The Ghost Sonata (6 page)

Wendy did her best to pay attention to Mrs. Mendelovich's stories, despite the unusual sensation of pressure in her head and a roaring in her ears like the sound of ocean waves. Was that the sound of her own blood pulsing through her body? She was intensely and painfully aware of being alive—aware of the fact that her fragile body was suspended in a clunky man-made machine thousands of miles above the ground.
Maybe this is how it feels when you know you're going to die at any minute
, Wendy thought. She watched Mrs. Mendelovich's lips moving and her expressive hands gesturing excitedly, and felt an intense desire to flee her surroundings. The problem was, there was nowhere to go.

Wendy gasped as the plane suddenly hit something with a loud
BUMP
! Everything shook violently, and the passengers around her collectively caught their breath.

The plane dropped abruptly, as if its ability to fly had been a mere dream—as if gravity had just remembered to pull the ridiculously precarious metal container filled with people down, down toward the earth.

7

The Arrival

8

Wyntle House

 

Rolling their suitcases along in weary silence, Gilda, Wendy, Gary, and Ming Fong followed Mrs. Mendelovich from the bus station at Gloucester Green, down Walton Street, and past the imposing stone walls of Worcester College toward Wyntle House—the guesthouse where they would be staying in Oxford. In the early-morning quiet of the city, their suitcases rumbled loudly against the sidewalk.

Walking under a sky so low it seemed that she might reach up and touch the gray, hanging clouds, Gilda reflected that the morning felt lonely, but in a strangely good way. In her imagination, the bleak, dreary weather gave the day an appealing “murder mystery” atmosphere. After all, here she was in England—about to have an adventure—far, far away from the tedious lives of people like Craig Overcash and his disappointing girlfriend. Gilda decided that she pitied them. She imagined that she was an English detective who had been invited to visit Oxford to solve a difficult case. Her name was Penelope Stunn.

Gilda glanced at Wendy and noticed the pinched expression on her face. “What's the matter? You aren't still thinking about that tarot card reading, are you?”

“Not exactly. You know that weird feeling you get—like when you feel like you're reexperiencing something that already happened?”

“You have déjà vu?”

“Everything here looks so weirdly familiar to me.”

“Maybe you're just remembering a picture you saw in a brochure.”

Wendy shook her head. “It's different than remembering a picture.” She had the overwhelming feeling that she had actually
been
in Oxford walking down this very street before.

“Hey, maybe you're having a memory of a past life.” Gilda wasn't sure whether she actually believed in reincarnation, but she liked the idea that people might have more than one chance at life—an opportunity to try out different identities. “Maybe you were English in one of your former lives,” she suggested. “Maybe you were a scholar here at the university during the Dark Ages!”

“Probably why I remember this paved road and the sidewalk and these little cars so clearly—from my life here during medieval times.”

Gary and Ming Fong seemed deaf to this discussion of past lives. Their blank, exhausted expressions concealed vague terror at finding themselves in a foreign country where they would have to play the piano at the best of their abilities in a matter of hours.

Mrs. Mendelovich, in contrast, was energized by her arrival in Oxford. When the plane landed, she had quickly powdered her nose, grabbed her purse, and practically danced through the airport toward customs. As she clipped along in her high-heeled, sling-back shoes, it seemed that the closer she got to the piano competition, the more energy she had.

The group followed a long row of terraced Victorian houses with tall, pointy roofs, until they reached one with a mauve awning from which a basket of wilted pansies dangled next to a sign for WYNTLE HOUSE.

Mrs. Mendelovich rapped on the door, and a small dog inside the house immediately responded with loud, yapping barks. A moment later, a bleary-eyed elderly woman opened the door and peered at the group. “I expect you're the piano people, then?”

“I am Mrs. Mendelovich, and these are my students,” Mrs. Mendelovich declared with exaggerated formality. “We are here from America for Young International Virtuosos Competition!”

“Right. I'm Maggie Luard. Come in; we've been expecting you.” Mrs. Luard spoke with a hoarse, deep voice that was nearly as low as a man's. She didn't seem particularly impressed with the notion of a group of young American pianists coming to stay at Wyntle House.

I bet musicians and scholars from all over the world turn up at her doorstep every week
, Gilda thought.
Maybe she lost interest in them years ago.

As the group entered Wyntle House the tiny, yipping dog broke into more high-pitched, joyous barks. Mrs. Luard didn't seem to notice as the dog released a tiny trickle of pee on the carpet.

“If you need anything, just ask me or my son, Danny, who works here with me. I wish there was a piano here in the house, but I imagine they'll have you set up with practice rooms in the colleges. Now, I hope you lot are feeling energetic, because most of your rooms are at the very top of the stairs on the fourth floor, and there is no lift. Miss Piano Teacher, your room is a bit lower—on the third floor.” Mrs. Luard handed everyone their room keys. “The front door is most often open during the day, and breakfast is served from seven o'clock in the morning. You can have a full English breakfast or just help yourselves to milk, juice, and cereal downstairs.”

Heaving their luggage up a few steps at a time, the group climbed a seemingly endless series of narrow staircases. Gilda marveled that each time she was certain that they must have reached the top floor of the house, she discovered yet another, more narrow flight of stairs cloaked in worn, mauve carpeting.

When they reached the third floor, Mrs. Mendelovich hurried to unlock her room. “I must leave now to attend a meeting of piano teachers,” she said. “Remember, don't be late for drawing of numbers at the Music Faculty Building! Please, walk together and look at maps!”

Gilda realized with happy surprise that they might be very much on their own in Oxford. They had only just arrived, and Mrs. Mendelovich was already trusting them to find their way through the city independently. Not only that; Gilda would have her own room in the guesthouse with her very own key!
This trip might be even more exciting than I imagined
, she thought.

Mrs. Mendelovich disappeared into her room, and the four young people continued trudging up the last flights of stairs.

“I guess you girls won't need to do your butt crunches this week,” Gary joked, huffing as he heaved his suitcase up the remaining steps.

“Some of you boys still need to do some, though,” Wendy mumbled.

“What did you say, Wendy?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Butt crunches!” Ming Fong blurted a bit hysterically, apparently feeling liberated in the absence of Mrs. Mendelovich. “Crunchy butts!”

Gilda turned to look down at Ming Fong, who was several feet behind on the staircase. “Ming Fong, don't forget we're here representing the United States, so we need to help our country's bad reputation by behaving with some decorum. Oh, and remember to curtsy when you meet English people next time.”

“What does ‘curtsy' mean?” Ming Fong asked.

“People don't curtsy unless they're meeting royalty, do they?” Gary asked.

“Gary, it's most important that
you
curtsy whenever you meet new people here in England as well. Every English boy must have a proper curtsy.”

“What is ‘curtsy'?” Ming Fong repeated.

“It's like a special kind of bowing,” Gilda explained, “only much cuter.”

“Oh,” said Ming Fong thoughtfully. “We curtsy before we play piano in England?”

“No,” said Wendy sharply. “Taking a bow is plenty.”

“Oh, I get it. Gilda is silly again,” said Ming Fong. “Crazy Gilda!”

 

On the fourth floor, Gilda opened the creaking door to room number twelve. She found a single bed; a tiny sink and mirror; a small, drafty window with old curtains that resembled dish towels; a tiny television; a kettle for making tea; a writing desk; and a wooden dresser. There was also a bookshelf crammed with novels left by previous guests, along with a handful of Oxford guidebooks and some textbooks with titles like
Linear Geometry
that looked very dry. The mauve carpeting was stained and both the attic ceiling and the floor were slanted. Gilda felt chilled, as if thin, ghostly fingers of air had just crept through a crack in the old window and slipped under her clothes. All in all, it was a tiny, depressing room in a decaying old house, but Gilda didn't mind because it was exactly the kind of sparse, lonely room that Penelope Stunn would choose to stay in while she worked to solve her murder case.