Murder in the Choir (A Helen Mirkin novel)

By Ruth Shidlo

In this second Helen Mirkin novel, upon her return to Tel Aviv, Detective Inspector Helen Mirkin is tasked with finding opera singer Araceli Pena, who uncharacteristically has missed two Wozzeck rehearsals before opening night. When she is found dead in bed, the circumstances of her death are far from clear.

The investigation takes DI Mirkin behind the scenes, to the mercurial world of the annual Opera Music Workshop, rife with competition and backstabbing among the singer’s colleagues, many of whom dream of being awarded the Seagram Grant to study under the best coaches New York can offer.

When the meteoric composer Israel Berger is shot dead shortly thereafter, the stakes are even higher for DI Mirkin, as the music world she cherishes seems to be under attack. Are the two deaths related? Can the Opera Music Workshop survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruth Shidlo
• Release date: Apr 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9780988437937

Ruth Shidlo

Born in Portugal, Ruth Shidlo has also lived in Spain, Israel and the United States. She practices as a psychologist in Tel Aviv, and enjoys writing fiction and editing. Murder in the Choir is her second novel.

Book preview

Praise for Ruth Shidlo’s ‘The Rosebush Murders’

This is an engaging book. I couldn’t stop reading and wished the story to go on.

Edith M

A page turner of a debut novel … I enjoyed it thoroughly in two sittings.

Jonathan Siegel

… fascinating … couldn’t stop reading. I was very impressed with how the author, Ruth Shidlo, managed to combine the childhood memories of the detective with her qualities of investigation, while respecting the otherness of her client", and dealing with problems of fertility and pregnancy, all in such a way that the reader is attracted to read more and more about the case and the book’s underlying themes.

Ronnie Solan, PhD

Author, The Enigma of Childhood. The Profound Impact of the First Years of Life on Adults as Couples and Parents.

… a fine police murder mystery … digs into some of the questions of life that fascinate us all.

Raymond Mathiesen

Written in a breath-holding style, this murder novel is ingenious and well written. It kept me reading on and on, without wanting to put the book down.

Dr. Sonia Mucznik

… fast paced and filled with an array of interesting characters.

Traveling man

… the road there (to conclusion) is lively.

Hadassah Magazine

Mirkin is an engaging character.

Na’amat Magazine

Also by Ruth Shidlo: The Rosebush Murders

Published by Hoopoe Publishing

Copyright © 2016 Ruth Shidlo

www.ruthshidlo.com

Ruth Shidlo has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

Murder in the Choir is a work of fiction. Unless clearly in the public domain, names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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 permission in writing of the publisher. It is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Smashwords Edition

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016904122

Cover by Boulevard Photografica/Patty G. Henderson

Photograph by Shai Alexandroni

Edited by Ruthie Almog

To my dear mother,

Ana Shidlo, who has given me many reasons to sing,

and continues to do so

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author would like to thank Gallimard for permission to quote La Grasse Matinée (Paroles) by Jacques Prévert. Copyright © Gallimard, 1949.

*

The author would also like to thank friends and family for their unwavering support and encouragement, some of whom read earlier versions of this novel. I am particularly indebted to Noa Shidlo, Ana Shidlo, Ariel Shidlo, Alon Or, Michal Or, Hanna Tzur, Gaby Gruber Gur, Shai Alexandroni and Ronnie Solan.

I welcome the opportunity to thank Ruthie Almog, Patty Henderson and Catherine Wilson for their steadfast professional assistance. Special thanks to Shai Alexandroni for locating and photographing the flower on the cover of this book.

Contents

Epigraph

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

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

LA GRASSE MATINÉE

Il est terrible

le petit bruit de l’oeuf dur cassé sur un comptoir d’étain

il est terrible ce bruit

quand il remue dans la memoire de l’homme qui a faim

elle est terrible aussi dans la tête de l’homme

la tete de l’homme qui a faim,

quand il se regarde a six heures du matin

dans la glace du grand magasin

une tete couleur de poussiere

ce n’est pas sa tete pourtant qu’il regarde

dans la vitrine de chez Potin

il s’en fout de sa tête l’homme

il n’y pense pas

il song

il imagine une autre tête

une tête de veau par exemple

avec la sauce de vinaigre

ou une tête de n’importe quoi qui se mange

et il remue doucement la machoire

doucement

et il grince des dents doucement

car le monde se paye sa tête

et il ne peut rien contre ce monde

et il compte sur ses doigts un deux trois

un deux trois

cela fait trois jours qu’il n’a pas mangé

et il a beau se repeter depuis trois jours

Ca ne peut pas durer

ca dure

trois jours

trois nuits

sans manger

et derrière ces vitres

ces pates ces bouteilles ces conserves

poisons morts protégés par les boites

boites protégées par les vitres

vitres protégées par les flics

flics protégés par la crainte

que de barricades pour six malheureuses sardines..

Un peu plus loin le bistrot

café-crème et croissants chauds

l’homme titube

et dans l’interieur de sa tete

un brouillard de mots

un brouillard de mots

sardines a manger

oeuf dur café-crème

café arose rhum

café-crème

café-crème

café-crime arrosé sang!…

Un homme tres estimé dans son quartier

a ete egorgé en plein jour

l’assassin le vagabond lui a volé

deux francs

soit un café arrosé

zero franc soixante-dix

deux tartines beurrées

et vingt-cinq centimes pour le bourboir du garcon.

Il est terrible

le petit bruit de l’oeuf dur cassé sur un comptoir d’étain

il est terrible ce bruit

quand il remue dans la memoire de l’homme qui a faim.

* * * * *

It is terrible

the small sound made by the hard boiled egg cracked against a stainless steel counter

It is terrible that noise

when it stirs in the memory of the starving man

The head of the man is terrible to see too

The head of the man who is hungry

when he stares at himself at six o’clock in the morning

in the window of the large shop

A head the color of dust

Yet it is not his head that he is looking at

in the window of Chez Potin

He does not care about his head, the man

He does not think about it

he dreams

he imagines another head

A calf’s head for instance with a vinegar sauce

or the head of anything edible

and he moves his jaws gently

gently

and he grinds his teeth gently

because the world is mocking him

and he can do nothing against that world

He counts on his fingers one, two, three

one two three

three days since he last ate

and even if he repeats to himself during

three days

this can’t go on

it does go on

three days

three nights

without eating

and behind those windows

those pâtés, those bottles, those preserves

dead fish protected by tins

tins protected by windows

windows protected by the police

policemen protected by fear

What a lot of barricades for six miserable sardines

A little further the bistro

cream coffee and warm croissants

The man staggers

and within his head

a fog of words

a fog of words

sardines to eat

hard boiled egg cream coffee

coffee topped up with rum

cream coffee

coffee crime sprinkled with blood

A man, well-respected in the neighborhood,

had his throat slit in full daylight

The murderer, the tramp, has stolen from him

two francs,

that is to say, a coffee topped with cream

zero francs seventy five

two slices of bread and butter

and twenty five centimes for the waiter’s tip

It is terrible

the small sound made by the hardboiled egg cracked against a stainless steel counter

It is terrible that noise

when it stirs in the memory of the starving man

Jacques Prévert, Paroles (1945)

1

Bat Yam, July 2011

Araceli Pena stops singing in the middle of a high note, unable to continue with the attacca. Her heart is beating faster than usual, her face hot and flushed. Far from menopausal, it none-the-less occurs to her she must be experiencing hot flashes, and she wonders what is wrong with her.

At twenty-nine, she is at the peak of her career as a dramatic soprano. When the summer workshop ends, she will return to Madrid, so she can be with Conchita and decide what to do with the rest of her life.

In the fall, she is to start a much-coveted fellowship at the Music Hall and Opera House of New York, where, for the duration of a season, she has a chance to sing under the very best. She has worked very hard for it, her efforts recognized by Carole Zinelli and Alberto Coccio, and the others at the Opera Music Workshop. Held every summer on the coastal town of Bat Yam located near Tel Aviv, it attracts young singers from all over the world, and is often a jumpstart for many of their careers. This is her second year.

While her home base is Barcelona and its famous opera house where she has sung some minor roles, she has some occasional engagements in other cities, spending as much time as she possibly can in Madrid, to be with Conchita. She wishes Conchita were here with her now.

Conchita provides her with an oasis, a welcome and much-needed respite from the competitive environment she inhabits, with its constant tensions, both visible and subterranean, but palpable none-the-less, and the need to constantly prove yourself again and again, giving it your utmost. While she loves what she does, Araceli doesn’t have the luxury of a writer or painter, who, working alone in their studio, can revise and polish the work until it positively gleams. An opera singer is particularly vulnerable to the constant ebb and flow of the life stream, with its sudden gushes and swirls that threaten to invade one’s singing unannounced in real time, that is, on stage. It is necessary to be super concentrated and deliver one’s lines in the appropriate intonation at precisely the right nanosecond, always conscious of the progress of the music, with its changing key, harmony and dynamics, as well as variations in both the conductor’s and other singers’ interpretations. Although rehearsals, technique and experience can help deal with the unexpected, in the form of unbidden raw emotions, colds and breathing difficulties, the more you shine in the limelight, the more you have to lose. It is not easy to recuperate from a bad review or a raised eyebrow of someone whose opinion matters.

The frazzled soprano shakes away these thoughts, opens her eyes and looks around slowly. Despite her preparation, the air has fizzled out in the middle of the phrase, and her throat is as dry as the Sahara. Is she having a panic attack or simply dehydrated?

Alberto Coccio stops the rehearsal with his baton and an involuntary scowl. What is going on with his Marie?

Araceli? He peers at the olive-skinned young woman through the thick lenses of his spare glasses, unable to find the regular pair this morning. He has a pleasant baritone.

I’m sorry, Maestro. I don’t know what’s the matter with me—I need some air. I find it very hot in here.

He strides over to the window and opens it, the air conditioning obviously not enough. Addressing the small group of singers on stage, he says: OK, guys. We’ll take a fifteen minute break. If any of you leave, please return on time, as we’re behind schedule as it is.

But no one shows any desire to leave. On the contrary, they come up to Araceli to see how she’s doing. As Marie, she has one of the leading roles in the opera they’re rehearsing this morning, and since this has never happened before, they’re concerned. They like Araceli, who is always so well prepared, even though German is not her native tongue, take pleasure in her impressive range, with its magnificent highs and generous lows.

You okay? asks Alex, the handsome baritone who sings the central role, Wozzeck. He places the fingertips of his left hand on her forehead.

My, you’re hot, he says. Let me get you some water. He straightens up and brings her a fresh bottle of mineral water from a pack someone left in the corner.

Araceli drinks thirstily, draining the bottle in one go. God, I was parched. Thanks, Alex.

He smiles, his demeanor softening; lately he’s been preoccupied, and he hasn’t hidden it very well, being less open to the usual banter and camaraderie with the other singers than he might otherwise have been, probably coming across as overly serious and task-oriented. Like Araceli, he wants his girlfriend by his side, but that’s not going to happen. At least not this year, judging by Zinelli’s reaction when they last spoke.

Another singer, the Drum Major, a baritone (considered by some a heroic tenor or ‘heldentenor’) blessed with a rich dramatic voice, joins them, patting Marie gently on the shoulder. I’m glad you seem to be feeling better. I was getting worried, he says. They have a role to play, and feeling a tad unprepared and distracted by some family matters, he knows he needs as much rehearsal as he can get.

I’m much better, thanks. No need to preoccupy yourself.

But her own mind keeps spinning. She and Conchita have been together for almost two years, and the frequent separations, while something they have learned to live with, are increasingly difficult, especially if long, like this one, and more so for Araceli, although she doesn’t like to talk about it. She cannot imagine what it will be like to spend nine months in New York without her Conchita. And it’s not as if either can afford to travel back and forth. Conchita makes fine jewelry, and like Araceli, is a salaried worker. And given Spain’s fiscal challenges, not to say serious debt, her pay, while decent, is hard to live on. Bottom line, there is no way she can jeopardize her career, which is just taking off, after a long wait on the runway. On the other hand, she wants Conchita by her side, is weary of living between suitcases, constantly on the road, apart from her lover. The two essential needs for love and work don’t appear to be reconcilable, and she will have to choose between her career and her beloved—at least for the foreseeable future.

She can’t bear to think of it right now, forces herself to look at the conductor.

Coccio is relieved Araceli isn’t coming down with something—she’s seemed a bit run-down this past week. He can’t afford to lose his key singer, of whom he’s proud, like a father. She’s come a long way in just one year. The fruits of their work together last summer are clearly present in her delivery of her lines, her intonation, and she has mastered her passion, learnt how to channel it into her singing. Carole also worked hard with her, recognizing the talent that needed to be nudged in the right direction, cultivated. They had both recommended her for the fellowship, excited to be a part of her burgeoning career. She would go far, this one. They’d agreed that when they were back in the city and she too was in New York, they’d keep an eye on her, making sure Araceli maximized her considerable strengths and steered clear of the predictable pitfalls for someone of her considerable talents and temperament. There were certain personae at the opera house that simply could not be crossed—at least not without dire consequences. Forewarned was forearmed.

I’m so glad you’re feeling better, he tells Araceli. Let me know when you feel up to it, so we can resume where we left off.

I’m fine—I don’t know what happened to me. I imagine I was dehydrated, the black-haired singer tells him. She pushes back an unruly forelock. Her green eyes have recovered their usual sparkle. I’m ready when you are, she says gracefully. Her English has a gentle Spanish lilt, which he finds soothing.

Okay then. Let’s start at bar … says the conductor. The entrance to Marie’s aria.

The pianist nods, and plays the overture.

2

On the thirteenth floor of the conveniently located Tel Aviv Hilton, there are few people at the executive business lounge at this hour, and mostly pretzels and nuts, and a few basic appetizers for the eternally hungry are available to complement the complimentary drinks.

The view however, knows no bounds, as Carole Zinelli, a recurring guest from New York who spends her summers in Tel Aviv directing the prestigious Opera Music Workshop, gazes out to sea—past the sail-decked marina, its manmade surf breakers and the old-new beach promenade from Jaffa in the south, past the hotel area and the old port of Tel Aviv, now a popular hotspot, to the gaudily decorated Reading Power Station located on the northern bank of the Yarkon River’s estuary into the sea. A solitary gasoline tanker is visible just north of Reading; when empty, it will return to the mother port of Ashdod for refueling.

Today Zinelli left work early to tie up a few loose ends before the evening concert and to meet an old friend. Having immersed herself in its calming waters, by now Zinelli’s had her fill of the sparkling blue unruffled Mediterranean, and focuses on getting something to drink. As she waits for the espresso machine to finish dripping steaming Italian coffee into a thick porcelain cup, her distinguished colleague, Jacques Elkayiff joins her, beige summer cap in hand, revealing a polished copper-colored crown amidst a silvery frame of surprisingly thick hair, testifying to early mornings at the beach, before the weather became impossibly hot and humid. Having come in from the overpowering sauna outdoors, he’s grateful for the hotel’s rejuvenating air conditioning.

Ma chérie, he says amicably, kissing Zinelli’s proffered hand the old-fashioned way. In his mid-seventies, he still fancies himself quite the ladies’ man. It was not necessary to page you. One of the waiters was leaving and kindly let me in as soon as I mentioned your name.

Maestro, she murmurs. Just on time. Café crème?

Café crème. Café crime, arrosé sang! … he responds merrily, quoting Prévert.

No, no, no, no sardines, he says, still referring to the poem, his eyes taking in the modest spread. He rubs his hands in anticipation. His generous stomach bulges slightly as he takes a handkerchief from his right pocket, his pants held by burgundy-colored suspenders.

Zinelli, familiar with the poem and appreciative of her companion’s wry sense of humor and eccentric habit of interspersing poetry in his conversation, nods, but having other things on her mind, doesn’t give much thought to what he is saying, even though it remains somewhat ambiguous.

Do they have a decent Armagnac? he inquires, helping himself to a handful of cashew and pistachio nuts.

Hmm, how about this? asks Zinelli, giving the liquor bottles on the top shelf a quick look-over and selecting one. Actually, it’s either this or a cognac—not a very good one, I’m afraid. Jerez.

Drinks in hand and a plate of mouth-sized quiches and tiny egg salad and eggplant sandwiches between them, they settle down comfortably in two perpendicular leather armchairs facing an LCD screen, which thankfully, is turned off. Neither is in the mood for a global news update, having local business to attend to.

3

A couple of days later

I’ve never heard you sing like that! exclaims Hannah, my voice coach. You’ve progressed to a whole new level of emotional expression! She gets up from the piano and reaches out to hug me. I am taller than she, but she manages just fine. I have goose-bumps, she announces as she flashes me a big smile. That was totally linear.

I smile back, proud and embarrassed, take a deep breath. It’s true. I’d felt the Berg songs pour out of me like a good brandy coating a wide stem glass. Must be your not giving up on me, I tell her, for lately I’ve come in for voice lessons without having practiced in the interim, and the thought of taking a break has crossed my mind more than once. Somehow, the days never seem long enough, especially since I’ve relocated to Tel Aviv after having spent a few years in the capital. And I could sure use the extra dough, as I have been overreaching my already meager budget. I am not getting any younger, and need to plan ahead, especially if I want a family, which I do (most of the time.)

"No,—it’s your doing, she says firmly. The musical lines moved forward all the time, and I could feel the expression of feeling—each singer has feelings but the