Chapter Thirty-Six
SO VIC Nelson didn’t kill Iris?” Joy stared at Blair across the table in the faculty lounge the next afternoon, eyes wide, brows arched over her glasses, a sandwich halfway to her lips.
Blair shrugged. “That’s what he says.”
“Do we believe him?”
“I don’t believe anything that man says anymore.” Blair reached for a carrot stick. “But the police are talking to Flora. Apparently she’s still alive.”
“Huh.” Joy took a bite of sandwich. “I thought for sure Nelson did it.”
“I thought so too. Part of me—most of me—hoped he hadn’t.”
Joy met Blair’s gaze. “But part of you hoped he had.”
“Does that make me an awful person?”
“Absolutely not. He lied to you. Lied to everyone. Pretended to be a decent human when he was anything but. And he stole Iris Wallingford’s work.” Joy shook her head. “Too bad they can’t arrest him for that.”
“Afternoon, ladies.” Callum’s voice was at Blair’s back, and she turned to greet him with a smile.
“Hi,” she said.
“I just got a call from Detective Valentine.” Callum leaned against a vacant chair at their table. “Detective Stanton will be calling you, but I wanted you to hear this from me.”
Blair’s shoulders tightened. “Okay . . .”
“Flora confessed to Iris’s murder.” Callum’s jaw was tight.
“She told the detectives that she saw the note and the pills and thought Iris had tried to take her own life. But when she checked on Iris, she was still alive, so rather than call for help, Flora decided to ‘end her suffering and be merciful,’ as she put it. She smothered Iris with a pillow.”
“In what universe is that merciful?” Joy burst out.
“Flora’s misguided one, apparently. But now they’re reopening the deaths of Iris’s parents. I guess in the original police report someone noticed that the boat looked like it had been tampered with, but the case went cold right away. No leads.”
Blair stared at Callum. “Do they think Flora killed the Wallingfords too?”
“Valentine says he and Stanton are in touch with police in North Carolina, who are handling that case since it’s their jurisdiction. One way or another, though, she’ll be brought here to face charges in Iris’s death.”
“Will there even be a trial, since she confessed?” Blair asked.
“Probably not,” Joy piped up. “Just a prison sentence.”
“Why would she wipe out the entire family?”
“Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Wallingford didn’t treat her well.” Joy shrugged. “Not a justification, of course, but if they were abusing her, she may have felt like she had no choice.”
“But why kill Iris?” Blair pressed. “She wouldn’t have mistreated Flora.”
“According to the North Carolina police, after Iris died, the Wallingfords named Flora their heir,” Callum said.
“Maybe Flora knew that would happen. She must have been an excellent maid, and they must not have had family members to leave their fortune to. So that could’ve been her motive for killing Iris too. ”
“So she killed a whole family and inherited millions?” Joy spat.
“Sounds like it,” Callum replied. “Apparently Flora’s been living it up in Hawaii the past fifty years.”
“Wow.” Blair’s mind whirled with the onslaught of new information. “Wow.”
“Hey, look at you guys!” Joy gave Callum’s shoulder a friendly shove.
“Solving three murders all because you found an unfinished piece of music in the choir library! That almost sounds like a TV series. Choral director and collaborative pianist by day, crime-fighting superheroes by night.” She framed the words with her hands. “I’d watch the heck out of that show.”
Blair laughed and shook her head. “I think I’m retiring from solving crimes.”
“Shame.” Callum tossed a teasing grin over his shoulder as he headed for the door. “You’d be cute in a cape.”
Blair turned to find Joy leaning back in her chair, arms folded across her chest, with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on her face.
She sighed. “Okay, fine, whatever. You told me so. He is, in fact, devastatingly handsome, and I have a thing for him.”
“I think it’s more than a thing, Blair. You come to life when he enters the room.”
Blair groaned.
“What?” Joy leaned forward. “Why is falling for someone who’s handsome and talented and good to you such a bad thing?”
“I said after Derek that I’d never give my heart away again. And I certainly didn’t intend to, especially to someone planning to leave in a few months. But it happened anyway. Despite all my efforts not to, I’ve fallen in love with Callum.”
Joy squealed.
“He’s only here through May, though, and then he goes back to Boston. So where does that leave us?”
“I wouldn’t be too sure that’s his plan,” Joy replied. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I don’t think he’ll be eager to leave you behind.”
“No, but he might ask me to come with him. And I can’t leave here.”
“Sure you can. It’s simple, really. You pack all your stuff, you sell your house, and you move to Boston.”
“You know what I mean. The kids. You. My dad. My whole life is here.”
Joy smiled. “And that’s why God invented FaceTime and airplanes.
Don’t get me wrong—I would miss you terribly and I’d call you every single day and I would be mad at Callum for taking my best friend halfway across the country.
But I’ve never seen you like this with a guy before.
I think you’d be making a mistake if you weren’t willing to at least think about leaving your comfort zone. ”
As usual, Joy was probably right. But could Blair actually leave? For a guy? That went against everything she believed in.
“Just pray about it, okay?” Joy squeezed Blair’s hand. “Open your heart to whatever God has for you. Because I guarantee it’s better than anything you’d ever dream up for yourself.”
Callum’s phone buzzed on the desk just as he finished the last of his lunch. Ralph’s picture filled the little screen. Callum raised the phone to his ear.
“Just thought I’d touch base, my friend,” Ralph said. “You’ve kinda disappeared on me.”
“Yeah. Sorry. I’ve been solving a murder.”
“And I’m Mary Poppins,” Ralph replied without missing a beat.
Callum grinned. “Well, Miss Poppins, you better come floating in on an umbrella next time I see you. Because I have literally been solving a murder.” He filled Ralph in on the investigation into Iris’s death.
“Wow,” Ralph said. “So all Vic Nelson’s music is plagiarized?”
“Much of it.” Callum leaned back in his chair. “I think eventually he did figure out how to come up with his own stuff. But most of his earlier music was stolen from Iris Wallingford.”
“What happens to Iris’s notebook now?” Ralph asked.
Callum’s gaze fell on the office bookshelf, where the notebook was proudly displayed. “The police gave it back to us. It’ll live in the choir office forever and always.”
“Good,” Ralph replied. “Shame you can’t put any of her pieces on a concert.”
Callum sat up straight. “Ralph, you’ve just given me a brilliant idea.”
“I’ve been known to do that from time to time.” Callum could easily picture Ralph’s smirk. “And speaking of brilliant ideas, how’s that commission for Illinois going?”
“It’s finished.” Callum glanced toward his iPad. “I’m just looking it over one last time, and then it’s on its way to you.”
“Callum Knight, I am literally doing a happy dance right now,” Ralph said. “You should see me. Maybe I should switch this call to FaceTime.”
Callum chuckled. “Picturing it is terrifying enough. I don’t need the visual.”
“Fair enough. So you’re officially back?”
A smile spread across Callum’s face, and he gave a happy sigh. “I’m officially back.”
“So we can expect you in Boston . . . maybe sometime in June? When does school let out in the sticks?”
Callum paused. “Well, about that . . .”
“I knew there’d be a catch.”
“Ralph, Boston just doesn’t feel like home to me anymore. Don’t get me wrong—it’ll always have a special place in my heart. But I . . . I really love it here. I thought I’d never belong here, but I do. And I love these kids. I love teaching, in a way I never, ever thought I could.”
“And you love Blair, but that much is obvious. You’re writing music again. You’re happy again. Of course you’re in love.”
“Well, I am in love.” That truth resonated in his soul.
He was in love with Blair. “But God’s the one who’s inspiring the music now.
And yes, at the moment Blair is the face of that inspiration, but she’s not the reason I can write music again.
He is. So I think over winter break I’m going to fly to Boston and officially put my condo on the market.
” He’d been subletting it to a couple of BU graduate students, but the time had come to sell it.
“Funny you should mention that,” Ralph said. “I’m in the market for a new place. And I’ve always loved your condo.”
“You wanna buy it? That’d sure make life easier on my end.”
“You serious?”
“I am.”
“Then let’s talk numbers soon,” Ralph said. “We can sign papers when you’re here.”
“What happened with your apartment?” Callum asked.
“It’s . . . no longer large enough for my needs.”
Callum read between the lines. “Wait, did you meet someone too? You did, didn’t you? Who’s the sly dog now?”
“Not sly,” Ralph replied. “Just lucky.”
“Well, however it happened, congratulations.”
“Think Blair would come with you over break?” he asked. “I’d love to meet her.”
“I’ll bet she would,” he said. “She needs to see Boston once before it’s officially part of my past.”
“So you’re serious about staying?” Ralph asked.
“I can compose anywhere,” Callum replied. “And for the foreseeable future, I’ve decided to do that here in Peterson.”
“Well, congratulations, mazel tov, and all that jazz. I’ll let the world know you’re back open for business.”
“Thank you, Ralph.”
“You’re welcome.”
“No, I mean it.” A sudden lump formed in his throat. “Thanks for believing in me, even when—especially when—I didn’t believe in myself. You’ve been a rock for me these last five years. I hope you know that.”
“Okay, okay, enough with the sappy speeches. You can thank me by lowering the price of your condo.”
When they ended the call, Callum still had mist in his eyes.
God had blown him away with just how perfectly everything had worked out.
He had restored and renewed everything, and the tiny little flicker of faith left in Callum’s soul had been fanned into a full-on fire.
Callum was composing again. He was directing choirs again. Worshipping God with his music again.
And he was in love again.
The office door opened, and the object of that love walked in.
“Hi.” He stared at her, starry-eyed. He had to tell her how he felt. He had to tell her what he’d just decided. He had to tell her . . .
“Hey. Just found this in our mailbox,” she said.
He tore his eyes from hers and found the manila envelope in her left hand. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” She slipped her finger beneath the seal. “But I’m very, very intrigued. Because the postmark says Chicago and the return addressee is someone named Hochsteiner.”
Okay, that got his attention. He stood and met Blair in the middle of the office. She slid a sheaf of papers from the envelope and read aloud from the page on top.
Dear Mr. Knight and Ms. Emerson,
I was contacted recently by two detectives from the Peterson police department investigating the death of Iris Wallingford.
While I didn’t know Iris, I had the privilege of examining one of her pieces.
In all my years teaching at Whitehall, this was the most brilliant audition piece anyone ever submitted.
As you may already know, Iris submitted this piece under the name of Victor Nelson.
She wrote to me a few months later confessing their deception, and I wrote back to her explaining that while I could not award her a spot at Whitehall, she was welcome to move to Chicago and let me mentor her privately, and then audition again the following year.
However, by the time my letter reached her, she had already passed on.
I have held on to this piece of hers for over fifty years, but I believe now the time has come to pass it on to you. I trust you will care for it in the manner it deserves.
Yours most sincerely,
R. M. Hochsteiner
And behind it, a handwritten choral score torn from a spiral notebook. “I Am My Beloved’s.”
“Wow,” Blair breathed.
Callum had no words. There it was. The one finished piece Vic Nelson had never touched but the one that bore his name. The one that had gotten him a spot at Whitehall. The one Iris wrote. The one that should have been her ticket.
They had it. Blair held it in her hands.
The genius of Iris Wallingford had come home to Peterson at last.
“Shall we?” Blair motioned toward the piano.
It took him a minute to shake from his spellbound state and realize what she’d asked. She wanted them to discover the music. Together. Just like they had that first day of school.
Eagerness to hear the music, to sing it, to study it, overwhelmed him. “Absolutely.”
He followed Blair to the piano and stood over her shoulder, watching her fingers fly over the keys. They sang through the piece together—far, far less than perfectly on Callum’s part. But that was because he was watching Blair.
He was singing the lyrics of love . . . to Blair.
As the final chord faded away, he leaned over and kissed her. The kiss went on almost as long as the music had, as his lips found new ways to tell her what filled his heart.
When he parted from her at great reluctance, he feathered his fingertips over her cheekbone and peered deep into those bottomless brown eyes. “I love you.”
The shine in her eyes was something he’d remember for the rest of his life.
“I love you too, Callum.”
“And I love this piece.”
Blair nodded. “It’s stunning.”
“The world needs to hear it. Iris deserves to have her piece heard.”
“She does.”
The suggestion Ralph had given him earlier sprouted into full bloom, and he grinned. “Blair? I think I have a great idea.”