Hot Ticket by Janice Weber Page A

could hear Duncan snoring regularly as a metronome on the other side of the wall. Inspired, I practiced
     mechanically for a few hours, exercising fingers as the brain grazed over craggier terrain. What had Barnard been doing at
     Fausto’s? Was he aware that she had been bathing with the president? I wondered if Fausto already knew about Marvel and me
     and how he would amuse himself with that information. What was Bobby after, flesh or information? I didn’t think I was worth
     killing yet, but my perspective was stunningly myopic. As Maxine had said, nothing in this town was real. Everything had happened
     too fast. And where the hell was Louis Bailey?
    Around one, when Duncan began a major flood in his bathtub, I checked my e-mail. Surprise, a reply from the Royal College
     of Music: Bendix Kaar, composition major, had left school a semester after Fausto. Never graduated. I laughed: a failed composer?
     Bad news. The worst, in fact.
    All this ruptured music made me curious, so I went to the Library of Congress and sifted through old microfilm of the
London Times.
Maybe a critic had gone to Fausto’s last concert. I began looking about thirty years ago, when recitals dispelled, rather
     than induced, depression. Came across a review of my husband Hugo, who had not conducted Mahler properly. What a joke: even
     now, this critic was still trashing heterosexuals. I hadn’t gotten a good word out of him ever. Duncan usually received honorable
     mention since his sexual persuasion was titillatingly ambiguous.
    Fausto had gotten a rave from our friend. The artiste was thoughtful, brilliant, daring … unbelievable. I couldn’t take the
     notice at face value, not from that critic, not about Fausto. Cut to the
Observer
for a second opinion.
    VIOLIN SINKS . At first I thought it was a review.
    Five partygoers aboard a cruise boat jumped into the Thames in an attempt to rescue a priceless violin which had fallen into
     the water. Mr Richard Poore, a tugboat captain, apparently saved the lives of Mr Fausto Kiss, his mother Ethel, Mr Louis Bailey,
     Mr Bendix Kaar, and Miss Justine Cortot by repeatedly tossing a life preserver into the current. “Silly fools,” Poore said.
     “I nearly rammed the London Bridge.” The violin was not recovered. Police are investigating the incident, which occurred shortly
     before dawn.
    Louis Bailey?
I read the article again: as Fausto had said, a night to remember. Five people overboard? Whose violin? I inched through
     several more newspapers but saw no further details of the episode. There were two more reviews of the recital, both excellent.
     Apparently Fausto was best with the hard, fast stuff. I could understand his jumping afterward into a filthy river. But Justine
     in her perfect makeup? Fausto’s
mother?
    Almost four o’clock: time for Gretchen’s music lesson. I drove to Aurilla Perle’s house. No Secret Service today, thank God.
     A maid answered the door. She had the despairing look of an un-ransomed hostage. “I’m Leslie Frost,” I said. “Gretchen’s expecting
     me.”
    This time the little vixen charged from the right. I caught her foot inches from my shin. “Hey! Nice to see you!” I cried,
     lifting her ankle high in the air, forcing her into a lopsided reverse. “Love your boots.”
    “Let go! That hurts!” she screamed.
    I took her arm, swung her in a wide arc, let her fly into a divan. “Next time you go through the window,” I smiled.
    For a few seconds the only sound in the foyer was that of the grandfather clock striking four. “I hate you!” Gretchen shrieked,
     stomping upstairs.
    I turned to the terrified maid. “Is Senator Perle home?”
    Of course not. She was at the vice president’s bedside, pretending she’d rather hear Jojo rave about whales than hear herself
     taking the oath of office. “Please wait here,” the maid said. “I’ll bring Gretchen down.”
    “Don’t bother,” I replied, mounting the wide stairs. “I’ll find