Death by Oboe: Bucks County Mysteries, #3

By Judy Higgins

"A twisty mystery that delivers an unexpected emotional punch."

At a Fourth of July concert, oboist Madame Benedicte Allard collapses on stage. As Madame lies in a coma, Detective William Laskey engages in a race against time to find the person who poisoned the oboist. If he succeeds, then maybe he can also learn what poison was used, enabling doctors to prescribe the correct antidote. Unable to elicit information from Madame Allard's sixteen-year-old daughter, Laskey turns to Madame's fellow orchestra members, only to be drawn into the sinister world of a much darker crime.

"A mystery that grows bigger and dives deeper with every page."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gossart
• Release date: Nov 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223992080

Book preview

Death by Oboe

Judy Higgins

Books by Judy Higgins

The Lady

A Woman of Valor

A Reckoning of Wolves

Unringing the Bell

Bride of the Wind

Death by Oboe

First Gossart Publication Edition, October 2023

Copyright © by Judy Higgins, 2023

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

Published in The United States in 2023

Published by

Gossart Publications

900 Brown Street

Washington D.C.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any storage system without written permission from Gossart Publications. For information, address Gossart Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 900 Brown Street, Washington D.C. 20012.

Photo Credits

Author Photo Studio Walz

First Gossart paperback edition October 2023

First Gossart e-book October 2023

Printed in the United States of America

Judy Higgins

Death by Oboe: a novel/Judy Higgins

Summary: Detective William Laskey tracks down the person(s) behind the poisoning of a famous oboe player and the attempted murder of her daughter. — Provided by publisher.

979-8-218-29170-9

Dedicated to the memory of Ruth Grim,

my friend and neighbor for many, many years.

The years were too short!

CONTENTS

THURSDAY, JULY 4

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

FRIDAY, JULY 5

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

SATURDAY, JULY 6

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

SUNDAY, JULY 7

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

MONDAY, JULY 8

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

THURSDAY, JULY 4

A free-standing stone wall approximately thirty feet long and fifteen high juts from each side of the stage, separating the wings from the audience in the amphitheater. At the far end of the east wall, a person peeks out from where the musicians are tuning their instruments to view the crowd filling the seats. Undiluted sunshine, cloudless skies, and temperate temperatures have created a perfect day for Fourth of July celebrations, including this late afternoon concert scheduled to begin in another ten minutes. It is a day made in heaven for parades and picnics, fireworks and concerts. And a perfect day for murder. Maybe.

Nervous and uncertain, the person has had a changing and rechanging of mind, as well as a gathering of courage only to lose it, regain it, lose it again, then finally, because of vacillating, be left not knowing how things will turn out.

To nervousness and uncertainty, add regret along with a bitterness that eventually drives away the regret. To kill in self-defense is acceptable, but who, among those here, or anywhere in the world for that matter, will agree that killing is an acceptable way to save one’s soul?

Turning to look at the musicians, the person’s lips curl in a cynical smile. Though a heavenly day for others, today may turn out to be a day from hell for the oboist. She, the oboist, prances about in her costume, laughing her arrogant laugh and flaunting her remarkable talent. Her sense of superiority is almost a visible, smellable, feelable thing which she brandishes like a matador’s cape.

The person looks back at the audience. A few latecomers scurry into the amphitheater, their seats predictably in the middles of rows. Anyone who’s ever been in an audience knows how that goes. The dawdlers and disorganized will climb over knees, purses, shoes, and whatever else has been dropped on the ground while muttering, Excuse me, Sorry, Lost track of time.

The toes attached to the people in the front row won’t be stepped on by late comers. Like the oboist, these people are special. Thus their front row seats. In the middle of the first row, a handsome young man slouches in a pout, arms crossed, eyebrows knitted together. Thirtyish, his dark blond hair, in need of a haircut, curls about his ears. The man next to him – perhaps his father? – has tried to cheer him up several times and apparently given up. Instead, the older man focuses his attention on the white-haired woman sitting next to him. In three minutes, maybe five, but certainly soon, the young man’s pout will disappear when he sees what happens on stage. If it happens.

Backstage, there’s a flurry of final preparation: strings tightened or loosened, slides on brass instruments adjusted, reeds moistened. The tympanist gives a final thump with his mallet and bends his ear low over the membrane of his kettle to ensure its pitch is true. A piccolo player toots then adjusts her embouchure. A blare bursts from a trumpet, a squawk from a saxophone. Soon, the musicians will line up, the performance will begin, and then . . .. What a shock! Or maybe not. It depends.

Chapter 1

Jacob Gillis was not in a happy mood as he waited for the concert to begin. Detective William Laskey had noted this as soon as he sat down beside his godson. He also knew Jacob’s mood had nothing to do with Jacob being one seat removed from his future father-in-law, though on any other occasion that might be reason enough. Kate Hunter, soon to be Mrs. Jacob Gillis, sat between Jacob and her father, shielding one from the other. Kate’s mother sat in the seat next to her father.

Laskey had given up trying to shame Jacob out of his sourness. To no avail, he’d reminded him that the new park abutting the Pumqua River was not built as an affront to Jacob since the fishing spot destroyed by its development hadn’t been Jacob’s to begin with. Laskey had also tried to point out that the amphitheater was actually a good thing for the town of Goose Bend, Pennsylvania. The town had little else to commend it, so why not? Especially when, thanks to a rich donor, the facilities had cost the good citizens of Goose Bend nothing.

Twisting around, Laskey saw that that the seats had almost filled; only a few late comers hurried to find their places. Thanks to Kate’s father they had front row seats and didn’t have to worry about toes being trampled. Former president of the Goose Bend town council, former head of the most prestigious law firm in town, and still a big shot, Mr. Hunter had clout. If he wanted front row seats for the ceremonial opening of the new amphitheater, then he got front row seats. No doubt they’d all be on television since the event was being televised. Those among Jacob’s clients who happened to be watching would see Jacob pouting in the front row. Laskey’s lips curled in a half smile. Serve him right. He imagined Jacob in court, haranguing representatives of the evil fracking companies only to be followed by the attorney for those evil companies taunting, Weren’t you the one scowling in the front row at that wonderful concert?

To Laskey’s left, Dr. Zuela Hay who had been reading the program, closed it and converted it to a fan. Can you not take your godson out back and give him a good licking or at least a dressing down? she asked.

You’re his aunt. You should be the one to do the honors. He pulled at his tie, allowing air to circulate between his collar and neck. Most of the few hundred bodies packed together, warming the air considerably, wore casual holiday attire, so why, in heaven’s name, had he worn a tie?

I’m not his aunt, Zuela said.

His honorary aunt. His mother’s best friend. Whatever.

As his godfather, it’s your job. She stopped fanning and pointed to the last item on the program. "I see they’re ending with The Stars and Stripes Forever. What a surprise. There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Though I do love those piccolos. That should brighten Jacob’s spirits."

On this particular subject, nothing will brighten Jacob’s spirits.

Maybe not, but before I allow him a hamburger from my grill this evening, I’m giving him instructions on how to behave.

Good luck.

From the wings, the sound of instruments became louder, more concentrated, then suddenly stopped. In the ensuing quiet, a single note sounded from an oboe – the oboe’s A 440. Laskey allowed himself a smile of satisfaction that he remembered the vibration of the pitch from his college Music Appreciation class. The oboe’s A was followed by the tuning of the brass instruments. Then the brass quieted, and the oboe blew another A for the woodwinds. Finally, a third A, and the strings could be heard. Then the entire orchestra played the note together. Soon, the musicians would march onto the stage.

Though he’d never heard them perform live, he’d seen televised concerts of the Celebration Orchestra, The Orchestra that Celebrates the Love of Music Among all Peoples and in all Places. Other orchestras tuned on stage, but not the Celebration Orchestra. They tuned backstage, then marched out, percussionists followed by brass, woodwinds followed by strings. Dressed in their costumes from around the world, they would stand in front of their chairs until the entire orchestra had assembled, then the conductor, Maestro Bryn Welling, would appear to much applause. His nape-length copper hair combed neatly behind his ears, a Stradivarius tucked beneath his arm, he’d bow, flash his perfect smile to even more applause, then place the violin beneath his chin as he half-turned to the orchestra and lifted his right hand, still holding the bow, to conduct.

As though prompted by some mysterious signal the audience quieted, then applause erupted as the musicians filed onstage dressed in kilts, saris, colonial costumes, galabias, kimonos, Eastern European peasant outfits, shalwar kameezzes. There was even a cowboy outfit worn by a trombonist.

Right now, I’m well-inclined toward Mr. Hunter, Zuela said, clapping. You can’t beat front row seats for this kind of show.

The percussionists and brass players took their places as clarinetists and flautists swept in followed by the double-reed instrument players. Then a break in the line jarred the smooth flow of musicians. Laskey held his breath as the space between the last clarinet and the first oboe player widened. Dressed in a blue, eighteenth century English costume trimmed in black, the oboist lagged, then faltered. Behind her, the second chair oboist put out her hand as though to push her forward but as she did, the first oboist collapsed. The audience gasped.

For a few seconds, no one moved. Then three people rushed from backstage. Maestro Welling, his violin squeezed beneath his arm, rushed to join them. As a hefty man picked up the fallen woman and carried her into the wings, Maestro Welling turned to the audience and called out, Is there a doctor present?

Chapter 2

A concert to remember, Jacob said and grabbed Kate’s hand as they filed out of the amphitheater after the applause for The Stars and Stripes Forever had finally faded. What happened to the oboist hadn’t been shared with the audience, but they’d heard the siren and seen the ambulance pulling up behind one of the free-standing stone walls separating backstage from audience.

I hope she didn’t have a heart attack or something awful like that. Kate squeezed his hand.

Probably nothing serious. She has the summer flu. Or she forgot to eat and fainted. He was pretty hungry himself. Lunch had been slim. Front row seats were great until you were ready to leave. By the time they got out of here and to Aunt Zuela’s backyard, he imagined he’d be ready to consume the paper plates. Not to mention the concert had started thirty minutes late. Or that Kate’s parents made the leaving slower because they had to stop and talk to half the town. Laskey and Aunt Zuela had somehow become separated from them.

Kate waved at a friend, then at another, before turning back to Jacob. Summer flu? Sounds like an invention of Mr. Jacob Gillis. Are you in a better mood?

I’m trying.

Try harder. There’s nothing you can do about losing your fishing spot, so get over it.

Yes, my queen.

When they finally exited the amphitheater and began to wend their way through the crowd headed for the parking lot, the sun had sunk to sit on the tree line. Kate fell into conversation with her parents while Jacob took in the devastation. A paved parking lot large enough to accommodate a few hundred cars? Picnic tables? Pontoons and paddle boats for rent? A board walk for people to walk along the river without getting their feet muddy? Mud was healthy. Dirt, mud, and mire helped build antibodies against disease. Didn’t people know that? Worst of all was the amphi-theater. How many trees had they hewn for that? They had destroyed his Eden.

Not everyone was leaving the park. Groups had grabbed picnic tables, brought out their favorite Fourth of July foodstuffs, and fired up grills. The aromas of hot dogs and hamburgers spiced the air. Everywhere, coolers opened with a click and closed with a snap. Despite the no alcohol sign at the entrance, Jacob suspected there were water bottles filled with vodka and iced tea containers with beer. When darkness fell, fireworks would begin.

He dropped Kate’s hand and, still walking, slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. I’m a lucky guy, he said. I’m sorry I wallowed in self-pity when I should have been enjoying the concert. The past is done. Finished. And I have you to brighten my future.

Hah, since you’re in a penitent mood, now’s the time to consider a special gift. Let’s see . . .. what can I think of real quick? Hmmm.

Don’t push it.

Something to wear on my finger maybe? A circular thing with a great big sparkly. . ..

One carat lump of carbon! he supplied.

They laughed.

♦   ♦   ♦

Laskey leaned against his Sequoia. He and Zuela had slipped to the side of the theater and made their way out in a fraction of the time it had taken Jacob and Kate. Zuela, who had gone ahead to toss the salad and put out the cheese, had given him specific instructions to tell Jacob to pick up ice on his way to her house. She could just as well have texted Jacob to pick up ice but who was he to question Dr. Zuela Hay? If she instructed him to give a message to Jacob personally, he’d give a message to Jacob personally. He let out a hint of a chuckle. Zuela never hesitated to instruct anyone on anything they needed to be instructed on. Including picking up ice, behavior at concerts, and pronunciation of her name: Zu-eeeeeeeeeeela, not Zu-ELLA. Maybe her willingness to instruct came as a result of teaching Shakespeare for too many years. Somebody, one of those people you studied in college literature and then forgot, had accused Shakespeare of being more interested in pleasing than in instructing. Sometimes, Zuela seemed to have set out to remedy that fault.

He spotted Jacob and Kate, heads together – her dark waves brushing against his blonde ones – laughing about something. As he watched them wave goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Hunter, his phone buzzed.

Got a minute? the voice at the other end asked.

I always have a minute for you, my friend. Laskey had recognized the voice of Dr. Ralph Calder. What’s up?

I may have a poisoning case here, though my colleagues don’t necessarily agree.

Why do you think it’s poisoning?

Before the patient drifted into unconsciousness, she kept mumbling, . . . ee poison’ me. . . .ee pois’ ee. I don’t know if she was saying he or she. When she collapsed, a couple other people heard her murmuring the same thing."

How would she know? Laskey asked.

Good question. She experienced protracted vomiting in the ambulance along with a rapid heartbeat. Also difficulty breathing. Shortly after arriving at the hospital, she fell into a stupor. We tested for stroke, but found no indications. We’re still waiting for results from other tests. Meanwhile, I have to take seriously what the patient said. I know you’re about to step over the line into retirement, but can you come help me sort this out? There are issues I’m concerned about, but I’d rather tell you in person. Were you at the concert in the new amphitheater?

Yes, Laskey answered, sensing what was coming next.

The patient is one of the musicians.

The oboist. We saw her collapse. Shouldn’t you call Bump Herrington?

Jacob and Kate had come to where he was and were listening to his end of the conversation.

Our estimable local police chief is sidelined with a broken leg, Calder said. Besides, I’m not asking officially, but as a favor. I’ll explain when you come.

Only for you, Ralph, would I forego the cold beer and tasty hamburger my mouth is watering for and abandon the fine people whose company I was about to enjoy. He gave Jacob and Kate a look of resignation. See you in twenty. He stuck the phone back in his pocket.

You really have to go? Kate asked.

Save me a hamburger and, Jacob, you’re to pick up ice on the way.

Chapter 3

Laskey limped toward the hospital entrance. A storm was brewing. His arthritic right foot, a better indicator than the weathermen with all their devices, painfully announced that lightning and thunder were in the offing. Set in a heavily wooded area on the outskirts of Goose Bend, the hospital was surrounded by evergreens interspersed with a few deciduous trees. He stopped and looked skyward at the patches of blue between the trees; there were no ominous black clouds. Not yet. For the benefit of eager, excited kids, he hoped the storm would hold until after the fireworks. For a moment, he imagined he heard a rumble of thunder but decided it must be a cherry bomb or thunder stick. Or his stomach. A breeze brought the aroma of beef on a grill from somewhere nearby.

He continued toward the entrance. How many times had he skipped a party or celebration to solve crimes? If he had a buck for every time that had happened, on Monday he’d be off to Iceland to fish for salmon despite his unreasonable fear of flying. For forty years, fifteen as an FBI agent then twenty-five as a plain clothes detective for the Pennsylvania State Police, he’d been at law and order’s beck and call. With luck, today would be the last time. He hoped this was nothing more than a tempest in a teapot, rather than a raging storm of a crime.

After inhaling a last lungful of pine-scented air, he entered the facility, a staid, unexciting brick structure which served as a regional hospital for the upper end of Bucks County. He took the elevator to the second floor where he found Calder, dressed in scrubs, outside the door of the ICU unit. Motioning for him to follow, Calder led him to a small room marked Doctors Only.

Calder’s white hair, usually combed tightly to his head, was mussed, his face pale and drawn. Not an unusual state for a doctor, Laskey knew, but one he wasn’t accustomed to seeing in his friend. His association with Ralph Calder, an intensive care specialist, had been away from the hospital. They belonged to the same wine-tasting group and the same service organization. Once a week, if they were free, they played bridge with a group at one of the pubs in Doylestown. Ralph Calder was the one who laughed most, talked most, and joked most, his jokes usually not being the kind to share with ladies. Here, in his place of work, Calder became someone else: a serious, focused, and capable practitioner of the art of medicine.

Calder sank into a chair, closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the wall behind him. It’s been a hell of a day, he said. July 4 usually is. Car accidents. Fingers burned or blown away by fireworks. Lumps of steak lodged in throats. Overdoses. Plus a surfeit of the usual things. And now a possible poisoning.

You’re sure that’s what she said?

Calder opened his eyes. I’m not sure of anything, but it sure as hell sounded like it, and since others heard the same thing, I have to assume I heard correctly. Madame Bénedicte Allard is one of the best know oboists in the country. Did you know that?

I didn’t.

Calder shrugged. Maybe she was hallucinating. Maybe it’s food poisoning. Maybe something else. But right now we don’t know how to treat her. It takes a week or more for the lab to complete a poison panel.

You said your colleagues question poisoning.

Only because they don’t think anyone would poison a well-known musician living in a small town, minding her own business. Even though they admit she shows signs of having been poisoned.

Maybe she wasn’t minding her own business. What’s her condition?

She’s on a ventilator, intubated and unconscious. They had to give her oxygen in the ambulance because she had trouble breathing. At first, she wavered in and out of consciousness, but now she’s out completely. It doesn’t look good.

You’ve ruled out other things?

We’re on slippery ground here, you know? Calder shifted nervously. Since other people heard her say she was poisoned, I can repeat that to you. Probably the whole damn orchestra knows it by now. But as to her condition . . .. Well, you know about the string of laws outlining exceptions to the Hippocratic oath. They’re complicated. He glanced toward the closed door as though afraid someone would walk in then, lowering his voice, said. "We gave her narcan in the event of a drug overdose. I’m fairly certain that isn’t the issue here, but her use or non-use of drugs is something you can check into for me. We gave her an ampule of dextrose in case of low blood sugar. We’ve done the usual blood counts. Given her electrolytes. Checked for carbon monoxide poisoning, though I don’t know how she’d get that this time of year. We did a cat scan and ruled out a stroke."

You’ve been busy.

Calder nodded. We also gave her a lumbar puncture to check for meningitis. He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to untie knots. If she’s an alcoholic she might have a thiamine deficiency, so we gave her 1000 mg of thiamine.

Is it possible for a gifted oboist to be an alcoholic? I’d think it would interfere with her performance.

Hell, anybody can be an alcoholic. At least until they implode

In the elevator, Laskey had checked the time, noting that it was seven-thirty on the nose. Madame Allard would have arrived at the hospital around four-thirty. It had only been three hours, yet the medical staff had done all these things. If you suspect poisoning, but won’t have the poison panel results for more than a week, how do you treat her?

Calder breathed out a long, tired sigh. Can you poke around, check her house, car, and the amphi-theater on the off chance someone became careless and left something lying around? Or that she chose to ingest something herself? You can talk to people – orchestra members, friends, her daughter – and find out if Madame Allard has enemies. I know it’s a long shot.

Laskey squirmed. Long shot was an understatement. Does she have a husband or other children?

Her husband died a few months ago, and there’s only the one daughter. He gave a little sniff. I know the chances of someone saying, ‘Yes, I gave Madame Allard rat poison,’ are about as remote as my wife baking a caramel cake for my birthday.

Your wife doesn’t bake caramel cakes? Laskey had been in the company of Calder’s wife on several occasions. Good-natured and affable, she’d always been a pleasure to be around.

My wife doesn’t bake, period, but she prepares really good take-out.

I don’t know what the world is coming to. Lasky faked a shocked look. Women no longer taking care of their kitchen duties!

Calder’s quick smile was followed by a frown. He leaned forward, and, though no one else was around, again lowered his voice. This could be a big problem for the hospital. If Madame Allard dies, and it looks like the hospital not only didn’t do its job properly, but didn’t even know what was wrong with her, we could have a suit on our hands. The lines between his eyes deepened. Imagine the publicity if a famous oboist dies on us because she lacked proper treatment, misperceived or otherwise.

I’ll find out what I can, but don’t get your hopes up.

Calder stood. "She’s probably still unconscious, but let’s go to the ICU on the off chance she isn’t. I’d like to determine if she was saying he or she. About to lead the way, he stopped. Madame Allard’s teen-age daughter is with her mother. She rode in with the ambulance. I give you fair warning: the girl is a force unto herself; be prepared."

Chapter 4

It was intimidating — as it always was — with the buzzing, beeping, and sucking of machines keeping people alive, the low-toned, almost furtive, conversations, the charts. Especially, the charts, Laskey thought, as he followed Calder into the unit. Something about the charts unnerved him; maybe something to do with a person’s life being reduced to codes – CVC, CMP, PT and all the other acronyms.

"Give me half a