The Memorial Hall Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

passing out homemade candy. Vick took a piece. Rosie Bell, first trumpet, took another. Rosie was a star, a famous economist, and you’d think she’d be too busy to play in the orchestra, but Rosie was a good sport, and she never missed a rehearsal. She took her trumpet out of its case. The trumpet glittered in the sunlight. Rosy blew warm air into it and sat down and flapped through her music and let go with her solo from the end of Messiah. It was Rosie’s big moment. TahDAH, dadidadiDAH, dadidadidadidadiDAH, DAH DAH DAHdida , blared Rosie, her trills rippling like water. And then Mr. Proctor unbuttoned his sweater and swelled his barrel chest and closed his eyes and sang the words that went with Rosie’s fanfare: The trumpet shall sound and the dead shall be raised, the dead shall be raised incorruptible.
    â€œI won’t stand for it.” Jonathan Pearlman was shaking Vick’s arm. “She’s back. That crazy old lady. You know, the one Ham squeezed into my second-violin section last year. I tell you, I won’t take it lying down. Not again.”
    â€œOh, no, not Miss Plankton?” Vick looked around in dismay. There she was, Jane Plankton, that funny little old lady, pulling her fiddle out of its scuffed case, her hair ribbon bobbing, her cheeks bright pink. Oh, it was incredible. Ham had sworn he would get rid of her. Because the poor dear could hardly play at all, and she was always downbow when everybody else was upbow. She had no business being in the orchestra anyway, even if she was an old ’Cliffie of the class of aught nine or something. What was the matter with Ham? Why didn’t he do something?
    And then Vick saw Jennifer Sullivan. She ran up to Jennifer and took her by the shoulders and stared at her in mock horror. “Jennifer, I didn’t know.” Because Jennifer was pregnant, really bulging.
    â€œOh, never mind,” said Jennifer. “Just never mind. I don’t want to even talk about it. And if you want to know who the father was, it was just some guy I know, I mean I don’t care, I mean it doesn’t make any difference. I’m staying with Ham. I mean, they wouldn’t let me have a baby in the dorm, so Ham said I could have it there at his house on Martin Street. So shut up. Just tell me where you want the sopranos. Over there? Hey, Betsy, the sopranos are over there.”
    But Betsy wasn’t listening. Betsy Pickett was riding around on the back of Jack Fox, screaming to be let down, and the new people in the chorus who didn’t know Betsy were staring at her. You’d never think Betsy was a prize-winning student in the Classics Department, you’d just never believe she was writing an honors thesis on some old Roman poet. Betsy’s boyfriend, Tim Swegle, was dragging at her from the rear. Tim had a firm grip under Betsy’s fat shoulders, but Betsy was hanging on to Jack’s neck with her little hiking boots and shrieking with rapture, and Jack was choking and clawing at his throat. Vick smiled and sat down with the cellos, then looked up as a tall big-boned woman bent down to speak to her. “Where do you want the altos?” said the woman. “I’m new. My name’s Mary Kelly.”
    â€œOh, hi, there, Mrs. Kelly,” said Vick, beaming at her. “The altos are over there on the left side. And, say, I just met your husband. He’s really great. I sure wish I could take your course.”
    Ham was on the podium, tapping his music stand. Instantly disorder became order. Betsy was in her place with the sopranos. Jack Fox struck a note on the harpsichord. A threadlike piercing A escaped from the oboe. The orchestra tuned up, and then Ham pulled something out of his pocket and waved it in the air. “Peanut brittle,” he said. “Did everybody get some of Mrs. Esterhazy’s peanut brittle?” Mrs. Esterhazy’s basket was passed around once more. Then Ham stepped aside