27. Montana
27
Montana
D inner with Alek is going exactly as I'd imagined it would. He’s taken me to a hole-in-the-wall cafe clearly meant for hiding inappropriate activity. Even so, this married man's eyes divert to the entrance every time the old cowbell rings to inform the staff a new customer has arrived.
He orders a black coffee and a Swiss melt, and I order a coffee with cream and a large streusel muffin with a bowl of mixed fruit on the side.
He asks me questions about my origin story, and I do the same to appear unaware. However, I know most of what there is to know about Alek. He’s thirty-seven, married to his college sweetheart, loves overpriced wine, and collects old jazz records. He hates this new generation for their lack of insightfulness, and has a stock supply of his favorite designer cologne. But the root of what I'm doing here is to get more insight.
“So then I was invited to audition with the Montgomery Fine Orchestra after I left my teaching position at Juilliard. It wasn't for me.” He sets his coffee cup on the table between us.
“Juilliard?”
“No, I loved Juilliard. But teaching. It's just beneath me and my talents.”
I nod, holding tight to my poker face. Arrogant prick.
“That and students these days aren't what they used to be.”
“Meaning?” I quirk my neck.
“Lack of respect. No real drive or passion.”
I laugh beneath my breath. “I can see that.”
“I think that's why you astonish me the most,” he continues. “Because I've seen what youths are incapable of, yet you”—he shakes his head, a look of astonishment overtaking him—“you defy all my logic. Beautiful, youthful, talented beyond belief…You're sensational in every regard.”
Any young woman's stomach would twist at that declaration. Legs would be spread and ready for an older man with the promise of securing a future.
I run my fingertip along my chipped ceramic coffee mug, fluttering my lashes as I look up to find his heavy stare on me.
“I'm so honored a well-respected musician like you can appreciate my efforts.”
He smiles proudly, so sure of himself.
“Anything you may need, feel free to come to me. Practice sessions, questions about the changes in riffs, or how to adjust to the slip in pitch. The tricky key changes in The Isle of the Dead are wicked.”
Unable to withhold any longer from the bait dangling before me, I finally ask the question I've been needing to.
“Has that piece always been a part of Conductor Hopkins’ set?”
He sits back in his seat, resting one leg casually over the other.
“No, actually, about two years ago, he introduced the new pieces to change up his original score. He was inspired after his sabbatical in Russia. Said the music always brought a curiosity out of him, but seeing the original artwork—the piece brought him great solitude regarding death and the afterlife.”
“That’s an interesting concept—his focus on that, in particular, after a sabbatical. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but aren’t sabbaticals meant for relaxation and decompressing?”
He laughs lightly. “I admit, it felt like a dismal shift from his original optimistic and buoyant nature, but that’s art, isn’t it? It ebbs and flows with our emotions.”
The message I received from Ella on CyprusX came shortly before his apparent sabbatical, according to the information I’d discovered about Charles Hopkins. The timing of everything fits so perfectly, and it makes my skin crawl with discomfort. My chest feels heavy-laden, each breath more constricted than the next. I grab my glass to get a sip of water, attempting to calm my nerves as we finish our food.
Alek drives me back home afterward, reluctantly dropping me off at the place he clearly feels is unsuitable for me. I thank him profusely for dinner, ensuring he has a good weekend off and that I’ll see him again Monday, but he lingers in the driver's seat anxiously, wanting to say something. I see him searching his mind for the words, his eyes peering at my mouth as he licks his lips, battling with himself in his head. Men and their loose morals.
But I make it easy for the older married man by quickly hopping out of the vehicle and departing. He watches as I make my way to the side door. Waving once more, I hear a glass bottle shatter from somewhere in the backyard, and a cluster of laughter fills the air. I promptly head inside before the knight in shining Lincoln can find a new reason to save me.
Once inside the kitchen, I lean back against the wall, taking a breath to process the information I’ve received.
If my suspicions are correct, and Conductor Hopkins was involved in the disappearance of Ella Marx, then I know what I need to do next.