Page 11 of One Last Regret

“But?”

“But that’s it. I don’t know. Marcel died, but he died in a performance in full view of a crowd of people, and his death was ruled a heart attack. There are no other skeletons in their closet, nothing except an old composition.”

“Composition?”

“Yes, a music piece.”

“I know what a composition is, Mary. What kind of composition is this one?”

“A jazz one, I assume.”

“My, my, what an astute observation. Your detective skills truly amaze me.”

My cheeks heat further. “I’m not a musician, Sean. It’s just… I get a feeling around this composition.”

“Like the feeling you got when you saw an old playbill and decided to look for work in New Orleans?”

“Stop teasing me!”

He chuckles. “I will never stop teasing you. But I’ve also learned not to discount your feelings, no matter how emotional, illogical, flighty, baseless—”

“Watch yourself, Mr. O’Connell,” I warn him.

“Silly, whimsical, fantastic—”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“All right, all right,” he says placatingly. “I’ll stop. But seriously, much of what you say makes no sense to me. Then, somehow, it eventually does. My only question to you is does this musical composition have anything to do with Annie?”

“It… I don’t think so, but… when I looked at it, I remembered her. I mean, I remembered her again. She played saxophone.”

“A lovely instrument. The American version of the bagpipes. I mean that as a compliment, by the way.”

“But I never remembered that before. I mean, I never remembered that she played music. How could I have blocked that out?”

Sean hesitates before answering. I trust him with everything about me, but he is still uncomfortable at times addressing my past mental health challenges. I don’t blame him. I am equally uncomfortable if not more so.

But this sense of dread I feel continues to grow with each passing second, and I need to know why. I need to know what makes me feel this way on the basis of evidence that even I can admit is whimsical and baseless.

“That’s not a question I can answer, Mary,” he finally says. “But if the memories are pleasant, then I don’t see a reason not to explore them.”

“That’s just it,” I tell him. “I don’t know if they’re pleasant.”

He hesitates again, then says, “If you’re looking for me to tell you what to do, I can’t do that. But I know that you’re going to do what you feel is right already. In my experience, it usually is right, even if it’s not comfortable. Call me if you need a shoulder to cry on when you uncover what’s behind that door.”

I smile. “I will. Thank you.”

I hang up feeling somewhat better. The unease I feel hasn’t gone away, but it means the world to know that I don’t face it alone.

I think of Josephine and my heart softens toward her. She has lost her partner. Perhaps what I interpret as bitterness toward his memory is only the natural anger one feels when one of the pillars of one’s life crumbles. Heaven knows I still feel anger towards Annie.

Oh, Annie. Where did you go? Did you find what you were looking for?

Or did your pursuit lead you to your death as Marcel’s led him to his?

CHAPTER FIVE

Claude Durand is indeed a sweetheart. He is a robust, portly man around Josephine’s age with a full white beard and round, wire-rimmed glasses that sit low on his nose. He does indeed remind one of Santa Claus, and he is not creepy at all. When he arrives at the house, he smiles warmly and kindly, just like that jolly old Christmas elf, and I am immediately fond of him.

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