The Violin Conspiracy(16)

The door knocker was enormous, ornate, fashioned in the shape of an open-mouthed lion. Was it brass? Gold? He couldn’t wait to tell his mom about this place. She wouldn’t believe it.

He was about to take a photo, to prove it to her, when a tall man with a foamy white beard and a speckled bald head opened the door. He looked at all of them, looked twice at Ray.

“Hey, Uncle Roger!” said the young woman next to him, a redhead with heels so high Ray didn’t know how she could even walk. “You look fantastic!” She offered him her cheek.

Uncle Roger was wearing a tuxedo. Ray had never seen a tuxedo up close. Could Ray take a picture of the tuxedo, too? He was a big dude. Probably a football player thirty years ago. “Melanie,” Uncle Roger was saying, “We didn’t think you were going to make it. Sara will be thrilled that you’re here.”

Ray waited for the man to turn to him. Instead he said to the couple, “Mike. Ellie. So glad you could come today. Come on in, everyone is in the living room for drinks and hors d’oeuvres.” Uncle Roger leaned to one side and the three entered, Melanie teetering in on her heels.

Ray was next.

“May I help you?” Uncle Roger stepped out of the doorway.

“Hi, I’m here for the wedding.”

Uncle Roger looked Ray up and down. “Whose wedding?”

“I’m playing for your wedding,” Ray explained.

“I’m sorry, you are…?”

Ray kept his smile fixed in place. “I’m Ray McMillian. Playing for the service.”

“Hold on a minute.” Uncle Roger stepped back through the door, partially closing it. Ray could still hear him. “Anne, could you come here?”

Aiden was nowhere in sight. A few more cars had pulled up: new guests with new presents. The conversation on the other side of the door was still unspooling.

“Well, who is he?” Uncle Roger was saying.

“I don’t know.” A woman’s voice. “Did you ask him for an ID?”

“No. He was carrying something. I guess it could be an instrument.”

“We don’t have time for this. I have to finish getting ready. It’s almost time to move everyone to the garden.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?” Uncle Roger said. “I don’t know who this kid is.”

“Ask him for an ID. Maybe he’s with the catering company.”

“They all arrived at ten. It’s eleven thirty.”

“You’re going to have to handle this. For once in your life, can you make an effort?”

The door opened partway, the man’s face barely visible. “I think you have the wrong address. This is a private ceremony.”

Ray couldn’t even open his mouth to speak as Uncle Roger closed the door.

What just happened? Did that guy just close the door on him?

Ray stood there, in his black suit, with his black tie, in his polished black shoes, looking dope with his fresh new fade, with his violin polished and his bow rosined and the whole world waiting to hear him play—and he just stood there. This had to be a mistake. He was carrying a violin case, for goodness sake. Who shows up to a wedding with a violin case and has the door slammed in his face? He rang the bell again. It was 11:26 a.m.

The other wedding guests were tapping up the walkway. A blond girl dressed like a thirty-year-old, with a dress that barely covered her hips, looked directly at him and then looked away. She was probably fifteen, if that. She was the only one who even looked at him.

Uncle Roger was opening the door and waving the other guests inside, his body somehow blocking Ray from entering. Ray could hear the sounds of forks on plates, and low laughter. “Come on in, everyone. We’re about to go into the garden.”

“I’m supposed to be playing,” Ray said, holding up the violin case as if there was a sign emblazoned on it: Here to play for wedding.

Should he call Aiden? He would, but he was so embarrassed—as if he’d done something wrong. Maybe he had and just didn’t know?

Uncle Roger gently but firmly closed the door again. What the hell?

The door opened, and Uncle Roger looked directly at him. Ray sighed, relieved. 11:31. He moved as if to enter.

“Look, you’re going to need to leave before I call the cops. This is a private event.”

“What? I’m supposed—”

Uncle Roger lunged toward him. “This is a wedding. Not a rap concert.”

“What are you talking about? I’m here to play at your wedding.”

“I booked a string quartet. It’s classy. No offense, but it’s not your people’s kind of music.”

“I’m here to play—”

“I’m not going to tell you again,” Uncle Roger said. “Get the hell off my property. Now!” Again the door slammed, louder this time, cutting off the din inside. From across the lawn, a bird sang, loud in the stillness.

What the actual fuck?

He called Aiden, who answered almost before the phone rang. “Dude, where are you? We were supposed to start five minutes ago. You haven’t even gotten set up yet. Did you get lost?”

“You won’t believe this, but I can’t get in.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Some guy told me I was at the wrong place and slammed the door in my face.”