Windy City Blues

III

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, the state’s attorney 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 Schipauer, Chaim Lemke’s 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 tuned, 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 Lotty 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 know the recital tonight will be a disaster. Even Chaim has 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’ve been living with Rudolph Strayarn.”

She looked surprised. “What does that have to do with anything? I’m still interested in Chaim’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 copy of the L.A. Times in front of me. It was folded back to the arts section where the headline read AEOLUS JUST BLOWING IN THE WIND. They’d used Chaim’s publicity photo as an inset.

I sca

Chaim 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 Laurents 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, but the performance by America ’s top woodwind group was definitely off-key.

I handed the paper back to Greta. “Chaim’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 Lotty 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 this 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 Chaim. 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’d dropped her paper. I looked at Chaim’s delicate face again, sad as though he knew he would have to portray mourning in it when the picture was taken.

IV

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 Servino’s 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 I.D. 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 $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 i

I got a list of Paul’s patients, both current and former, from a contact at the police. Lotty, 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 that 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 Chaim, 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, Chaim’s performance had deteriorated so badly that he decided to cancel the rest of the West Coast tour. The Aeolus found a backup, the second clarinet in the Chicago Symphony, but their concert series got mediocre reviews in Seattle and played to half-full houses in Vancouver and Denver.

Greta rushed to the airport to meet Chaim on his return. I knew because she’d notified the local stations and I found her staring at me on the ten o’clock news, escorting Chaim from the baggage area with a maternal solicitude. She shed the cameras before decamping for Rudolph’s-she called me from there at ten-thirty to make sure I’d seen her wifely heroics.

I wasn’t convinced by Greta’s claims that Chaim would recover faster on his own than 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 apologized 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.

“Chaim, 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 sound worse than I did at age five. 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. Lotty says you’re investigating?”