Hot Ticket by Janice Weber

I was sure he’d learned exactly what he wanted to know, and I had learned
     … nothing.
    An hour later, out of gas, I returned to the hotel and made some noise with the Strad. Come what may, I still had a concert
     in Carnegie Hall on Saturday night. Senator Perle’s secretary interrupted once, confirming my seven o’clock appointment with
     the daughter. After a few hours, I quit. Wrists hurt, intonation splattered. Instead of seeing notes, I saw Barnard bleed
     as I dug a pin into her neck. Her blood was not red, but the rich purple of orchids. It smelled of grilled pineapple. I couldn’t
     believe she was dead.
    The door connecting my room and Duncan’s flew open. “What is that god-awful odor?” he cried, flopping onto the bed.
    “Herbal tea. Good for the joints. Have some.”
    “Please! I’ve just had a
very
nice lunch!” The king of hypochondriacs suddenly realized what I was telling him. “What’s the matter with your joints? Tendinitis?
     It’s probably from squeezing the brakes on that fucking motorcycle!”
    “I haven’t squeezed anything in days. Who sprang for lunch, you or Justine?”
    “Nobody sprang for anything. Will you stop prying into my personal affairs?”
    So Justine had bought again. I looked pointedly at my accompanist’s loud new tie, obviously a gift from his inamorata. Duncan
     would never buy himself anything red. “How many hours did you practice today?”
    “Zero. I know these pieces backward and forward.”
    “Let’s
get
going, then. I found a new place to rehearse.”
    “Oh God, not another boyfriend’s house! I hope the piano is decent!”
    “Should be. He used to play two hundred recitals a year.”
    That put a dent in Duncan’s cheer. He became even more upset at the sight of Fausto’s Corvette in the hotel lot. “Where’d
     you meet this guy?”
    “Ford’s Theatre. He gave me the car at breakfast today.” I let Duncan’s imagination run amok as we drove past the zoo. “Name’s
     Fausto. Don’t embarrass me now.”
    I nosed the Corvette into Fausto’s driveway. Duncan frowned at the house as he followed me up the walk. “Why do I feel like
     Hansel and Gretel going to visit the Wicked Witch?” he asked as I rang the doorbell.
    Still in pajamas, our host answered. Purple half-frame glasses matched the violet in his eyes. “Welcome back. Had lunch yet?”
    Duncan glared at Fausto’s embroidered kimono. “It’s three o’clock,” he announced, striding in. “We’ve eaten long ago.”
    “You must be Duncan Zadinsky. I’m Fausto Kiss.”
    Their palms grazed. Duncan swiveled his head about the foyer, searching exaggeratedly for a long black object with eighty-eight
     keys. “Would you mind if we got right to work? I’m pressed for time.”
    Grinning, Fausto led us to the music room. “I’d love to hear your program,” he said, “but I’m in the middle of a Scrabble
     game.” He closed the doors quietly.
    “Scrabble,” Duncan muttered, following me to the piano. “How degenerate! Does he ever get dressed? Or can’t he find anything
     to fit?”
    “Calm down, Duncan. He hasn’t touched a piano in years.”
    We rehearsed hard. Fausto was correct: the acoustics here far excelled those in the East Room. Of course Duncan disliked the
     piano. The place was too warm. His music didn’t stay open. Finally he stopped playing altogether and motioned for me to come
     to the piano bench. “He’s listening at the keyhole,” he whispered.
    “So what? We’re not exactly cloning sheep in here.”
    “You know I can’t stand eavesdroppers! Make him go away!”
    I opened the faraway doors: no one. “Done so soon?” Fausto called from the breakfast room.
    He really was playing Scrabble. “Just getting a glass of water,” I said, going to the sideboard. “Don’t let me disturb you.”
    “Not at all.” Fausto extended an arm. “Come, I’d like you to meet an old college friend.”
    His opponent lifted his head from the game board. When his