A Note Before Dying

Book One in the Mara Solomon Series

Adam Cole

Part Nine

(C) 2020 Adam Cole

Published by Nuncici Press, an imprint of Adam Cole Works LLC

It had happened to the man sitting at the next table.  She flew to his side, her instincts for helping on high alert.

“You okay?”

“Sorry,” said a voice from the floor.

“Sorry?  What?  You fell.”

“I know,” agreed the man.  “I know, but it’s all right.”

“Are you hurt?”  The waitress had come over too, and had sympathetically begun cleaning up the mess.  She looked down at Mara and smiled, seeing that the man was taken care of.

“Could you get my stick?” the man asked her.  His eyes were sky blue and very kind.

“Sure.”  Mara hastened to help.  She found the cane under a nearby chair and, with apologies to the woman sitting there, she retrieved it.

“Are you okay?”

“I may have bruised my hip… I’m used to that.  It’s just embarrassing.”

“No, nobody cares,” said Mara.  “I mean…everybody understands.  Just…look, why don’t you come over to my table.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said the man.  “You’ve been very kind.”

“No, your table’s a mess.  It’s going to take them a while to clean that up.”

He had regained his feet.  She held him steady.

“Well…” he looked around in consternation.  “Well…all right.  You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“No.  No, come on.”  She led him towards her table.  He found the seat that Randle had just vacated and eased himself into it, sighing.

“Well, you’re very kind,” he said again.  His accent was odd and hard to place, mostly midwestern with a twinge of something else.  His face was round and doughy, and his complexion was fair.  He was very well dressed, though some of the shine of his suit had been lost to the glass of water spilled on it.

“Here, you need a napkin to get that water,” Mara said, still fussing over him.

“I hope you’ll at least let me pay for whatever you’re having,” the man said.  

“No, that’s ridiculous.  It’s just crackers.”

“Well, even so…”

He fidgeted uncomfortably.  Finally, he held out his hand.  “I’m Arthur Page.  My friends call me Artie.

She took his hand.  The skin was soft, but Mara guessed that the hand had been worked on.  His nails were manicured.

  “Nice to meet you.  I’m Mara Solomon,” she replied.

“Mara Solomon!” he exclaimed, looking astounded.  “From Emory University?”

She stared at him.  “How would you know that?”

“I’m a musicologist too!  I’m a visiting lecturer at Georgia State University.  I just read your paper on Taverner’s Missa Gloria Tibi Trinitas last Friday.”

“No kidding.”  Mara peered at him.

“Yes!  I thought I heard you talking about music over here!”

“Well…” she shrugged.  “How did you like the paper?”

“I thought it was pretty wonderful.”

The corner of Mara’s mouth went up.  She hadn’t even expected anyone to read the paper, much less enjoy it.  “What a sweetheart.”

“Was that a police officer you were talking to?”

“Yes,” Mara said.

The man’s brows furrowed in a puzzled expression.  “About music?”

“Well, about Reanne Adastra.  She’s the harpist for the symphony orchestra here”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yes.  She was abducted last week.”

“What?” 

Mara nodded.  “Gone.”

“What do you mean gone?…oh my God.  She’s dead?”  At the moment he said the word, his leg gave him a sudden pain and he winced.

“You okay?” Mara asked, alarmed.

“Yes.”  His eye twitched with discomfort.  He brought it to focus on her.  “Why would anyone kill a harpist?”

“They don’t have a suspect yet, or even a motive.”

“Just some random thing?  Abducted on the street?  Was she a friend of yours?” 

“Yes.  I don’t know.  They aren’t telling me much.  But they found this music in her apartment, and the inspector—“

“Did you call it her swan song?”

“Yes.  It’s a piece.  An original piece of music that she wrote right before she was taken.”

Page seemed to recover a bit.  “That’s really interesting.”

“Yes.  Unfortunately, it isn’t telling us much.”

Artie’s mouth straightened into a determined line.  He gave her a thin-lipped smile.  “May I take a look?”

“Sure…” Mara turned it around.

 Page studied it while she studied him.  Blond, thin hair, balding near the back.  Fastidious in his appearance, but with a soft, gentle face, doughy cheekbones.  He looked almost amused as he scrutinized the page he was holding.  “I can see what you mean about it not being a great piece,” he muttered.  “And there are those clusters...”  Page’s index finger came down on the little grape-bunch.  “Did I overhear you say you can’t play those on a harp?”

“That’s right.  The instrument isn’t capable of it.  You could retune it, I guess…”

“No…” Page mumbled.  “No, that’s not it.  I doubt she was thinking about that.  A natural, B-flat, B-natural, C-natural.  Why do those notes seem so familiar?”

“And they appear several times.”

“Yes…” muttered Page .  “I can see that.  Oh, for crying out loud!”  Page sat up, looking very awkward.  “I’ve just realized the time.  I was supposed to meet someone at…Lenox Square?  In about twenty minutes.”

“Well, if you leave now, you should make it on time.” Mara  was lying.  No one traveling by car in Atlanta was ever on time anymore.

“I’m really sorry…” he went on.

“Oh, no!  It’s all right…”

Page reached into his pocket.  “Can I give you my card?  We could talk some more about this.  You could give me a call…”  He held out the card.

“Of course!” exclaimed Mara, reaching into her purse to fish out her University business card.  

“Maybe we can have a real lunch,” Page suggested.

“Sure!” Mara replied. 

“I wonder if you can do me a favor,” he said, his smile fading.  “I’m having a lot of trouble with the door…” 

“Oh, you want me to get that for you?”

“If you’d be so kind.”

Mara got up and went over to the restaurant’s glass door.  Holding it open, she watched as Artie limped out.  

Mara watched him move down the sidewalk.  Then she went back and ate her cheese and crackers.

Idly, she took out her phone and did a search on Artie Page.  There he was, Georgia State University website.  Fulbright Scholar, studied at Oxford, Yale…on the editorial board of several periodicals.  Born in Estonia, moved to the United States as a young man.

Nice.  She hated the sound of her own thoughts going in that direction.  “Nice.  A nice boy.”

Should she call him?  Just about the music, of course.  She wouldn’t expect anything else. Considering it a date was out of the question.  She’d never had much luck with making friends, much less dating.  Music, even dissonant music, was a lot more dependable.

More about A Note Before Dying

Mara Solomon is a musicologist, not a detective.  She has no idea that she’s about to take on a murder case.  

In an unexpected visit to the Decatur Police Station she discovers that her estranged friend, the harpist Reanne Adastra, has been brutally beaten to death, her body left to rot in the South River.  The only clue to the movie seems to be a piece of music, scrawled by Adastra before her death and left behind.  The police have no idea what to make of that.

But Mara thinks she knows.

Adam Cole is the host of TruerMU where he interviews celebrities and up-and-coming musicians and creatives.  His guests have included Shawn Mullins, Liberty Devitto and Rick Beato, among many others.  A jazz and classical pianist, Adam’s numerous fiction and non-fiction titles engage readers with the truth about music.  Visit Adam at www.acole.net

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