Goosebumps

The Piano Player

Champagne was a luxury, but Sandy and Don were celebrating. Don had just landed a gig playing for a party hosted by one of Chicago’s wealthiest men, Stewart DeVoss. He’d make $2,000 for three hours playing old standards on the Devoss’s beautifully preserved Steinway. The only downside was that it was a retro party, and guests had to dress as if it was the roaring twenties, which meant a trip to the costume store. They managed to piece together a tuxedo that would have made Fred Astaire jealous for under $100.

Several weeks later Sandy adjusted Don’s bow tie as he prepared for the gig that night.

“You look great, Mr. Gatsby.”

“I feel like a butler,” said Don.

“Maybe you can ask DeVoss for a job. I’m sure he employs butlers.”

“Wasn’t it the butler who started the fire that killed all those people?”

“What fire? What people?” asked Sandy.

“Messing around and looked up the DeVoss family history. A fire destroyed their first mansion back in the twenties. Fifteen people died. Check it out. You’re the history buff.”

“And they’re having a twenties’ theme party now? Yuck.”

Don kissed Sandy on the cheek. “The very rich are different than you and me. Bye.”

The Steinway was gorgeous and Don felt unworthy of sitting on the bench until one of the already juiced partygoers insisted he play something. Don sat and shuffled through the sheet music in front of him, deciding on Rhapsody in Blue.

The music drifted like the background to a dream around the crowded ballroom. Everything from the decorations to the ornate candelabras to the waiters and waitresses was perfectly tuned to the party’s theme. Early on, host William DeVoss paid Don a quick visit, giving him an enthusiastic “thumbs up” for his playing. Worthy of a bonus? Don wondered as his fingers slid effortlessly across the keyboard.

During a break, Don called Sandy and gushed about the party.

“It’s unbelievable,” he said. “Wish you were here.”

“I’d love to come, but you know, laundry. I decided to do a little checking on the DeVoss’s. Suicides, murder, that fire…not your typical all-American family.”

“Hey, no guilt-tripping about the money. Just find out if the butler did it.”

“You didn’t actually say that.”

“Sorry. My fans await.”

By the third hour, the laughter was louder, the dancing clumsier and the song demands more incoherent. Don was trying to decipher an irritated man’s request when he felt his phone vibrate. He stood up to take the call from Sandy.

“Hey,” he said. “Listen, I’ve got an irate—“

“It wasn’t the butler who started the fire, Don.”

The drunk man stepped up to Don. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I’m sorry, but…”

“Show some damn respect.” The man shoved a finger at Don’s chest and he stepped back, knocking over a candelabra and sending several burning cylinders rolling under a curtain.

“Don…Don? A party…it was the piano player.”