Piano Lessons Can Be Murder, Page 2

Piano lessons might be fun, I thought. If they let me learn to play rock piano, not that drippy, boring classical stuff.

  After a few lessons, maybe I could get a synthesizer. Get two or three different keyboards. Hook them up to a computer.

  Then I could do some composing. Maybe get a group together.

  Yeah. It could be really excellent.

  I closed my eyes.

  The window rattled again. The old house seemed to groan.

  I’ll get used to these noises, I told myself. I’ll get used to this old house. After a few nights, I won’t even hear the noises.

  I had just about drifted off to sleep when I heard the soft, sad piano music begin again.

  Monday morning, I woke up very early. My cat clock with the moving tail and eyes wasn’t unpacked yet. But I could tell it was early by the pale gray light coming through my bedroom window.

  I got dressed quickly, pulling on a clean pair of faded jeans and a dark green pullover shirt that wasn’t too wrinkled. It was my first day at my new school, so I was pretty excited.

  I spent more time on my hair than I usually do. My hair is brown and thick and wiry, and it takes me a long time to slick it down and make it lie flat the way I like it.

  When I finally got it right, I made my way down the hall to the front stairs. The house was still silent and dark.

  I stopped outside the attic door. It was wide open.

  Hadn’t I closed it when I’d come downstairs with my dad?

  Yes. I remembered shutting it tight. And now, here it was, wide open.

  I felt a cold chill on the back on my neck. I closed the door, listening for the click.

  Jerry, take it easy, I warned myself. Maybe the latch is loose. Maybe the attic door always swings open. It’s an old house, remember?

  I’d been thinking about the piano music. Maybe it was the wind blowing through the piano strings, I told myself.

  Maybe there was a hole or something in the attic window. And the wind blew in and made it sound as if the piano were playing.

  I wanted to believe it had been the wind that made that slow, sad music. I wanted to believe it, so I did.

  I checked the attic door one more time, making sure it was latched, then headed down to the kitchen.

  Mom and Dad were still in their room. I could hear them getting dressed.

  The kitchen was dark and a little cold. I wanted to turn up the furnace, but I didn’t know where the thermostat was.

  Not all of our kitchen stuff had been unpacked. Cartons were still stacked against the wall, filled with glasses and plates and stuff.

  I heard someone coming down the hall.

  A big, empty carton beside the refrigerator gave me an idea. Snickering to myself, I jumped inside it and pulled the lid over me.

  I held my breath and waited.

  Footsteps in the kitchen. I couldn’t tell if it was Mom or Dad.

  My heart was pounding. I continued to hold my breath. If I didn’t, I knew I would burst out laughing.

  The footsteps went right past my carton to the sink. I heard water running. Whoever it was filled the kettle.

  Footsteps to the stove.

  I couldn’t wait anymore.

  “SURPRISE!” I screamed and jumped to my feet in the carton.

  Dad let out a startled shriek and dropped the kettle. It landed on his foot with a thud, then tilted onto its side on the floor.

  Water puddled around Dad’s feet. The kettle rolled toward the stove. Dad was howling and holding his injured foot and hopping up and down.

  I was laughing like a maniac! You should’ve seen the look on Dad’s face when I jumped up from the carton. I really thought he was going to drop his teeth!

  Mom came bursting into the room, still buttoning her sleeve cuffs. “What’s going on in here?” she cried.

  “Just Jerry and his stupid jokes,” Dad grumbled.

  “Jerome!” Mom shouted, seeing all the spilled water on the linoleum. “Give us a break.”

  “Just trying to help wake you up,” I said, grinning. They complain a lot, but they’re used to my twisted sense of humor.

  * * *

  I heard the piano music again that night.

  It was definitely not the wind. I recognized the same sad melody.

  I listened for a few moments. It came from right above my room.

  Who’s up there? Who can be playing? I asked myself.

  I started to climb out of bed and investigate. But it was cold in my room, and I was really tired from my first day at the new school.

  So I pulled the covers over my head to drown out the piano music, and quickly fell asleep.

  * * *

  “Did you hear the piano music last night?” I asked my mom.

  “Eat your cornflakes,” she replied. She tightened the belt of her bathrobe and leaned toward me over the kitchen table.

  “How come I have to have cornflakes?” I grumbled, mushing the spoon around in the bowl.

  “You know the rules,” she said, frowning. “Junk cereal only on weekends.”

  “Stupid rule,” I muttered. “I think cornflakes is a junk cereal.”

  “Don’t give me a hard time,” Mom complained, rubbing her temples. “I have a headache this morning.”

  “From the piano playing last night?” I asked.

  “What piano playing?” she demanded irritably. “Why do you keep talking about piano playing?”

  “Didn’t you hear it? The piano in the attic? Someone was playing it last night.”

  She jumped to her feet. “Oh, Jerry, please. No jokes this morning, okay? I told you I have a headache.”

  “Did I hear you talking about the piano?” Dad came into the kitchen, carrying the morning newspaper. “The guys are coming this afternoon to carry it down to the family room.” He smiled at me. “Limber up those fingers, Jerry.”

  Mom had walked over to the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee. “Are you really interested in this piano?” she demanded, eyeing me skeptically. “Are you really going to practice and work at it?”

  “Of course,” I replied. “Maybe.”

  * * *

  The two piano movers were there when I got home from school. They weren’t very big, but they were strong.

  I went up to the attic and watched them while Mom pulled cartons out of the family room to make a place for it.

  The two men used ropes and a special kind of dolly. They tilted the piano onto its side, then hoisted it onto the dolly.

  Lowering it down the narrow staircase was really hard. It bumped against the wall several times, even though they moved slowly and carefully.

  Both movers were really red-faced and sweaty by the time they got the piano downstairs. I followed them as they rolled it across the living room, then through the dining room.

  Mom came out of the kitchen, her hands jammed into her jeans pockets, and watched from the doorway as they rolled the dolly with the piano into the family room.

  The men strained to tilt it right side up. The black, polished wood really glowed in the bright afternoon sunlight through the family room windows.

  Then, as they started to lower the piano to the floor, Mom opened her mouth and started to scream.

  “The cat! The cat!” Mom shrieked, her face all twisted in alarm.

  Sure enough, Bonkers was standing right in the spot where they were lowering the piano.

  The piano thudded heavily to the floor. Bonkers ran out from under it just in time.

  Too bad! I thought, shaking my head. That dumb cat almost got what it deserved.

  The men were apologizing as they tried to catch their breath, mopping their foreheads with their red-and-white bandannas.

  Mom ran to Bonkers and picked her up. “My poor little kitty.”

  Of course Bonkers swiped at Mom’s arm, her claws tearing out several threads in the sweater sleeve. Mom dropped her to the floor, and the creature slithered quickly out of the room.

  “She’s a little freaked out being in
a new house,” Mom told the two workers.

  “She always acts like that,” I told them.

  A few minutes later, the movers were gone. Mom was in her room, trying to fix her sweater. And I was alone in the family room with my piano.

  I sat on the bench and slid back and forth on it. The bench was polished and smooth. It was real slippery.

  I planned a really funny comedy act where I sit down to play the piano for Mom and Dad, only the bench is so slippery, I keep sliding right onto the floor.

  I practiced sliding and falling for a while. I was having fun.

  Falling is one of my hobbies. It isn’t as easy as it looks.

  After a while, I got tired of falling. I just sat on the bench and stared at the keys. I tried picking out a song, hitting notes until I found the right ones.

  I started to get excited about learning to play the piano.

  I imagined it was going to be fun.

  I was wrong. Very wrong.

  * * *

  Saturday afternoon, I stood staring out the living room window. It was a blustery, gray day. It looked like it was about to snow.

  I saw the piano teacher walking up the driveway. He was right on time. Two o’clock.

  Pressing my face against the window, I could see that he was big, kind of fat. He wore a long, puffy red coat and he had bushy white hair. From this distance, he sort of looked like Santa Claus.

  He walked very stiffly, as if his knees weren’t good. Arthritis or something, I guessed.

  Dad had found his name in a tiny ad in the back of the New Goshen newspaper. He showed it to me. It said:

  THE SHREEK SCHOOL

  New Method Piano Training

  Since it was the only ad in the paper for a piano teacher, Dad called it.

  And now, Mom and Dad were greeting the teacher at the door and taking his heavy red coat. “Jerry, this is Dr. Shreek,” Dad said, motioning for me to leave my place by the window.

  Dr. Shreek smiled at me. “Hello, Jerry.”

  He really did look like Santa Claus, except he had a white mustache, no beard. He had round, red cheeks and a friendly smile, and his blue eyes sort of twinkled as he greeted me.

  He wore a white shirt that was coming untucked around his big belly, and baggy, gray pants.

  I stepped forward and shook hands with him. His hand was red and kind of spongy. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Shreek,” I said politely.

  Mom and Dad grinned at each other. They could never believe it when I was polite!

  Dr. Shreek put his spongy hand on my shoulder. “I know I have a funny name,” he said, chuckling. “I probably should change it. But, you have to admit, it’s a real attention-getter!”

  We all laughed.

  Dr. Shreek’s expression turned serious. “Have you ever played an instrument before, Jerry?”

  I thought hard. “Well, I had a kazoo once!”

  Everyone laughed again.

  “The piano is a little more difficult than the kazoo,” Dr. Shreek said, still chuckling. “Let me see your piano.”

  I led him through the dining room and into the family room. He walked stiffly, but it didn’t seem to slow him down.

  Mom and Dad excused themselves and disappeared upstairs to do more unpacking.

  Dr. Shreek studied the piano keys. Then he lifted the back and examined the strings with his eyes. “Very fine instrument,” he murmured. “Very fine.”

  “We found it here,” I told him.

  His mouth opened in a little O of surprise. “You found it?”

  “In the attic. Someone just left it up there,” I said.

  “How strange,” he replied, rubbing his pudgy chin. He straightened his white mustache as he stared at the keys. “Don’t you wonder who played this piano before you?” he asked softly. “Don’t you wonder whose fingers touched these keys?”

  “Well …” I really didn’t know what to say.

  “What a mystery,” he said in a whisper. Then he motioned for me to take a seat on the piano bench.

  I was tempted to do my comedy act and slide right off onto the floor. But I decided I’d save it for when I knew him better.

  He seemed like a nice, jolly kind of guy. But I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t serious about learning to play.

  He dropped down beside me on the bench. He was so wide, there was barely room for the two of us.

  “Will you be giving me lessons here at home every week?” I asked, scooting over as far as I could to make room.

  “I’ll give you lessons at home at first,” he replied, his blue eyes twinkling at me. “Then, if you show promise, Jerry, you can come to my school.”

  I started to say something, but he grabbed my hands.

  “Let me take a look,” he said, raising my hands close to his face. He turned them over and studied both sides. Then he carefully examined my fingers.

  “What beautiful hands!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Excellent hands!”

  I stared down at my hands. They didn’t look like anything special to me. Just normal hands.

  “Excellent hands,” Dr. Shreek repeated. He placed them carefully on the piano keys. He showed me what each note was, starting with C, and he had me play each one with the correct finger.

  “Next week we will start,” he told me, climbing up from the piano bench. “I just wanted to meet you today.”

  He searched through a small bag he had leaned against the wall. He pulled out a workbook and handed it to me. It was called Beginning to Play: A Hands-On Approach.

  “Look this over, Jerry. Try to learn the notes on pages two and three.” He made his way over to his coat, which Dad had draped over the back of the couch.

  “See you next Saturday,” I said. I felt a little disappointed that the lesson had been so short. I thought I’d be playing some great rock riffs by now.

  He pulled on his coat, then came back to where I was sitting. “I think you will be an excellent student, Jerry,” he said, smiling.

  I muttered thanks. I was surprised to see that his eyes had settled on my hands. “Excellent. Excellent,” he whispered.

  I felt a sudden chill.

  I think it was the hungry expression on his face.

  What’s so special about my hands? I wondered. Why does he like them so much?

  It was weird. Definitely weird.

  But of course I didn’t know how weird….

  CDEFGABC.

  I practiced the notes on pages two and three of the piano workbook. The book showed which fingers to use and everything.

  This is easy, I thought.

  So when can I start playing some rock and roll?

  I was still picking out notes when Mom surfaced from the basement and poked her head into the family room. Her hair had come loose from the bandanna she had tied around her head, and she had dirt smudges on her forehead.

  “Did Dr. Shreek leave already?” she asked, surprised.

  “Yeah. He said he just wanted to meet me,” I told her. “He’s coming back next Saturday. He said I had excellent hands.”

  “You do?” She brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Well, maybe you can take those excellent hands down to the basement and use them to help us unpack some boxes.”

  “Oh, no!” I cried, and I slid off the piano bench and fell to the floor.

  She didn’t laugh.

  * * *

  That night, I heard piano music.

  I sat straight up in bed and listened. The music floated up from downstairs.

  I climbed out of bed. The floorboards were cold under my bare feet. I was supposed to have a carpet, but Dad hadn’t had time to put it down yet.

  The house was silent. Through my bedroom window, I could see a gentle snow coming down, tiny, fine flakes, gray against the black sky.

  “Someone is playing the piano,” I said aloud, startled by the huskiness of my sleep-filled voice.

  “Someone is downstairs playing my piano.”

  Mom and Dad must hear it, I thought. Their room
is at the far end of the house. But they are downstairs. They must hear it.

  I crept to my bedroom door.

  The same slow, sad melody. I had been humming it just before dinner. Mom had asked me where I’d heard it, and I couldn’t remember.

  I leaned against the doorframe, my heart pounding, and listened. The music drifted up so clearly, I could hear each note.

  Who is playing?

  Who?

  I had to find out. Trailing my hand along the wall, I hurried through the dark hallway. There was a night-light by the stairway, but I was always forgetting to turn it on.

  I made my way to the stairs. Then, gripping the wooden banister tightly, I crept down, one step at a time, trying to be silent.

  Trying not to scare the piano player away.

  The wooden stairs creaked quietly under my weight. But the music continued. Soft and sad, almost mournful.

  Tiptoeing and holding my breath, I crossed the living room. A streetlight cast a wash of pale yellow across the floor. Through the large front window, I could see the tiny snowflakes drifting down.

  I nearly tripped over an unpacked carton of vases left next to the coffee table. But I grabbed the back of the couch and kept myself from falling.

  The music stopped. Then started again.

  I leaned against the couch, waiting for my heart to stop pounding so hard.

  Where are Mom and Dad? I wondered, staring toward the back hallway where their room was.

  Can’t they hear the piano, too? Aren’t they curious? Don’t they wonder who is in the family room in the middle of the night, playing such a sad song?

  I took a deep breath and pushed myself away from the couch. Slowly, silently, I made my way through the dining room.

  It was darker back there. No light from the street. I moved carefully, aware of all the chairs and table legs that could trip me up.

  The door to the family room stood just a few feet ahead of me. The music grew louder.

  I took a step. Then another.

  I moved into the open doorway.

  Who is it? Who is it?

  I peered into the darkness.

  But before I could see, someone uttered a horrifying shriek behind me — and shoved me hard, pushing me down to the floor.

  I hit the floor hard on my knees and elbows.