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Dabbling in Crime Death of a Violinist and other Stories. von Reuben, Shelly (eBook)

  • Erscheinungsdatum: 01.10.2016
  • Verlag: BookBaby
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Dabbling in Crime

During the period when Shelly Reuben was investigating arson as a private detective and certified fire investigator, she came across individuals and events that tantalized her mind and touched her heart. Add to this a vivid imagination and an indelible belief that, even if virtue does not always triumph, it will eventually manage to hobble, stumble or stride triumphantly across the finish line-and you have these eleven stories. Originally published in The Forensic Examiner and The Evening Sun. Within the pages of Dabbling in Crime, meet: - Dante No-Last-Name-No-Middle-Initial, a throwaway kid hiding under a music school staircase, with a damaged heart and the talent of a virtuoso violinist. - Wealthy, beloved Jimmy Lillyjohn, burned to death on the top floor of his mansion after a lighted cigarette falls from his fingers onto his lonely mattress. - Mountainous, mean-spirited Hilda Pomfrey, who bullies everyone in her sphere, including her tree-loving, milquetoast husband Herb. - Honorable Police Chief Joseph Steinbeck, who reluctantly participates in a library event, and is almost murdered when he is checked out as a 'Human Book.' - Prosecutor Edward Nygh, who hides evidence of arson to convict the wrong man, and his reluctant assistant who travels through time to revisit her past.

Produktinformationen

    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: none
    Seitenzahl: 230
    Erscheinungsdatum: 01.10.2016
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9781483574844
    Verlag: BookBaby
    Größe: 336kBytes
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Dabbling in Crime

DEATH OF A VIOLINIST I would not describe myself as a tough man. Left to my own devices, I would rather grow cucumbers than flowers and watch the Super Bowl than go to a ballet, but I don't kick puppies, and when my wife was alive, I would have knit booties out of barbed wire or listened to Frank Sinatra (I hated the guy; he was a bully), just to make her smile. Our daughter Beth looks exactly like Caroline. Same laughing green eyes. Same pug nose. Same freckles. Same crooked grin. That's why, even though she sounds like a dying frog when she plays, I paid for her overpriced violin lessons with Mr. Schoenbaum, because he's supposed to be one of the best teachers in town. Beth took dance lessons, too. Her ballet teacher was Miss de Lafontaine. As near as I can figure, music and dance teachers don't have first names. Right after they pop out of the womb, their nurses stammer, "Yes, sir" or "No, ma'am," and then back subserviently out of the room. Funny about people becoming who they are, though. Throw all of it into the pot: The hope. The ambition. The envy. The joy. The heartbreak. The emotions we're stuck with and can't seem to get through life without. Mr. Schoenbaum must have felt them, too, but he never became a Jack or a Bert or a Phil or a Joe. Mr. Schoenbaum he was born (or so it seems), and Mr. Schoenbaum he stayed. He's a tall man with a thick head of dark brown hair. Hawk nose. Preposterous eyebrows. Slate gray eyes. Age? Somewhere north of forty and south of who cares. When Beth started her lessons, he was teaching his private students out of a cramped fifth floor walkup on East 21st Street in Manhattan. I met Dante (no last name no middle initial), heard him play, and became peripherally involved in his life...all because Beth decided to study the violin. I'm a cop. Rank. Division. Assignments...not relevant to this case. It wasn't my call and I didn't make the arrest. But I was there. Beth and I were both there when it happened, and we both saw the boy die. Beth says that she's all right with it. She isn't, but that's okay, because I'm not all right with it either. Neither of us are very good liars. The first week in April, Mr. Schoenbaum left a message on our answering machine. He stated that he had made some changes, and would now be giving lessons out of his new apartment in Brooklyn: Two bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Music studio (formerly dining room) with windows overlooking Joralemon Street. And only one flight up. Big improvement. Why the move? Because, Mr. Schoenbaum eventually told us, he had met a boy. A very special boy. A ragamuffin. A throwaway kid. But a genius. A prodigy. Turns out that other than having private pupils, Mr. Schoenbaum is also the Dean of Music at Lancaster College. The college's school of music occupies an old red brick building on Seventh Avenue in Park Slope. Big rooms. Giant double-hung wood framed windows. Tongue and groove oak flooring scuffed by thousands of students carrying musical instruments up and down six flights of stairs. The practice rooms are on the top floor. You get there by climbing a narrow staircase that looks like something out of a black and white movie where a psychopath lurches past a 40-watt light bulb and attacks a deaf mute serving girl somewhere between the second and the third floors. That's not what happened here. In fact, nothing bad happened, even though Dante No-Last-Name-No-Middle-Initial was hiding in the shadows beneath the stairs. He had made himself sort of a nest up there: A ratty army blanket that he'd gotten from God knows where; a plastic water bottle that he refilled at the water fountain; a knapsack crammed with a clean change of clothes (blue jeans, t-shirt, socks,

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