Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [50]
They followed her inside through a back door off a moss-covered brick patio, which led to a small kitchen. The rest of the house’s first floor had been converted into an office and study, except for a small card table off the kitchen at which he’d obviously taken his meals. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered each wall. A series of crude folding tables overflowed with books and papers, which were also strewn on threadbare Oriental rugs with frayed edges. Briefcases and shoulder bags of various sizes and shapes were piled in a corner.
His body rested on a pile of newspapers. His blood had soaked into the papers, prompting Pawkins to think of the old riddle: What’s black and white and red (read) all over? Newspapers. Musinski had been bludgeoned to death. The weapon, a bloodied fireplace poker, lay next to him.
“Do you live here, too?” Pawkins asked the niece.
“No, but I visit my uncle often. He lives alone and I worry about him.” She cried.
Other detectives searched upstairs, where the bedrooms were in equal disarray.
“When did you last speak with your uncle?” Pawkins asked.
“This morning. I usually call him before he leaves for school
“Anything unusual about him this morning?”
“No. He sounded tired. He’d come back from London two days earlier and was still suffering jet lag. But no, he was his usual self
The detective was aware of Musinski’s reputation from having read stories, and hesitated to ask his next question: “Did your uncle have any enemies that you’re aware of?”
“He was—my uncle was a controversial figure,” she replied, “but I can’t imagine anyone disliking him enough to want to kill him. He was actually a very sweet man
As only a favorite niece could view him, Pawkins thought.
Evidence technicians and someone from the ME’s office arrived and went through their required tasks. While they did—and while Ms. James retreated to the garden—Pawkins went through the contents of the large space Musinski had devoted to his life’s work. How could the man find anything in this mess? was what he thought as he picked up, read, and dropped materials back where they’d been on the tables. Two hours later, he fetched Musinski’s niece from the garden.
“You all right to drive home?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ll be fine. The shock is wearing off. All I care about now is that whoever did this pay the price
“We’ll do our best to make that happen,” Pawkins said. “By the way, did your uncle have a will?”
“Yes
“Who’s the beneficiary?”
“I am
“I see. We’ll be wanting to talk to you again, Ms. James
“Of course. I want you to know that I loved my uncle very much
“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” Pawkins said.
As he walked her to her car, patrolmen were stringing yellow crime-scene tape around the house, while neighbors peered anxiously from their front steps and through windows. “The house will be off-limits for a day or two,” Pawkins advised. “But if you want to come back, call me and I’ll arrange for someone to accompany you
“Thank you. I appreciate that. Good night
Pawkins spent the better part of the following day at the house, and after a dinner break, he returned and continued to search for clues as to who might have murdered Aaron Musinski. At the same time, he methodically examined some of the contents of the professor’s working space. It was a treasure trove of scholarly works on music, with much of it devoted to his favorite subject. Pawkins pulled down one of the books Musinski had written on the musical genius Mozart’s life and read a few chapters. The man certainly knew his stuff, Pawkins recognized, and Musinski didn’t hesitate to harshly condemn the conclusions of others.
Three days later, Pawkins received a call from an obviously distraught Felicia James.
“What can I do for you?