moment, but he was sure he'd heard them. Boy, I'm getting jumpy, he thought. Better go check.

It took about 15 minutes to find a functional flashlight. After grabbing a thick wooden walking stick from the coat closet, he cautiously patrolled the outside perimeter of the house.

Albinoni noted that the lights were on in his neighbor's house. He could see the glow of a TV screen through their unshaded living room window, but neither Jan Spicer nor her husband Frank were visible. Neither were they outside checking for intruders.

Clutching the walking stick as a weapon in one hand, and the flashlight in the other hand, he examined every shadowy space in the backyard. There were no signs of anything irregular wherever he looked. Finally, he concluded that the noise that woke him was only the wind gusting through the leaves of his favorite red maple tree, and he went back into the house.

Shrugging, Albinoni told himself that he'd probably overreacted to the goofy phone threats, and that he needed to get a hold of himself. He double locked the front door and checked all windows and doorways for safety. Satisfied that no one could enter the house without alerting him, he returned to his wine, book, and music, and again dozed off.

At 2 A.M. the ringing of the phone awakened him. Still half asleep and groggy, Albinoni lurched from the chair and stumbled toward the phone, knocking it off the sofa end table.

Shit. he mumbled. Rushing to grab the receiver before his caller could be disconnected, he lifted the phone off the floor, untangled its wires, and settled onto the sofa.

Tentatively, Hello? Are you still there?

Albinoni, this is Stradella. A scratchy voice. Lots of static.

I'm sorry. It's a bad connection. It's hard to understand you. Who is this?

You know about the vow. Its time has come.

What vow? What are you talking about?

The vow of revenge. It doesn't matter if you know of it. You are a descendant of Tomaso Albinoni, the 17th Century Italian baroque composer, and you carry the family guilt.

The voice trailed off in a batch of unintelligible static, and the line went dead.

Hello? Hello? Albinoni jiggled the button in the receiver cradle over and over, but to no avail. Hello?

Nothing! He rubbed his free hand over his forehead and eyes, and replaced the silent receiver in the cradle with his other hand. His mind was racing, torn between fear and curiosity. The situation was irrational. He had no idea who his stalker was (and he was indeed being stalked), or what the guy had against him. But there was no question that he had become a target for someone's vengeance.

The danger was real. Now, in the middle of the night, it felt crisp and intimidating. He fled to the bedroom and tried to get some sleep. But he was too wound up. Every new noise caused his adrenalin to pump tension into his muscles and terror into his heart.

He tried lying on his back, but started to choke. He tried his right side and then his left, but his legs cramped. His blankets were uncomfortable. He was either too hot or too cold, depending on whether he kicked them off or pulled them up to his chin. He couldn't control the flow of disturbing images that haunted him. Finally, giving up on sleep, he crawled out of bed and tried, without success, to concentrate on his novel.

When the dim light of dawn finally intruded into his space, it felt like a month had passed. He snuck a weary look at the clock on the kitchen stove and cursed. 6:40 A.M. Might as well forget about sleep on this night, he thought. He got washed and busied himself by making some coffee and toast.

A loud thump against the front door had his heart in his mouth and his hair on end. He jumped a few feet out of his seat, but calmed down as his mind caught up with his body. It was just the daily newspaper delivery, he realized.

Tom Albinoni swallowed the last of his coffee and opened the front door. As anticipated, the Detroit Free Press lay there. He spied a small square package under the newspaper. He stooped and examined the package, turned it over, and in an instant of panic he dropped it. It landed on the Free Press without damage.

Breathing deeply, he bent and retrieved it again. It was a CD recording. On one side were baroque concertos composed by his ancestor, Tomaso Albinoni around 1700 A.D. On the reverse side were works by another notable baroque composer, Alessandro Stradella.

The voice on the phone had used the name Stradella, but what does Stradella have to do with me, Albinoni wondered?

He read the handwritten note pasted on the CD. It said, Enjoy your days. They will soon be over.

Albinoni couldn't understand why he'd received such a message, but there was no doubt in his mind that the threat was intended for him. Puzzled and very frightened, he searched his memory for possible enemies capable of this but couldn't think of a single one.

What kind of lunatic is this?

He now realized he needed objective help, and who better than Harry Grouch and Judy Pacas. Albinoni hadn't talked to them for weeks, but the detectives became his close friends when he collaborated with them on the Nanobe case.

That's it, he thought. I bet they can help me with this. As soon as he imagined Harry would be awake and about, he placed the call.

***

The crowd at the Green Froggy Pub was boisterous. It was April 1997, and the hockey season was in its most exciting phase. TV's at the iconic sports bar displayed the final moments of an intense game and everyone, except possibly Harry Grouch, was fixated on the action.

Harry was seated at a table with his good friend, Tom Albinoni. Harry's father, Filip Grouch, was standing in a crowd at the bar trying unsuccessfully to order refills of their drinks.

Tom Albinoni looked across the table and over his seated companion's head. His eyes were focused on the TV screen over the bar. He leapt to his feet and cheered. So did most of the other patrons.

Harry Grouch remained seated. He looked up at Tom and shouted something unintelligible that was drowned out by the sounds of celebrating fans.

Tom Albinoni looked down at Harry. It's good news, he yelled. The Red Wings just scored the winning goal. The game's over and they're still in the running for the Stanley Cup.

I can't hear you over the noise in here. Harry cupped his ear with the palm of his hand and leaned forward. And I can't see any of the TV's. What just happened?

Tom circled his mouth with his hands, megaphone style, and repeated his message as loudly as he could. Just then the noise level in the bar abated and Tom's loud voice attracted embarrassing attention. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

So, Harry said. Now that I can hear again, what was it you wanted to talk to me about? You sounded so upset on the phone.

Tom hadn't expected Filip Grouch to be part of the evening. He liked Harry's Dad a lot, but there was urgent personal business to discuss, and he preferred to consult with Harry privately.

At the bar, Filip Grouch turned toward Tom and Harry and winked. He finally managed to catch the bar maid's eye, signal for refills, and make his way back to the table.

It's a private matter, Tom said. I'll fill you in when we're alone.

I'll look for a polite way to send Dad on his way. Incidentally, how are you managing without your wife? What do you hear from her?

Tom swallowed some of his beer. Jane's still in China, he said. It's a joint epidemiology project with the two universities. She said she may be able to get home once or twice during the project, but it will be six months 'til she's back permanently. He paused. I miss her and I hate it, he said.

Filip Grouch plopped into his chair at the table knocking over his mug and slightly spilling what was left of his first Stroh's. I love these nights out, he said.

So soon, Dad, Harry quipped. The ink's barely dry on your marriage license and already you're running out on Irena?

Irena Szurgalsky, Tom Albinoni thought. Such a nice woman to have lost her husband, Ernest, in such a dreadful manner. Can it be two years since Harry figured out the death was caused by nanobes?

Filip chuckled, She's my wife, not my jailer. And while we're on the topic, when will you and Judy make it legal?

Ignoring the question, Harry looked at a nearby wall clock. Oh my gosh, it's 9:30. Judy will be home from the assignment I gave her. I should leave. He began to put on his jacket.

It's 9:30? Filip said, draining his drink. I'd better go too. I promised Irena I'd be home by 9. He rose to leave.

Tom looked at Harry. Would you mind staying a few more minutes, Harry? There's something I need to discuss with you.

Harry removed his jacket and sat down again. Certainly, he said.

Filip seemed flustered. Do you need me too, Tom?

That's OK, Fil, I wouldn't want Irena to be mad at me.

Thanks for your understanding, Filip said, and he left.

Tom smiled at Harry. Very diplomatically done.

So, Harry asked, what's this mysterious private matter you want to discuss with me?

I need your help, Harry, Tom said.

***

Harry Grouch left the Green Froggy Pub overwhelmed with worry about Tom Albinoni's safety. He wasn't sure yet how he could help him, but he wanted to support a friend in trouble.

On the way home, Harry decided to take a short side trip to Bard Memorial Hospital. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, or what he hoped to find, but he thought a quick night visit to Tom Albinoni's lab might stimulate some ideas. He hadn't been back to the hospital since the Nanobe case, when he practically lived there. On approaching the main entrance, memories flooded his mind.

The night security guard, Sam Orvak, was at the lobby desk and recognized him.

Harry Grouch, the guard said. Haven't seen you for awhile. What's up? A new case?

Harry chuckled. You know I can't tell you anything about my cases, Sam. That's why I'm called a 'private' eye. But I do have a question for you. Do you still make evening rounds of the whole physical plant?

I do. It's good exercise, but mostly boring. I haven't seen anything out of the ordinary for over a year.

Harry had intended to ask for a pass to allow him to visit the Microbiology Department, but he changed his mind. He'd have to tell Sam something about why he was asking, and he wasn't ready to do that yet. It was premature.

He gave the guard a business card with his contact information. Do me a favor, Sam. If you happen to see someone unknown to you hanging around the labs late at night, let me know. If it's relevant to the case I'm working on, I'll tell you everything at that time. Okay?

He and Sam shook hands on it and Harry headed home. As he drove his Mustang onto the freeway, he thought about his dinner conversation with Tom.

Since Tom was a friend, Harry was reluctant to charge the usual detective's fee. So he suggested a barter system. Future cases, he said, could require the epidemiology and microbiology skills that Jane Hedgerow and Tom Albinoni possessed in great abundance. Harry agreed to investigate Tom's stalker for free in return for them providing these services if and when they were ever needed. It seemed like a fair bargain.

He found Judy relaxing at home with a martini, and he poured himself a nightcap of scotch and water. She had much to report about her interview with a witness in their motorcycle manslaughter case.

Harry, Judy chastised, after he filled her in on Tom's story, how could you have agreed to a free investigation? I mean, I love Jane and Tom too, but we need the fee income.

I know, I know, Harry frowned and wiped some cocktail moisture from his lips. He acknowledged their need for revenue, but he also wanted to be there for a friend. He told Judy the plan would give them free access to Tom and Jane's specialized knowledge.

Think of the deal with Tom and Jane as an investment. He took another sip of his drink. Listen, Judy, if you're opposed to it, just say so and I'll call it off.

No, they're my friends too. We'll find another way to raise the money. Maybe we can get on the Maple Park Police Chief's payroll again.

That would be terrific, but I'd be too embarrassed to ask Toby Katz.

Judy rolled her eyes. Not me. I wouldn't hesitate to ask him.

Well, so far there's not much for us to do, so as a favor to me, don't approach Katz yet. I couldn't justify it.

You're a wimp, Harry Grouch, but I guess we can handle it at the moment. There's a big fee due from the motorcycle manslaughter case, and a couple of others in accounts receivable. So, okay for now. What's the next step?

I thought you'd come around, he beamed, so I've already arranged for Tom's home and work phones to be tapped. And I have Tom's permission to ask key hospital people to stay alert for unauthorized intruders in the lab area. In fact, I've already talked to the hospital's night security staff about that.

Judy glared at him. I can't believe you did all that before you discussed it with me. Aren't we still partners?

Of course, we are. I was sure you'd be supportive and didn't think you'd mind.

Grrr, Judy growled. You do take me for granted, don't you? Is there anything else I should know?

Yes. I've asked Toby Katz to keep an eye on the Albinoni home.

Judy clapped her hands. Now, that I like. We can charge Toby for that.

No, we can't. That's part of his job. Please drop the subject.

Judy pouted. Oh, okay. But what about Tom's safety? He can't stay alone at his house anymore, can he?

Harry smiled. Glad you feel that way. Of course, he can't. I've invited him to bunk here for the next few days while he looks for more suitable temporary housing. He'll be here any minute.

Chapter Two

Rome-1677

New Year's morning, March 1, 1677, dawned a crisp thirty-seven degrees in the Renaissance city of Rome, Italy. The thirty-eight year old composer, Alessandro Stradella, had not gone to sleep during a long night of revelry. Not only was he awake, but he was still in the luxurious bedroom of Sophia Larosa, a young Roman noblewoman whose elderly husband, Bernardo, could be heard snoring in another room of their palatial home.

Stradella smoothed Sophia's long black hair back upon her pillow with his hands and kissed her neck. She giggled, pulled him onto her and wrapped her legs around him. Stradella kissed each bare breast, then wriggled out of her embrace and pushed her away.

She glared at him and hissed, So, you are through with me, are you? I gave you everything all night while Bernardo slept, Dio non voglia* he should wake up, and now you push me away?

(*Translation of Italian words may be found in the Glossary in the back of this book.)

I do love you, little sparrow, Stradella said. This was the best New Year's I ever had. But I must go. I have a cantata to compose. Your Bernardo will soon open his eyes and search for you. I must not be found here.

Sophia acquiesced with reluctance and pulled on her chemise. Stradella hurried to put on his breeches, warm doublet and boots. He grabbed his hat, blew her a kiss, and fled.

As prearranged, Carlo Lonati waited for him at the Gambini Tavern, the meeting place of choice for over fifty years for the best of Rome's musical talent. As usual, the place was