Final Adagio

By Giselle M. Stancic

Tonights performance of Mahlers Ninth Symphony marks a new beginning for Maestro Auguste Leloir. Behind him are the ghosts of his first appearance with the Chicago Philharmonia thirty years ago, when the dreams of the conductor and his new bride were brutally destroyed by the blade of an unknown assailant.
But at the end of the evenings triumphant concert, death emerges once again to take the solo bow. The Philharmonias principal oboist and Augustes longtime friend, Nicholas Koshevsky, suffers a heart attack onstage during the fading chords of Mahlers great requiem, the Final Adagio.
Observing the reactions of those closest to Nicholas, Auguste begins to question whether the oboists death was inevitable. As he unravels the backstage labyrinth of orchestral politics and personal betrayal, he discovers that death by natural causes serves as a convenient cover for murder. Offstage, Leloir is lured into a web of deceit and long-held hatreds that hold the key to solving his wifes murderand ultimately to his own survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491722176

Giselle M. Stancic

Giselle M. Stancic performs with orchestral and chamber music groups in the San Francisco Bay Area. Final Adagio earned the grand prize in the 2013 San Francisco Writers Conference Contest. Giselle is also the author of the award-winning YA mystery, The Paganini Curse.

Book preview

PRELUDE

Eugenie ducked under the eaves of the corner newspaper stand to escape from the icy pellets pounding the city. What was she going to do? It was too far to walk back to the hotel with all her shopping bags, especially in this bad weather. She could try to find her way to Philharmonia Hall, which she thought was closer, but Auguste would be in rehearsal all afternoon. Now wouldn’t that be a sight? Her husband on the podium conducting Mahler’s Ninth Symphony with the Chicago Philharmonia and Eugenie tugging at his coattails for taxi fare back to the hotel. No, she couldn’t bother him with her petty problems.

Besides, what would he think of her? Auguste was always so understanding, but an internationally acclaimed conductor needed a woman of grace and elegance by his side, not a silly young wife who lost her pocketbook who knows where in this dreadful city. Maybe she should have stayed back at home in Zurich—and out of trouble.

She huddled in closer among the soggy chronicles for October 23, 1968. She had been walking for blocks hoping to remember where she’d last seen her handbag. Was it in the shoe department at Marshall Field’s, or perhaps she left it at the perfume counter? She didn’t even realize her purse was missing until she ordered coffee at the little bakery off the main avenue. Then she had to suffer the tirade of that awful man behind the counter when she tried to explain why she couldn’t pay. To be humiliated in front of all those people until the only kindly gentleman in the place silenced the shopkeeper’s outburst by settling the bill for her.

Too embarrassed to thank her benefactor, Eugenie ran out of the shop and into the snow showers paralyzing the city. She jostled for sidewalk space with office workers who, like her, had trusted the morning’s sunshine to last. Some tried to shield themselves by holding newspapers over their heads, while others pushed on unprotected, surrendering to nature’s double-cross.

Intent on retracing the steps of her shopping excursion, she paid little attention to where she was going until she ran headlong into a band of androgynous gypsies crowding the sidewalk. With stringy long hair and wearing faded green jackets, they were shouting about something called LBJ and carrying a few tattered American flags upside down.

Eugenie tried to break away from the mob to cross the street, but her path was blocked by two policemen riding tall black horses. Clouds of steam rose from the beasts’ flaring nostrils as they moved forward to corral the group back onto the sidewalk, which provoked a hail of banners and other flying objects from the protesters.

Get out of here, missy. A formless creature pulled her away from the line of assault and into a back alley. Eugenie stared at what she guessed to be an old man who was clothed in rags from head to toe.

Go on, before your Michigan Avenue ass gets hurt. The tramp gave Eugenie a push down the dark passage. As she stumbled past overflowing garbage dumpsters, she heard the crowd calling out, Bobby, Bobby, until a loud noise that sounded like a car backfiring silenced them. Then a woman began screaming.

After that, Eugenie never looked back.

Now she had no idea where she was. The street signs above the sheltering newsstand read Wabash and Washington, but the names meant nothing to her. The steel-and-glass buildings all looked the same from ground level. A long line of automobiles stood motionless while traffic lights methodically turned from green to yellow to red and back to green again. Overhead, metal scraped on metal as a lone train shuffled along the elevated tracks.

When the newspaper vendor began closing up her makeshift refuge, Eugenie knew she wouldn’t be able to wait out the storm much longer. No matter. Her blue cotton coat was already drenched and her matching blue shoes were wetter on the inside than out. She was feeling a little dizzy as well, probably from abandoning the coffee and pastry. Or maybe it was because …

Never mind. She needed to make it back to the hotel somehow, to get ready for their dinner tonight with the Philharmonia’s general manager. Auguste said the invitation was a courtesy extended to every guest conductor, but Eugenie was convinced her husband would be approached about taking over the orchestra’s music director position, which was rumored to be open at the end of the next season. This evening would be a turning point for Auguste’s career, and she needed to look her best.

Oh, my beautiful new dress. Eugenie peeked into one of the department store bags, relieved to find the jade silk still wrapped in its plastic cocoon.

But what about my hair? She gingerly touched the damp mop of golden-brown curls that was once a stylish perm and set. The hotel salon would have to work her in at the last minute. No need for Auguste to know anything about today’s fiasco. She would be ready and waiting when he arrived as if she’d been reading magazines all afternoon.

Vattènne, Signorina. The newsstand’s proprietor motioned for her to move along. I’m a closin’ now.

Eugenie set down her bags for a moment and cinched her coat around her waist as tight as she could. She touched the locket on her necklace for good luck and then prepared to rejoin the other unfortunate souls plodding along on the sidewalk. Although to where, she did not know.

The vendor pulled shut the last awning. Okay, lady. It’s time to go.

I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Eugenie reached down for her shopping. If you could kindly give me directions …

Here, let me get that for you, miss. A hand swooped in from behind her to take her bags. Eugenie spun around, nearly running into the bespectacled man who had helped her at the bakery.

I was hoping I would find you again, he said, holding his umbrella over her head. After you ran out of the shop, I thought I could have at least offered you some protection against this weather.

His voice was pleasant and lilting, like an English film star’s. But with his average height and thinning hair, only his dimpled chin distinguished him from the other office managers on their way home from work.

You’ve been too kind to me already, said Eugenie. She felt strangely cornered between her Samaritan and the newspaper man, who had stopped to watch the reunion. I really must go. If I could have my bags, please.

Nonsense. You’ll catch your death of cold. The gentleman instead handed her his umbrella. Use this and I’ll carry your bags for you.

Then you’ll get wet. She looked to the newspaper vendor for help, but he had disappeared.

Please, sir, I’ll be fine. She tried to give back the umbrella. I can make it to my hotel on my own, she said, hoping to send him on his way.

You’re a tourist? he asked, still holding on to her shopping. Your English is very good, but I thought from your accent that you were one of those foreign exchange students.

"My husband and I are staying at the Blackstone Hotel," she said. Even though she was a married woman of nearly twenty, with her fair complexion and youthful appearance people still assumed she was a schoolgirl.

But the Blackstone is blocks away. The man gave her a long look. You’ll need to take a cab from here.

It doesn’t matter, anyway, she said, giving in to how miserable she felt. Remember? I lost my purse somewhere this afternoon and I haven’t a franc on me.

I’d be glad to give you the money, he said. Only you’ll never catch a cab now. He nodded toward the line of blaring taxis blocking the intersection, not one of them with an in-service light turned on.

If you’d like, he said, my car isn’t far from here. Your hotel is on my way, and at least you would be dry.

I’m sure I’ll be all right, she said, trying to put up a good front. If you could just give me directions. I’m completely lost in this city.

That’s the entrance to the garage where my car is parked. The man pointed up the block to a covered stairwell descending from the sidewalk. You’ll be out of the rain and back to your hotel much faster if I take you. A trace of eagerness crept into his voice. I’ll have you there in no time.

Eugenie felt uneasy, but she didn’t know if it was from his persistence or her own queasy condition.

Come along, miss. You don’t look well. The man cupped her elbow in his hand and started walking. Like it or not, Eugenie was obliged to break into a clumsy high-heeled trot if she wanted to keep up with the man who now held her shopping.

Once they reached the covered garage entrance, the man set down her bags and took off his glasses to wipe them with his handkerchief. For the first time, she caught a glimpse of his pale blue eyes. Then she noticed how carefully he was handling his glasses, so as not to disturb the taped bridge that held them together.

He smiled weakly, flashing a set of gold-capped teeth. You won’t be needing this any longer, he said, taking the umbrella from her and closing it.

Now it’s up to you. I can try to catch you a cab or I can drive you. He pulled her out of the way of the commuters hurrying to get into the garage. Whatever you decide, you need to stay out of the rain. You’re soaked through.

Pressed up next to him, Eugenie experienced a curious sense of security tinged with uncertainty. She could tell his overcoat was made of expensive European fabric, yet the collar was carefully patched. He wore Italian leather shoes, but polish couldn’t hide the scuffed toes or worn heels.

The man’s cologne, however, struck the most familiar chord in her. It was the same musky scent her father used to wear. And her papa always made her feel safe.

Eugenie relaxed.

Let’s go to my car. The man picked up her shopping bags and led her down the stairs. People pushed by them, but he took his time with her, first down one flight and then the next. By the time they arrived at the third landing, they were alone in the stairwell and it seemed like the lights were dimming. Eugenie picked her steps carefully, gripping the handrail as the dank odor of wet cement and urine closed in on her.

Sorry for the long walk, he said. Seems like everyone wanted to drive into the city today.

Do you work downtown? she asked, hoping the small talk would help her fight off the nausea.

I make sales calls. He must have seen her glance at his shabby briefcase. Business has been a little slow lately.

He walked her through a doorway marked Level Three and into a vast lot of perfectly dry automobiles.

I’m parked in the back, he said. Can you make it?

Eugenie hesitated. Although he had helped her in the bakery when no one else would, she didn’t know the man. And she could probably find her way to the hotel on her own. But she wasn’t looking forward to climbing back up those stairs, not with her stomach churning in revolt.

So she followed him through the parking garage until he finally stopped beside a large sedan typical of the ones she’d seen clogging the city streets. She wondered why anyone would want to drive something as big as a boat, but at least it would be a refuge from the storm.

He unlocked the passenger-side door for her. Sitting down, she gave in to how tired she felt. Closing her eyes briefly, she didn’t notice the man getting in on the other side until the click of the door locks jarred her awake.

It’ll take a couple of minutes for the old girl to warm up, he said, starting the engine. By the way, I haven’t properly introduced myself. He offered his hand. I’m Joseph Kober.

Eugenie Leloir.

It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle. Kober held on to her hand. My goodness, you’re trembling. Let’s see if we can fix that.

She pulled back her hand and stuffed it into her wet coat pocket.

I’ll get some heat going. Kober revved the motor, but cold air was coming through the vents. Just a couple of minutes, he said. Would you care for a cigarette? He took out a pack from his coat pocket.

For all his talk about getting her to the hotel, now he seemed perfectly content to dawdle.

No, thank you. I really think we should be going.

Kober lit a cigarette for himself. Would you care to listen to some music?

He reached over to open the glove compartment and a jumble of papers and eight-tracks fell into Eugenie’s lap.

Pardon. He began scooping the spilled contents onto the seat between them. He lingered on her knee for a moment before holding up one of the tapes for her to see.

Would you like Beethoven?

I would like to go to my hotel, she said, sliding her hand toward the door handle.

He sorted through the tapes.

"Or perhaps you would prefer Das klagende Lied?" His educated English accent dissolved into a clipped German dialect.

"Sind Sie deutsch?" she asked, surprised by the change in his voice.

"Ich bin Österreicher," the man said.

My father was an Austrian, she said. He—

"Nein. Kober cut her off. Ihr Vater war ein Verräter."

What did you say? she asked.

His face hardened. Paul Rosbaud was a traitor.

Eugenie recoiled from the man, the car door’s armrest digging into her ribs. How do you know my father’s name?

I know all about you. Kober pulled out a newspaper clipping wedged into the glove compartment. A society page photograph showing a tall, dark-haired man and his beaming young wife stepping onto the tarmac at Chicago’s O’Hare airport.

Landing in style. He read the caption out loud. Europe’s newest conducting sensation Auguste Leloir arrived in Chicago today for his American debut with the Chicago Philharmonia. The handsome twenty-six-year-old conductor was accompanied by his lovely bride, Eugenie née Rosbaud, daughter of Paul Rosbaud …

Eugenie grabbed for the door lock, but the knob was missing.

I once had a daughter, Kober said quietly. An Austrian daughter.

Suddenly he lunged at her, catching the locket on her necklace in his hand and violently wringing it from her neck.

Eugenie twisted away, her fingernails scraping on the door window as she tried to escape. In the side mirror, she caught a glimpse of a woman scurrying past the car. But before she could call to her, Kober pulled her down on the seat.

He was on top of her now, his body surprisingly powerful as he pinned her to the worn leather. Eugenie writhed under the weight of his torso, managing to free one arm in the struggle. Then Kober wedged his elbow into her chest and calmly pulled her arm back down to her side with a deliberate twist. The ease with which her shoulder popped out of its socket stunned Eugenie for a moment, until the searing agony of flesh ripping from bone caused her to utter the only cry of pain she would allow Kober to hear.

She lay motionless, her eyes staring at the torn material covering the car ceiling. But instead of forcing himself on her, Kober eased back. Eugenie turned her head slightly to watch as he tried to grab for something under the seat.

"Scheiße, he cursed. Where is it?"

He began to slide off her to reach back farther.

Now was her chance. But the car door was locked. How could she get out?

The woman. Eugenie remembered the woman she had seen in the mirror. The woman could help her.

With all the strength she could muster, Eugenie threw her good arm over the back of the seat to hoist herself up. Kober toppled to the car floor, his head clattering against the open glove compartment door.

Where was the woman? There she was, on the other side of the parking lot. Eugenie heaved her lifeless arm toward the rear window.

Help me! she called out. Please help me!

But the knife was too quick, too deep.

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Looks like she put up a helluva fight. Detective Mallick took a long drag on his cigarette. The bastard that did it to her nearly ripped her arm off.

Auguste Leloir stepped forward, careful not to bump his head on the overhead lamp glaring down on the examining table. With a white sheet tucked under her chin, Eugenie looked as peaceful as a sleeping child. Golden curls framed her face, and she even had a slight smile on her lips. Not a hint of the gaping holes in her back that had punctured her lungs and deadened his heart.

How did you say they found her? He could hear someone speaking but didn’t recognize the monotone as his own.

A guy was walking his dog in Crystal Creek Park out by the airport, said Mallick. Of average height and build, the detective had closely cropped hair and looked to be in his late thirties. The smell of his liquid lunch was still heavy on his breath.

He’s the one who found her. Mallick leaned over Eugenie Leloir’s body for a closer look. With his right hand, he pulled down the sheet to expose a band of jagged scratches around her neck.

Auguste grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself.

Looks like they cleaned her up some, said Mallick. Except for those red marks on her throat.

Where’s her locket?