13 - Piano Lessons Can Be Murder (3 page)

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 finger 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.

Another loud shriek—right in my ears.

My shoulders throbbed with pain.

The lights came on.

“Bonkers!” I roared.

The cat leapt off my shoulders and scurried out of the room.

“Jerry—what are you doing? What’s going on?” Mom demanded angrily as she
ran into the room.

“What’s all the racket?” Dad was right behind her, squinting hard without his
glasses.

“Bonkers jumped on me!” I screamed, still on the floor. “Ow. My shoulder.
That stupid cat!”

“But, Jerry—” Mom started. She bent to help pull me up.

“That stupid cat!” I fumed. “She jumped down from that shelf. She scared me
to death. And look—look at my pajama shirt!”

The cat’s claws had ripped right through the shoulder.

“Are you cut? Are you bleeding?” Mom asked, pulling the shirt collar down to
examine my shoulder.

“We really have to do something about that cat,” Dad muttered. “Jerry is
right. She’s a menace.”

Mom immediately jumped to Bonkers’ defense. “She was just frightened, that’s
all. She probably thought Jerry was a burglar.”

“A burglar?” I shrieked in a voice so high, only dogs could hear me. “How
could she think I was a burglar? Aren’t cats supposed to see in the dark?”

“Well, what were you doing down here, Jerry?” Mom asked, straightening my
pajama shirt collar. She patted my shoulder. As if that would help.

“Yeah. Why were you skulking around down here?” Dad demanded, squinting hard
at me. He could barely see a thing without his glasses.

“I wasn’t skulking around,” I replied angrily. “I heard piano music and—”

“You
what
?” Mom interrupted.

“I heard piano music. In the family room. So I came down to see who was
playing.”

My parents were both staring at me as if I were a Martian.

“Didn’t you hear it?” I cried.

They shook their heads.

I turned to the piano. No one there. Of course.

I hurried over to the piano bench, leaned down, and rubbed my hand over the
surface.

It was warm.

“Someone was sitting here. I can tell!” I exclaimed.

“Not funny,” Mom said, making a face.

“Not funny, Jerry,” Dad echoed. “You came down here to pull some kind of joke—didn’t you!” he accused.

“Huh? Me?”

“Don’t play innocent, Jerome,” Mom said, rolling her eyes. “We know you.
You’re
never
innocent.”

“I wasn’t playing a joke!” I cried angrily. “I heard music, someone playing—”

“Who?” Dad demanded. “Who was playing?”

“Maybe it was Bonkers,” Mom joked.

Dad laughed, but I didn’t.

“What was the joke, Jerry? What were you planning to do?” Dad asked.

“Were you going to do something to the piano?” Mom demanded, staring at me so
hard, I could practically
feel
it. “That’s a valuable instrument, you
know.”

I sighed wearily. I felt so frustrated, I wanted to shout, scream, throw a
fit, and maybe slug them both. “The piano is
haunted
!” I shouted. The words just popped into my
head.

“Huh?” It was Dad’s turn to give me a hard stare.

“It must be haunted!” I insisted, my voice shaking. “It keeps playing—but
there’s no one playing it!”

“I’ve heard enough,” Mom muttered, shaking her head. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Ghosts, huh?” Dad asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He stepped up to me
and lowered his head, the way he does when he’s about to unload something
serious. “Listen, Jerry, I know this house might seem old and kind of scary. And
I know how hard it was for you to leave your friends behind and move away.”

“Dad, please—” I interrupted.

But he kept going. “The house is just old, Jerry. Old and a little rundown.
But that doesn’t mean it’s haunted. These ghosts of yours—don’t you see?—they’re really your fears coming out.”

Dad was a psychology major in college.

“Skip the lecture, Dad,” I told him. “I’m going to bed.”

“Okay, Jer,” he said, patting my shoulder. “Remember—in a few weeks, you’ll
know I’m right. In a few weeks, this ghost business will all seem silly to you.”

Boy, was he wrong!

* * *

I slammed my locker shut and started to pull on my jacket. The long school
hallway echoed with laughing voices, slamming lockers, calls and shouts.

The halls were always noisier on Friday afternoons. School was over, and the
weekend was here!

“Oooh, what’s that smell?” I cried, making a disgusted face.

Beside me, a girl was down on her knees, pawing through a pile of junk on the
floor of her locker. “I
wondered
where that apple disappeared to!” she
exclaimed.

She climbed to her feet, holding a shriveled, brown apple in one hand. The
sour aroma invaded my nostrils. I thought I was going to hurl!

I must have been making a funny face, because she burst out laughing.
“Hungry?” She pushed the disgusting thing in my face.

“No thanks.” I pushed it back toward her. “You can have it.”

She laughed again. She was kind of pretty. She had long, straight black hair
and green eyes.