Murder With Strings Attached
by Mark Reutlinger
Genre: Humorous Mystery
Sometimes even the most carefully conceived burglary can take an unexpected turn. Florence Palmer has her eye on concert violinist Aaron Levy's priceless violin. Unfortunately, she finds it's already been stolen. Her surprise doubles when the virtuoso she'd planned to burgle offers to hire her to help him steal it back. But they're not the only ones looking for the missing violin. When Flo inadvertently becomes the prime suspect in a case of murder, she and Aaron need to clear her name. Will they find the real killer and get the violin back to its rightful owner without anyone else, especially themselves, being killed?
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Excerpts from MURDER WITH STRINGS ATTACHED
Passing the front desk on my way to the elevator, I wanted to avoid eye contact with any of the clerks on duty. But, like Lot’s wife, I couldn’t resist just a peek. Unfortunately, one of the check-in clerks, an older woman with gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, happened to be looking in my direction and our eyes met.
The woman immediately called to me, “Miss, would you please step over here?”
I returned a mimed “Who, me?” gesture. The bun lady nodded in the affirmative.
Damn, that’s all I need, I berated myself. I just had to look, didn’t I? But I knew I now had no choice but to comply. I walked over slowly as I tried frantically to think of answers, having no idea what the questions might be. Would I be asked who I was and what I was doing here? If so, would my answers be credible? When I reached the desk I tried to act nonchalant.
“Yes, ma’am?”
The bun lady said, “Just a moment, please,” and reached under the desk.
Totally irrationally it flashed through my mind that the woman was going to pull out a pistol and place me under arrest. Good thing I’d just peed, or I’d probably have done it now. It’s amazing what tricks a guilty conscience can play on you. What she actually pulled out, however, was a stack of letters. She handed them to me and, motioning toward a mail box mounted on the far wall, said, “Would you be a dear and drop these in the box over there?”
I accepted the letters and the assignment with relief. “Certainly, ma’am. No problem.”
I marched directly over to the mail box and deposited the letters. I then continued on my way to the service elevator, this time resisting any urge to look anywhere but straight ahead.
I was going to use my “one phone call” (assuming a person really gets one and that’s not just something they say in the movies) to call Aaron, but I didn’t have to bother. Almost as soon as I arrived at the police station, Aaron, who obviously had been watching developments and following the police car I was in, walked in and inquired how I might be released. Given the relatively minor nature of the charge, despite what they might actually suspect, and my clean record, despite all the burglaries they were thankfully unaware of, bail was set according to a standard schedule rather than my having to wait to see a judge the next day.
I don’t know how much it cost Aaron to bail me out, but of course whatever it was, he could well afford it; and besides, he owed it to me. After all, I was really just his employee, and surely posting bail is a standard employee benefit.
When all the necessary papers had been signed and funds transferred, Aaron and I walked out into the sunshine that I’d been afraid I wouldn’t be seeing for quite a while.
On the way to Aaron’s car, I gave him a hug and a little kiss on the cheek and thanked him for extricating me from the pokey and doing it so quickly. He looked a bit embarrassed by that, but he cleared his throat and said in his best businesslike manner:
“Okay, so why’d you shoot him, and where’d you put the violin?”
I silently exhaled and opened the door of the closet a bit. I peeked out, and finding the coast indeed to be clear, stepped out.
The hunt was on.
From Janice’s description, the violin should have been in the closet, but I had been in the closet for quite a while, and so far as I could tell, I had not been accompanied in there by a violin. But it had been hard to search carefully without light and the risk of making noise, so now I opened the closet door again and checked more carefully, using my flashlight.
No violin.
I looked around the room, which was almost as dark as the closet. Although it was a bright day, the real maid had closed the heavy red-and-gold tapestry drapes that were covering the full-wall windows, letting in almost no light. I didn’t want to risk turning on the lamps or the chandelier, casting light that might be noticed under the door from the hallway, so I still had to rely on my small flashlight to make my inspection of the premises. Waving it around to get my bearings, I could see that the fancy chandelier that hung from the ceiling was comparable in elegance to those hanging in the lobby, but on a smaller scale. Even in the limited light, its crystal bangles twinkled and sparkled expensively. Unfortunately, it was too big to take away with me.
The rest of the room’s décor was similarly opulent. The coffee table, either antique French provincial or a good imitation thereof, was painted in a light cream color, as was the large credenza against the far wall, probably filled with complimentary drinks and snacks. Two overstuffed chairs were upholstered in the same pattern as the drapes. The walls were covered in an old-fashioned floral-patterned wallpaper, with the carved-wood moldings painted to match the furnishings. I aimed my flashlight on all the room’s surfaces, looking for my prize.
Alas, no violin.
I tried the doors on the far wall. The bathroom provided no place for a violin to hide. Behind another door was a bedroom, in which a four-poster bed resided. It was covered by an elegant canopy of red and gold tapestry that matched the drapes and chairs. A highboy and a vanity table completed the bedroom furnishings. I saw nothing interesting in plain sight, so I checked the bedroom closet and then lay flat on the carpet and peeked under the bed.
Still no violin.
I was beginning to think that Aaron Levy had deliberately thwarted me by taking his violin with him or putting it in the safe—an ungentlemanly thing for him to do, given all the time and effort I was putting into finding it. I returned to the front room and was about to check the last remaining door—probably a connection to the neighboring suite—when I almost tripped over something sticking out from under the sofa. I reached down to shove it back out of the way.
The violin.
How could someone treat an instrument so valuable in such a cavalier manner, I wondered. More and more it seemed as if Mr. Aaron Levy was entirely too careless and had to be relieved of this heavy responsibility before someone…well…stole the damn thing!
And I was just the woman to do it. I opened the case and lifted up my trophy, held my flashlight close to it, and with great satisfaction, began to examine it lovingly.
And that’s when the lights came on.
Mark Reutlinger is the author of the novels "Made in China," "Murder with Strings Attached," and the "Mrs. Kaplan" cozy mystery series, as well as "Sister-in-Law" under the pen name M. R. Morgan. He is a professor of law emeritus at Seattle University. Born in San Francisco, Mark graduated from UC Berkeley and now lives with his wife, Analee, in University Place, Washington. When not reading or writing, Mark enjoys tennis, biking, playing the clarinet (in the Tacoma Concert Band), sports cars, and various arts and crafts. He doesn't know where he finds time for it all.
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