Chapter Twenty-Nine

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Fear takes many forms.

It's a great motivator. A powerful deterrent. If a person lives within it for a long time, it can change the contours of their world.

The Thin Man lives in fear.

I see it when I visit him. After he lets me into his ground-floor apartment, he locks the door and tests the knob to make sure it's engaged. He offers me tea, then sets the teapot precisely in the center of the rings on his hot plate, adjusting it by millimeters until he is satisfied. He stirs a spoonful of honey into each mug, swirling it eight precise times. When a car horn sounds on the street outside his building, he flinches.

Music is beauty contained within a rigid structure. Seven letters in the piano's alphabet. Twelve notes. Eighty-eight black and white keys.

It's no wonder he is drawn to it.

Evidence of his passion is everywhere in his small apartment: In the clef-sign sculptures that serve as bookends, the sheet music neatly stacked on his little dining table, and the framed poster of Beethoven hanging on his wall.

A wooden upright piano with a matching bench takes up most of the living area. The remaining space is filled with a reading chair and ottoman and the small round dining table. His kitchen consists of a microwave, hot plate, sink, and hotel-room-sized fridge.

I notice the flower in a bud vase on the windowsill the moment I sit down.

It's a single blue hydrangea. Tina's favorite flower. An informal shrine or a coincidence?

"The tea smells delicious," I tell Phillip as he serves me a mug.

It's hot and good, the honey sweetening the notes of cinnamon and clove. The mug is covered with dancing music notes. It's the sort of thing a student like Rose might give to her piano teacher for the holidays, perhaps with a Starbucks gift card tucked inside.

I wonder what it is like for Phillip to run his long, bony fingers over the glossy keys on the Barclays' Steinway, knowing an instrument of that caliber will always be beyond his reach.

Does he covet it?

Did he also covet Tina, knowing she was beyond his reach?

Phillip sits down across from me at the little table. He's wearing black slacks and a black button-down shirt just as he did the first time I saw him, the clothing hanging on his skeletal frame. Perhaps it's his informal uniform, or perhaps another manifestation of how his fear rules his life, demanding repetition and order.

"Does it taste okay?" he asks in his deep, rich voice. "I blend my own flavors."

I take another sip. It's delicious.

When I tell him so, his face transforms, his eyes lighting up and a shy, appealing smile stretching his skin.

I ask him for the ingredients, and he reels off a dozen types of spices and tea leaves, describing his blending process.

I wonder how often Phillip's clients take an interest in him. Parents like the Barclays would only want to hear about their child's progress and talent. To them, Phillip is probably a type of instrument himself, one designed to make their children even more shiny and accomplished.

"I'm trying to help Rose, and that means I need to understand what the relationships are like in the Barclay house," I begin. "I'd like to know more about Tina, too. And I want to find out if it's possible someone might have wished Tina harm."

Phillip nods and leans forward slightly. His wrists are thin and knobby, and his Adam's apple is prominent.

"A police detective already talked to me. I can tell you what I told her."

I'm surprised at how easy it is. Then it hits me: Phillip is lonely. This contact—my appreciation for his tea, my visit to his home—must be unusual for him. He likely travels to all of his students' homes. I doubt he entertains many guests.

"I've been working with Rose for almost a year, and I've never had a student with so much natural talent. Never. She is extraordinary."

I nod for him to continue.

"Ian and Beth weren't around much at all until recently. I never really saw them interact, just the two of them. Nowadays one or the other will watch a lesson, but we don't chat much before or after."

"And Tina?" I prompt.

"Tina was wonderful," he says, an ache in his voice.

That ache answers my unspoken question.

"She was much friendlier than the Barclays. She'd offer me water or iced tea when I showed up, and she used to stay in the living room and listen while Rose played. I told Tina once that if she ever wanted to try to learn piano, I'd teach her for free. She just laughed and said she was pretty sure she had ten thumbs. Tina had the best laugh. Sometimes I think I can still hear her laughing when I go to the house."

Even though he doesn't seem to mean it in a literal way, my stomach tightens as I recall Ashley telling me Tina sometimes thought she heard her grandfather's voice in the night.

"How did Rose feel about Tina?"

Phillip takes a sip of tea, then wraps his hands around his mug.

"At first they seemed to enjoy each other very much. Then Tina stopped watching our lessons a couple of weeks before she died. I was worried it was something I'd done or said."

He begins swirling his spoon in his mug, the circles even and smooth, never once clinking against the side of the china.

"Then I realized it was because of what happened on the last day Tina watched."

"What happened?" I prompt gently.

"Ian showed up and said he was trying to figure out how to print a document off his phone and needed help." Hurt twists Phillip's face. "And Tina dropped everything and ran to help Ian."

Something doesn't track. "You said Tina never came back to watch a lesson after that?"

Phillip's voice rises slightly, booming through the room, seeming to echo off the walls. "Rose was about to play a Chopin piece for Tina. She'd just finished learning it. And Tina acted like she really wanted to hear it. And then just like that"—Phillip snaps his fingers—"Ian shows up and Tina runs off. She forgot all about Rose."

And she forgot about you, I think. Ian, with his charm and rugged good looks, must be the present-day manifestation of every boy who ever picked on Phillip while he was growing up. No matter what Phillip could offer Tina—free lessons, adoration—he evaporated in her mind as soon as Ian appeared.

I feel a twist of empathy. I identify more with the Phillips of this world than with the Ians.

But I need to get more information about Rose's state of mind, not his.

"How did Rose react when Tina left?"

"She didn't like it at all. I suggested we wait for Tina to come back so she could play for her, but Rose just stood up and slammed down the piano lid."

He winces, as if feeling the pain of the mistreated instrument.

"Rose was that angry?" It would've been hard for me to picture a week ago. But after she swept my drink into my lap, I can see it.

Phillip nods. "She said, from now on, she wouldn't play if Tina was at her lesson. It was like Rose was the adult, the one in charge of making decisions. She banned Tina and that was it. The last time I ever saw Tina."

We talk for a few more minutes, but Phillip doesn't have any other insight. He tells me he left the Barclay home to go to his next lesson around 5 p.m. on the day Tina died—more than an hour before she called Ashley to say she was going to tell Ian about the baby.

Once or twice, I see Phillip's eyes flit to the hydrangea blooming on his windowsill. It's a fresh, pretty note in his plain apartment. Like Tina must have been in his life.

Before I get up to leave, I ask Phillip if he'd mind writing down his tea recipe for me. I feel gratified when he smiles again; then he hurries to get a pen and scrap of paper.

He sees me to his door and I begin to walk toward my Jeep, parked a block down from his building. Then I stop short.

There's a girl coming toward me on the sidewalk.

I rear back. For a split second, I think it's Rose.

Then I realize it's another child. She's a year or two older than Rose and doesn't even look very much like her.

Lack of sleep and stress caused the illusion, I tell myself. Still, I can't help thinking about the message Rose sent me in the restaurant.

I'm not going anywhere, I mentally reply.