Part One
Flu season. I never really hated it before. Sure, there were quite a few years, both in my younger days and during adulthood, when I came down with the sniffles, nausea, headaches, fever and overall malaise of the virus, but those were all just minor annoyances in the grand scheme of things. After all, something like the flu couldn’t kill Buck Sigurdon, security guard at Hodgepodge Records for ten years running now.
I know what you're thinking. "A recording studio in a town this small? Are they mad?" But really, Hodgepodge Records has done quite well for itself in the decade--give or take a few months–since its establishment.
Then again, there was that time five years ago.
I'd been on duty for a few hours, when Rosamund Wensler, one of the studio's more promising talents, greeted me. She walked up the pavement, somewhat wobbly on her black pump-clad feet, her forest green skirt lifting ever so slightly. She waved a wind-chapped, un-manicured hand and smiled.
"Feeling better?" I asked. Rosamund had been ill for the better part of a month–hence, her shaky gait–and had taken a break from composing her latest hit to recuperate.
"Oh, much," she replied. "I just thought I'd catch up on some work while it's quiet. Maybe the autumn winds will sing me a melody."
Chuckling, I held the door open for her. "Well, whatever inspires you. Just remember the little people you've squished when you get that Grammy."
With nothing more than a blush and a giggle at my levity, Rosamund entered the foyer and climbed the stairs to the second floor practice rooms.
After a few minutes, one of the windows opened with a thuck, and Rosamund leaned out, calling "Enjoy!" before turning to the piano that I knew was in the room with her.
Such occurrences were commonplace to me; having worked security since Hodgepodge Records was first opened, I'd come to regard many of the musicians, composers, and even general office folk who passed daily through its rather understated doorway, as friends. After learning of my love for music in any form–even the creative stage–many of the nicer musicians and composers would make small adjustments to their own routines–such as opening a window directly above my head–so that I'd be able to hear as much of their music as I wished during my shifts at the studio.
About twenty minutes passed while Rosamund tinkered at the pitch-perfect piano in the room above me; she stopped occasionally, adding a flat here or a fermata there, perfecting her manuscript.
A sudden, discordant noise caught my attention a few minutes later. It sounded as though someone had pounded at least a dozen wrong keys in quick succession, and then fallen off of the stool. Worried, I called, "Rosamund, is everything all right up there?"
When I didn't receive a response, I quickly radioed Rick Galloway, my partner whose post was on the other side of the studio, and told him that I was going inside to see if there was anything I could find out there. A "Roger that" rang in my ears as I walked quickly toward the entrance.
Dread forming a grapefruit-sized knot in my stomach, I opened the door and walked up the carpeted foyer staircase, making my way toward the second room on the left–the room that I knew belonged to the open window outside. I knocked on the closed pine door, in case Rosamund had managed to straighten out whatever the problem was while I was in transit, and desired privacy once again. The silence told me that the problem still existed, and I reached for the doorknob, opening the door.
The room itself was just your run-of-the-mill musical sanctuary. Shelves boasted various small drums and wind instruments, and a few posters explaining guitar chords, the life of Mozart, and orchestral seating arrangements lined the conservative beige walls. A flat-backed, cherry wood piano sat in the middle of the room, facing one corner, a few sheets of handwritten music resting haphazardly behind the lip of the book rest.
But the matching padded stool was not in its customary position by the piano. Instead, it had been knocked slightly backwards and to the right of where it should have been.
And there, auburn hair lying like a fan belonging in an Okinawan bone dance across the knock-off Persian area rug, was Rosamund Wensler. Half walking, half running to her side, I noticed that she appeared to be unconscious. Thinking–and hoping–that she'd merely passed out from over-exertion after a long illness, I attempted to wake her.
Her skin was damp from a recent sweat, and slightly chilly. I shook her gently, but to no avail; she didn't even moan.
Something wasn't right, and I don't mean Rosamund's collapse on her first evening back to work. No, as I checked her over carefully, something struck me as odd. When I scanned her torso, carefully moving her crisp, white blouse to and fro too see if she was bleeding–which she wasn't–it hit me.
Rosamund wasn't breathing.
Quickly, I called Galloway again, imploring him to call an ambulance–and fast. While Rick made the call, I touched my index and middle finger to Rosamund's carotid artery, absentmindedly registering the lack of bruising where her forehead should have hit the keys on the piano, and hoping against hope that at least one thing would go right in this crazy imitation of a good shift. But my hopes were dashed when my fingers found nothing.
Rosamund Wensler was dead, and it appeared she had been for the last ten minutes, but I did my best to revive her anyway, doing chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth until other help arrived.
When the paramedics came, they were followed by a caravan of MDs, PhDs and forensics experts who eventually determined that Rosamund had died from her illness.
There was no autopsy, since it seemed obvious to everyone that Rosamund's body had merely succumbed to the flu. But Rosamund Wensler was only the first to die while composing that season, and she was most certainly not the last to die of the flu.
Part Two
Rosamund's funeral was three days later. Not many people came; her six estranged siblings paid for the service and interment, but couldn't–or wouldn't–attend themselves.
K. Leroy Emyrson, president and founder of Hodgepodge Records, did not open the studio that day, so that those who knew Rosamund could attend her burial. That was one of the great things about the boss: he did well enough with the studio, but people–to him–were more important than any amount of money he could gain or lose. . . . to an extent. In this case, the people needed to grieve and put Rosamund to rest, so he let them; in a few instances, he even payed them a day's worth of hourly wages.
The funeral itself was pretty routine. A few of Rosamund's closest friends gave speeches about her kindness, her unique thought processes, and of course, her excellent musical abilities. Then we all got in our cars for the procession from the funeral home to the cemetery. As they lowered the simple, pine coffin into the grave, a few of Rosamund's singer friends sang, "God Be With You 'Til We Meet Again," throats full and eyes tearing. I added my own baritone after the second or third verse, and by the time the last not rang out through the evening sky, most of the Hodgepodge staff had joined in.
But the next day, things went back to business as usual. Everyone went back to work a little more sad, but no less diligent. Composers composed, lyricists–mostly–rhymed, singers sang, and guards, of course, went back to guarding–but only when they were on duty.
Neither Rick, nor I was on duty one night during the week after the funeral. Instead, the two of us, along with a few studio friends, had gathered at a rather boisterous restaurant owned by a local family who had emigrated from Greece just two years before. The food was wonderful; I myself had the most delicious and moist portion of meatloaf I'd ever had the pleasure to taste, topped with a delectable mushroom gravy, with lumpy mashed potatoes on the side.
To this day, I still visit that restaurant, and I order something new every time; the menu is huge. Not to mention the dining room. In order to accommodate the dozen or more Hodgepodge employees on this particular night, however, the hostess had to push four of the hexagonal, marble-laminated mahogany tables to the center of the sparsely-lit room. The autumn centerpieces flickered with sparkles refracted through the modest crystal chandelier hanging over our heads as we laughed, talked, and celebrated.
Gene Hodges, a long-time crooner, had been offered a record deal from one of the larger New York studios, on the condition that his next Hodgepodge release sell over half-a-million copies. And since Hodgepodge usually got a cut from these types of deals with the conglomerate companies in larger cities, Mr. Emyrson was happy with the arrangement. Gene himself was ecstatic.
But not nearly as ecstatic as Rick, who had gotten his news before Gene had heard about the record deal. Rick had just waited to share the good news until that particular night, due to certain circumstances, so, as per Rick's earlier request, I stood up, lightly tapping a spoon to my wine glass for everyone's attention.
"A toast," I began, briefly raising the glass over my head. "To Gene's new label; may he be rolling in the dough ere the decade's gone!"
The rest of the party murmured a "Hear, hear!" before sipping from their own glasses, but I wasn't finished, so I waited for them to realize that I was still standing.
"And to Rick Galloway," I nodded to my partner with a smile. "May he make the best darn cop in the tri-county area!"
Everyone gasped at this; Galloway hadn't told anyone, except myself, when he'd applied to the police academy earlier that year. He had been accepted, and planned to tell everyone the week before, but Rosamund's funeral had fallen on the same day.
I'd seen quite a few security guards off to police academy, but I wouldn't trade my Hodgepodge post for the world. I couldn't imagine being away from the studio permanently, but I also couldn't begrudge the dreams of Rick Galloway and those who had gone before him.
After the initial shock and uproar had died down to a few pats on the back from Hodges to Galloway, we all ordered dessert.
About an hour later, after the other nine or ten of us had left, Gene, Rick and I said our goodbyes and headed to our separate homes. When I reached my empty third floor apartment, I headed straight for bed, figuring that my roommate, Detective Josiah Sheridan, would lock up when he came in from whatever case he was on.
I'd known Sheridan since high school. We'd taken the same Phys. Ed. electives one year, and had been fast friends ever since. Josiah had even done guard duty with me a little, before joining the force and climbing up the ranks to detective.
And a detective was a good person to know that year, because three days after the celebration, Gene Hodges, as well as all three Shaus triplets, a group of blues singers from Baton Rouge, had called in sick from work. Gene returned the next day, determined to finish the work on his next album; one of the sound technicians found him in a recording booth the next morning, cold and stiff.
The Shaus triplets returned one by one, the first, three days after Gene's demise. K. Leroy found Tabitha Shaus near a supply cabinet where she'd supposedly been searching for more paper; she had a ream of it clutched to her chest in her arms. I myself found her brother, Joshua, in the foyer, five minutes after he'd come in two days later. Their sister, Deborah Kirke, who had taken some manuscripts home while she was ill, was discovered by a neighbor four days after Joshua's death.
Mr. Emyrson regretfully announced that practicality would not allow the studio to close for the four most recent funerals. Those who could not leave work understood and mourned on their off hours.
Meanwhile, police, detectives–Sheridan included--and forensics experts had been called, and Deborah's husband, Linus, who had rushed home in vain when news of Tabitha's death reached him at a truck stop, had demanded upon Deborah's death that her body be autopsied. The coroners agreed, due to the unusually numerous deaths involving Hodgepodge employees within the past few weeks.
Deborah's body revealed some rather shocking information. Though the triplets and Hodges were assumed to have died from the flu, Josiah later informed me there had been no evidence at all of a viral infection. According to Doctor Phelsman at the coroner's office, whose report Josiah had been privy to, Deborah hadn't been ill at all.
She had been poisoned.
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