2

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to locations, organizations or individuals living or
dead is purely coincidental.

A Strings By Mail publication

Copyright 2018 by Brian Lutterbie

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever

without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in
critical articles or reviews.

Foreword

The life of any aspiring classical guitarist is filled with special challenges, but graduate guitar student
John Stringfellow’s adventure after he observes a kidnapping outside the stage door is suddenly filled with
an unexpected kind of excitement. Every reader will he treated to some meaningful and charming insight
into guitar life, and any fan of a good romp will enjoy Bri’s storytelling talent. As a conservatory-trained
guitarist, Stringfellow took me on a very special trip back in time through the detailed accuracy of its portrayal
of a young classical guitarist’s life.

As Strings By Mail’s president, I am thrilled to be able to present our customers and their friends
with this initially free and unique diversion. I hope it provides you with some enjoyable entertainment.

John A. Wunsch
President
Strings By Mail - Where Your Dreams Come Tonally True

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Author’s Note

I have been involved with the guitar in one form or another since I was ten years old. My love for
the classic guitar came early and progresses through today. I received a bachelor’s degree in guitar
performance from the University of Missouri-Kansas City, where I was extremely fortunate to study with
Douglas Niedt, a great teacher and performer. I also compose for the classic guitar as well as for rock bands
and jazz ensembles. In April of this year, I will be inducted into the Kansas Music Hall of Fame for my
work with a Kansas City rock band called Nation.

Strings By Mail was the impetus to write this slightly long novella, and I believe it will be
entertaining for guitarists, musicians, and mystery readers, with further adventures to come!

Thanks to John A. Wunsch, president of Strings By Mail, for allowing this to happen, Rebecca W.
Chown for her editing finesse, and Glenn Wolff for his wonderful art work. And my wife Vista for her
valuable input and encouragement.

This has been a great experience. Thank you for reading!

Note to Reader
The sound or tone created on the classic guitar comes from striking a string with both fingernail and
flesh simultaneously. The bright part of the sound is produced from the nail and the dark part of the sound
from the flesh. To lose the shape of one’s finely and daily honed nails is the ruin of all sound.
In addition, curious readers will want to know that the piece of music called the Chaconne was
originally written for the violin. The arranger who took the original violin part and arranged it for guitar put
his or her own signature on the piece by adding notes. Further, the guitar is a polyphonic instrument, which
means it can play multiple notes simultaneously with the ability to perform up to six notes at a time. The
violin, by contrast, typically plays one note with occasional double stops. As the violin is a bowed
instrument, this can decrease its polyphonic ability. It is used for polyphony, just less often than the guitar.
Think of the guitar as a mobile piano with six strings or perhaps as a mini symphony!

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Chapter I
Sunday

It was perfect, or at least nearly perfect. It was certainly the best he had seen that day, or the day
before. No realtors involved, just a newspaper and a phone.
Apartment for Rent had been his focus for the weekend, and now he had found it.
The bedroom floor was all hardwood with a wood wainscot. Hard surfaces were everywhere. This
would normally make a sane person hope for carpet to quiet the sound or at least soften it a little, but not
this boy. Hard surfaces reflected sound rather than masked it. He had his reasons.
The room was a hexagonal shape with windows (no curtains) on all six sides. No drapes were
allowed. If there had been drapes, it would have been curtains for them as they also dampened sound.
All windows reached nearly to the floor, augmenting the feeling of size in the room. Ceiling heights
were undetermined but appeared to be nine feet or taller.
Already he envisioned occupancy. There would be no bed in the aforementioned room that the
landlady had called the bedroom. The bedroom (with the fold-out couch) would be relocated to the entry
room.
What else? Oh yes, street noise. This could sometimes be an issue, but as this wasn’t a high- traffic
area, presumably it wouldn’t be a problem.
Plenty of light, yes. That was fine and getting better by the moment.
Continuing through the rest of the apartment, he discovered a small kitchen and a smaller bath. No
shower, hmmm, but, for $60.00 a month, plus the previous mentioned amenities, plus the location, it would
work.
The landlady stated that she never required signed leases as college kids rarely stayed throughout the
whole year due to school ending, graduation, financial issues (that should have been reason number one),
and sometimes even marriage. She didn’t mention getting arrested or the fact that eviction was easier
without a signed lease. It didn’t matter, as he was anxious to get moved in. Moved in? Not much to it. At
twenty-two, a young man rarely had much baggage, at least not physical baggage.
But he was forgetting Sid Bowman, who had joined him in the same quest for an apartment. This
friend of less than a year, also a college student, was lured by the same features he found so attractive.
They eyed each other as if they were looking at the same girl and an arm wrestling match would be
needed to settle who got her. Fortunately, neither violence nor a test of strength was necessary as the
landlady reported there were two apartments immediately available, both on the same floor, at the same
price, separated by an entry hall.
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Kismet!
Arrangements were made verbally by all three parties.
Both men were of average size and weight but presented with less musculature than might be typical
due primarily to their lifestyles. Given this deficit, they were not exempt from asking friends to assist them
with moving, preferably those able to lift loads superior to those they could lift.
A truck was available and the process began. With a stop for beer (typical bartered payment for help
with oomph) and time allowed for loading items on and off the truck, plus several trips up and down the one
flight of stairs, they were on their way to being established as apartment dwellers. Travelling light had its
benefits! The only thing frustrating the event was the start of classes Monday.
Following a hot bath (who needs a shower?), the first of our students felt refreshed, oddly energetic,
and ready for some clean pickin’.
Now most people might decide to empty boxes or position furniture the first night in their new
home, but most people are not musicians. And, if you know any, then you might understand that the first
order of business was to see how well that wooden-floored, non-curtained, wood wainscoted, six-sided
room sounded.
The chair and footstool were carefully positioned. No need for a music stand tonight; that could
wait. He ran the edge of his thumbnail across each right hand fingernail edge to see if he had flawed any
nails during the move and was relieved to notice no damage. The guitar came out, he tuned it, and the music
began. And, oh, that room would most certainly do well!
First he performed some music by Johann Sebastian Bach and then Federico Moreno Torroba. He
could hear the applause and remarked to himself how perfect the room was until he realized he wasn’t
hearing applause but the downstairs neighbor pounding on the ceiling.
Good heavens; it was 1:00 a.m. What was he thinking? The concert would have to stop, but he was
satisfied with the acoustics. He listened carefully for a violin across the hall but heard nothing. Perhaps his
neighbor had already received his own review.
With his guitar in its case and the bed pulled out, he lay down in his quiet apartment and soon
entered the hypnagogic state of consciousness. What dreams came, he did not remember.

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Chapter II
Monday

John Stringfellow, the late-night guitarist, was attending college to begin his masters in the classic
guitar performance program. Apparently he had not learned when to stop a dumb thing (not much future
with this degree, much less his bachelor’s), but he felt drawn to continue learning and was excited to be
studying with the best guitarist he had ever heard who just so happened to also have a reputation as a great
teacher.
John had good training from his undergraduate instructor and had attained a balanced repertoire but
felt they had gone as far as they could. His former teacher (though appropriate) was not the performer
Emilio Javier was.
Javier had been concertizing for almost two decades and was a mid-thirty something at odds with
the saying “Those who can’t play, teach.” Javier could do both!
John had auditioned for the maestro the previous spring, performed well, and been accepted on the
contingency that he would graduate (which he did). He performed his senior or señior recital (his little joke
as the bulk of his repertoire was Spanish composed) with great success in May. This recital represented a
culmination of four years with six-hour days of practice, practice, and then more practice. Spanish music
was in his blood, and the guitar the vessel to transfer it to sound.
He then spent the summer gigging and preparing for the autumn term. His plan was to obtain a
higher degree and see if he could teach guitar for a living at the college level. Concertizing was not out of
the question, but he realized that at this elevated level, there was room only for the elite, like Javier.
John had played guitar since he was a child and had amassed a good library of both recorded and
written music. Thinking of this reminded him that he had ordered music for this semester but had not yet
purchased it. He remembered that Sid, the other new apartment dweller and a violin student, also needed
music.
John arose, dressed, crossed the hall to Sid’s apartment, knocked, and entered. He smelled coffee
and begged for some. Sid brought him a cup, and Monday was underway.
There would not be classwork today; just a get together of guitarists. A typical day would be spent
preparing for guitar lessons and other classes including ensembles. Neither Sid nor John wanted to sing in
choirs so they had solved this problem by gaining permission to perform guitar and violin chamber music as
a duo. Now, with almost adjoining apartments, it would be easy to get together to practice, and they could
congratulate themselves on avoiding the need to sing any songs from Annie.
John looked at Sid’s apartment and noticed he had already made an effort to get moved in.
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“I’ve done no unpacking,” John confessed.
Sid, nonplussed, replied, “That’s why you are enjoying coffee with me this morning.”
They discussed some of the music they would play for their ensemble, walked to the music store,
and returned to their respective apartments.
John had a class to attend that afternoon with the other guitarists hosted by Javier. There was a
chance they might perform for each other, so out came the guitar along with nail files and music stand and
some of the new music.
The Bach Chaconne was to be his main piece for the semester along with others. Following his usual
warm-ups (typically one hour, to strengthen muscles and avoid tendinitis), he started reading the Chaconne.
He had a few recordings of it but reading was certainly different from listening. He read it with
awkwardness but managed to get through it. It was an ugly read, but, even so, he felt as if he had done some
good.
He returned to more familiar ground and performed some of his memorized repertoire. Then,
looking at his watch, he realized he had not eaten. What’s more, he would have no time for it. The gathering
of guitarists would meet in less than an hour, and he did not want to be late.
Walking to the meeting, he thought how great it was to be on campus at the beginning of a new
semester. Everywhere there were students, and everywhere there were girls!
This fact, of course, was more problematic for musicians than for any other profession, as no
musician could afford to lose his focus. Girls were time consuming and expensive, but, conversely,
well…Being an upstanding, hardworking, don’t-want-to-get-distracted and don’t-want-to-be-late-for-my-
first-class kind of fellow, John attached bilateral blinders and trudged on.
The music building was nice inside with practice rooms along each side of every hallway. He heard
cello then piano then voice and, huh, accordion. Accordion, really? Truly a musical cornucopia!
Upon entering the recital room, John saw and heard fourteen guitarists warming up in various
stations throughout the room. He lightly perused them, instantly noting the varying quality of skills and
guitars. Some looked up at him, perhaps measuring him prior to listening to him perform.
No problem, for that’s what musicians did. John recalled the old joke:
Q: How many musicians does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: Ten! One to change it, and nine to tell him/her how much better they could have done it.
With so much going on, he almost ran into his instructor. John looked up with a worried expression
to see Javier smiling at him kindly and with some humor.
“How is John Stringfellow, and how was your recital and your summer?”
John said, “I did not suck, and I did not die.”
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What in the world was he thinking? Talk about making a poor second impression, but Javier looked
at him and laughed out loud.
This might be fun, John mused. A world-class guitarist remembered him and was laughing at his
remarks!
John found himself asking, “Will you play for us today?”
Javier shook his head. “I won’t today but I will tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight I will perform at the Campus Club. I’ll make an announcement at the end of our class
for those who want to attend. I have a concert on Friday. In fact, it’s the start of a brief tour, and I need an
audience to warm up to.”
It wasn’t unusual to perform a dress concert for your students or friends in an effort to reduce jitters
or find weak areas. John found himself hesitatingly asking, “How much to get in?”
Javier said, “Five hundred dollars!” and then as quickly said, “There is never a fee for my students
who attend.”
“Nice! I will be there.” At that, John found a place to sit where he could hear and see well.
Javier brought the class to order and discussed the semester schedule. He noted that he would be
out of town for several weeks and that individual lessons might have to be doubled up to fulfill the class
requirements.
That could be bad or good depending on how far you had progressed on your semester work. On
the one hand, you might not be prepared for a two-hour lesson or two one-hour lessons. Conversely, this
could be appealing later once you were more prepared and had other material ready.
Not all of the players were grad students, but all were guitar majors, three of them female. John
mused that several great performing guitarists (classic) were females who hailed from countries worldwide.
Two interesting aspects of music were that anyone could play an instrument (if they desired), and
the language of music was the same worldwide. It was a foreign language. Consider the letters or alphabet of
music, in this case dots or circles written on a space or line. Once you knew them, you could form
sentences, melodies, or phrases and speak them by playing them on an instrument. Middle C was the same
everywhere. It was international! Even many words descriptive of tempo or style were the same.
Javier passed out handouts explaining the rules for cancelling lessons or how to make up lessons.
Who would miss a lesson? thought John.
After more housekeeping, it was time to play. Javier asked if anyone wanted to volunteer. When no
one did, he chose a student named Peter who appeared to be caught completely off guard. A senior, he was
preparing for his recital. How nice to be past that, John thought.
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Peter climbed the steps and was on stage. He tuned slowly (a possible sign that he was nervous) and
took some deep breaths.
Oh yeah, he was nervous.
Peter then announced his piece, “Recuerdos de la Alhambra” by Francisco Tarrega, a Spanish
composer from the late 1800s who knew how to compose a melody. This song for the classic guitarist would
be equivalent to “Freebird” for the rocker except that it was good!
John had played this piece at his own recital last spring. It was a beautiful piece made more difficult
due to the tremolo effect. Once that was mastered, it was a showstopper.
John remembered that this song was about a fountain at the Alhambra in Spain and that the
repeated melody note (struck three times in rapid succession) imitated the fountain. Whether this was true
or not, the visual aid could assist the performer.
Peter started clumsily but then smoothed out nicely. John had a metronome on silent and clocked
him at 130 beats per minute.
Now, to truly get the effect, a tremolo must be 150 to 160 beats per minute and faster if possible.
That’s just the way it is. Peter finished and was asked to bow, which he also did clumsily.
Comments followed from Javier. Peter should continue with slow practice with the metronome and
build his speed; this would help eliminate right hand flaws in the timing of the tremolo performance.
Javier then ascended the stairs to the stage, looked at Peter’s right hand fingernails, and announced
the importance of shaping. Any minor flaw in the nail shape would alter the timing of fast passages, or, in
this case, the tremolo effect. It could also inhibit speed and, most importantly, tone production.
No comments were made by the students. They would try to be nice to one another for at least the
first week.
Next, a girl named Alexandra played a Fernando Sor, Study No. 3. Sor was also a Spaniard who lived
in France and composed and played during the Classical period. This piece was from a series of etudes put
in a collection by Andres Segovia, the maestro who legitimized the classic guitar by transcribing music of the
masters for guitar and then concertizing them.
Sor Study No. 3 is a musical study to aid the guitarist in bringing out the melody versus the bass and
accompaniment. Not many instruments allow for performance of all three parts, making the guitar, when
played in the fingerstyle, an art form.
Javier made some suggestions to enhance the melody that Alexandra tried with surprising success. It
turns out she was just a freshman, or freshwoman. John noted she was playing a great guitar but producing
little sound.

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When Javier demonstrated ways to practice his suggestions on the same piece while using her guitar,
life was good again. This man made even a beginner’s piece sound beautiful on that guitar, and a little
jealousy entered John’s mind.
If only he had that guitar. Hmmm.
Then it was John’s turn. As he made his way up the stairs to the stage, he was still unsure what to
perform. Before he could decide, Javier said, “Play ‘Recuerdos de la Alhambra.’”
Well, problem solved. It did catch him a little by surprise, but he settled in. Fortunately, he had been
performing classic guitar gigs (weddings, dinners) for money, and this piece was a staple. Also, it didn’t hurt
that he had played it during his practice session that morning.
He took a few deep breaths and performed. His tempo was fast, improving the effect of the
waterfall image. Following good applause, he took a decent bow.
Javier said, “This is what happens when you work with a metronome to improve clarity and speed.”
This was high praise. Javier then commented that John was playing a little faster than he had during
his audition.
John was elated. So he remembered that detail!
On it went, with most students decently performing a piece at their respective levels. Nonetheless, it
was difficult to wait to play, as the fingers of those who played later weren’t as warmed up as those of the
earlier performers.
Football kickers sometimes experience this when timeouts are called by the opposing team just
before they must make a kick. It seems this activity called “icing the kicker” is congruent with guitarists in
wait but must be changed to “icing the picker”!
For the most part, it was a fun afternoon. Javier then stated that he would perform most of his
concert at the Campus Club at 7:00 p.m. that evening. All students were welcome, and there would be no
admission fee.
Good. This would give John time to eat and perhaps practice a little more.
As he was putting his guitar in its case, the girl named Alexandra introduced herself.
Steady boy, he told himself. None of that.
She was just a baby with a really great guitar.
Smiling she said, “You stole the show today.”
John said, “Thanks, but I thought we all performed well.”
This was a lie but a convenient one that complimented her playing and her guitar.
The two discussed guitars, and then Peter joined them. He shook hands with John as if to say, “I’m
glad I didn’t have to follow you.”
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They discussed whether they would all attend Javier’s concert that evening, and it appeared they
would.
John said, “And now I must leave as I am hungry and don’t want to miss a meal.”
They were hungry too and going to a nearby restaurant. Would he like to join them?
“Them,” he thought as he saw Peter’s hand reach for Alexandra’s.
“Certainly,” he said, feeling relief, as she was far too pretty and maybe a little too young!
Since one should not walk around with expensive guitars, they decided to meet at the restaurant at
5:30 after safely stowing their instruments.
They parted. While John went one way, they went the other, side by side as a duo should.

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Chapter III
Monday Evening

Once home, John realized not only how hungry he was but also how much work was yet to be done
to his apartment. He hid his guitar behind the couch and went to tap on Sid’s door.
No answer. Probably practicing at school.
He wrote a quick note telling Sid his plans for dinner and the concert, invited him to come, and
stuck it in the door.
Back in his apartment, he found his wallet, checked for money, changed his shirt, rinsed his face,
combed his hair, and left. It was beginning to be a busy first day.
He walked to the chosen restaurant and made it by 5:25. Peter and Alexandra were already sitting at
a table side by side. In unison, they waved to him.
Hunger made its presence known, but this was one of those places that brings out warm bread early.
They all started on the bread while looking at menus. John knew that eating at restaurants was more a luxury
of time than money. While thinking that, he realized he had not put anything in his fridge. Did it even work?
Hmm. Tomorrow he must get more organized.
Peter and Alexandra (now Alex per her request) were behaving well and not overdoing the
boyfriend/girlfriend scene.
Good, for he’d rather talk music than love, at least today.
The waitress came and took orders. The guitar class and the evening’s concert were the topics of
conversation. They each reviewed the other guitarists (not present) and the quality of their performances
(not maliciously). It appeared there were all levels of talent, quality of instruments, and levels of
performance. Food arrived, and they ate.
During the meal, John asked Alex about her guitar, and she said she had gone to Spain (Madrid)
with her father (also a guitarist) and found a little shop where an aging artist still had enough Brazilian
rosewood to make a quality guitar.
John nodded. Brazilian rosewood, a dense wood that was now scarce, was known to improve the
quality of bass or the bottom end of the sound in the instrument.
The top of her guitar was cedar, which added a little to the darker quality of sound versus a spruce
top, which typically was brighter.
She added that her father had bought himself a guitar so they could play together with “matched”
guitars.

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John restrained himself and didn’t ask the obvious question regarding cost though he assumed it was
in the thousands.
With dinner over, full and refreshed, the trio paid, tipped, and made their way to the Campus Club.
Once there, they had no difficulty getting in (thanks to the guest list) but found no vacant seats in
the front row, which were occupied by the other performers from the afternoon soirée.
As this was a music school, the Campus Club was designed for performances. The hall seated
around 200 people and with an acoustician’s touch; it was an appropriate room for performing and listening.
It also held concerts for other venues but was geared to the university/music crowd. Around 150 years old,
it had been converted to its present stage with all the original woodwork and hardwood floors remaining.
It appeared the maestro would amplify tonight or at least record as John noticed a microphone
sticking its head out of a floorboard.
All was ready. On stage were a sitting stool and the guitarist’s foot stool, used to elevate the neck to
a more performance-friendly position. The sight made John recall his recital, which he had wanted to entitle
Two Stools and a Fool. With difficulty, he had abstained from the temptation.
As the lights dimmed and Javier was announced, John took a quick survey to see if Sid had made it.
He did not see him. With an almost full house, to great applause, Javier appeared.
All ages were present, demonstrating the city’s interest in Javier.
He adjusted the footstool, usually not needed as he had already practiced there, did a last little bit of
tuning, and he was ready. No talking or announcements were made.
Usually one would perform a slightly easier song to start things off, but not today. The first piece
Javier performed was “Sevilla” by Isaac Albeniz, a pianist whose music sounded better on the guitar than
piano.
This piece was followed by “Leyenda,” also by Albeniz. Those who had not heard much classic
guitar music, reflected John, should be sure “Leyenda” was one of the first they listened to.
So it was to be a lively Spanish concert, he thought, but no. Next was “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,”
arguably the most beautiful melody ever dreamed up by the master of such dreams, Johann Sebastian Bach.
Interestingly, two of the most famous paintings known worldwide, the Mona Lisa and The Last
Supper, were painted by Leonardo da Vinci, and two of the most famous melodies were by Bach. So it must
be that Pablo Picasso had never met da Vinci or Bach, for if he had, he never would have said, “A good
artist copies and a great artist steals.”
The second of these famous melodies followed “Jesu” in “Sheep May Safely Graze.”
So far it was a beautiful display of music and performance.

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Then it was back to fireworks with “Misionera” by Fernando Bustamente. This was virtuoso music
at its best and most exciting.
The evening progressed with more Spanish and Baroque composers and ended with Joaquin
Turina’s “Fandanguillo.” This was also great, John thought, but maybe not the closer.
Oh well, who cared? The concert was magic, and it ended a beautiful day of music. Today had
certainly been a wonderful way to begin the semester.
Javier was scarce following his performance, so John did not get to speak to him. This was of no
consequence since everyone wanted to discuss the concert. Naturally, John found it rewarding to have other
guitarists present.
In time, the crowd whittled down to the aforementioned trio, and then they too prepared to leave.
The side door was open, so John exited, not realizing the guitar duo had chosen the front. He noticed this
error and turned back to re-enter the building.
It’s odd how certain moments in one’s life become more important than others and remain vivid,
unfazed by time. Whatever your moment might be, this was John’s.
As he turned to re-enter, out of his peripheral vision, he saw a rather large man strike another,
doubling him up, and then force that man into a car. The sound of a slammed door followed. The large man
then ran to the driver’s side door and got into the already running car.
John felt dazed.
What was he supposed to be doing at a moment like this?
What he’d seen was unexpected and fantastic.
He blinked, trying to clear his head. Oh yes, he should get the license number of the car. He looked
for it, but only the front of the car was visible; there was no plate to see.
He found himself unable to take his eyes off the driver. As the car sped off, John continued to
watch the man.
To his dismay, he saw the man looking directly at him, and he wasn’t smiling!

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Chapter IV
Late Monday Evening

Scared, confused, and shocked.

These three adjectives described John’s immediate feelings. He had just witnessed an assault and
abduction and was having some difficulty wrapping his mind around it.
People really did that unkind of thing to each other? This was not a movie or a book but real life!
As he pondered what he’d seen, Alex and Peter walked up. When they saw him, they were startled.
“What happened to you?” Peter asked.
John, still unable to speak, held his hand up as if asking for a moment. Looking around, he sat
down.
“Slap me hard,” he said to Alex.
To his surprise, she did.
“Oh, I hope you meant that!” she said.
Sitting and slapping helped. John looked at them and shook his head. “What happened? You
wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?” Peter asked.
“No,” he responded. “I just witnessed the oddest thing I have ever seen. I went out this door
instead of following you, and I saw a man get attacked and thrown into a car and driven away.”
“You’re joking, right? I mean, we just met today. Are you prone to hallucinations?” asked Alex.
“I wish I were. Hallucinations would be more fun. I wouldn’t blame you if you left right now. I’m
not used to seeing such things, at least not in real life.”
Alex sat next to him and looked into his eyes. “No pupil dilation, though you did appear to have a
large appetite tonight.”
John snorted. “Yeah, I was hungry but not high.”
“Do you think you really witnessed this?”
“It was as real as seeing you two right here.”
Peter said, “Let’s say we believe you, or at least I do. What should you do?”
“I don’t know,” John responded. “Should I report it?”
Something felt ominous. If these two had trouble believing him, what would the police think? That
he was nuts? That he was high?
After weighing the two choices, he said, “I suppose I’d better report it. I could start with the campus
police and see what they say. After all, we’re on the university campus.”
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This was agreed to, so the trio left en masse.
At the door, John stopped. “I forgot to tell you that I saw him and can identify him.”
Peter said, “That’s great. Now you can help nail the bastard!”
“Yeah, but not only did I see him, he saw me. That alters things. I think we might have to be careful.
It’s only been around ten minutes, and he could still be out there. What’s more, you might be in danger if he
sees you with me. We’d better rethink this.”
Again they sat and thought.
“There’s a police phone near here. I’ll go call the police and have them meet us here,” Peter bravely
offered.
“I can’t let you do that, Peter. He might suspect the call. Wait a minute; isn’t there a phone in here?”
They looked and saw an usher lurking nearby like a waiter in a restaurant hoping they would leave.
“Hey,” said John, “is there a phone we could use?”
“Certainly, just follow me.”
The usher, Garrett according to his name tag, guided them down a hall and into a room with lots
of bright lights and funny machines. Much to their surprise, Javier was standing there with another man.
“What are you doing here?” asked John. “I mean, I thought you had left.”
“No, I just came to get my recording of this evening’s performance. Is that okay with you?”
“Of course.” John didn’t mean to sound impertinent. “I’m sorry, I was caught off guard. I just saw a
man get kidnapped and was going to call the police. It just happened and I’m a little shaken up.”
John stopped. Maybe he shouldn’t be so open about this. After all, he had to think of the safety of
others. “But as to your performance, it was great! What a good choice of pieces. But since this occurred, I
must call the police!”
“Perhaps you could fill me in. In a way, I feel a little responsible for you.”
Responsible for him? What words!
“Why not?” John found himself saying.
He relayed the story of the unfortunate man to the very fortunate musician, making sure to mention
that he feared for the safety of anyone who might become involved with him.
“Do you really think someone would try to find you and possibly hurt you?”
“I don’t know. What I do know is that he just harmed someone, and he certainly knows I saw him!”
“Then you must not wait to call the police,” Peter said. “At least you can give a description of him
and the car.”
“I also think I can describe the injured man. He was wearing very distinct colored clothing.”
No sooner had John spoken than a frantic-looking woman entered the room.
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“I am looking for my husband,” she said. “We came to hear the concert, and afterwards he went out
for a smoke. I haven’t seen him since!”
No one spoke, so the woman continued, “My name is Betty Reaves, and my husband is Barry
Reaves. I wonder, have any of you seen him?”
“Could you describe him to us?” John asked, fearing what he was about to hear.
“Yes, he is about 5’9, bald, with a black beard, and is around 50 years old.”
“Was he wearing purple?”
“Yes,” she answered, and John’s heart sank. What to say? What not to say?
Alex asked, “John, was that the man?”
John nodded. “Yes, I have seen him. Mrs. Reaves, would you mind sitting here a moment?”
She sat as John picked up the phone and dialed the number given to him by the usher.
“Hello, can you send someone to the Campus Club immediately? I need to report a crime.”
He heard a murmur behind him from Mrs. Reaves.
“I am afraid I have bad news for you, Mrs. Reaves,” John said as he hung up the phone.
He began relating his story, trying to ease into it, but how do you ease into the truth about an
unfortunate and frightening incident that has happened to someone beloved?
When he finally got it out, she sat stunned. No one spoke for a moment, and then several things
happened at once. Mrs. Reaves cried, the police arrived, and everyone stood around looking stupid as if they
had forgotten their lines in a play.
The campus policeman wore a gun and a uniform and an expression of interest. His name was
Officer Law. He looked around for someone in charge and finally settled on Javier.
“Who called for me?” the officer asked.
“I did,” offered John. “I witnessed a man, her husband, get struck by another man and pushed into
a car and driven away.”
Again a sob emanated from Mrs. Reaves.
“Where and when did this occur?” asked the officer.
John walked the officer out the side door and explained. Seeing the area again brought back the
reality of the event.
“Did anyone else see it?” the officer questioned.
To John’s surprise, everyone had followed him to the “crime scene,” and they all responded no. All
eyes swung back to John and Mrs. Reaves.
“The best thing to do is fill out a report at my station, or you could go directly to the city police,”
Officer Law stated.
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John looked at Mrs. Reaves, who said, “The police should be involved.”
Everyone agreed, and soon the police arrived, their distinctive blue lights flashing. They asked John
to describe what he had seen, and John took his time to make sure he was accurate. Before long, several
police officers were combing the area with flashlights, looking for clues.
It was all a blur of activity with several people trying to simultaneously comfort and question Mrs.
Reaves. Some asked questions like, “Did your husband have any enemies?” and “What was his profession?”
and “Have you had any mysterious phone calls lately?”
Her response to all these questions was “Not to my knowledge.”
After a while, it became apparent the police had not discovered any clues regarding the car or the
identity of the abductor. Someone suggested John visit a police artist to create a sketch of the man he had
seen and that Mrs. Reaves go to the police station for more questioning.
They both agreed, and the party broke up.
John said goodbye to Alex, Peter, and Javier and confirmed that he would let everyone know how
things progressed by phone the next day, and he and Mrs. Reaves got into the police car.
Alex approached, and John lowered his window.
She said, “My phone number is bedhead.”
John thought a moment, then looked at her and smiled. “I got it, thanks.”
As they drove off, John thought, I don’t even have a phone.
This was just another in a series of things he would have to find time to do.
He looked around. This was his first ride in a police car! Better this way than with handcuffs.
The other traveler was quiet and looked dismayed.
John thought about talking to her but remained silent. So together (he alone with his thoughts and
she with hers), they found themselves on their way to another place John had never before visited.
The sign read Police 3rd Precinct.
Inside, business looked slow, probably because it was a Monday.
After a short time, a man in a suit with no jacket on introduced himself as Detective Stuart Whisen.
He asked if they needed anything, and both accepted water. They moved into a small conference room, and
the questions began.
Once again, John told his story of the abduction and gave a description of the car and the two men
he’d seen. He was asked if he could identify the abductor, and he said he thought he could.
“Could you describe him to a police artist?” asked Whisen.
“Yes, I think so,” replied John.

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“All right. Mrs. Reaves, will you please stay here? I’ll return as soon as I have an artist started with
the drawing.”
She nodded, and he motioned for John to follow him.
They went past a series of desks (mostly unmanned) to a desk unlike all the others. Scattered about
were easels, pens, brushes, and all sorts of paper. A man sat drinking coffee.
“Art, this is John Stringfellow. He has witnessed a crime and believes he can give you enough of a
description to make a sketch that could aid in the capture of the abductor.”
“Please, have a seat, John,” Art said.
John nodded, accepting the invitation to sit.
“Have you ever done this before?” Art asked.
“No, I have never been in a police station or a police car before tonight.”
“Okay, I’ll be gentle,” Art said with a grin.
John liked him already.
Many detailed questions were asked and answered, but in the end, John was disappointed that the
picture bore only a fleeting resemblance to the man.
“I don’t think I did very well,” he remarked.
“Well, you must remember it was dark and you were in an environment that wasn’t your norm. Most
of these pictures look more like cartoons, or caricatures, since people only describe the most memorable
characteristics of what they saw. See how I stick up for you?”
“Very nice. Thanks,” replied John with a smile.
Art asked a few more questions and revisited some facial areas before saying they were through. He
then walked John back to Detective Whisen’s office where Mrs. Reaves was still being questioned.
John waited his turn before being asked in front of a stenographer to repeat his story one last time.
He did so and was asked to sign it.
After that, the only task left was to get back home. A policeman offered to take them, dropping Mrs.
Reaves off first and then John.
Lugging himself up the stairs to his apartment, weary and disheartened, John saw a note on his door
from Sid telling him he couldn’t make the concert.
The concert? It felt like that had been ages ago.
Once in the apartment, John was soon lying in bed (couch) with no sheets, thinking back to how the
day had started. Eventually he dozed off with music in his head.
He dreamt he was playing his guitar in his apartment when a man rushed into the room and clipped
off all the nails on his right hand. It was the same man he’d seen abduct Mr. Reaves!
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John awakened from his nightmare with a start.
The worst thing that could happen to a classic guitarist was to injure the nails. This was akin to a
reed player cracking her favorite reed or a construction worker losing his plum bob or…The list could go
on.
Sleep finally returned.

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Chapter V
Tuesday

Upon hearing the banging, John woke up, saying, “What are you complaining about? I wasn’t even
playing.” Then he realized the sound wasn’t emanating from his floor or the neighbor’s ceiling but his own
front door.
Someone was knocking. John got out of bed, still wearing the same clothes he’d worn the day
before.
What time was it?
He opened the door to see Sid walking toward his own apartment and motioning for him to follow.
On the television screen at Sid’s was a picture of the drawing made by the police sketch artist and a
story about the abduction. Over to the side on a split screen, Mrs. Reaves was talking about the incident on
live television. To his disbelief, a crawl below said that John Stringfellow was a witness.
Oh no! This was bad. Now his name was public information. What if the abductor was watching?
The only positive part of any of this was that his name wasn’t in the phone book.
Unaccountably, John found himself wondering when Sid had gotten a TV.
Sid said, “Man, you’re the flavor of the month. I wondered where you were last night. You must
have gotten home late.”
“I did,” replied John, still dismayed.
“Why didn’t you come tell me last night?”
“Believe me, if I’d had any energy left yesterday, I would have.”
Sid, discerning something was wrong, said, “Why do you look so worried?”
“Let me take you to breakfast and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
Sid did not have to be asked twice.
They walked to a diner a short distance away. The whole time, John couldn’t stop looking for the
man who now knew not only his face but also his name.
With a menu in hand and coffee pouring from cup to mouth to esophagus and stomach, John began
catching Sid up on last evening’s events.
Sid was a good listener. He knew when to speak and when not to, but halfway through the story, he
couldn’t help but ask for a thorough description of Alex. John gave it, and the story resumed.
At the end, when food was stowed away and they were floating in coffee, Sid asked, “Do you think
you’re safe?”

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“I’m not sure,” John returned. “It could be that the television story will incite him to pursue me. I
don’t know, but it makes me nervous. Seeing it on television just gave this nut job my name.”
Trying to relax his friend, Sid said, “Who knows if he was even watching? I hear most bad guys
don’t get out of bed till afternoon anyway. Either way, you’re not getting out of practicing with me today.
We have a class after all.”
“You realize I haven’t touched our music? I haven’t had any time to prepare.”
“Don’t worry, or should I say fret. Ha! I haven’t either, so let’s just read through some pieces and see
how bad off you are!”
Sid’s good humor helped. Feeling better from the food and friendship, John walked back to his
apartment a little less worried.
On the other hand, Sid was slightly more watchful than normal. Seeing his friend looking around for
a criminal made John think of walking out of the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind and looking up at
the night sky for signs of aliens.
He laughed to himself, and the laugh felt good. Then he remembered he was supposed to call Alex.
Now what was that number?
“I still don’t have a phone,” he remarked. “Should we stop in there and ask?”
In there was a television repair shop. John asked to use the phone and the owner agreed. On all the
screens were pictures of the kidnapped victim and the artist’s rendition of the kidnapper.
John dialed “bedhead.” Alex picked up, but John was unable to say a word.
At that very moment, a breaking news flash appeared on the television screen. Mr. Reaves was not
considered a kidnapped victim any more. He was nothing any more. He was dead!
“Hello? Hello” could be heard through the phone John had dropped.
Sid picked it up. “Hey, Alex. You don’t know me but I’m a friend of John’s. Have you seen the
latest news?”
“No, where is John? Is he all right?”
“Yes, he’s here, with me. We just saw on the news that the man he saw last night was murdered!
He’ll call you back later.”
“No, no, wait…”
It was too late. Sid had hung up.
“John, let’s get off the street!”
John nodded, and they walked (faster than normal) to their apartments. Neither verbalized what he
was thinking, but for both men it fell along the lines of, Are we safe? Does he know where we live? Should we get
protection? Occasionally, wishfully, they thought, We’re fine. He doesn’t care about us.
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Upon arrival, they went straight to Sid’s apartment. After all, what if the murderer was at John’s?
Once inside, John said, “We might as well get something done. Let’s get my guitar and music and
practice here.”
Sid agreed and they walked in tandem to John’s, who unlocked his door, entered, and gingerly
looked around.
Nothing was out of the ordinary except the messy couch and unloaded boxes.
“I’ve got to get some of this done,” said John. “Maybe we could delay practice for an hour and I can
get moved in.”
“Sounds okay. I’ll go practice, and you come over when you’re ready.”
“Agreed!”
“Oh, and lock the door,” Sid said as he turned to leave.
John wondered if the police would need him again. Probably but perhaps not right away. He shook
his head and got to work ripping open boxes, again being careful with those right hand nails. Luckily, he
didn’t own much. Just some books, a few dishes and silverware, and the like.
He was making good progress when he heard a knock. His nerves kicked in and he asked, “Who is
it?”
It was his landlady. He opened the door a crack. After confirming that it was actually her, he opened
it wide enough for her to enter.
“It seems you made the news,” she said a little stiffly, or was it worriedly?
“Yes, ma’am. I was at the wrong place at the right time.”
“Don’t you mean the wrong…” She paused. “Well, maybe you have it right.” Pausing again, she
said, “I tend to worry about my tenants as I have so little family. I do hope you’re not in any danger.”
This was the second time someone had shown familial care for him in the last two days.
“I appreciate your concern,” he said out loud. “Actually, I find myself concerned for my friends, for
Mrs. Reaves, and certainly you. I hope I’m not bringing trouble to your home.”
“None yet, but we should all be careful, so I just had the locks changed and new keys made. This
one is yours and Sid has his. I will explain this to your other neighbors when I see them and of course give
them their keys. It won’t keep a murderer out, but it might slow him down. Do be careful.”
She left, and John decided to empty one more box. He then stuffed the little boxes into the big one
and the big one into the bigger. He grimaced at the thought of how much paper people used and discarded.
Then he thought back to J. S. Bach and how his music had been wrapped around plants as mulch against
the winter. Now that had been a waste of paper!

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He pounded on Sid’s door and asked if he would follow him to the dumpster for safety. Sid obliged,
and they headed out back. This door also had a new lock, so they tested their keys in the opening of the
escutcheon. With the trash emptied, they locked the door behind them and climbed the stairs.
Now where was he? Boxes emptied, room more livable, oh yes, music. John went to his room and
got his guitar, footstool, music, and stand, locked his door, and went to Sid’s.
Sid was ready, his warm-ups out of the way.
“Any banging on the ceiling?” John asked.
“None so far! I have nice neighbors.”
Feigning shock, John said, “You’ve met your neighbors?”
After a little more verbal back and forthing, out came the music and the tuning fork, and they began.
John remembered just how loud the violin could be as he bore down a little to keep up. New strings
would have added to his overall volume. He added that to his mental list of things to do.
They continued reading. Sid was obviously the more proficient reader, but John was a close second.
Planning ahead while reading is difficult, but once understood it becomes pleasurable pain. John had
once asked a piano accompanist how he could improve his sight treading skills. She had said, “You must be
looking at least a measure if not farther ahead than the notes you are currently playing.”
John could see about two beats ahead, not as far as Sid.
One of the difficulties in reading guitar music versus an instrument like a piano is that, on a piano,
you can only play one pitch on one key whereas the note can be played on several strings on a guitar. The
first string E, for example, could be played on five strings and six if you counted harmonics. This added to
the confusion regarding reading but, conversely, aided in performance.
Sid wanted to increase their speed, so they did, with increased flubs by both. A productive hour and
a half later, they put their instruments up.
John felt encouraged. The music session had helped take his mind off his worries for a while and
made him feel he was doing something positive.
After saying goodbye to Sid, he mustered up his courage and went to the grocery store. He tried not
to be paranoid, but each time he turned down an aisle, he feared seeing the man. He carted just enough
items for a few breakfasts and lunches since he still didn’t know what shape his refrigerator might be in.
Standing in front of a dairy case, he thought of his parents and how worried they would be if they
knew about his current situation. He thought about them a lot. Both were dead following an automobile
accident, or motor vehicle accident, as the medical field called it. They’d left John, an only child, all they had.
They had approved of his music career but knew his chances of making it in music were quite low.
He recalled them commenting that if you hadn’t made it by age sixteen, you probably didn’t have all the
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tools you needed. Hearing this had sobered him up regarding a career in music and had propelled him down
his current path. Now, he hoped his future would be in academia teaching classic guitar at the college level.
That was why he was working on his master’s with, hopefully, a Ph.D. to follow. The good old paper chase!
John came out of his reverie, made his choice, and added milk to the cart. He noticed the eggs in the
case and wondered, were they dairy or poultry? This was akin to wondering if a tomato was a fruit or a
vegetable, or Javier a performer or a teacher.
Hmm. With thinking like this, he must be tired. Two days into the school year, two nights of
abbreviated sleep, and he was already beat!
Holding up the milk carton to view the date, he allowed his eyes to focus beyond it just to see if he
was still safe.
He was.
He went to the cashier, paid, grabbed his bag of groceries, and headed home. Again, not far to walk,
which was another reason this apartment location pleased him.
No scary cars or people bothered him on the way home.
Turning the front door handle, he realized it was locked, just as it was supposed to be, so balancing
the bag on one leg with one hand, he dug out his key with his other, slipped it in, and turned.
In he went. He made it upstairs to his apartment and saw Sid leaning against his door, frowning.
“What’s the big idea?” Sid said.
“I got tired of being a weenie and went to the store. I didn’t want to bother you again,” replied John.
“You should have told me. I might have needed something,” Sid smirked.
John opened his apartment door and deposited the food where it belonged, into a well working
refrigerator with a freezer.
“Are you hungry, Sid?”
Life was full of silly questions. Of course he was hungry.
They made sandwiches and ate in John’s apartment. Somehow, the act of eating in his apartment
made John feel officially at home.
After eating, Sid left and John got busy with the Chaconne. This time, he didn’t play it. Instead, he
garnered all the recordings he had and pulled out a copy of the music. Christopher Parkening and several
others had made a recording of the Chaconne, and all had played since their youth (again reaffirming the
youth factor).
John put the CD in and started listening. The idea was to take a lesson from all the great players
(using the recordings) who had performed it. Listening phrase by phrase, he would determine whether they
had added or deleted notes, their phrasings of passages, tone color changes, and neck positioning. By getting
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all his notations on the score, he would be able to tell how the best guitarists in the world had decided to
perform this piece.
This way of learning was a habit he had learned from his first instructor. Certainly what he learned
influenced his performance, but it also showed different musical approaches.
Having finished one performer, he now tried to play some of the piece, but looking up at the clock,
he noticed it was 5:00 p.m. He felt he owed a call to Alex, so he put the guitar away and knocked on Sid’s
door to see if he wanted to join him in a walk to a phone.
Sid agreed. They were about to leave when Ms. Lodge appeared at the entry door.
“I promise I’m not being snoopy,” she said, “but I want you to know my telephone is available if
you need it. Would you care to use it?”
Both men looked at each other. Living below Sid apparently allowed her to hear conversations that
occurred in his apartment. Had they said anything sensitive she might have overheard?
“Yes, ma’am, it would be helpful to use it. I’ll make it a short call,” said John.
“It might be safer also,” added Sid. He received an affirming nod from Ms. Lodge.
They entered her apartment and were assaulted by a wonderful aroma. Sid commented on the odor,
wondering what it was.
“Oh, it’s just spaghetti; would you like to join me for some after your phone call?”
John said, “We couldn’t impose on you like that, Ms. Lodge. We just pay for room, not board.”
Sid looked at him as if to say, “Are you crazy, man? Shut up!”
“I am practically alone in the world except for my niece,” she reminded them, “and I can’t tell you
how much I love music. Consider this payment for the music I heard you two play this morning. But first,
make your call.”
John dialed Alex’s number but there was no answer. He shrugged. The call would have to wait.
John and Sid sat down at Ms. Lodge’s kitchen table and prepared to dig in. Given the amount of
food, it appeared she had been planning to feed them all day.
After a short blessing from Ms. Lodge, they began to eat.
Dinner consisted of spaghetti with marinara sauce, salad, and French bread with pesto. Not bad.
Delicious in fact.
Both John and Sid were quiet as they enjoyed the food and listened to Ms. Lodge, who gave them a
thumbnail sketch of her life. She had never married; instead, she’d chosen to be a world traveler. She had
worked as a hired companion to two well-to-do older ladies and had survived both. In a way, she told them,
her life had paralleled the elderly ladies she had cared for. She too was now aging and alone, but both of the

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grand dames had left her large amounts of money that they couldn’t take with them. Though she had been
fond of both, she hinted that she’d had her favorite.
When pressed to talk about her travels, she said, “The next time you come and eat with me, I will
tell you all about France and then another time about Australia.” After a pause, she said, “That is, of course,
if you like my cooking!”
John and Sid looked up from their plates and grinned. This would be fun.
“And your payment, of course,” she nonchalantly said, “is music.”
Such a deal!
John felt the load diminish from his shoulders un petite; however, somewhere in the back of his
mind, he knew this was all a facade and that he must not deny what was really going on. Danger! He’d shove
that away for just a little while longer. But why had he gone out that side door?
Just then, as if choreographed, came a knock at the still locked front door. Ms. Lodge got up to
answer it. Muffled voices were heard followed by the sound of her footsteps and a man’s heavier step.
It was a policeman, here to take John for further questioning.
Dinner was quickly finished, then John offered his thanks and left.
Sid wanted to stay and help clean up, but Ms. Lodge informed him that she would handle it.
In the squad car, John and the officer drove unceremoniously to the police station.
John was taken to a room with several cops in uniform and several more in plain clothes. Detective
Stuart Whisen was present, but he was the only one John recognized, except for the face on the now
somewhat famous drawing hanging under a WANTED sign on a corkboard.
So this really had occurred, thought John, a little amused.
One of the men spoke. “Now that we have a murder, we want to go over everything again since
you’re the only witness. Does that suit you?”
“Yes, sir,” said John.
He was only too happy to assist, but no new ideas or details were forthcoming. The police asked
questions like, “Do you remember the abductor’s clothing? Was he foreign? Did he speak? Is there anything
you would change about this drawing?”
They went on for about an hour like this, but there was nothing more to unearth. This soil had
already been plowed.
Eventually, John ventured, “You know, you’ve put me in a dangerous position by putting my name
on the news. Is this standard procedure?”

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Detective Whisen said, “We aren’t responsible for that. Following your departure from the Campus
Club, a man named Mr. Thomas spilled everything to the reporters. Unfortunately, as they will do, they ran
with it. It did put you in an awkward place. Fortunately, no photos of you were shown.”
“Who is Mr. Thomas?” asked John.
“That would be Garrett, Garrett Thomas, the man working there that evening.”
He must have gotten my name from one of my friends, John thought. Well, the damage was done.
So, it appeared, was the meeting.
Whisen said, “Let me take you back so I know where to find you if I need to.”
John agreed, and they left.
Back home in his apartment, he reviewed the day while changing his strings. It had certainly been
full. A transformation from abduction to murder, playing music with Sid, getting his apartment in order,
taking a guitar “lesson” from Parkening, having dinner with two friends, and finally enduring a police
interrogation.
Four good things to two bad. It could have been worse. Perhaps he might practice some more.
Leaving his apartment, he went downstairs and knocked on the door of the apartment below him.
Good, no answer. He would play for a while or until the pounding began.
Returning to his apartment, he decided to just play for the joy of it and to keep up his repertoire, not
always an easy thing to do when learning new music. He made a slight adjustment to his right hand nails,
and after several rounds of tuning, began.
He had once bragged about having three hours of music memorized, about the length of a wedding
reception. Now he wondered how much of that he currently retained.
One hour later, following some Manuel Ponce, Heitor Villa-Lobos, and J. S. Bach, he stopped,
satisfied. It was time to put sheets on his couch bed. With that finally done, it was time for a little reading
and sleep. No more nightmares from today’s activities, he hoped.
He was just ready to end the day when he heard a knock. Before opening it, he said, “Who is it?”
“It’s Sid.”
John opened the door and Sid said, “Just checking to see what happened.”
John related the non-event.
“Oh,” said Sid. “After you left, as I was leaving Ms. Lodge’s apartment, I saw a photo of her niece.
If you thought that meal was good, you should have seen the dessert!”
“I will look forward to that.”
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yes. Goodnight.”
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That night, John dreamt of eating spaghetti with old well-to-do ladies and being served by a
beautiful French girl in a police uniform speaking only in Aborigines!

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Chapter VI
Wednesday

Lesson day. John was looking forward to it and also to seeing Javier. Hopefully they could focus
conversation on the concert rather than on hoodlums.
Having acquired breakfast items, John invited Sid to join him.
“Should we invite Ms. Lodge?” Sid asked.
“That’s a good idea.” John surveyed his furniture. A guest or two at his table, with only two chairs
and a stool. They would do. “I’ll keep at this if you want to ask her.”
“Om-e-let you do that,” joked Sid.
John groaned and turned to his range. Cheese, bacon, and broccoli and the event was underway.
Coffee, how could he have forgotten that?
Back upstairs with Ms. Lodge, Sid learned of John’s mistake.
“I’ll handle this!” he said and went to his apartment to get the coffee brewing.
“Good morning, Ms. Lodge,” John said. “Do you like omelets, and if so, what do you like in them?”
“I’ll take whatever you make,” she said as she sat at the table. “This is unusual,” she stated,
“someone cooking for me!”
With omelets progressing, John poured orange juice for three. Things were starting to smell good.
“My first omelet was in France,” Ms. Lodge stated.
Was it story time?
Sid appeared with a pot of coffee and three mugs, balancing everything with care. “I figured you
forgot these also,” he jibed.
Trash talk at breakfast!
Soon all were eating. John filled Ms. Lodge in on the uneventful visit to the police station. “It really
was a waste of time for me,” he concluded.
Ms. Lodge was quiet, perhaps soaking up the company or just contemplating the sons she’d never
had.
“How long have you rented out apartments?” asked Sid.
“Maybe three years now,” she answered.
“Can I ask how old you are?” Sid asked carefully.
“I am more than four-tenths and under five-tenths of a century,” she answered playfully. “I really
was starting to like you boys,” she added, “but then you had to ask a question like that!”

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“Hmm,” said Sid. “So you’re about my parent’s age. That would explain your niece being about my
age.”
“Probably very close to your age,” she smiled.
Through their conversation, John kept mentally visiting that little cubby hole of danger. He hoped
he wasn’t bringing harm to his friends through association. He didn’t hear all that was said but came around
as Ms. Lodge was saying, “Well, I must be going to my place. Thanks for the food and drink and
conversation. Will I see you two tonight?”
“You bet!” they responded in unison.
“Adieu,” she said and left John’s apartment.
“I need to get going too,” said Sid. He gathered up his mugs, coffee pot, and full stomach and left.
John thought he might finish one more performer of the Chaconne before his lesson. This task turned
out to be too time consuming to complete, but he did manage to perform his warm-up exercises and read
more of the Bach piece before leaving his apartment.
Finally, the whole reason for being in school occurred—a guitar lesson with Emilio Javier! John had
been waiting for this moment since that day last spring when he’d auditioned for him.
Javier’s studio was in the same building that housed the practice rooms. This was also where, just
two days before, John had attended the master class.
Could it really have been just two days? He thought again of what had unfolded since that day.
He was early, so he sat outside the studio and waited for the end of the current lesson. His nerves
were building, so he took a few deep breaths and reviewed his critique of the two performers on his copied
Chaconne music.
No sooner had he begun than the door opened and Alex exited. She looked piqued at everything,
including John.
That first lesson could be an eye opener, he mused.
“I tried to call,” he said, “but you didn’t answer.”
“I’ve been busy,” she answered.
“Can I try again later today?” he asked, and she nodded.
Javier beckoned, and John walked into the room. He had forgotten how nice the studio was with
programs, pictures, and articles on the wall.
Javier, sensing his thoughts, said, “I am not an egoist; my wife Estelle does all this. Have a seat and
tune up. By the way, how is everything from Monday night?”
John hurriedly caught him up, concluding, “I feel a little safer as time goes by, but it continues to
bother me. Also, I wanted to tell you how great your concert was that night. Thanks for having us.”
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“It really is a two-win deal, with me being the big winner. Playing for students can be as difficult as
playing for your instructor.”
“Do you get nervous?”
“Not once I start but certainly, just prior. So, how are you doing with this semester’s work?”
John showed him what he had done and Javier shook his head. “This is a good start, but you missed
several things.”
The teacher got up and put on the same Parkening CD version of the Chaconne that John had
listened to. He wrote quickly as it played straight through. Then he showed John the changes he’d made and
the additions he’d added.
John was surprised at the subtle nuances Javier pointed out as Javier replayed the CD at the most
important sections. How had he missed all that?
“Also,” continued Javier, “since this was written for solo violin, you need a copy of that music and
to do the same treatment with another recording. Take this CD with you and do the same on solo violin
music.”
Following this, John read the opening three or four minutes playing at a speed he could read, which
was slow. “I haven’t had much time to prepare, and I’m sure it shows,” he said by way of excuse.
“It does, but it’s understandable. Let me show you how to approach the arpeggios and fast scale
parts.”
As Javier demonstrated, John observed that there really wasn’t too much new here. His teacher used
a metronome at a slow tempo until the phrase could be played several times through with absolutely no
flaws. After obtaining that control, he gradually sped it up to the desired tempo step by step using the same
process.
Easy, huh! It was just like working on the tremolo effect.
Then Javier said, “I want you to read this article about muscle memory versus knowing. Take this to
heart; it’s the best way to learn not just music but anything. There is no way on stage, under pressure, to be
able to rely on just muscle memory; it has to be known! You must know it well enough to write the score.
Take it with you and let me know what you think.”
John didn’t know it then, but reading this article would change his entire life, especially his approach
to learning music and studying in general.
He thanked Javier and gave him his landlord’s phone number. “I still have no phone, so call Ms.
Lodge if you need me,” he explained.
“I will, and one more thing before you leave, Mr. Stringfellow. I will be going on tour later this week
and will be gone two weeks. Can we schedule one more lesson this week, for Friday morning at my house?”
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“Sure. Are you within walking distance of campus?”
“My house isn’t far from where we are now. Here, I’ll give you the address.” Javier wrote it down
along with his phone number. “How is 10:00 a.m. for you?”
“That should be fine unless it rains. I’ll see you then.”
“Don’t you own an umbrella?” Javier asked with a smile.
John laughed. “I probably have one saved somewhere for a rainy day!”
“I’ll see you Friday, and do be careful with the other situation. I don’t have but two students who
can really play.”
John left feeling very satisfied, the lesson and article on his mind along with the other problem. He
wondered if he would hear any more from the police. He was hungry, so he decided to stop at the
University Center and see what they had for lunch.
Upon entering, he noticed the cafeteria looked and smelled very good. After making his choices, he
noticed one or two other guitarists in his program at a table and asked if he could join them. They nodded,
and he sat. They were two of the more beginner level players, meaning they had some repertoire but were at
the freshman level.
The students talked about several things with an emphasis on the abduction. It seemed John could
not get away from this subject even at lunch. He tried to make light of it and successfully navigated the
subject back to music.
They exchanged musical history backgrounds and what strings they were using on which guitars.
John couldn’t help but note this was much more fun than discussing abduction and murder.
His classmates then moved on to the important business of fingernails and began an important
discussion of nail files including smooth, shine, and buff files as well as fine grade sandpaper. This
sandpaper, John told them, must be a grit of no less than 500.
It was to their advantage that John was an expert on shaping nails. Some people are cursed with thin
hair or wide noses or ears that stick out. Not John; he had to have problem nails. Once shaped correctly,
they became less problematic, but still they remained a problem. Those players with perfect nails didn’t have
a clue about his difficulties.
The men sat looking at each other’s nails at varying angles, distances, and heights before John took
Seth’s right hand to inspect the nails at close range as if he were choosing which to chew when he allowed
his eyes to refocus over Seth’s shoulder.
There, sitting in a relaxed position with golden hair and a smile of complete amusement, was the
most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He was still holding Seth’s hand when John realized the amused look
was directed at him!
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Oh my. What to do?
Unfortunately, dropping Seth’s hand was not the first thing he did. To his amazement, the first thing
he did was smile one of the broadest smiles he had ever produced. What a vision she was!
Slowly, John dropped Seth’s hand, refocused, and finished what he was saying. He then looked back
for the amused smile and golden-haired girl, but both were gone.
He looked around but did not see her.
Oh well. It was all for the best. He was way out of his depth with that one.
With lunch, music discussions, and potential manicures stowed away, they all departed for the next
stage of the day.
John had enjoyed talking with the other players. He remembered that he needed a copy of the violin
version of the Chaconne and wondered if Sid might have one. That would save him a visit to the music store
and keep him off the streets.
Prudently, he ambulated home and dug out his key. After ascending the stairs, he opened his
apartment door and immediately felt apprehensive. He stood there a moment, frozen. The door was
unlocked! How could this be? He had locked it, hadn’t he?
Thinking the worst, he turned and knocked on Sid’s door. Without waiting, he ran down to Ms.
Lodge’s door and knocked. When she came out, he gave her the universal sign for silence and gestured for
her to follow him back upstairs.
Feeling his blood pressure and heart rate escalate, John whispered, “There might be someone in my
room; the door was unlocked!”
With both Ms. Lodge and Sid following in tandem, John cautiously entered the room and began
peeping around doors. After making it through the entire apartment followed closely by his entourage, he
relaxed and sat down. No one was there.
Wait, what did he hear? Was that a soft giggle?
He turned his head and looked at Sid, who seemed as confused as he was. They both slowly turned
to see Ms. Lodge laughing into her handkerchief.
“I can’t help it!” she howled. “Both of you are so serious!”
More and louder laughing.
“I knew you hadn’t locked the door!”
“But I’m sure I did!” stated John with some friction.
“Does it look like you did?” she asked. “Did you also do the dishes?”
John glanced over at the sink. The dishes were clean. No signs of breakfast remained. He certainly
hadn’t washed them!
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Turning towards Ms. Lodge, he said, “I’m sorry, you kind lady. I am certain a nice person like you
wouldn’t want to scare the devil out of me!”
Silence all around, then laughter. Who would have thought she had it in her? This was going to be
fun. John felt relieved and, once again, at home.
“I’m glad you aren’t mad and can laugh at yourself,” she said, “especially as I have dinner preparing.
Also, I have a surprise for tonight.”
“What is it?” said Sid. “Your niece?”
“No.” As if in deep thought, she answered, “She would be too tough!”
This evoked groans and laughter.
John lamented, “I’m going to have to find another apartment and move” as Sid said, “We’ll be
there.”
“Fine, around 5:00?”
Both responded yes, and as Ms. Lodge left, they heard that same annoying giggle as she descended
the stairs.
“That lady ain’t right,” John said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe she did that.”
“Did what?” laughed Sid. “Your dishes? I knew she was going to.”
John shook his head, then said loudly, “Hey, what’s that in the hall?”
Sid stepped into the hallway to look just as John said, “It looks just like your apartment,” and quickly
shut the door. “Take that, you four-stringed musician!” he exclaimed, feeling victorious.
Whoops. He had forgotten to ask about the music. “Take that, you guitarist,” he said to himself with
decidedly less oomph.
Oh well, he would still enjoy his little victory over Sid, at least for the moment, and he wouldn’t
forget he owed Ms. Lodge a dig!
“Now, how to spend my afternoon?” he said out loud. His apartment looked better. Only two more
boxes to unpack.
After he took care of them, he finished the second version of the Chaconne. With two done on the
guitar, he would see if Sid had the violin music.
He crossed the hall and knocked.
When Sid answered, John queried in an affected voice, “I say, old chap, would you happen to have
any Grey Poupon mustard?”
“Not likely. Now ask me what you really came over for.”
“Okay, do you have a clean solo violin version of the Bach Chaconne?”
“I might. What’s it worth to you?”
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“It would be worth anything less than what it would cost me to go out and buy it.”
“Well, let me see if I can find it.”
Sid rummaged and came up with what appeared to be an unused version.
“I see you’ve worked hard on this one.”
“Is it nice to put down the person supplying you with your request?”
“It might not be nice, but it is fun. Now gimme gimme.”
Smiling, Sid handed the music to John.
“Hey, I was going to listen to this piece and mark on it, so I’d better make a copy first. Do you
know a close place to make copies?”
“The student center is the closest. Want some company? I’ll be your bodyguard.”
As they walked, John told Sid about lunch and the blonde he’d seen.
“I thought you weren’t going to let anyone distract you,” Sid chided him.
“Did I say that? Hmm. I don’t recall that. Anyway, anyone who looks like that is not a lonely person.
She probably has guys all over her like barnacles on a ship.”
“That’s a lovely image.” Sid noticed John was still looking around, but was he looking for the
murderer or the girl?
Fortunately, the former was nowhere in sight, and they made it safely to the student center, copied
the music, paid, and walked home.
“You know this is a little illegal, right?”
“Yeah,” John grinned. “Poor J. S. B. will never get another dime from it!”
Once home, with the door locked behind them, they parted, Sid to practice and John to listen,
which is exactly what he did, with a lot of notation followed by a thorough reading of the article Javier had
given him.
Visualizing the performance would take time, John concluded.
With that task complete, it was shower time, or at least bath time. Nothing like a little clean living,
he mused. He only had one more chore prior to dinner, and that was to start looking at his music history
book. He would have his first class tomorrow.

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Chapter VII
Wednesday Evening
Dinner!
It was time, so John went down the stairs and almost ran into Ms. Lodge’s niece.
Aha. So this was the surprise.
John followed her into the apartment and was introduced to Patrice.
“Nice to meet you, Patrice the niece.”
She was very attractive. Not as attractive as the girl at lunch, yet she was very attractive.
“I’ve never heard that one before,” Patrice said. “Just be glad I’m not from Nice. Perhaps we should
stop this here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
John looked around. “Should I go and get Sid?”
No sooner had he spoken than Sid came strolling in. Upon being introduced to Patrice, he was too
suave to immediately begin making rhymes about her name.
“You look just like your picture,” he commented.
Just like that, John observed, his friend was hooked.
Ignoring that, Patrice said, “So, have both of you adopted my aunt?”
“Well, if we haven’t, we might be on our way,” said John. To Ms. Lodge, he said, “And what do I
smell tonight?”
“Beef tips and rice with vegetables,” said Ms. Lodge. “Sound good?”
All three responded enthusiastically. Dinner was ready, so they sat down. After Ms. Lodge said a
quick blessing, the food was passed. When things quieted down, Sid said, “Will you tell us about yourself,
Miss? Patrice?”
John noted how Sid angled for information.
“Yes, it is ‘Miss,’” she replied. “I am twenty, single, and have a job as a stylist not far from the
university. I moved here to be closer to my aunt since she is alone and is my favorite aunt.”
Ms. Lodge agreed. “We are very close. I wanted her to move in here with me, but as she said, she is
twenty, and most people that age need a chance to try things without constant supervision.”
“You’re a stylist, eh?” John asked. “What sort of clientele do you have? Do you have any
suggestions for how to improve Sid’s hair?”
This brought clamors of protest from Sid and laughter all around.
With dinner officially over, Ms. Lodge said, “Now that you’ve eaten, am I not owed my fee?”
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“Oh yes, ma’am,” said John. “Upstairs or down?”
“I think upstairs,” she said, so they all went to Sid’s apartment where both Sid and John played, first
as soloists and then as a duo.
Sid made a point of sitting next to Patrice when John played, but when the music was over, both
ladies thanked them and excused themselves.
Alone, putting up their instruments, John asked Sid if he liked that ugly thing.
“Ugly? What’s wrong with you? Oh I get it; you’re being snarky.”
“She is very good looking. I’ll probably have to steal her from you if it doesn’t work out with the
mystery girl.”
Sid stared at him. “Why, I’m twice as good looking…” he began but was interrupted by John
saying, “Not twice, just a little better looking. Anyway, I’m twice as rich as you!”
“Not twice. Maybe four times,” Sid countered, and both men laughed.
John then went across the hall to his apartment where he continued reading music history.
Following an uneventful evening, he slept. This night, he dreamt about blondes offering to color his
hair and manicure his nails with 220-grit sandpaper!

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Chapter VIII
Thursday

Awakening to an alarm set for 6:30 a.m., John remembered he had an 8:00 a.m. class to attend. After
coffee, cereal, donning his clothes, more coffee and remembering to lock the door, he was on his way.
The cloudy sky reminded him of his 10:00 a.m. lesson on Friday and how he’d hoped it wouldn’t
rain. Ah, naiveté! He wondered how Mrs. Reaves was doing and whether there was more news on that
front. Were the detectives uncovering clues to apprehend the criminal?
No news seemed to be good news but probably wasn’t to the Reaves family. Did they have children,
he wondered? It was odd that he was just now thinking in that direction.
Behind him, Sid yelled, “Wait up, man! If you’re going to die, at least let there be a witness!”
“Gee, thanks. I was almost over it.” There was nothing like a good friend to help the mood.
“Oh, it’s not over yet and you know it. You should have waited for me; I have an early class too.”
“You’re right on both counts; I guess I just didn’t want to spend any more energy on that night.”
They walked a while, and John kept looking pointedly at his watch.
“Why are you so concerned with the time?” Sid finally asked. “We’ll get there with plenty to spare.”
“I know. I was just wondering how long it would take you to bring up Patrice.”
“Who is she?”
“Oh boy, you’re cracked after all. What have you been smoking?”
“Well, lately, it’s been my violin, ha ha.”
John almost laughed at that one.
They made it to their classrooms without a single life-threatening incident, and John said, “I’ll wait
for you in the university dining area.”
“Uh huh, and what would you be looking, err, waiting for there?”
“You, dude, what else?” John retorted.
“Okay; I’m done at 10:00. Will that be too late?”
“No, not at all. You know, if we were half as smart as we think we are, we might have planned this
out last night.”
John entered his class and saw no one he recognized. He sat near the front so he wouldn’t be
distracted by noise or visual objects. With his book open, pencil sharpened, paper ready, and mind in gear,
he was ready for class to start.

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Following a routine hour, he made his way to the student center. He thought about how nice it was
of Sid to be concerned about him and to lend him music. He thought about Ms. Lodge and her many
kindnesses and about Javier’s concern and great teaching.
There, three positives to only one negative. A lot of people would take those odds any day.
At the university center, he sat down at a table with a full view of the surroundings. She wasn’t there,
so he pulled out his notes and began rewriting them. This was a routine he performed following every class.
It always worked well, clarifying where he was confused and needed to follow up.
Soon, he felt hands cover his eyes and a fake feminine voice saying, “Hello, darling, I’ve been
awaiting your return. I’m so glad you came back for me!”
John could think of nothing to say but “Sit down,” which Sid did, grinning.
“So, did you see her?” he asked.
“See who? I was too busy rewriting my notes.”
“Sure you were.”
Conversation drifted to Patrice, with John acknowledging that, yes, she was beautiful and clever
and on and on. After a while, since the mystery girl didn’t appear, they made ready to leave.
Just then, Sid gasped, “Oh no!”
“What is it?”
Sid pointed to the television screen where John saw a crawl stating, “Second abduction this week!”
Photos of Mr. Reaves, the new victim, a man named Thomas Newly, and the now somewhat
famous sketch of the suspected murderer followed.
John didn’t know what to say. He was immediately drawn back down that dark hole of worry and
fear. Just as things had appeared to be improving too.
He looked at Sid, still watching the television screen. Could it be that all of this had begun just four
days earlier? So much had occurred. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
Sid agreed, and they quickly and watchfully walked home.
Inside, Ms. Lodge was waiting for them. She said, “The police have come by again and would like
you to call. They should be thinking about putting you on the payroll! Here, John, use my phone.”
John thanked her. He dialed and told them who he was, and they said they would be right over.
They also told him to stay put, as they didn’t want him on the streets.
John turned to Sid and Ms. Lodge. “The police will be over as soon as possible.”
He sat down. All was a blur again. They didn’t want him on the streets. Oh boy!
“Well, maybe they know something new,” Sid suggested. “You know how bad guys always mess up
and get caught.”
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“If it helps you to think that way, please do.”
John seemed so deflated that Ms. Lodge brought him a glass of wine.
John, who usually didn’t drink, thanked her. He took a sip and asked, “Shall I go to my apartment
when they come?”
Both agreed he should stay put for moral support. Truth be told, caught up in the drama of it all,
they also wanted to see what would happen next.
After his arrival, Detective Whisen said, “John, I assume you have heard of the second abduction?”
“Yes, I have.”
“We feel this might be the same perp who got Mr. Reaves. It’s quite similar to the last abduction.”
“Were there any witnesses with this one?” asked Sid.
“Not at this time. Because John is still our only witness, we’ve come up with a strategy. Would you
like to hear it?”
“Yes, I would, sir,” said John with a little more life.
“Then I must speak to you in private.”
“We can trust them,” John promptly said.
“I know you think so, but many people inadvertently give things away.”
The officer looked at Sid. “Believe me, I don’t mean to doubt your support, but my experience says
to leave you out of this. John continues to be in danger, and we must take care of him.”
Ms. Lodge, Sid, and John blurted out a number of questions. Detective Whisen parried them all with
the end result being that just the detective and John went up to John’s apartment.
Once there, they discussed the new abduction (not a murder yet) and the similarities. Whisen also
brought up the topic of John’s safety again.
“I think we’ll continue to keep a man watching you for safety. You might or might not see him, but
don’t worry; he’ll be there.”
“Keep a man watching me? I didn’t know of this.”
“I’ve been having you followed since Tuesday,” stated Whisen.
“Should I meet him?” John asked.
“You could, but it won’t change the fact that you’re being watched by a professional. Now for some
suggestions regarding your safety. Do not go out at night; this makes it harder for us to protect you. Be wary
at all times. It’s impossible to keep you completely safe, but we’ll do the best we can. He knows you’re the
only witness so far. That’s why you’re in danger! If you follow these suggestions, you will be safer.”
“Any questions?”
John shook his head no. How he wished he’d never gone through that side door!
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“Keep your doors locked, your eyes open, your friends near, and your wits about you,” the detective
advised before starting toward the stairs.
Along with Sid and Ms. Lodge, John saw him out and locked the door.
“Well, are you going to spill?” asked Sid.
“No, I’d better not,” returned John.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” smiled Ms. Lodge, “as you are four times richer than Sid who is two
times—or was it one and a half times—better looking!”
John looked shocked and then remembered that she could hear their conversations when they were
in Sid’s room. This old lady was something. Still, it was embarrassing that she—and worse, Patrice!—had
overheard this particular conversation!
Sid asked if Patrice was coming to dinner, and Ms. Lodge said, “Oh, did I invite you tonight?”
Sid looked embarrassed and didn’t know what to say.
After a moment, Ms. Lodge broke out in a laugh and said, “Yes, she will be here at 5:00, and she was
wondering if she could sit next to John!”
Having just been taken, Sid fortunately didn’t fall for that one.
“I hope that’s an invitation, as I really don’t know what to say anymore.”
“Of course it is, and if you’re here first, I’ll let you sit by her! Now, you had better leave as I am
busy.”
“Yeah, busy eavesdropping,” muttered John as he and Sid departed.
They climbed the stairs with the annoying sound of more giggling following them.
That giggling would have to stop or the rent would have to decrease, John decided.
All afternoon, John knew he should be getting ready for his 10:00 a.m. guitar lesson, but with so
much on his mind, it was difficult to even get through the warm-ups. He was worried about his new family,
of course, and about Mrs. Reaves, and now he was worried about the new abductee.
He tried to convince himself he hadn’t brought danger to anyone living under Ms. Lodge’s roof, but
he knew that wasn’t true. He plodded through the Chaconne and wasn’t much better off at dinner time than
when he’d started.
When Sid came to announce dinner, John accompanied him to Ms. Lodge’s apartment. Standing at
the door, even prettier than the night before, was Patrice.
After saying hello, they all sat down to… leftovers.
Well, it couldn’t stay perfect every night.

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John found that if he positioned the leftover spaghetti and beef tips and rice just right on his plate, it
all looked and tasted fine. He couldn’t help but notice that Sid looked at Patrice a lot. She even returned a
few of his glances.
As dinner was concluding, Ms. Lodge said, “Considering what happened today and in conjunction
with the events from earlier this week, I thought I might talk about France tonight. Any objections to a
distraction?”
None were voiced, so Ms. Lodge began talking as if she were speaking to her biographer.
“I was a young twenty-two year old, just out of college, with no interest in pursuing my career, at
least immediately. I knew I wanted to travel, but I lacked the means. College had just about broken the
bank! A friend of mine suggested I look into becoming a traveling companion to an older lady who had
plenty of money but no family. Apparently another friend of hers was employed this way. The story
reminded me of the movie Rebecca where Joan Fontaine portrayed such a person.” Ms. Lodge’s eyes
sparkled. “Not knowing anyone in this position made it difficult to know how to proceed, so I asked for the
name of this friend. With encouragement, she became a fount of information.” A faraway look came into
Ms. Lodge’s eyes.
“It appeared that she and her employer were growing weary of each other’s company and were
thinking of making a change. One thing led to another, and I found myself accompanying my new employer
on an ocean vessel heading across the Atlantic. My days were fairly busy with her activities, but the routine
was comfortable and we got along fine. We landed in France and started touring. For an eighty-year-old, she
was very active! France was lovely, and I found myself surprised that my plan was working out so well.
Then, in Bordeaux, Mrs. Cache became ill. Several weeks went by, but she didn’t improve. I was at her side
administering help as best I could, and we became close. She must have felt the end was near, for she
rewrote her will the day before she died.”
Patrice knew the story well, but John and Sid were rapt with attention.
“The upshot was,” Ms. Lodge continued, “she died leaving me her entire estate! It wasn’t enormous,
but with her jewelry and savings, I did better than my college education would have allowed. I also learned
more and got paid for it.” Ms. Lodge emphasized this last part with satisfaction.
“Following the funeral, attended by many matrons her age, I was called on by another grand dame. I
was hesitant to say yes, as I was enjoying a sense of freedom that one my age rarely attains, but eventually I
agreed. It followed that my new employer had a permanent residence in Paris, so it was off to France again.
By the way, my new employer also had dogs. There were three of them, and my duties included walking and
grooming them. This was fine as it gave me time away from the far less interesting though more well-to-do
Mrs. Green. She was also an octogenarian but less mobile than Mrs. Cache. We traveled throughout Europe,
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and I saw a lot of the world. She was kind and respectful, and we got along well. Then one of the dogs
became elderly and died, and then another. This was expected. What I didn’t expect was that she would
conclude she couldn’t leave her estate to just one dog! If I promised to look after the third dog, who was
much younger, all her fortune would come to me after her passing. Yes, I promised!” Ms. Lodge sounded
giddy.
“This went on for three more years before she succumbed. I admit she was a loss to me but also a
great gain. Now, at twenty-six, I was more than comfortably wealthy. I immediately sent myself around the
world with my new dog and lived it up. Many men wanted to court me, but I knew they were after my newly
gained wealth whereas I was after adventure. I was free to do as I wished, and marriage was not one of the
wishes; it never has been. Nonetheless, after some time, I realized I was missing out on my siblings’ growing
families, so I came home to America. Once I got to know Patrice, I bought this apartment house for
something to do and as an investment. I have never regretted it! Having Patrice near me is like having my
own daughter. She keeps me young. The end!”
John and Sid clamored for more. They didn’t dare ask how much money she had, but they did ask if
she’d enjoyed any liaisons during her years in France. She answered this and a slew of other questions,
indeed salvaging the evening as far as John was concerned.
Following dinner, he retreated to his room, in no mood to see if his money would sway Patrice away
from Sid’s side. With his next lesson scheduled for the morning, he reviewed “Fandanguillo,” the same piece
Javier had played at Monday evening’s concert.
He’d already done some work on this piece prior to the start of the semester, and he spent the last
few hours of the day on the fast parts of the Chaconne as well as “Fandanguillo.”
Sleep came quickly, as did dreams.
This night, he dreamt of old dames with dogs by their sides throwing money and jewels at his feet
as he played Spanish guitar music at a café in Paris.

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Chapter IX
Friday

John rose early to bathe, eat, and perform nail reconstruction and warm-ups prior to his 10:00
lesson.
As he was preparing to leave, he wondered if Sid might want to join him. Grabbing his music and
guitar, he knocked on Sid’s door.
Sid had obviously been waiting for him. He grabbed his music and violin, and they started towards
Javier’s house. It was an uneventful walk without rain.
“Thanks for doing this,” said John. “Given the second abduction, I’m even more apprehensive than
before.”
“No problem. You’d do it for me, or at least I think you would.”
“I would.” Today, John didn’t even try to be sarcastic.
At the porch of Javier’s home, John rang the doorbell, and Javier opened the door.
After exchanging pleasantries, Sid left. Escorting John into his home, Javier explained that the lesson
might need to be a little shorter than scheduled as he was catching an early plane for his concert in Chicago.
“You’re ready to go?” asked John.
“Yes, I’m all packed, and my wife is ready to take me as soon as we finish, so let’s get started.”
As John started playing parts of pieces, some of it made sense. He showed Javier the violin version
of the Chaconne he had studied and returned Javier’s CD recording to him.
“So, we can now see what someone, whether arranger or performer, can do to the original piece of
music from Bach, altering it into a solo guitar form,” stated Javier.
John was just about to answer when they heard loud talking.
Javier looked puzzled. “Estelle must not know we are working.” He raised his voice. “We are in here
having a lesson. Why is that television so loud?”
Estelle entered the room as if she’d been running. “You must come look at this,” she said and
hurried off.
The two men looked quizzically at each other. Javier shrugged and got up, and John followed.
In the next room, the television was showing a news flash. The second abductee had also been
found murdered!
John reached for a chair and just made it. “Oh no. Not another,” he groaned, sinking down.
Javier looked thoughtful. He glanced at his wife, hovering in the doorway, and motioned her into
the kitchen.
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A while later, Javier approached John, still sitting gloomily in the same place. “Do you trust me?” he
asked. “I mean, really trust me?”
John quietly said, “I have no reason not to.”
“Then pack up your guitar and get your music together. You will accompany me to Chicago and
beyond until I return in two weeks!”
As John began to protest, he held up a hand. “Wait, please; let me finish. My mind is clearer than
yours right now, and you are in danger. If we leave together, you will be out of town and safer than if you
stay here. I always book two tickets, one for me and one for my guitar. We can stow the guitars on board in
the rear of the cabin and each take a seat. I’m sorry, but my wife insists on this, and I agree!”
Estelle said, “There is no time to waste. Get moving.”
“I can’t impose on you like this,” John objected. “Besides, I have no money with me and no
clothes!”
Estelle said, “You must accept this and go. Money and clothes don’t matter right now. Go!”
“But Mrs. Javier, I can’t…”
Estelle turned to John. With a changed demeanor, she said, “John, there are two things you must
always do: mind your mother, and mind the wife of your guitar professor! Also, call me Estelle. Now get in
that car!”
Javier was already putting his suitcase and both guitars in the car inside the garage, and John obeyed
with a slight thrill running through his veins.
Javier said, “You must stay in the trunk, and I’ll lie down in the back seat. We must assume that
you’ve been followed. Estelle, do we have the tickets?”
She nodded, handing them to Javier while popping the trunk and motioning for John to get in. She
performed all three motions at once like a guitarist playing polyphonic music!
John grinned at the analogy and got in the trunk. Then Javier got down on the floorboard of the
backseat. With the suitcase and two guitars on the bench seat (all just in case), and Estelle behind the wheel,
they departed.
Like a ventriloquist, without moving her lips, Estelle said, “There is a car parked down the street
with two people sitting in it, and they don’t appear to be watching me. Looks like you are being watched,
John!”
But John couldn’t hear her from the trunk.
When they were almost to the airport, Estelle pulled off on a side road and looked around. No one
appeared to be following them, so she opened the trunk.

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With Javier’s help, John got out. Feeling slightly crumpled, he and Javier got back in the car and they
continued on.
John was quiet, amazed by all the activity of the last half hour. A variety of questions kept running
through his head.
Would he be safe in Chicago? Would Javier be able to put up with him? Would Javier be able to put
him up?
Pulling up to the terminal (a bad name for a place associated with flying), they exited the car with
Javier’s suitcase and both guitars. Unable to help himself, John hugged Estelle and stepped into the airport,
allowing the couple to say their goodbyes. It was interesting to see them in this position, husband and wife.
Estelle gave John a look as if to say, “Watch out for this man, but don’t bother his performances!”
Now she tells me, John thought.
Things were routine from the entry door to the ticket counter (they had no bags to check in as
Javier’s suitcase was of moderate size) and then on to the gate area.
Once there, they sat down to relax, but after a moment, Javier got up to talk to a man at the
boarding area about the two guitars. They waited a little longer and then boarded.
“I’m so sorry for all this difficulty, Mr. Javier, and I so appreciate your and Estelle’s help,” John said
quietly.
“I think it’s time for you to call me Emilio, my boy. I believe we’re doing the correct thing, don’t
you?”
Emilio. John silently tested the name on his tongue. Out loud, he said, “Yes, for such a hasty
decision, I think we did the right thing.”
During this conversation, the plane took off and began ascending. Their flight would take around
two hours.
“John, I’m going to work on my mental practice during the flight. I don’t want you to think I’m
rude, but it’s best if you don’t disturb me.”
John nodded. There was no time like the present, so he too leaned back in the seat and began a
mental review of his own. The sound from the jet engines and people talking were intruding, so he slowly
pushed those into the background and began a simple scale. He played it in several positions and found this
easy. Then he chose a simple piece. At first he wasn’t sure if he should see the written music or just be aware
of his hands. He opted for seeing both hands work at the same time. It was almost as if two cameras were
on at once, with one viewing the left hand and one the right. Somehow they merged together into a
stereoscopic picture (not unlike our real eyesight), and he saw both events at once.

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He immediately encountered a difficulty, an unsure area that alerted him to a potential mistake, and
felt deflated. This was only an easy piece, and already he was unsure!
Okay, he needed to approach this differently.
With more review, it appeared the right hand was the problem, so he replayed the phrase with the
mistake. Again the same event occurred, so he visualized the fingering of his right hand up to that point and
realized it was correct. This meant the left hand was confused and causing the error.
He stopped there and returned to the note prior to the mistake. He found that his left hand
fingering was flawed and that by altering the fingering with a substitute, the next or mistake note was easier
to play.
Well, what do you know! For years he had been playing this passage incorrectly. This method might
just work even if it did take complete concentration.
He tried the piece from the beginning and this time was able to play slowly through the mistake area.
Good. This trouble area was now corrected.
Once again he started the piece with his newly gained knowledge and corrected fingerings and
almost made it through when the plane hit a bump.
John’s stomach sank. He looked at Javier—at Emilio—and found him unfazed by the turbulence. So
this was the quality of concentration you needed to be a world class player!
Then John wondered, Is he asleep? He was tempted to tap his instructor’s arm but then he saw his
foot tapping and knew to leave him alone.
Continuing with his mental practicing, John found he could concentrate better this time.
Once on the ground, Emilio said, “Let’s grab a cab and go eat something unless the peanuts were
enough!”
“Anything you say,” said John.
“It might be a little early to check in.”
John agreed, so the two guitarists with two guitars and one suitcase got into a cab. Both appeared
relaxed, but John couldn’t help but think about his safety. He also wondered if he was imposing too much
on his teacher.
“Estelle has booked you another room so we can both practice and have privacy,” Emilio remarked.
“I hope you know how much I appreciate all you two have done. I feel quite in the way. Also,
money for rooms or food or clothes isn’t an issue; it’s just that I have nothing with me,” stated John.
“Money isn’t a problem, and if I know Estelle, she packed some extra cash.”
“Speaking of Estelle, that was some quick thinking back there. Is she always so prepared?”

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Emilio smiled. “She is quick, but please don’t worry about money now. When we get back, we’ll
settle up.”
John digested this as they pulled up to the hotel and Emilio paid the cabby. They disembarked and
stood on the street. Anticipating John’s next question, the older man said, “They have a very good
restaurant here if you’re interested.”
“I am a captive audience, a stranger in a strange land.”
“Heinlein or Bradbury?”
“Heinlein,” responded John, hoping he had left something wicked this way comes behind him.
They sat at a booth with their guitars touching their legs for safety. Emilio said, “John, I won’t be
good company for the rest of the day as I have to warm up and then go to the recital hall. If you want to
come with me tonight, you’re welcome. I’ve never had a roadie before.”
John smiled at that. “When would we need to leave?”
“The concert is at 7:00 and I want to be there for a run-through at 5:30.”
During their wait for lunch, John told Emilio about his progress with the mental practice, but it
appeared Emilio wanted to discuss the problems left at home so John humored him. Food soon came to the
rescue, and verbal machinations changed to oral mastications.
John said, “Do you find it interesting that we must wait for a table, a waiter, the food, and finally the
check while the person helping us is called the waiter?”
Emilio smiled. “I once heard of a restaurant where the waiters had to climb twenty stairs to serve
patrons and they weren’t allowed to speak. Would they be dumbwaiters?” He chuckled. “A former student
told me that one. I think he got a C!”
Following lunch, they checked into their rooms and found they were neighbors on the third floor.
They were nice rooms with decent views of Lake Michigan and downtown Chicago.
John didn’t have anything to unpack, so he just stood staring out the window. After a while, he
knocked on Emilio’s door. When it opened, he said, “I think I’ll take a walk and see some of this area.
There’s no reason to think I won’t be safe here.”
Emilio pulled out his wallet and gave John a hundred dollars.
Sheepishly, John took it.
Surveying his student from south to north, Emilio said, “Use it for clothes if you want to.”
“Thank you. I’ll take that as a hint.”
“Merely a suggestion.”
John returned to his room, secured it, and with key in pocket and money in wallet, headed out, free
of his worries for the first time in almost a week.
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It was a warm day with some of the famous Chicago wind, and he found himself on Michigan
Avenue surrounded by museums, restaurants, and shops of all kinds. Crossing the street, he was almost hit
by a cab. He had heard of big city cab drivers. Maybe he wasn’t as safe here as he’d thought! He couldn’t
benefit from their escape plan if he were run over in Chicago!
Realizing time was limited, he found a store for casual wear. Since he would be attending the
concert, maybe he should get some slacks and a more appropriate shirt.
This task accomplished, he continued his tour. Since the art museum would require more time than
he had, he continued walking and noted several restaurants that looked appetizing.
Upon returning to the third floor of the hotel, he heard guitar music emanating from Emilio’s room.
With some time left, he too decided to practice until it was time to leave.
Luckily, he had all his music and his guitar from that morning’s lesson. He laughed to think that just
a few hours earlier, he had been taking a lesson at Emilio’s home and now here he was in Chicago with
Emilio.
He practiced his pieces until he was interrupted by the phone.
It was Emilio, wanting to know if he was going to the concert.
John told him he was, and they made plans to leave in thirty minutes.
John cleaned up, put his new clothes on, and met Emilio at his room. In the cab, Emilio said,
“You’ll get to meet my manager tonight. He finds it important enough to be at several concerts a year and
never misses the first concert of a season. He’s a little like the president throwing out the first pitch of a
baseball season.”
Here was a taste of the business John had never before encountered and a great distraction from his
troubles.
They made it safely to the venue by cab, and as soon as Emilio climbed out, a man came up and
shook his hand.
Emilio introduced him to John as his manager, Bernard Cashman, and hellos and handshakes
ensued. John didn’t notice the manager carrying Emilio’s guitar until they entered.
What a poor roadie he was turning out to be!
Inside the theater, John saw the programs for the concert neatly stacked on tables for the listeners.
Beyond the doors was a beautiful hall with plush red seating and a black curtain. They walked through this
to the backstage area where they found the green room, which just so happened not to be green, and found
food and drink for three.
John looked up. “How did you know there would be three of us, Mr. Cashman?”
The manager smiled. “Estelle. And call me Bernard.”
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Estelle again, John thought. So she’d even thought of that.
Emilio said, “It wouldn’t have mattered if there was only enough for two. I can never eat prior to a
performance.”
John pondered the many avenues that had connected to create this intersection in the green room.
First you had the room, the promotion of the event, the audience buying the tickets, the staff that worked
here, the food caterers, the manager, and then the reason for the event, Emilio’s artistry. Thinking further,
there was Bernard Cashman and himself. Howsoever it had all come to be, here he was with his musical
hero, mano a mano so to speak.
He laughed to himself for thinking in Spanish, anticipating the Spanish music that would be
performed tonight.
As John and Bernard sat down to eat, Emilio went to the hall with his footstool and guitar. A chair
was already positioned, and no music stand was needed. They could hear him warming up through a speaker
in the green room. There was also a television monitor that alerted performers in wait when it was their time
to perform. Neat!
“It’s unusual to see Emilio here in Chicago with a student,” said Bernard, stirring his soup.
“I was just thinking about that and about all the events that occurred to bring me to this moment.
Shall I tell you the story?”
Bernard acquiesced, so John proceeded to explain in an encapsulated way what had happened to
bring him here.
“That’s something, John,” Bernard commented, shaking his head. “It’s an unhappy world we live in
where people so easily harm others. Few seem to really understand the miracle of life and our existence. We
all seem out for self-gain. Just think of the wonder of our bodies and what we can do with them. Take
Emilio and yourself. Both of you have decided to use your brains, talent, and imagination to create
something of value and beauty, neither of which criminal minds would ever use except for selfish motives.
They practice putting themselves ahead of others rather than understanding that all life is important. You,
on the other hand, practice artistry. We choose such different ways to approach life.” Looking up, Bernard
grinned. “Sorry. Hearing about those murders got me going.”
“You remind me of my father,” said John, “the way you speak of life and respect for it. He always
said the value of a human appears to be diminishing rather than increasing.”
“But has it not always been diminished? Think of the many wars and how people have been
mistreated. Think of the dictators of the past and present, putting their wishes or desires above others. If all
this supposed power were harnessed towards good, think of how people could prosper.”
Taking a bite, John said, “Does Emilio think this way also?”
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“Ask him,” said a familiar voice, and John turned to see his teacher standing in the doorway.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to say yes, I too think this way. Life is so precious! Bernard and I talk like this all the
time in an attempt to see who can most impress the other.” He laughed, looking remarkably calm.
“Now, Maestro, what can we do for you?” inquired Bernard.
“Go find your seats or stay backstage; your choice.”
Magically, Bernard pulled out two tickets. “Front row center okay, John?”
“I travel all the way to Chicago for a concert, and all you can offer me is a front row seat?” said
John, grinning.
They exited the green room and headed for the auditorium. John saw a stand where programs were
placed and took two. He wasn’t even remotely disappointed to see the exact program he had heard
performed Monday night. That seemed a long time ago.
The concert was a complete success, and John’s estimation of Emilio continued to rise. Two encores
were performed to a sellout audience, and what an audience. No one talked, no peppermint candy wrappers
crackled; it was just music. Pure ambrosia!
Backstage, Emilio finally made an appearance to his select crowd, those who had paid more to
attend the after-concert event. John wanted to ask if Emilio was paid by the ticket or a flat fee but instead he
stood out of the way, watching Emilio and Bernard work the crowd.
Following this, they all piled into a cab with John bringing the guitar this time like a proper roadie.
He laughed, thinking to himself, This is truly my first roadie-o.
They went directly to the hotel. After congratulations and goodnights, they headed for their rooms.
Of course, Bernard was booked into the same hotel as Emilio and John.
Exhausted from the day, John wondered how Emilio could hold up so well. The bed was fine, and
he slipped under the covers reminiscing about all that had happened, thankful he didn’t require pajamas to
sleep well.
This day was the stuff of dreams!
Sure enough, John dreamt that night about airplane rides with a blonde stewardess and a homemade
meal served by Ms. Lodge and of having to take over for Emilio at the concert (due to a broken fingernail).
He performed brilliantly, with all proceeds going to the Group United in Tandem Against Ruthlessness, or
GUITAR.

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Chapter X

Saturday

John awakened to the realization that he had slept in his clothes and the knowledge that he had only
an abbreviated wardrobe with him.
He got up and noticed a note under his door. He picked it up and read, “When you wake up, come
down to the dining room and have breakfast.” It was signed Bernard.
He jumped in the shower (might as well as he only had a tub at home) and rinsed, redressed in his
crumpled clothes, and found his way to their location.
Bernard and Emilio had finished eating but were discussing the concert and turnout. Today’s agenda
included staying in Chicago and preparing for tomorrow’s concert in Grand Rapids. Normally Emilio
wouldn’t miss an opportunity to perform on a Saturday, but since last night’s concert had been the first in a
series, he would use this day to get the bugs out.
John laughed. “What bugs? I heard nothing wrong last night.”
“Thanks, John. If there weren’t any glaring spots, I guess I’ll enjoy Chicago today! Bernie is staying
also.”
“I’d better call Sid and let him know where I am,” John suddenly said. “Have you seen a phone?”
Bernard pointed toward the front desk and John asked for assistance. Once the booth was located,
he fumbled for coins and made a collect call.
Ms. Lodge answered and said she would accept the charge. “Is that you, John?”
“Yes, and I hope you know I’ll pay for this call when I get back.”
“You mean from Chicago?”
“Yes, how did you know...?”
“I got a call from a lady named Estelle Javier yesterday, and she told me all about it. Do you need
anything? Are you having fun?”
John digested this for a moment. He was relieved Estelle had called to alleviate their worry.
“I might need to get some money wired so I won’t be a burden on Emilio, and yes, I’m enjoying the
moment.”
“Shall I wake up Sid?”
“You mean he isn’t practicing?” John smiled.
When Sid finally got on the phone, he sounded sleepy.
John explained the events of the past twenty-four hours.
Sid digested this, then asked, “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
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“I really don’t know,” John answered. “Any new developments on your end?”
“Well, nothing more with the murders. The police did come by yesterday. We told them you were
out of town. That inspector was with them. He seemed surprised to hear you were gone, but he thought this
might be safer than being here.”
“I agree. So far I’ve only missed one class and maybe an abduction. Can you believe my luck?”
“John, have you considered seeing a shrink?”
“Ha ha. I know what you mean, but I’m looking at this as an adventure with my hero. Besides, I’m
in Chicago, the food is good, and I have a shower! Will you tell everyone except the killer that I’m doing fine? I
don’t know when I’ll return, but I’ll call tomorrow with any updates.”
With the call behind him, he walked back to the breakfast table. The two men were discussing the
tour, so John stayed silent and listened.
He felt like asking if he could come to Grand Rapids but maybe it would be easier if he didn’t tag
along. He assumed he wouldn’t return home, at least not immediately, unless something happened. One
thing was for sure; he needed his own money.
He heard Emilio say, “John will need a room too; can you take care of that?”
“No problem,” Bernard answered.
John thanked them both and said, “I think I’ll walk around Chicago a while, like a free man.”
With that he headed out into Chi Town again, walking fast at first, then slowing down to enjoy
himself. He looked in windows and wondered what it was like to be from Illinois. He continued on toward
the big art gallery, but it wasn’t yet open for the day, so he moved on and found a music store full of guitars
with posters of Emilio on the wall!
John walked inside and lost himself looking, talking, and playing. Guitars were everywhere, used,
new, and all gorgeous. He must have played ten guitars, all with their own subtle beauty.
“Chicago, my kind of guitar town,” he sang softly to himself. When hunger hit, he reluctantly left to
find lunch. This day was flying. Pizza anyone? After all, this was Chicago!
He found a place just down the street and took a table outside. It was too pretty a day to eat indoors.
He ordered pizza and beer and waited. It was past lunch time, but the restaurant was full. When his food
came, he people watched and ate, enjoying the moment. When the windy city lived up to its name and blew
his napkin off his lap, he bent down to pick it up.
When he sat back up, standing a few feet in front of him was the most beautiful girl in the world—
the same most beautiful girl in the world he’d seen at the campus university center.
Apprehension overtook him. How could this be? He was in Chicago. Now she was in Chicago.
What was she doing here?
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John stood up so fast that he became lightheaded and had to sit back down.
The girl sat down across from him looking worried but also trying to restrain a giggle.
Why was she here?
“It was very rude of me to do it this way, but I couldn’t help it. I have a bit of the actor in me and
felt compelled to join you in this fashion.”
Her voice was as beautiful as she was. The sun was behind her and her hair was blowing like the
wheat fields in Kansas.
John couldn’t get a word out.
“Look, if it’s that bad of a shock, I’ll call a doctor, should I?”
Again he saw the same smile he’d seen at the student center. It was a smile that said “I know more
than you do” mixed with amusement.
A waitress came by.
“Just water, please,” the beautiful girl said. “Okay, if you won’t talk, I will.”
John felt as if he were on the verge of discovering something he didn’t want to learn. He felt like he
was in a dream he wanted out of but knew he was powerless to wake up from.
“Yes, maybe you should,” he finally replied.
“Remember Detective Whisen said he would have a man watching you for safety? Well, he was true
to his word.” She stood up. “I’m that man!” she declared before sitting back down.
A stunned John finally said, “If you’re that man, I’m Andres Segovia.”
“Nice to meet you, Andy whoever,” she said, extending her hand for a shake.
As John’s presence of mind returned, he realized he was going to have to extend his hand and,
somehow, the moment.
He stretched out his arm to find a firm, no messin’ around handshake. It was strong and efficient,
and John took the opportunity to review her in more detail. Yes, she was beautiful. Up close, she appeared a
little older than he remembered.
She said, “Are you still surveying or still in shock?”
“I am definitely surveying,” he said, finally releasing her hand. “You’re my bodyguard?”
“I am.” She took a drink of water. “Here’s the real kicker. If I told you that you were never in need
of a bodyguard, what would you say? And if I told you that all that had happened to you in the last week
was an illusion, what would you think?” Gazing directly at him, she added, “If I told you you could go home
right now and be as safe as you always were, what would you do?”

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“I would say prove it, I guess. I mean, why should I take your word?” John shook his head. “I don’t
know who you are or whether or not you’re being disingenuous. You could be in on the abductions and
murders and playing me for a fool.”
“That’s true. I could be, but I’m not.” She pulled out an envelope and handed it to him. “This
should help set your mind at ease, John. May I call you John?”
“Sure, but what shall I call you?”
She pulled out her ID in the form of a police badge that read Officer Juliette Lacombe.
Her name was as beautiful as she was.
“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?” he murmured to himself, his mind racing.
Part of the story, like a heavy door, was opening a crack, just not enough to see beyond. Was she really a
police officer? With her looks?
If she was, here was this police officer, assigned to make sure he was safe, telling him he had never
been in any danger. He had fled to Chicago fearing for his safety only to be told he’d never needed to leave
and that all he’d witnessed and worried about was a fabrication. And she’d followed him to Chicago to
reveal this to him? Questions needed asking and answering.
From somewhere he heard, “Are you going to finish that pizza?”
“Oh, sorry, help yourself.”
She began eating while he mulled things over. At last he said, “Are you telling me I’m as safe at
home as I am here?”
“You are most definitely safer at home than in Chicago!”
“Are you saying there were no abductions or murders?”
“That’s correct. No one has been injured or hurt.”
“Are you saying I was never in any danger from the abductor?”
“Also correct.”
Hmm. Nonetheless, here they were. If all that was true, why this elaborate charade? What did it
serve? These statements were contradictory. If this were a puzzle, the pieces would never fit.
As if reading his thoughts, Juliette said, “I agree that it’s confusing, and I apologize that I can’t make
it clearer at this time, but we thought it was time to ease your mind. Perhaps the letter in the envelope will
help.”
It was still in his hand, unopened. He opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, unfolded it, and
saw that it was on police stationery. He read,

Dear John Stringfellow,

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I hope this letter finds you well. If you’re reading it, then you’ve met Officer Lacombe. She is the
officer I assigned to you after our initial meeting. At that time, there were limitations on what I could share
with you. She is there more as an encyclopedia than a bodyguard as you are not in any danger. She has been
given permission to answer any and all questions but at her discretion.
I know this all sounds veiled and misty, but it was the only way to handle this, and many minds have
been hard at work to ensure a favorable outcome. I hope I can convince you that your taxpayer dollars are
being well spent and that you need not worry about your safety with Officer Lacombe.
You unfortunately have become involved in a police operation. That is all I will tell you now except
to say your involvement has thrown a monkey wrench into the works. It isn’t your fault, but because of you,
we’ve had to play our roles a little differently than planned. Believe me when I say that you are safe from
harm and safe with Officer Lacombe. I look forward to our next meeting when the veil can be lifted,
revealing the truth.
Detective Whisen
P.S. Trust her!

John read the letter a second time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. It seemed legit and so did
her badge, but still he was wary. She seemed to understand the process going through his mind as she
finished the last of his lunch and watched him.
“You don’t look like an encyclopedia,” he finally said.
She smiled. “Well, as they say, you can’t judge a book by its cover. Is there anything I can help you
with?”
“You mean besides my lunch?”
“Oh, we’ll pay for that; that’s what expense vouchers are for.”
John laughed to himself. Taxpayer dollars at work!
“No,” he said out loud, “This one is on me.”
He was glad he had Emilio’s money because the words that came out of his mouth next stunned
even him. “I’m paying so that if anyone ever asks who the most beautiful woman I ever took to lunch was, I
can say Juliette!”
She smiled a slightly different smile and said, “Well, this isn’t exactly a date! Now, any questions?”
“I have several. Please understand, I’m a simple peace-loving guitarist trying to mind my own
business, but I feel a little like a poet trying to finish a stanza using a word that rhymes with circus.”
With more fervor, he said, “I saw a man get slugged and thrown in a car and then I was seen by the
murderer-to-be. My name was put on TV and I feared not only for my safety but also the safety of innocent
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friends. Then I heard that the man was murdered, and a few days later, the same events happened to a
second man. Two abductions and two murders in less than a week with the police stating they would
protect me from this crazed man, and now here you sit telling me I have nothing to worry about!”
John felt himself becoming angry at the ludicrousness of her statement, or perhaps it was
embarrassment that she might be correct and he might be wrong. Was he starting to believe her?
“Am I being played for a fool?” he asked.
In a calm and reassuring voice, Juliette said, “No, John, you are not. All you have said is correct, but
only to you and whoever watches the news. You’ve been left out of the puzzle for reasons I can’t share, at
least not right now. You must believe me and the letter. Your friends here and at home are also unaware of
the truth and have played their unwitting parts perfectly. It couldn’t have gone better.”
“Then you’re saying all of this is a big play with actors and people participating to make it seem as if
something happened that didn’t, all for some reason unknown to me?”
“Yes, and for others too.” Looking directly at him, she said, “And that is how I must leave it, at least
for now!”
“That isn’t good enough! I need proof!”
She took a sip of water, looked around, and then spoke. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, as certain as I can be of anything right now. I feel I have the right to know.”
“Maybe you do. If that’s the way you feel, I’ll tell you.”
Slowly, she stood up. “John, let me introduce you to someone who will help answer some questions
but no doubt prompt new ones. Will you turn and look behind you?”
John stood, turned, and saw a man sitting directly behind him holding the all-too-familiar police
drawing over his face.
Then, slowly, the man lifted the drawing, revealing the face of the man John had seen abduct Mr.
Reaves five nights earlier!

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Chapter XI
Saturday Afternoon

It was so peaceful, so quiet, not unlike being in an anechoic chamber and on a waterbed with a
gentle breeze blowing across your face.
In this dreamlike trance, someone was stroking his hair. There was no feeling of gravity; all was light
and lovely.
After a while, sound slowly began returning. Like a faraway voice, reverberating, someone was trying
to wake him from his sleep and rest.
Now who would do such a rude thing?
A word he couldn’t understand became louder. Now it improved in definition.
“Johhhn, Johhhn, Johhhn!”
Slowly he opened his eyes. He was looking up at Juliette with his head on her lap and her fingers in
his hair. He could see worry creases on that perfect face, and he wondered at this. What was all the
commotion about?
He looked further and saw that he was lying on the ground in the seating area of the restaurant.
Danger?
Slowly his memory came back and he tried to sit up without success. He must get up and run!
Juliette must run. They must get away together from the danger, the danger from the, from the what?
Oh yeah, the murderer.
Now everything was coming back to him.
Why was the killer sitting next to him, fanning him with a restaurant menu?
He heard a group of people say a doctor was on the way.
Why would he need a doctor? Had he been shot?
No, that wasn’t it; the man had a worried expression on his face and was conversing with Juliette in
low tones impossible to make out.
She was in on it! He never should have trusted her.
John forced himself up with better success until he was able to sit in a chair with some help from
both Juliette and the man.
“That was a nasty fall,” the murderer said in a friendly tone. “Are you okay?”
“Let’s give him a minute,” Juliette said. “I think I see a doctor approaching.”
So she did know this man. She had probably traveled to Chicago with him! They were both dirty.
John tried to brush his hair back and felt wetness. “Am I bleeding?”
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“No,” Juliette said, laughing. “You pulled the tablecloth down on you when you fainted and water
spilled in your hair.”
“I did not faint,” John protested.
“Oh yes, you did, and you did it really well.” Juliette smiled her signature smile, her creases all gone.
The doctor arrived and started checking John’s vital signs.
John said quietly to the doctor, “You’d better call the police as we are surrounded by murderers!”
“You must have hit your head hard, son.” The doctor felt for a contusion. “No, you seem fine.
What happened?”
“I won’t talk until the police are here!”
“We are the police, John,” said Juliette. “You must trust us.”
There was that word again.
With that, the murderer pulled out a badge identifying himself as Officer James Dopple and handed
it to John. “When you’re ready, we need to talk. Things are not what they seem.”
“You’re telling me!” said John, utterly unconvinced.
The doctor was getting ready to leave, so John grabbed his arm. “Aren’t you going to get the
police?”
The doctor looked at Juliette who said, “You’d better get them.”
This seemed an odd attitude from the accomplice of a murderer. Why would she agree to this?
“John, it must be very confusing being you right now, but if you’ll listen to us, we can help rid you
of the confusion,” she said.
“Not until the cops come,” he stated, folding his arms in mild defiance.
A few moments later, the police arrived. They walked toward the table, talking into microphones,
maybe asking for back-up.
We’ve got ‘em now, John thought.
The police started moving the rubberneckers out of the way.
“Who called the police?” asked one of the officers.
“I did,” answered the doctor.
“Okay, what’s the problem? Is anyone hurt?”
The doctor described the situation as best he could, and then Detective Dopple spoke up.
“Miss Lacombe and I are police officers. Here are our credentials. We’ve been sent here to assist in
John’s safety, but he thinks we’re here to harm him. It’s a rather involved story.”
He showed both badges and gave the officer a phone number to call.
The officers took a moment to ask a few questions and then turned their attention to John.
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“I wanted you here,” said John. “You should know that this man is wanted for two murders and this
lady is his accomplice. They both have false IDs and they might be armed. If you compare that police
drawing to this man, you’ll find it matches fairly well.”
“John!” said Juliette and shook her head.
Detective Dopple had a card in his hand. He gave it to the police officer who, after reviewing it and
the badges, handed them to another officer who got in the squad car, picked up his microphone, and made
a call. No one said anything until he came back.
“The badges and descriptions check out,” said the cop. “They’re telling the truth.”
“Do you believe us now?” asked Juliette.
John shrugged. “Why should I? I don’t know what to believe. Here I am in Chicago, away from
home, thinking I’m safe from this man, and now I find you here with him and Chicago cops saying I should
trust you. What would you do?”
“John,” she said in a soft, caring voice, “I would question everything just as you are. I can’t blame
you! We didn’t handle this well.”
The doctor asked if he was needed further, and the police said no. With that, he left, giving John an
encouraging glance.
Then it was the officers’ turn. The first officer said, “You okay if we leave?”
John shrugged again. “I feel like the rug has been pulled out from under me. I’m either falling or
regaining my balance. I’m not sure which yet.”
As the cops left, Juliette said, “Let’s work on your balance.”
“I know you don’t trust us, at least you don’t trust me,” Dopple interjected, “but we have a small
crowd around us and we need to talk in private. Would you be more comfortable at your hotel?”
John sensed it was time to run or trust. He looked at them and the crowd and said, “Let’s go.”
“Atta boy,” said Dopple. “Shall I get a cab or do you want to walk?”
Juliette looked down at her shoes and John noticed the heels she wore.
Before he could react, Juliette said, “Let’s get a cab!”

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Chapter XII
Late Saturday Afternoon

The cab ride was uneventful. No one spoke, and no pedestrian was hit by the obvious lunatic hack
who most definitely broke every driving law in the U.S. in one brief fare.
They paid this cabbie (a sure sign of the moral degradation of society), got out, and made their way
up the elevator to John’s room.
Once there, John insisted they leave the door open, and over mild objections, it was done.
Juliette sat in a chair, Dopple on the bed, and John on the desk next to the door.
Once everyone was comfortable, Dopple said, “I’m going to tell you a story that is the impetus of all
that’s happened this week. It started about a year ago. You might remember a series of murders that were
never solved.”
“Sounds very familiar,” murmured John.
That brought a smile to Dopple’s face. He continued, “Well, these murders were never officially
solved. The police had a good idea of who was involved, but with no hard evidence, they couldn’t
prosecute. Have you ever heard of a man named Trevor Donavan?”
John nodded.
“He has a rather well-known name and is enormously wealthy, but there’s a mystery. Where did all
his money come from? He has no family, no large business that would generate such wealth, yet he has tons
of money and uses it in a highly influential manner. When certain events occur—say land is needed for a
company to start a new business—and this doesn’t fit his plans, somehow the land becomes unavailable.
This sort of thing happens in various ways, yet his name is rarely associated with the event or its outcome.
Then, sometime later, someone else acquires the land and starts up a different business, and this business
just happens to involve Donavan. There’s no breadcrumb trail to him, but he’s always lurking near the
periphery. He’s like a butterfly you can only get so close to before it eludes you. It’s very frustrating to us
good guys.” Donavan paused.
“Then the murders started.” Dopple looked grim. “Each of the victims was someone whose plans
conflicted with Donavan’s. These were successful men just like Reaves and Newly, who by the way are safe
and sound and on their way home to their families.”
“I still saw you slug Reaves and throw him in a car,” said John evenly.
Dopple replied, “That’s what you think you saw. That’s what we wanted to be seen if it was seen at
all. It was a carefully planned and choreographed event between Mr. Reaves and me. Did you really see a fist
touch his body or did you see what we wanted any snooping eye to see? All was planned just in case
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someone witnessed the action. Mrs. Reaves’ reactions were coached, as we had to be convincing to
Donavan. Mr. Newly’s abduction went much smoother since there were no peeping Johns around—no
offense, kid—but if there had been, it would have appeared to be a true abduction too. Both men’s wives
knew the potential dangers with our plan but also knew how far Donavan would go to be rid of his enemies.
There was a risk in acting and a risk in not acting.”
John remembered Mrs. Reaves and how convincing she had been. He had certainly been fooled.
Dopple continued, “My part in this event started last year with the unenviable task of joining ranks
with Donavan. As I wasn’t local, I was unknown to him and his organization. I came to town with a
reputation for being a hard guy looking for work, any kind of work. I was a Guido! I started low (a serf in a
world of lords) to gain his trust. No real crimes were committed (this said more to Juliette than John), just
minor infractions. I was soon in line to start taking more responsibility when the names Reaves and Newly
arose. Both men had activities that intersected with Donavan’s, placing them in a position of danger.
Subsequently, they became useful decoys for us.” Dopple stopped speaking a moment to assess John’s
frame of mind.
When he nodded, Dopple went on.
“Due to my successes, I was elevated to a position of higher trust that entitled me to personally meet
Donavan and eventually become involved with his more trusted assistants. I was gathering names like a
squirrel gathers nuts. Soon the Reaves and Newly problems became the main topic. Donavan’s anger
increased as these men continued to not play nice. When talk of abduction to create meetings with these men
started, to see if they could be convinced to obey, I was given the nod to finally demonstrate my skills.
Donovan became animated, stating that none of my actions could be linked to him. I received several veiled
threats, but he covered his tracks well. I was given a car (probably stolen) and a gun (certainly stolen) and
with these, I was ready! Reaves was the primary choice as he was the most powerful and influential of the
two. We knew his schedule from his calendar.”
Dopple shifted his weight. “By alerting the Reaves’ that Monday night was the event, I placed
activities in motion. I was certain to be followed (this was my initial big job), so I had to make the
kidnapping look realistic. Detective Whisen assisted, and now the stage was set! The only snag was you, but
we’d anticipated you.”
“Once in the car, I drove Reaves to meet Donavan at an old warehouse where the two argued. The
outcome was, Reaves said he would never cooperate with Donavan. This was the only dangerous time for
Reaves, as I didn’t know how angry Donavan would get. Would he want the killing done in front of him?
True to form, he told me to take Reaves away to finish the job. I pretended to do so. Then the press was
informed that Reaves was dead and the news was made public with cooperation from Detective Whisen.
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The funeral was performed with a closed casket (Mrs. Reaves’ suggestion due to the condition of the
corpse) and an empty casket was buried.”
Dopple laughed. “Newly was handled in a similar fashion with much better results, at least for you.
This too was part of the plot.”
John had been sitting quietly, immersed in the story. Now he asked, “But if you didn’t receive
written copies of orders from Donovan and have no proof, how will justice be served?”
Dopple stood up. “Donavan made a more overt offer to me on Newly, perhaps because he knew I
was in danger of being discovered thanks to your drawing. He probably had my ‘accident’ planned out
following Newly’s abduction and felt safe giving me the orders. He slipped up there. They all do. That’s how
I just so happen to have a recording!” Dopple looked elated.
“The point is,” he continued, “he and many of his employees have been arrested, and with the FBI and
police department involved, plus Juliette and me, plus testimony from Reaves and Newly, Donavan and his
people will soon be in jail for a long long time. So, you see, you’re safe!”
For a while there was silence, and then John spoke. “So this was a sting operation to get a bad guy
off the streets?”
“That’s correct,” said Juliette. She appeared relaxed and comfortable, the danger over. “And not just
one bad guy but many.”
John stood and paced a little. “It appears I’ve caused a lot of problems. For that, I’m sorry. I’m also
sorry I doubted you both, but I did!”
“It was expected. Fortunately, no one was harmed, and that group is going to jail!”
“And not a shot was fired,” said John. “Brains before brawn.”
“Exactly! Not enough of that going around nowadays,” said Dopple. “It’s what we hoped and
planned for. We’re both safe again!”
The two officers stayed a while longer to answer more of John’s questions. Finally they asked if he
wanted to fly back with them that night.
“I need to talk to Emilio and Bernard before making that decision. How long do I have?”
“It’s a night flight at 10:00 p.m., so you have a few hours. Here’s my card.” Juliette held it out to
him. “You can call when you’ve decided.”
John put the card in his pocket.
With that, Officers Dopple and Lacombe shook hands with John and left.

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Chapter XIII
Saturday Evening

As soon as the two officers were gone, John knocked on Emilio’s door. He had a story to tell.
After covering as much of the afternoon as he remembered, Emilio and Bernard decided it was time
for John to return home and resume school even if his roadie skills still needed a little work, and John
agreed.
All three individuals were relieved at the outcome of the event. When relating Dopple’s embedded
performance to Emilio and Bernard, John found himself admiring the man. Funny what a 180-degree turn
could do. He was looking through new eyes.
After a pause, Bernard said, “That story will never make the big screen. It doesn’t have enough
violence and gun play.”
“Yeah, can you imagine people having to use their brains in a movie? Ha!” said John.
“It’s quite an outcome. No one hurt, criminals in jail, and our friend John out of harm’s way,”
Emilio summed up.
“Amen,” said Bernard.
John felt the fatigue starting to hit him much like the fatigue following his senior recital. Once such a
huge event was over, the body always started to de-stress.
He was experiencing the same sort of exhaustion now but for altogether different reasons. The
feelings of the past week, surreal feelings that included fear over what might happen next or whether he’d be
killed, were quite different from recital performance feelings, but both had the same energy-draining effect.
John phoned Juliette and Dopple to tell them he was heading home. They seemed pleased and
offered to drive him to the airport. They even purchased a second seat for his guitar.
As dinnertime approached, Emilio and Bernard were in unanimous agreement that John should
invite the two officers. One more phone call, and it was done. They would all meet in the hotel lobby in
front of the restaurant.
Dinner itself played second fiddle to the sting operation. Emilio and Bernard laughed out loud when
they heard Juliette’s rendition of John fainting, and together the five individuals discussed right versus
wrong, mean versus kind, hate versus love, guns versus brains. Agreement regarding right versus wrong was
unanimous, as was kind versus mean.
Bernard said, “The way the world rotates today, it feels as if all the good things are going away or
being laughed at and mocked. But then I take a visit back to my favorite subject, history, and realize that evil
people have always been here. Selfish people will always have themselves, but who wants to be around
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them? I can’t understand how some people place themselves above others due to their IQ, beauty, talent,
money, or the events in their lives. Wouldn’t it be superior of these people to use their gifts to benefit
others? And then there’s the belief that a blood line entitles people to be addressed as “Your Majesty” and
have them wave a scepter when they’re probably just as flawed as the rest of us!”
Bernard looked around and realized he had been lecturing. He apologized, and Emilio said, “I think
you were just getting warmed up.”
John said, “Well, I hate to bring this up, but what about guns versus brains? Don’t we have an issue
there?”
Dopple spoke up. “Being in law enforcement, I’ve been trained to protect myself and others and
even to kill. I’m a fairly good shot, but I rarely carry a gun, and Miss Juliette only carries a gun in bad areas
downtown.”
“There are a lot of rats in the city,” she said, laughing.
There was that smile again, John noted.
She continued, “As Watson would discuss with Holmes, ‘the brain before the cudgel.’ Having a gun
doesn’t give you power. Rather, it makes you lose the power to affect situations.”
“I’m not sure I get that,” said John.
“Using a gun is the easy solution,” she explained. “It’s like looking up the answers in the back of the
book rather than using your brain to work through the problem. It’s an un-thought-out, first solution
response to a moment, very much like the way those who use guns in violent activities choose to spend their
lives. Point, aim, click, and your problem is over when it hasn’t even been addressed! There’s no thought
regarding the biological or moral issue of taking a life, or the family left behind, or the usefulness of the
person dispatched from life for a few dollars or a fix. It’s amazing to think a human life might only be worth
a jacket or a pair of shoes. Death depicted on TV and in the movies is rarely treated with a groan or
complaint of pain.”
“I hate to be the adult here,” Dopple interjected, “but we have a plane to catch!”
With warm goodbyes, they adjourned.

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Chapter XIV
Late Saturday Evening

The plane ride home was uneventful with one exception—John got to sit next to Juliette. He treated
his guitar to the window seat. As they were awaiting takeoff, he ran his thumbnail across his fingernails as
was his habit and notice a damaged ring fingernail. This was like having a new filling in your mouth; you just
can’t leave it alone. He pulled out his file and was working on the rough spot when he heard Juliette giggle.
“This is like you oiling your gun,” he pronounced. They both laughed. Soon he relaxed and slept the better
part of the flight.
The short time he wasn’t asleep, he pondered the events that had drained so much time, energy, and
emotion from him in one short week. Could it be that he had been apartment hunting just last Saturday and
Sunday with Sid?
He found himself thinking of Sid, Patrice, Ms. Lodge, his apartment, and how it had become
comfortable to him, a refuge. It had become home. School was waiting for him as well as continued study
with Emilio, now as much a friend as a teacher.
He thought of his other new friends, Juliette, Bernard, and, surprisingly, Dopple. Now what was that
guy’s first name?
He thought of his other new acquaintances, the guitarists at school and even the policemen. He
assumed the family lives of the two abductees were settling down with a lot of reminiscing going on.
Off the plane and in the terminal, John was surprised to see Sid and Ms. Lodge waiting for him.
“What are you two doing here?” he asked.
“Word gets around. We wanted to welcome the world traveler home,” said Ms. Lodge. “Now we’ll
both have travel tales to tell.”
“Yes, we will.” John smiled and glanced at his friend. “So, I hope you’ve been practicing!”
“Sure,” drawled Sid. “But I’ll marvel if you remember how!”
Ah, sarcasm!
John quickly introduced Juliette and Dopple to Sid and Ms. Lodge.
After investigating Juliette visually and shaking hands with Dopple, Sid said to the detective, “You
know, you remind me of someone!”
This evoked howls of laughter followed by goodbyes and exits.
Ms. Lodge drove while John answered endless questions. Conversation went on past the car ride and
late into the night, which became early Sunday morning. Once they had exhausted themselves of questions
and energy, the three parted.
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John again dreamt. This time, he was on a plane. Dopple was piloting. Juliette, his private
stewardess, was serving him, and Emilio was serenading them. He awoke once to see if he was really there
or to see if it was just a dream.
Oh, it was a dream.
Life returned to normal. John immersed himself in classes, lessons, and practice, practice, and more
practice. He was even invited to Emilio’s and Estelle’s for dinner. Although he settled into a comfortable
routine, his thoughts often returned to the fallacious chaos of the first week of that fall semester.
One day when doing his laundry and hanging up clothes (he had hangers now), he felt
something in the pocket of the pants he’d bought in Chicago and hadn’t worn since. The pants had been
through the wringer and dryer, and whatever was in the pocket was thin and worn. What was it?
He carefully opened the faded folds and was just able to make out a phone number. Above the
number was a name. It was difficult to read, but once he’d studied it for a bit, “Juliette LaComb” came into
view.
John thought of her smile and wondered, should he call?

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