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When it's time to scale your business, it's time for Shopify. Get everything you need to grow the way you want. Like all the way. Stack more sales with the best converting checkout on the planet. Track your cha chings from every channel right in one spot and turn real time reporting into big time opportunities. Take your business to a whole new level. Switch to Shopify. Start your free trial today. Sarah Paretzky's private eye, Vi Wasshovsky, helped to define the new female sleuth in modern American crime fiction. Each of the Warshowski books published to date Bitter Medicine, Killing Orders, Deadlock, Indemnity, Only Bloodshot and Burn Marks, has attracted a larger readership, with the last name novel making a number of national and regional bestseller lists. Ms. Peretzky and her creation both live and work in Chicago. Settled Score By Sarah Paretsky. Chapter One it's such a difficult concept to deal with. I just don't like to use that word. Paul Savino turned to me, his mobile mouth pursed consideringly. I put it to you, Victoria. You are a lawyer. Would you not agree? I agree that the law defines responsibility differently than we do when we're talking about social or moral relations, I said carefully. No state's attorney is going to try to get Mrs. Hampton arrested. But does that you see? Servino interrupted. That's just my point. But it's not mine, lottie said fiercely, her thick dark brows forming a forbidding line across her forehead. And if you had seen Claudia with her guts torn out by lie, perhaps you would think a little differently. The table was silenced for a moment. We were surprised by the violent edge to Lottie's anger. Penelope Herschel shook her head slightly at Savino. He caught her eye and nodded. Sorry, Lottie. I didn't mean to upset you so much. Lottie forced herself to smile. Paul, you think you develop a veneer after 30 years as a doctor? You think you see people in all their pain and that your professionalism protects you from too much feeling. But that girl was 50 teen. She had her life in front of her. She didn't want to have a baby and her mother wanted her to. Not for religious reasons, even she's English, with all their contempt for Catholicism, but because she hoped to continue to control her daughter's life. Claudia felt overwhelmed by her mother's pressure and swallowed a jar of oven cleaner. Now don't tell me the mother is not responsible. I do not give one damn if no court would try her. To me, she caused her daughter's death as surely as if she had poured the poison into her. Sereno ignored another slight head shake from Lottie's niece. It is a tragedy, but a tragedy for the mother, too. You don't think she meant a daughter to kill herself, do you, Lottie? Lottie gave a tense smile. What goes on in the unconscious is surely your department for. But perhaps that was Mrs. Hampton's wish. Of course, if she didn't intend for Claudia to die, the courts would find her responsibility diminished. Am I not right, Vic? I moved uneasily in my chair. I didn't want a referee this argument. It had all the earmarks of the kind of domestic fight where both contestants attack the police. Besides, while the rest of the dinner party was interested in the case and sympathetic to Lottie's feelings, none of them cared about the question of legal versus moral responsibility. The dinner was in honor of Lottie Herschel's niece, Penelope, making one of her periodic scouting forays into Chicago's fashion scene. Her father, Lottie's only brother, owned a chain of high priced women's dress shops in Montreal, Quebec, and Toronto. He was thinking of making Chicago his US Beachhead, and Penelope was out looking at locations as well as previewing the Chicago designers spring ideas. Lottie usually gave a dinner for Penelope when she was in town. Savino was always invited. An analyst friend of Lottie's, he and Penelope had met on one of her first buying trips to Chicago. Since then they'd seen as much of each other as two busy professionals half a continent apart could manage. Although their affair now had five years of history to it, Penelope continued to stay with Lottie when she was in town. The rest of the small party included Max Lo and saw the executive director of Beth Israel, where Lottie treated perinatal patients, and Heim Lemke, a clarinetist with the Aeolus Woodwind Quintet. A slight melancholy man, he had met Lottie and Max in London, where they'd all been refugees. Heim's wife, Greta, who played harpsichord and piano for an early music group, didn't come along. Lottie said not to invite her because she was seeing Paul professionally, but anyway, since she was currently living with aolist oboist Rudolph Strayan, she probably wouldn't have accepted. We were eating at my apartment. Lottie had called earlier in the day, rattled by the young girl's death and needing help put putting the evening together. She was so clearly beside herself that I'd felt compelled to offer my own place with cheese and fruit. After dinner, Lottie had begun discussing the case with the whole group chiefly expressing her outrage with the legal system that let Mrs. Hampton off without so much as a warning for some reason. So Vino continued to argue the point despite Penelope's warning frowns, perhaps the fact that we were on our third bottle of Barolo explained the lapse from Paul's usual sensitive courtesy. Mrs. Hampton did not point a gun at the girl's head and force her to become pregnant. He said the daughter was responsible too, if you want to use that word. And the boy, the father, whoever that was. Lottie, normally abstemious, had drunk her share of the wine. Her black eyes glittered and her Viennese accent became pronounced. I know the argument, believe you me, Paul. It's the old who pulled the trigger, the person who fired the gun, the person who manufactured it, the person who created the situation, the parents who created the shooter. To me that is scholastic hair splitting. You know that crap they used to teach us a thousand years ago in Europe. Who is the ultimate cause, the immediate cause, the sufficient cause, and on and on. It's dry theory, not life. It takes people off the hook for their own actions. You can quote Heinz Kohut and the rest of your self psychologist to me all night, but you will never convince me that people are unable to make conscious choices for their actions or that parents are not responsible for how they treat their children. It's the same thing as saying the Nazis will not respect responsible for how they treated Europe. Penelope gave a strained smile. She loved both Lottie and Sovino and didn't want either of them to make fools of themselves. Max, on the other hand, watch Lottie affectionately. He liked to see her passionate. Time was staring into space, his lips moving. I assumed he was reading a score in his head. I would say that Sabino snapped, his own Italian accent strong. And don't look at me as though I were Joseph Goebbels. Chaim and I are 10 years younger than you and Max, but we share your story in great extent. I do not condone or excuse the horrors our family suffered or our own dispossession. But I can look at Himmler or Mussolini or even Hitler and say they behaved in such and such a way because of weaknesses accentuated in them by history, by their parents, by their culture. You could as easily say the French were responsible. The French because their need for. For rapisalia. What am I trying to say, Victoria? Reprisal, I supplied. Now you see, Lottie, Now I too am angry. I forget my English. But if they and the English had not stretched Germany without reparations the situation might have been different. So how can you claim responsibility for one person or for one nation? You just have to do the best you can with what is going on around you. Lottie's face was set. Yes, Paul, I know what you're saying. Yes, the French created a situation and the English wished to accommodate Hitler and the Americans would not take in the Jews. All these things are true, but the Germans chose nonetheless. They could have acted differently. I will not take them off the hook. They just because other people should have acted differently. I took her hand and squeezed it. At the risk of being the Neville Chamberlain in the case, could I suggest some appeasement? Time brought his clarinet, Max's violin. Paul, if you'll play the piano, Penelope and I will sing. Time smiled, relaxing the sadness in his thin face. He loved making music, whether with friends or professionals. Gladly, Vic, but only a few songs. It's late and we go to California for a two week tour tomorrow. The atmosphere lightened. We went into the living room where Chaim flipped through my music, pulling out both Spanish's leaderboard. In the end, he and Mac stayed with Lottie, playing and talking until three in the morning, long after Savino and Penelope's departure. Chapter 2 Weight Watchers now offers access to affordable GLP once it works for members like I'm Haley and I've lost 100 pounds. Weight Watchers has everything I need from weight loss medications to nutrition support and help with my side effects. It's all in one place. Weight Watchers handles the insurance for you and offers affordable cash pay options. With our program, our members are losing more weight with expert nutrition and side effects support. I'm Mike and I've lost 135 pound. Weight Watchers prescribing GLP1 medications. It's been life changing. I'm Sharia and I lost 80 pounds on Weight Watchers. I realized that it would take more than a prescription to lose weight and feel good on a GLP1. Better results, expert support, Lose more weight, make it last. I can't imagine doing a GLP1 without Weight Watchers. Get started for as low as $25@weightwatchers.com GLP1 for over 60 years we've helped millions of members find what works for them. Now it's your turn. Weight Watchers it work. The detective business is not as much fun in January as at other times of the year. I spent the next two days forcing my little Chevy through unplowed side streets trying to find a missing witness who was the key to an 18 million dollar fraud case. I finally succeeded Tuesday evening a little before five. By the time I'd convinced the terrified woman who was hiding with a niece at 67th and honorary that no one would shoot her if she testified, gotten her to the State's attorney and seen her safely home again, it was close to 10 o'. Clock. I fumbled with the outer locks on the apartment building with my mind fixed on a hot bath, lots of whiskey and a toasted cheese sandwich when the ground floor door opened and Mr. Contreras popped out to meet me. I ground my teeth. He's a retired machinist with more energy than Navratil. I didn't have the stamina to deal with him tonight. I mumbled a greeting and headed for the stairs There yard. All the relief in his voice was marked. I stopped wearily. Some crisis with the dog. Something involving lugging a 60 pound retriever to the vet through snow packed streets. I thought I ought to let her in. You know, I told her there was no saying when you'd be home. Sometimes you're gone all night on the case. A delicate reference to my love life. But she was all set. She had to wait. She'd been sitting on the stairs all this time. She won't say what the problem is, but you probably better talk to you want to come in here or should I send her up in a few minutes? Not the dog. Then who is it? Aren't I trying to tell you that beautiful girl you know the doc sneeze? Penelope, I echoed foolishly. She came out into the hall just then, ducking under the old man's gesticulating arms. Beck, thank God you're back. I've got to talk to you before the police do anything stupid. She was huddled in an ankle length silver fur, ordinarily elegant, with exquisite makeup and jewelry and the most modern of hairstyles. She didn't much resemble her aunt, but shock had stripped the sophistication from her, making her dark eyes the focus of her face. She looked so much like Lottie that I went to her instinctively. Come on up with me and tell me what's wrong. I put an arm around her. Mr. Contreras closed his door in disappointment as we disappeared up the stairs. Penelope waited until we were inside my place before saying anything else. I slung my jacket and down vest on the hooks in the hallway and went into the living room to undo my heavy walking shoes. Penelope kept her fur wrapped around her. Her high heeled kid boots were not meant for streetwear. They were rimmed with salt stains. She shivered slightly despite the coat. Have you heard anything? I shook my head, rubbing my right foot stiff from driving all day. It's Paul. He's dead. But. But he's not that old. And I thought he was very healthy. Because of his sedentary job, Servino always ran the two miles from his Loop office to his apartment in the evening. Penelope gave a little gulp of hysterical laughter. Oh, he was very fit. Did not help to overcome a blow to the head. Could you tell me the story from the beginning instead of letting it out in little dramatic bursts as I'd hoped? My rudeness got her angry enough to overcome her incipient hysteria. After flashing me a Lottie like look of royal disdain, she told me what she knew. Paul's office was in a building where a number of analysts had their practices assigned. Posted on his door this morning boldly announced that he had cancelled all his day's appointments because of a personal emergency. When a janitor went in at 3 to 10 light bulb he found the doctor dead on the floor of his consulting room. Colleagues agreed they'd seen so vino arrive around quarter of eight as he usually did. They'd seen the notice and assume he'd left when everyone else was tied up with appointments. No one thought any more about it. Penelope had learned of her lover's death from the police who picked her up as she was leaving a realtor's office where she'd been discussing shop leases. Two of the doctors with offices near Sevinos had mentioned seeing a dark haired woman in a long fur coat near his consulting room. Penelope's dark eyes were drenched with tears. It's not enough that Paul is dead, that I learned of it in such an unspeakable way. They think I killed him because I have dark hair and wear a fur coat. They don't know what killed him. Some dreary blunt instrument. Sounds stupid and banal, like an older Christie. They poured through my luggage looking for it, questioned her for three hours while they searched and finally reluctantly let her go with a warning not to leave Chicago. She'd called Lottie at the clinic and then come over to find me. I went into the dining room for some whiskey. She shook her head at the bottle. I poured myself an extra slug to make up for missing my bath. And? And I want you to find you've killed him. The police aren't looking very hard because they think it's me. Do they have a reason for this? She blushed unexpectedly. They think he was refused me to marry me. Not Much motive in these times, one would have thought. And you with a successful career to boot. Was he refusing? No. It was the other way around, actually. I felt. I felt unsettled about what I wanted to do. Come to Chicago to stay. You know. I have friends in Montreal too, you know. And I've always thought marriage meant monogamy. I see. My focus on the affair between Penelope and Paul shifted slightly. He didn't kill him. Did you? Perhaps for some other reason. She forced a smile. Because he didn't agree with Lottie about responsibility? No. And for no other reason. Are you going to ask Lottie if she killed him? Lottie would have mangled him Sunday night with whatever was lying on the dining room table. She wouldn't wait to sneak into his office with a club. I eyed her thoughtfully. Just out of vulgar curiosity, what were you doing around eight this morning? Her black eyes scorched me. I came to you because I thought you would be sympathetic not to get the same damn questions I had all afternoon from the police. And what were you doing at eight this morning? She swept across the room to the door, then thought better of it and affected to study a Nell Blaine poster on the nearby wall. With her back to me, she said curtly, I was having a second cup of coffee and no, there are no witnesses. As you know, by that time of day Lottie is long gone. Perhaps someone saw me leave the building at 8:30. I asked the detectives to question the neighbors, but they didn't seem much interested in doing so. Don't sell them short. If you're not under arrest, they're still asking questions. But you could ask questions to clear me. They're just trying to implicate me. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to ease the dull ache behind my eyes. You do realize the likeliest person to have killed him is an angry patient, don't you? Despite your fears, the police have probably been questioning them all day. Nothing, I said could convince her that she wasn't in imminent danger of a speedy trial before a kangaroo court, with execution probable by the next morning. She stayed until past midnight, alternating pleas to hide her with commands to join the police and hunting down Paul's killer. She wouldn't call Lottie to tell her she was with me because she was afraid Lottie's home phone had been tapped. Look, Penelope, I finally said, exasperated, I can't hide you if the police really suspect you. You were tailed here. Even if I could figure out a way to smuggle you out and conceal you someplace, I wouldn't do it. I'd lose my license on obstruction charges and I deserve to. I tried explaining how hard it was to get a court order for a wiretap and finally gave up. I was about ready to start screaming with frustration when Lottie herself called, devastated by Savino's death and worried about Penelope. The police had been by with a search warrant and had taken away an array of household objects, including her umbrella. Such an intrusion would normally have made her spitting mad, but she was too upset to give it her full emotional attention. I turned the phone over to Penelope. Whatever Lottie said to her stained her cheeks red, but did make her agree to let me drive her home. When I got back to my place, exhausted enough to sleep around the clock, I found John McGonagall waiting for me in a blue and white outside my building. He came up the walk behind me and opened the door with a flourish. I looked at him sourly. Thanks, Sergeant. It's been a long day. I'm glad to have a doorman at the end of it. It's kind of cold down here for talking, Vic. How about inviting me up for coffee because I want to go to bed. If you've got something you want to say or even ask, spit it out down here. I was just ventilating and I knew it. If a police sergeant wanted to talk to me at 1 in the morning, we'd talk. Mr. Contreras is coming out in the magenta bathrobe to see what the trouble was. Merely speaking my decision to cooperate. While I assembled cheese sandwiches, McGonagall asked me what I'd learned from Penelope. She didn't throw her arms around me and how they got killed him. You've got to help me. I put the sandwiches in a skillet with a little olive oil. What have you guys got on her? The receptionist and two of the other analysts who'd been in the hall had seen a small dark haired woman hovering in the alcove near Savina's office around 20 of 8. Neither of them had paid too much attention to her. When they saw Penelope they agreed it might have been she, but they couldn't be certain. If they'd made a positive id she'd already have been arrested. Even though they couldn't find the weapon. They had a shouting match at the Filigree last night. The Major D was quite upset. Savino was regular and he didn't want to offend him, but a number of diners complained. The Herschel girl, McGonagall, I mean warily woman, I mean, stormed off on her own and spent the night with her aunt. One of the neighbors saw her leave around 7 the next morning. Not at 8:30, as she says. I didn't like the sound of that. I asked me about the cause of death. Someone gave him a good crack across the side of the neck, close enough to the back to fracture a cervical vertebra and sever one of the main arteries. It would have killed him pretty fast. And as you know, Serbino wasn't very tall. The Herschel woman could easily have done it with what I demanded. That was the stumbling block. It could have been anything from a baseball bat to a steel pipe. The forensic pathologist who looked at the body favored the latter since the skin had been broken in places. They taken away anything and Lottie's apartment and Penelope's luggage that might have done the job and were having them examined for traces of blood and skin in I snorted. If you searched Lottie's place, you must have come away with quite an earful. McGonagall grimaced. She spoke her mind. Yes. Any ideas on what the weapon might have been? I shook my head, too nauseated by the thought of Paul's death to muster intellectual curiosity over the choice of weapon. When McGonagall left around 2:30, I lay in bed staring at the dark, unable to sleep despite my fatigue. I didn't know Penelope all that well. Just because she was Lottie's niece didn't mean she was incapable of murder. To be honest, I hadn't been totally convinced by her histrionics tonight. Who but a lover could get close enough to you to snap your neck? I thrashed around for hours, finally dropping into an uneasy sleep around 6. Lottie woke me at 8 to implore me to look for Savina's killer. The police had been back at 7:30 to ask Penelope why she'd forgotten to mention she'd been at Paul's apartment early yesterday morning. Why was she there? I asked reasonably. She says she wanted to patch things up after the quarrel, but he'd already left for the office when the police started questioning her. She was too frightened to tell the truth. Vic, I'm terrified they're going to arrest her. I mumbled something. It looked to me like they had a pretty good case, but I valued my life too much to say that to Lottie. Even so, the conversation deteriorated rapidly. I come out in any wind or weather to patch you up with never a word of complaint. That wasn't exactly true, but I let it pass. Now, when I beg you for help, you turn a Deaf ear to me. I shall remember this, Victoria. Giant black spots formed and reformed in front of my tired eyes. Great, Lottie. Her receiver banged in my ear. Chapter 3 I spent the day doggedly going about my own business, turning on WBBM whenever I was in the car to see if any news had come in about Penelope's arrest, despite all the damaging eyewitness reports. Listen, he apparently didn't want to move without a weapon. I trudged up the stairs to my apartment a little after six. My mind fixed on a bath and a rare steak, followed immediately by bed. When I got to the top landing, I ground my teeth in futile rage. A fur coated woman was sitting in front of the door. When she got to her feet, I realized it wasn't Penelope but Greta Shipa, Crime Nimk, his wife. The dark hallway had swallowed the gold of her hair. Vic, thank God you've come back. I've been here since four and I have a concert in two hours. I fumbled with the three stiff locks. I have an office downtown just so that people won't have to sit on the floor outside my home. I said pointedly. You do? Oh, it never occurred to me you didn't just work out of your living room. She followed me in and headed over to the piano where she picked out a series of fifths. You really should get this tune, Vic. Is that why you've been here for two hours? To tell me to tune my piano? I slung my coat onto a hook in the entryway and sat on the couch to pull off my boots. No, no. She sat down hastily. It's because of Paul, of course. I spoke to Lottie today and she says you're refusing to stir yourself to look for his murderer. Why? Vic, we all need you very badly. You can't let us down now. The police were questioning me for two hours yesterday. It utterly destroyed my concentration. I couldn't practice at all. I I know the recital tonight will be a disaster. Even Heinz been affected and he's out on the West Coast. I was too tired to be tactful. How do you know that? I thought you'd been living with Rudolph Strayan. She looked surprised. What does that have to do with anything? I'm still interested in Ham's music and it's been terrible. Rudolph called this morning to tell me and I bought an L A paper downtown. She thrust a clear of the L A Times in front of me. It was folded back to the art section where the headline read aola's just blowing in the wind. They'd use crime's publicity photo as an inset. I scanned the story time. Lemke, one of the nation's most brilliant musicians, must have left his own clarinet at home because he played as though he'd never handled the instrument before. Aeolus manager Claudia Lorenz says the group was shattered by the murder of a friend in Chicago. The rest of the quintet managed to pull a semblance of a concert together, that the performance by America's top woodwind group was definitely off key. I handed the paper back to Greta. Heim's reputation is too strong. An adverse review like this will be forgotten in two days. Don't worry about it. Go to your concert and concentrate on your own music. Her slightly protuberant blue eyes stared at me. I didn't believe Lottie when she told me. I don't believe I'm hearing you now, Vic. We need you. If it's money, name your figure. But put aside his coldness and help us out. Greta, the only thing standing between the police and an arrest right now is the fact that they can't find the murder weapon. I'm not going to join them in hunting for it. The best we can hope for is that they never find it. After a while, they'll let Penelope go back to Montreal and your lives will return to normal. No, no. You're thinking Penelope committed this crime. Never, Vic. Never. I've known her since she was a small child. You know I grew up in Montreal. It's where I met him. Believe me, I know her. She never committed this murder. She was still arguing stubbornly when she looked at her watch, gave a gasp, and said she had to run or she'd never make the auditorium in time. When I'd locked the door thankfully behind her, I saw she dropped her paper. I looked at find delicate face again, sad, as though he knew he would have to portray Morning in it when the picture was taken. Chapter 4 When the police charged Penelope late on Thursday, I finally succumbed to the alternating pleas and commands of her friends to undertake an independent investigation. The police had never found a weapon, but the state's attorney was willing to believe it was in the Chicago River. I got the names of the two analysts and the receptionist who'd seen serving as presumed assailant outside his office on Tuesday. They were too used to seeing nervous people shrinking behind partitions to pay much attention to this woman. Neither of them was prepared to make a positive ID in court. That would be a help to Freeman Carter handling Penelope's defense, but it couldn't undo the damage Caused by Penelope's original lies about her Tuesday morning activities. She was free on a $100,000 bond, swinging between depression and a kind of manic rage. She didn't tell a very convincing story. Still, I was committed to proving her innocence. I did my best with her and trusted that Freeman was too savvy to let her take the witness stand herself. I got a list of Paul's patients, both current and former, from a contact at the police. Lottie, Max and Greta were bankrolling both Freeman and me to any amount we needed. So I hired the Streeter brothers to check up on patient alibis. I talked to all of them myself, trying to ferret out any sense of betrayal or rage urgent enough to drive one of them to murder with a sense of shameful voyeurism. I even read Paul's notes. I was fascinated by his descriptions of Greta. Her total self absorption had always rubbed me the wrong way. Paul, while much more empathic, seemed to be debating whether she would ever be willing to participate in her own analysis. How did Paul feel about your affair with Rudolph? I asked Greta one afternoon when she had made one of her frequent stops for a progress report. Oh, you know Paul. He had a great respect for the artistic temperament and what someone like me needs to survive in my work. Besides, he convinced me I didn't have to feel responsible. You know that my own parents cold narcissism makes me crave affection and Rudolph is a much more relaxing lover than poor Heim with his endless parade of guilt and self doubt. I felt my skin crawl slightly. I didn't know any psychoanalytic theory, but I couldn't believe Paul meant his remarks on personal responsibility to be understood in quite this way. Meanwhile, times performance had deteriorated so badly that he decided to cancel the rest of the west coast tour. The AOLAS found the backup, the second clarinet in the Chicago Symphony. But the concert series got mediocre reviews in Seattle and played the half full houses in Vancouver and Denver. Greta rushed to the airport to meet him on his return. I knew because she'd notified the local stations and I found her staring at me on the 10 o' clock news, escorting him from the baggage area with a Mattel solicitude. She shed the cameras before decamping for Rudolph's. She called me from there at 10:30 to make sure I'd seen her waifly heroics. I wasn't convinced by Greta's claims that Heim would recover faster on his own and with someone to look after him. The next day I went to check on him for myself. Even though it was past noon, he was still in his dressing gown. I apologize for waking him, but he gave a sweet, sad smile and assured me he'd been up for some time. When I followed him into the living room, a light, bright room facing Lake Michigan, I was shocked to see how ill he looked. His black eyes had become giant holes in his thin face. He apparently hadn't slept in some time. Hi. Have you seen a doctor? No, no. He shook his head. It's just that since Paul's death I can't make music. I try to play and I'd sound worse than I did at age 5. I don't know which is harder, losing Paul or having them arrest Penelope. Such a sweet girl. I've known her since she was born. I'm sure she didn't kill him. Lottie says you're investigating. Yeah, but not too successfully. The evidence against her is very sketchy. It's hard for me to believe they'll get a conviction if the weapon turns up. I left the sentence trail away. If the weapon turned up, it might provide the final case and to shore up the state's platform. I was trying hard to work for Penelope but kept having disloyal thoughts. You yourself are hunting for the weapon. Do you know what it is? I shook my head. The state's attorney gave me photos of the wound. I had enlargements made and I took them to a pathologist I know to see if he could come up with any ideas. Some kind of pipe or sea stick with spikes or something on it like a caveman's club. I'm so out of ideas. I even went to the Field Museum to see if they could suggest something or were missing some old fashioned lethal weapon. Heim had turned green. I felt contrite. He had such an active imagination I should have watched my tongue. Now he'd have nightmares for weeks and would wait even longer to get his music back. I changed the subject and persuaded him to let me cook some lunch from the meager supplies in the kitchen. He didn't eat much, but he was looking less feverish when I left. Chapter 5 Hindman found him close to death the morning Penelope's trial started, Lottie, Max, and I spent the day in court with Lottie's brother Hugo and his wife. We didn't get any of Greta's frantic messages until Lottie checked in at the clinic before dinner. Heim had gone to an Aeolus rehearsal the night before his first appearance at the group in some weeks. He had bought a new clarinet, thinking perhaps the problem lay with the old one. Wind instruments aren't like violins. They deteriorate over time, and an active clarinetist has to buy a new one every 10 years or so. Despite the new instrument, a buffet he had flown to Toronto to buy. The rehearsal had gone badly. He left early, going home to turn on the gas in the kitchen stove. He left a note which simply said, I have destroyed my music. The cleaning woman knew enough about their life to call Greta Rudolph's apartment. Since Greta had been at the rehearsal waiting for the obois, she knew how badly Hymen played. I'm not surprised, she told Lottie over the phone. His music was all he had after I left him. With both of us gone from his life, he must have felt he had no reason to live. Thank God I learned so much from Paul about why we aren't responsible for our actions or I would feel terribly guilty now. Lottie called the attending physician at Mitchell Hospital and came away with the news that Heim would live, but he ruined his lungs. He could hardly talk and would probably never be able to play again. She reported her conversation with Greta with a blazing rage while we waited for dinner in her brother's suite at the Drake. The wrong person's career is over, she said furiously. It's the one thing I could never understand about him, why he felt so much passion for that self centered whore. Marcella Herschel gave a grimace of distress taste. She didn't deal well with Lottie at the best of times and could barely tolerate her when she was angry. Penelope, pale and drawn from the day's ordeal, summoned a smile and patted Lottie's shoulder soothingly while Max tried to persuade her to drink a little wine. Freeman Carter stopped by after dinner to discuss tragedy for the next day's session. The evening broke up soon after, all of us too tired and depressed to want even a pretense of conversation. The trial lasted four days. Freeman did a brilliant job with the state sketchy evidence. The jury was out for only two hours before returning a not guilty verdict. Penelope left from Montreal with Hugo and Marcella the next morning. Lottie, much shaken by the winter's events, found a locum for her clinic and took off with Max for two weeks in Portugal. I went to Michigan for a long weekend with the dog, but didn't have time or money for more vacation than that. Monday night he got home. I found Hugo Volt Spanish as leaderboard still open on the piano from January's dinner party with Hyman Paul between Paul's murder and preparing for Penelope's trial. I hadn't sung since then. I tried picking out in them shot and minor lock. And the Greta was right. The piano needed tuning badly. I called Mr. Fortieri the next morning to see if he would come by to look at it. He was an old man who repaired instruments for groups like the Aeolus Quintet and their ilk. He also tuned pianos for them. He only helped me because he'd known my mother and admired her singing. He arranged to come the next afternoon. I was surprised. Usually you had to wait four to six weeks for time on his schedule, but quickly reshuffled my own Tuesday appointments to accommodate him. When he arrived, I realized that he had come so soon because crimes suicide attempt had shaken him. I didn't have much stomach for rehashing it, but I could see the old man was troubled and needed someone to talk to. What bothers me, Victoria, is what I should do with his clarinet. I've been able to repair it, but they tell me he'll never play again. Surely it would be too cruel to return it to him, even if I didn't submit a bill. His clarinet? I asked blankly. When did he give it to you? After that disastrous west coast tour. He said he had dropped it in some mud. I still don't understand how that happened, why he was carrying it outside without the case. But he said it was clogged with mud and he tried cleaning it, only he'd bent the keys and it didn't play properly. It was a wonderful instrument, only a few years old and costing perhaps $6,000. So I agreed to work on it. He had to use his old one in California, and I always thought that was why the tool went so badly. That and Paul's death weighing on him, of course. So you repaired it and got it thoroughly clean? I said foolishly. Oh yes, of course. The sound will never be as good as it was originally, but it would still be a fine instrument for informing use only. I hate having to give him a clarinet he can no longer play. Leave it with me, I said gently. I'll take care of it. Mr. Forgery seemed relieved to pass the responsibility on to me. He went to work on the piano and tuned it back to perfection without any of his usual criticisms on my failure to keep the to my mother's high musical standard. As soon as he'd gone, I drove down to the University of Chicago hospital. Time was being kept in the psychiatric wing for observation, but he was allowed visitors. I found him sitting in the lounge staring into space while people's court blared meaninglessly on the screen overhead. He gave his sad, sweet smile, smile when he saw me and croaked out my name in the horse parody of a voice. Can we go to your room? Hi. I want to talk to you privately. He flicked a glance at the vacant faces around us, but got up obediently and led me down the hall to a spartan room with bars on the window. Mr. Forgery was by this afternoon to tune my piano. He told me about your clarinet. Crime said nothing, but he seemed to relax a little. How did you do it? I'm. I mean. You left for California Monday morning. What did you do? Come back on the red eye. Red eye? He croaked hoarsely. Even in the small space I had to lean forward to hear him. The night flight. Oh, the red eye. Yes, yes. I got to o' er six, came to Paul's office on the L and was back at the airport in time for the 10 o' clock flight. No one even knew I'd left L. A. We had a rehearsal at 2 and I was there easily. His voice was so strained it made my face throat ached to listen to him. I thought I hated Paul, you know, all those remarks of his about responsibility. I thought he'd encouraged Greta to leave me. He stopped to catch his breath. After a few gasping minutes he went on. I blamed him for her idea that she didn't have to feel any obligation to. To our marriage. Then after I got back, I saw Lottie had been right. Greta was just totally involved in herself. She should have been named Narcissus. She used Paul's words without understanding them. But Penelope, I said. Would you really have let Penelope go to jail for you? He gave a twisted smile. I didn't mean them to arrest Penelope. I just thought. I've always had trouble with cold weather, the Chicago winters. I've worn a long fur for years because I'm so small. People often think I'm a woman when I'm wrapped up in it. I just thought if anyone saw me they would think it was a woman. I never meant them to arrest Penelope. He sat panting for a few minutes. What are you gonna do now, Vic? Send for the police? I shook my head sadly. You'll never play again. You'd have been happier doing Life and Joliet than you will now that you can't play. I want you to write it all down, though. The name you used on your night flight and everything. I have the clarinet, even though Mr. Fortieri cleaned it a good lab might still find blood traces. The clarinet and your statement will go to the papers after you die. Penelope deserves that much, to have the cloud of suspicion taken away from her. And I'll have to tell her and Lottie. His eyes were shiny. You don't know how awful it's been, Vic. I was so mad with rage that nothing to break Paul's neck. But then after that, I couldn't play anymore. So you were wrong. Even if I had gone to Joliet, I would still ever have played. I couldn't bear the naked anguish in his face. I left without saying anything. But it was weeks before I slept without seeing his black eyes weeping onto me. This story is taken from a woman's eye edited by sarah koretsky. All rights reserved. Narration by jenna leishman music by craig harris.