Once Shunned

Gentrification is closing in, she thought a bit sadly.

Brennan parked in front an old brick apartment building. He led Jenn and her colleagues up to the front door. There, Riley gave Jenn a look that told her she was to take the lead now.

Jenn glanced at Bill, who nodded at her to go ahead.

She gulped with anticipation, then rang the buzzer for Duane Scoville’s apartment.

No one answered at first. Jenn wondered if maybe he wasn’t home. Then she rang again and heard a grumbling voice over the speaker.

“Who is it?”

The voice crackled for only a couple of seconds. But Jenn thought she heard music in the background.

Jenn called back, “We’re from the FBI. We’d like to talk to you.”

“What about?”

Jenn felt a bit taken aback by the question. And this time she was sure she heard music.

She said, “Um … about your ex-wife’s murder.”

“I talked to the cops about that already. I was out of town when it happened.”

There was another snippet of music, and this time it sounded familiar to Jenn—almost eerily so.

Brennan interjected, “This is Police Chief Brennan. I talked with you earlier. The agents would still like to ask a few more questions.”

A silence fell, then the buzzer rang and the door clicked. Jenn opened the door and she and her colleagues walked inside.

She thought …

It doesn’t sound like we’re exactly welcome.

Jenn wondered why not.

She decided she was going to find out.

CHAPTER SIX

Jenn followed Chief Brennan into the building and up the stairwell to the second floor. Riley and Bill followed behind as they walked down the hall toward Duane Scoville’s apartment.

Jenn’s ears perked up as she heard the sound wafting from some nearby room.

That music again.

This time she was sure she’d heard it before, but it had been a long time ago, and she wasn’t sure where or when. It was a classical piece—something slow, soft, and incredibly sad.

They arrived at Scoville’s apartment, and Chief Brennan rapped on the door.

A voice called out, “Come in.”

As she and her colleagues walked inside, Jenn was startled by the appearance of the apartment. The place was a mess, all scattered with beer cans and food wrappers.

About ten guitars were in view, some of them on stands, others in open cases, still others lying about in the open. Some were acoustic, some electric. There were also amplifiers, speakers, and miscellaneous electronic equipment scattered about.

Duane Scoville himself sat in a battered beanbag chair. He had long hair and a beard and wore jeans, a tie-dye shirt, a peace symbol on a cord around his neck, and round-framed “granny glasses.”

Jenn had to suppress a giggle. Scoville looked like he was in his twenties, but he was trying his best to look like a sixties-style hippie. The room’s decor included beads, cheap tapestries, faux-Persian throw rugs, lighted candles, and general disorderliness. Some of the posters on the wall were psychedelic images, others promoting rock music groups and performers that had been popular long before Jenn’s time.

There was a strong odor in the air—of incense and …

Something else, Jenn realized.

Duane Scoville sat staring blearily into space as if no one had arrived. He was obviously quite stoned, although Jenn saw no signs of drugs anywhere.

Chief Brennan said to him, “Duane, these are FBI Agents Paige, Jeffreys, and Roston. Like I just said, they’ve got a few more questions for you.”

Duane said nothing, and he didn’t offer his visitors a place to sit in the crowded little room.

Jenn felt perplexed as she remembered how immaculately neat the victim’s little home had been. She could hardly believe Robin Scoville had ever known this man, much less been married to him.

And then there was the music …

Instead of the Doors or Jefferson Airplane or Jimi Hendrix or something else more appropriate to these surroundings, Duane was listening to soft Baroque chamber music with a haunting woodwind solo like a high-pitched, mournful birdsong.

Suddenly recognizing the piece, Jenn said to Duane, “That’s Vivaldi, isn’t it? The slow movement of a piccolo concerto.”

Still without looking at Jenn or her companions, Duane asked, “How did you know?”

Jenn felt jolted by the question. She remembered vividly where she’d heard the music before.

It had been back in Aunt Cora’s foster home, where she’d grown up.

Aunt Cora had always kept classical music playing in the background when she’d been teaching her kids how to be master criminals.

Jenn shivered a little. She found it eerie and unsettling to hear this melancholy melody again after so many years. It brought back strange, disturbing memories of days Jenn had tried hard to put behind her.

But she knew she mustn’t let it distract her.

Keep your head in the game, Jenn told herself sternly.

Instead of answering Duane’s question, she said …

“You don’t strike me as a Vivaldi kind of guy, Duane.”

Duane finally looked at her and met her gaze.

He said in a dull voice, “Why not?”