The first four notes—the discordant ones that don’t match the rest of the tune—ping out of the little teapot.
And Alissa’s jaw drops.
8
HARRISON
“What is it?” I ask.
“Those first four notes. They’re a code Shostakovich used in some of his most famous works,” Alissa says.
“Shosta-who-vich?” I ask.
She smiles. “One of my favorite composers. Dmitri Shostakovich. He wrote music in the mid-nineteenth century in the Soviet Union.”
“And those first four notes are a code?” Bianca asks. “What do they mean?”
“They’re more of an autograph than a code, I suppose. The notes are D, E-flat, C, and B. In German musical notation, they spell out D-S-C-H. His first initial, and then the first three letters of the German spelling of his last name. He used it every so often in his compositions, most notably his tenth symphony, his first violin concerto, and his eighth string quartet.”
That’s odd. The music box is in the shape of a teapot—a symbol of my friendship with Maddox. And the first four notes of it refer to Alissa’s favorite composer?
Whoever gave us this clue knows both of those facts. No way it’s a coincidence.
Bianca wrinkles her forehead. “So whoever gave this to us is telling us that Shostakovich has the answer?”
Alissa shakes her head. “I’m not sure. Wind the box back up. Let’s listen to some more.”
Alissa holds the teapot to her ear. She listens to the whole thing, her eyes glazing over from focus. “The piece is a messed-up version of the second waltz from Shostakovich’s suite for variety orchestra, often erroneously referred to as his jazz suites.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That sounds nothing like jazz. It sounds like a song from a Tim Burton movie.”
“Exactly why it ought not be referred to as such,” Alissa says. “Let me listen to it again.” She winds the music box back up and listens to the whole thing through a second time. “Yes, several notes are wrong. And there’s an extra rest—a musical pause—in the second measure. Then, right in the middle, one of the notes is held three beats too long. It’s a waltz—in three-quarter time—so a measure cannot mathematically have four beats.”
“Do you think this might be a code?” I ask.
“I believe so. I think the use of the DSCH motif at the beginning—easily recognizable to anyone familiar with the composer’s work—indicates that a code is to follow. The wrong notes in the waltz itself must spell out a message.” She frowns. “I don’t have perfect pitch, unfortunately, so I can’t identify the notes by myself. If I had a piano, I could plunk them out and see what the incorrect notes spell out.”
“There’s a music room in the children’s wing of the hospital,” I say. “There’s probably a keyboard in there. Would that help?”
“Yes,” Alissa says, winding the music box for a third time.
Before Dmitri What’s-His-Name’s special code rings out again, I’m already out the door, headed to the children’s ward.
9
BIANCA
The door slams behind Harrison, making Alissa jolt in her bed. Her heartrate spikes on the machine.
I grab her hand, squeeze it gently. “You okay?”
She nods slowly. “The sound of the door jarred me a little.” She sits up. “But tell me about these other clubs you frequented. I’m sure it was an intense evening.”
“It was.” I sit on the edge of Alissa’s bed. “The clubs themselves were marvelous. My sister doesn’t half-ass anything, that’s for sure. Whether it’s decoration or organ harvesting, she puts her all into it.”
Alissa chuckles lightly but then covers her mouth. “Sorry. I shouldn’t laugh at that.”
“Better to laugh than to cry.” I pat her hand. “Besides, Harrison and I will see this through. We’re going to make sure Rouge finally sees justice for what she’s done.”
