The reviewer wrote that he had never heard of the piece but, upon research, learned several things: one, it was so difficult to play that it was rarely performed — as the program notes had reported; and, two, the piece had a connection to several crimes. A link sent her to another article: “The Curse of the Midnight Sonatina.”
She gave a soft laugh and went to the site on which the story was posted, a history journal she’d never heard of.
The first of the crimes surrounding the Midnight involved the creator of the piece himself.
Italian composer Luigi Scavello, 1801–1842, was known to be eccentric and would wander by himself through the hills outside of Florence, disappearing for days at a time. It was then that he did much of his composing. He said the earth and animals and sky and rocks gave him the inspiration for the songs he wrote. He usually returned from his hiking wild-eyed and disheveled. He studied with the famed Paganini, whose difficult compositions he would have no trouble performing — one of the master’s few students to be able to summon the skills required.
But Scavello soon quit his studies and grew more and more reclusive.
In 1841, he vanished for three days and when he emerged he reported that he’d spent the time in a cave in the Tuscan hills. It was there that he’d written what he considered his masterpiece, Sonatina in E Minor for Violin (the “Midnight”). He’d composed the piece over the course of a single day and night, he claimed. Fellow musicians didn’t know what to make of the sonatina, as it was well beyond the ability of most violinists.
The first performance was a chamber concert in a church near Chianti. Scavello played the piece himself. By all accounts, the sonatina mesmerized the audience — moving them to tears in some instances, to shock in others. A few actually collapsed with emotion.
A week after the performance Scavello went mad and murdered a local priest, then cut his own throat, bleeding to death in the middle of the square outside the church.
All word of the Midnight Sonatina was lost and there’s no record of its having been played again, until decades later, when a British musicologist doing research in Italy discovered the piece. The professor returned to London, where a chamber group there added the sonatina to their repertoire. It was at one of their concerts that the sonatina was associated with yet another horrific crime.
Beth was interrupted when her phone hummed. She glanced at the number.
She frowned. It was the mobile of Sandra Altman, from next door.
Neighbors from hell...
“Sandra.”
“Look, I don’t know what your husband’s up to but you better tell him to stop it.”
“What’re you talking about?” Beth asked.
“He’s at your living room window. He’s been there for an hour, staring at us. Glaring. It’s very upsetting. We tried calling the house but he’s not picking up. If he doesn’t stop, Fred’s going to call the police.”
Beth’s heart sank. Robert had relapsed into his odd behavior of last night.
She said stiffly, “He hasn’t been feeling well.”
“Feeling well? He’s sick, all right. Sick in the head. I’ve always known it.”
Coming from the woman who would steal their newspaper and refused to trim trees whose branches fell onto their property.
Not to mention dog shit.
“I’ll give him a call. And—”
But then the woman was talking to someone else; her husband, Beth supposed. “Where are you going?”
“To tell him to stop,” came the man’s distant voice.
Then there was a pause. “Fred, no! He’s in the front yard. He’s got a knife! Get back here. Fred? Now!”
Beth heard a shrill scream. The line went silent.
The police were at the house when she arrived. Beth skidded the car to a stop, half in the driveway, half on the lawn.
Two men — both pale-complexioned, one round, the other tall and balding — were on her doorstep. They wore nearly identical suits, navy blue, and white shirts. Gold badges rested on their belts. She jogged to them, breathless from the run and breathless from the shock of what she’d learned had happened.
She stared at the Altman house. The medical examiner was wheeling one body out. That would be Sandra’s; Fred had been slashed to death in the front yard.
Crying softly, Beth asked the stocky detective where her husband was, and how was he?
“He’s in custody, Mrs. Tollner. We found him walking down the street, about three blocks from here.”
“He was holding the knife. The murder weapon.”
She dabbed her eyes and thought of the people she’d have to notify: her parents, Robert’s. His sister, too, and her husband, Joanne and Edward, the only relatives who lived nearby.
“Is he — was he hurt when you arrested him?”
“No,” the tall officer said. “Looks like, according to the arresting officers, it was like he was sleepwalking. Muttering and humming to himself. He was read his rights but he didn’t acknowledge understanding them.”
His partner: “Mrs. Tollner, does your husband have any history of mental illness?”
Through her mind streamed images of the incident from last night, her discussion with the psychiatrist. It occurred to her that maybe she shouldn’t be answering their questions. Wasn’t there something about a privilege between husbands and wives?
“I think I’ll talk to our attorney,” Beth said evenly.
“This is a very serious crime,” the heavy-set officer said.
Her look was essentially: And you need to remind me why?
“It’ll go a long way for Robert, if we get cooperation. From all parties.” That was from his partner.
Was this good cop/bad cop? Beth knew all about that; she had watched many of the true-crime TV shows.
“I’m going to talk to a lawyer.” She looked defiantly from one to the other.
“That’s your right.” This was from the one she thought was the bad cop. Maybe they had swapped parts.
When they were gone, she went inside and stepped into the kitchen to make some coffee. She stopped abruptly. Robert had removed four sharp knives from the wooden blocks and arranged them carefully on the green granite island. They appeared to make a pattern but she couldn’t find any meaning.
She started to put them away but then thought maybe the police would get a warrant or ask her if she’d moved anything. She left the blades where they were.
In the spacious living room, Beth dropped onto the couch and placed a call to a man named Julian Kramer. He was a criminal lawyer with one of the biggest firms in southern Connecticut, and she’d been given his name by Robert’s sister, Joanne, who like her brother was also an attorney, though the woman did no criminal work.
Kramer had been expecting the call. He listened patiently and told her his fee structure, which she instantly agreed to. He asked a number of questions. She sifted his words for clues as to whether or not he was hopeful for Robert, but she spotted no tell.
Then thought to herself: given the facts, how much hope could he offer?
Was there any doubt her husband had stabbed to death two people he despised?
“Give me the names of the detectives,” the lawyer said. I’ll call and see what the booking plans are. If he’s in an unstable mental state, there’ll be a different set of procedures.”
She did this then hesitated. What did she want to say? Do your best. Please help. You have to understand he’d never do anything like this.