Spadafini’s murder is a complete disaster for us. I’m just trying to keep things going and minimize the fallout.”
Pratt bit back a sharp answer that it was a greater tragedy for Spadafini. “So tell me about the two of them.”
Browne sighed and looked down a moment. “There were rumors about Luigi and Annabelle-”
“I’ve heard it was more than rumors.”
“All right! They were having an affair.”
“Did Spadafini have a wife?”
“No. He said it would have cramped his Italian playboy lifestyle.”
“Was there anyone else in the orchestra Spadafini was involved with?” Browne sighed again. “Our new piccolo player.”
“Was that recent?”
The orchestra manager looked uncomfortable. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that this is what upset Annabelle so much.”
“Could it have driven her to suicide?”
“I…I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“I have one of my men checking on it, but you could help a lot if you’d tell me whether she left a suicide note.”
“Look, Detective, this would have been a huge scandal if it had come out.”
“Did she leave a suicide note?” Pratt repeated.
Even though they were alone in the corridor, Browne looked around before speaking. “I asked the maestro about it. He said there was a letter sent to his apartment. He told me he burned it without reading it.”
“Did you believe him?”
Browne sighed. “Would you have wanted to read something like that?”
“And he or you never contacted the police.” Pratt made it sound like a statement.
“There didn’t seem to be any point. The girl obviously jumped in front of the train on her own. Fifty people must have seen it.”
“Your conductor sounds like a heartless bastard.”
“He could be.” Browne looked away for a moment. “But he was a sublime musician.”
“That doesn’t excuse anything. You should have gone to the police with what you knew.”
“What good would it have done? It’s not as if Spadafini killed her himself.”
Pratt fixed the manager with a hard stare. “It sounds to me like you’re trying to excuse his behavior.”
“He ran his life by a different set of rules than normal people. If you want to know, he told me that Annabelle became demanding. She wanted to move in with him, regularize their relationship. She didn’t understand when he told her that this would never happen. He said he’d never led her on, made promises he didn’t plan to keep.”
“And you believe he was telling the truth?”
“How should I know? I wasn’t his priest!”
At the end of the corridor, the door opened and one of the uniformed cops came through it.
“Detective Pratt?”
“What is it?”
“The orchestra is getting hungry.”
Pratt looked at his watch: nearly twelve thirty. “I suppose we have to do something. They’re going to be here a while longer- unless someone confesses.”
Browne looked relieved as he said, “Occasionally, we have sandwiches brought in for long rehearsals. I’ll see to it.”
“One other thing, Browne. I need a list of all the orchestra members who are here today.”
“I’ll go up to my office and print it out.”
As he hustled off, the uniform said, “You asked me to tell you if we spotted anything interesting. There’s one woman who’s been sitting in the back. She seems more upset than most of the others. People keep going back to talk to her.”
“Let me guess: she’s the piccolo player.”
“What’s a piccolo?”
As the two men headed back to the rehearsal room, Pratt was thinking to himself, This is going to be a very long day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” Pratt asked the short and very pretty young blond woman sitting in front of him. “I’m willing to hazard a guess that you play the piccolo,” he added.
He’d asked the uniformed cop to send the upset woman out to speak to him. Once she’d appeared, Pratt had taken her upstairs and found the backstage area where he knew they could talk without being disturbed. This needed to be handled just right.
She sat stiffly with her hands clenched in her lap. “Actually, I play piccolo and flute in the orchestra.”
Pratt pulled up another chair. “Your name, dear?”
“Sofia. Sofia Barna.”
“That’s Polish, isn’t it?”
“My parents are from Poland. I was born in Toronto.”
“And you’ve been in the orchestra how long?”
“Nearly six months.”
“How do you like it here?”
“It’s okay. I’m lucky to have landed the job.”
“How are you f inding life in our city?”
“All right, I guess.”
Pratt circled a bit closer with the next question. “And when was the last time you saw Luigi Spadafini?”
Her eyes opened wide. “Why are you asking that?”
“Please answer the question.”
Sofia looked around as if she wanted to run away.
“Take your time,” Pratt said kindly.
“This morning just before he…just before he…”
Pratt studied her closely. Obviously she’d been crying, and right now her face looked like she just might do it again. She also had all the signs of someone with something to hide.
“I meant before that.”
“The concert last night. He was so angry afterward. That’s why we had the emergency rehearsal this morning.”
“But you also saw him after the concert, didn’t you?”
The young woman wilted, put her head in her hands and began sobbing. Pratt let her go on for a while.
“Miss Barna,” he eventually asked, but kept his voice gentle, “would you please answer my question?”
She snuffled a moment longer, then raised her head and wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeves.
“You were seeing him, weren’t you?”
She suddenly looked defiant. “Who told you? That Wanamaker woman, the orchestra’s busybody?”
“So you’re not denying it?”
“No. I suppose I can’t. I know people in the orchestra guessed. I was careful. Luigi wasn’t quite as careful. It wasn’t his nature.”
Pratt decided to take out his notebook. “Did you spend the night together?” At first he thought she wouldn’t answer, but eventually he got a nod. “All night?”
“Do you also want a detailed description of what we did?” Sofia asked harshly.
“What was Spadafini’s mood like?”
“He was very angry at the orchestra. He went on and on about it. Then just before midnight, his phone
