The Devil's Interval by Linda Peterson Page B

Street.
    Maybe it was because she lived “above the store” that the place had such pride of ownership. “We scraped together enough for my mom to buy the building,” Travis had explained to me. “She lives in a flat above the club, so she’s never far from work or home. She belongs to that building now, as much as it belongs to her.”
    I was expecting someone like Mae West, all bosom and bluster, with too much eye makeup and high-heeled, gold lamé mules. Oh, and maybe wearing a tool belt. The woman who answered my knock looked like a retired Bob Fosse dancer: a black tunic over black leggings, great posture, slightly reminiscent of her son’s, silver-blond hair knotted at her neck and a way of cocking one hip forward that promised she could make any move any guy could imagine and then some. She wore no detectable makeup and smelled like sandalwood soap. If this was sixtyish chick-barkeep, Iknew what I aspired to for my mature years.
    â€œMaggie Fiori,” I said, extending my hand. She took my right hand in her left and squeezed it. “Come on in,” she said, “I’ve got coffee on.”
    I followed her across the parquet floor and hopped up on the barstool she patted. She poured coffee for both of us, pulled the cream and sugar in front of me, and then draped herself onto the adjoining barstool.
    She smiled. “Travis says I need to talk you into helping out. How much talking do I have to do?”
    No wasted time. I took a sip of coffee to buy a few minutes, “Why do you favor your right hand?”
    She shrugged. “I had a stroke shortly after Trav was arrested. My right side hasn’t completely recovered, including my hand. That’s a disaster for a piano player. I’m still resting it as much as I can.”
    I gestured at the ebony grand at the edge of the bandstand.
    â€œYou play here?”
    â€œI used to. So did Travis.” She picked up her coffee mug. “We even did four-hand stuff when he’d drop by.”
    â€œSo you’re both pianists,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”
    â€œPianists are the people who work Davies Symphony Hall,” she said. “We think of ourselves as piano players.” She waved at the piano, still with her left hand.
    â€œHence my name.”
    â€œIvory?”
    â€œRight. It’s really Eugenie, but I’ve been Ivory since I was old enough to get on a piano bench by myself.”
    â€œEugenie? Like the empress?”
    She laughed. “Travis used to call me Mom, the Empress of the Keyboard.”
    With Travis’s name in the air again, we both fell silent.
    â€œAll right,” she said, after a moment. “Why don’t you tell me what I need to say to you, so you’ll help us out.” She took a deep breath, “Things are getting a little desperate.”
    â€œWhy don’t you tell me about Travis and why you’re so sure he’s innocent?” I countered.
    She regarded me carefully. “Why are you so sure I think he’s innocent?”
    â€œBecause you’re his mother,” I said. “Aren’t mothers always sure?”
    She gave me a grin. Now that I knew about the stroke, I saw that the crookedness of her smile wasn’t for effect; it was residual damage.
    â€œYou’re a mother, too?” she asked, clearly not needing an answer. “You’re right, I am sure he didn’t do it. But frankly, the stroke did some memory damage, so I’m lousy on the events right around the time of the…murder.”
    â€œWhy don’t you just talk to me about Travis?”
    â€œThis place is named after him,” she said.
    â€œThe Devil’s Interval?”
    She nodded. “Do you know anything about music?”
    â€œI’m a piano player myself,” I said.
    â€œWell, then this is easy,” she said. She slipped off the barstool, and went to the piano. With her left hand, she played