The Tanglewood Murders. David Weedmark
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open window. Taylor seemed to recognize the piece but could not think of the name. Something classical, obviously, the quick steep notes played by talented fingers. Perhaps at one point in his life he could even have named the composer, but this evening nothing came to mind as he gazed up at the dark purple clouds above the rooftop and the grey, unlit, dancing curtain of the main floor of the Voracci home. It seemed to be a difficult piece, and the pianist would stop suddenly in mid-bar then start from the beginning again. She would play for thirty or forty seconds then suddenly stop to begin all over again. Mrs. Michael Voracci. Ginny to her husband. Jennifer to Ben Taylor.
Taylor had to smile at her persistence—the first time he had smiled since he had stepped down from the tractor this morning. And while he felt like a musical illiterate these days, he had not lost his love for music. If he were to guess—and as he listened more attentively now, he was inclined to guess—she was playing Chopin. The music felt thoughtful, reflective, and Taylor wondered if anyone playing such a nostalgic piece was mindful of the events of this morning or still happily unaware. He watched the darkening clouds bend towards the open window as Venus and Mars peered from behind the orange bending light of the setting sun. He took a breath of the cooling air and listened to her begin the piece once again.
Few of the workers had ever spoken to Michael’s wife. Indeed, few people working at the farm had seen her for more than a few moments as she went into or out of her house. She had the reputation of a recluse. During his first month working here, Ben had not seen her at all. At the time, he knew nothing about her. None of the other workers, with the possible exception of Anna Wagner, knew much about her either, but the rumours were abundant. The stories invariably contradicted each other and cancelled each other out: that she had been a model, that she was a distant cousin; that she was shy; that she was a cold and heartless bitch. That she was a simpleton; that she was a Russian bride who spoke no English; that she was the brains behind her husband’s success. Most of the rumours were based on fantasy. The souls around him would volunteer anything they knew of anyone to help pass the time more quickly.
The first time Ben had caught a glimpse of her, she had been across the compound getting out of her yellow Volkswagen Beetle with bags of groceries in hand, and he had seen only the back of her head, her long brown hair tied in a ponytail. Still there was something familiar about the curve of her shoulders, her slender arms, the way she wore her hair, and her long slender neck. The next time he saw her, a week or so later, she had been standing at the gate of her small fenced yard, her husband’s arm around her waist, as they said goodbye to some guests. That was when he was certain he recognized her. Jennifer Voracci had been Jennifer Spender, Ben’s girlfriend in university, his first love.
Not a single worker, trucker, manager or interloper had ever mentioned the sound of a piano coming from the Voracci household. It was as if Taylor’s ears alone detected the music, like the scent of a discreet perfume intended for only the most sensitive or closest witness.
Jennifer Voracci’s piano had now escaped the practice chords and played smoothly, beautifully for a while. The yard was immersed in darkness before the music stopped. A light had been turned on on the main floor of the house, and the billowing curtain was seen no more. Taylor sat on a small stack of broken pallets and watched the window, willing her with his heart to look outside. The light went out, but she did not come to the window. Then from inside the house, he could hear Michael’s voice, calling for his wife.
Ben clenched his fist and turned his attention towards the river, expecting to see the glow of car headlights, flashlights and searchlights from the area around the pump-house. But there were no lights reflected from the apple trees or glowing in the air. The area around the river was dark and silent.
Jennifer Voracci steadied herself on one leg and opened the screen door as wide as its spring would bear. Balancing the basket of towels on her bent knee, she brushed the hair from her cheek and readied herself to run inside. For the five years she had lived here, the spring on the wooden door had always been too tight. It reminded her of a giant mousetrap, poised at any time to catch an errant arm or leg coming through the threshold. With a sudden breath, Jennifer pushed hard against the door and took two quick steps into the kitchen, her white running shoes squeaking on the floor, before the door slammed shut behind. The sudden thwack of the door always made her flinch.
She clenched her teeth as a cool wave of relief slid down her spine. She was inside. Safe in her home.
Yes, it really was a silly game she played racing past the screen door. While she understood that, she still couldn’t seem to help herself. Perhaps it was because she had been treated as a child by Michael, her husband, for so many years that she now felt free to play the role. As ridiculous as it might be, it certainly wasn’t hurting anyone, and as long as it didn’t cause any harm, then it couldn’t really be that bad, could it?
More importantly, right now, the small thrill, if for even a few moments, had distracted her from the question that had been seeping up through her thoughts all day: What was going on near the river?
The question had been gnawing at her all day, ever since she’d seen the blonde teenager racing up to Michael on his tractor this morning. Jennifer had been in the kitchen, scraping egg yolk from Michael’s plate when she’d seen the tractor racing up the path from the direction of the river. Michael had been outside, cleaning his golf clubs in preparation for a morning tee-off with his brother Vic. From the kitchen window, Jennifer watched her husband put down his golf club and approach the boy, talking with both hands raised, calming the youth down. The teenager climbed down from the tractor, speaking quickly, very excited about something, while Michael nodded and listened before putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder, quieting him. The boy stopped chattering. His head fell and his shoulders slumped. Michael said a few words to him, his hand still on the boy’s shoulder. Then, with a final nod, the teenager climbed back onto the tractor and drove towards the warehouse.
When Michael came back inside, he was silent, his jaw set the way it usually was when plans were not going as expected. He took his cell phone and his golf hat from the table and paused at the door to say to Jennifer over his shoulder, “Something’s come up, Ginny.”
“What is it?” she asked, seeing the seriousness in his eyes.
“Nothing to concern yourself with,” he replied. He winked and tried to smile. But she could see something was wrong.
Michael never let the door slam. He always let it close slowly, the palm of his hand pressed against the wooden frame, controlling its force in the cautious manner that somehow defined in her mind the type of man he was. Unlike herself, he was a man who had grown up and who was always in control. So it was disturbing to see the worry in his eyes as he tried to wink at her. Nothing ever troubled him.
As she watched Michael direct his truck down the path towards the river, Jennifer knew in her heart what had happened. They had found Anna’s body, most likely washed up on the bank of the river, caught in the reeds somewhere near the old pump-house. Jennifer had no idea how long she’d stood at the sink, the water running before her, staring out the window. When the police cruiser drove past, she shook her head, turned off the water, and tried to put her thoughts behind her.
In small bursts and starts, memories of her dream came back to her, and of the last conversation she’d had with Anna.
Anna had been on her way to the warehouse that morning, and Jennifer had called to her from her gate to share with her one of the croissants she had baked. Anna’s tired eyes looked into Jennifer’s own as she complained about her lack of sleep. “Those trucks are so loud at night,” Anna had said. “And they shine their headlights right into my window. It was like they were having a party. Can’t they at least be discreet about it?”
Jennifer had promised to look into it and had asked Michael that weekend to make Randy at least have the trucks turn their lights off if they were going to be parked near Anna’s bedroom window all night.
Michael had nodded in his detached, methodical way. “That won’t be a problem,” he had told her. “Haven’t you heard? Anna and