Chapter Text
Hanna Lecter sat, several rows back and on the aisle, with her hands folded neatly on her lap as the music washed over her in the hall. Brahms’ Symphony No. 3, with all its peaks and shifts, was a mainstay. Her eyes began to drift to half-lidded, her mind gently detaching itself from her body and the red velvet seat she sat in to parse the notes like a chef analyzing each subtle variation in his meal’s ingredients. The flute section, rising light, but anchored by the bassoons below them. The French horns crescendoing, then cut short with a flick of the conductor’s baton. A diminuendo, followed by the sweet entry of strings alone. The cellos, the violins, both weaving together in a subtle melody.
Hanna’s eyes took the stage back into focus as the first movement ended, the brief interlude momentarily robbing her of that auditory fabric. As the woodwinds softly ushered in the second movement, her attention came to rest in the violin section.
Willa Graham, 5th chair violin in the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, said the type inside the program delicately resting between her first and middle fingers. But Hanna already knew that. The spectacled woman sat three seats back from the conductor, violin rested on her knee as she tightened her bow hair with a practiced flick of the wrist. Her attention was intently divided between the sections to her left and the gently held baton in front of her, quiet anticipation evident before she briskly brought her instrument to her shoulder and entered on cue.
Hanna rested back into her seat and rearranged her legs. Now Willa melded in with the other nine violinists, their bow strokes in perfect synchronization. There was something about the way she played, though, that Hanna could pick out even without looking at the orchestra. Something barely noticeable unless one truly knew how to listen to the complex texture of compressing waves that made up what humans hear as music. It was subtle, deep, quite unlike even the principal violinist’s flair. It was something interesting.
She let a smile flit ever so discretely over her features and settled in for the rest of the concert.
When Hanna Lecter next returned to the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, Bach was the composer of the evening. Though less to her tastes than a good Brahms Symphony, it would be suitable entertainment for a late fall night like this. She could feel quiet energy running through her veins, her body knowing what was to come following the performance. She had an unannounced appointment with a particularly ill-mannered tailor, the first of three on her upcoming schedule.
Her eyes swept the stage as the performers filed on, searching the violin section. Willa Graham was not there, the place her barely-tamed brown hair and handsome features usually occupied taken by an older man with a ponytail instead. Hanna frowned and leafed through the program booklet. The asterisk by the new 5th chair’s name sent her to the bottom of the page: visiting relief musician.
The small envelope in her purse would not see its intended recipient tonight.
Hanna Lecter patronized the Symphony twice more in the coming weeks. Ms. Graham still made no appearance, and the music suffered for it. She endured the post-performance socializing with less patience than usual, yet again deflecting questions about when she would host her next dinner party. Not yet, she said. I have encountered some difficulties with finding the proper company.
The group of socialites laughed their tinny laugh, and one particularly thin woman jokes that she’d be happy to give Hanna a list of very proper individuals. Oh, you just must cook for us again!
Brahms, finally, had made it onto the program again this evening. This time it was his Violin Concerto in D Minor, and Hanna was pleased by the selection. She took her seat and put her day out of her mind as the lights dimmed. She had spent her lunch hour conversing with Alan, her former mentee at Georgetown, about a particularly vexing serial case at the FBI that had culminated in the killer offing both his wife and daughter before committing suicide in the most bloody manner. Attachment had its downsides, apparently.
Hanna nearly missed the woman come on stage, obscured by several other musicians clad in the same style of inky black formal clothes. Willa Graham was back. Hanna smiled broadly and brushed the corner of the expensively simple envelope still waiting in her handbag. She may have proper company at last.
The soloist’s performance was spectacular, but beneath his climbs and chords always lay the subtle weave of another violin in its block of ten. An appropriately thunderous ovation followed, and Hanna stood with the rest of the audience without reservation. As the concert hall emptied and instruments were carried off stage, she made a point of being among the first to spill out into the lobby.
A crowd quickly gathered around the soloist as he exited the stage doors. Smaller groups moved to greet the other performers as they trickled out, generally acquaintances or family members, but Hanna did not see Willa. She made her way over to where the principal violinist was conversing with an elderly couple and gently interrupted the exchange, inquiring as to her whereabouts. Would she be greeting guests tonight? Did she have prior obligations?
The principal didn't know, but after he realized who she was he directed her to look backstage. Hanna’s deep burgundy ensemble and acute features bled understated money, and all it took was the mention of her name for him to give her what she wanted. She was a platinum donor, after all. She strode past security, passing from the elaborate, high ceilinged lobby to the sparser realm of art in progress, the low-gloss world of preparation and practice familiar to any performer. It was one Hanna knew well.
Willa stood in a side alcove, carefully slipping the shoulder pad off her instrument before bending to situate it in its case. Hanna’s heels clipped on the hardwood floor as she drew near, echoing over the soft conversations of the other musicians packing up.
“Willa Graham?”
She looked up. Her eyes slid over Hanna’s face like water off a duck’s plumage, just quick enough to gauge who she was dealing with. They ended up back on her violin.
“Can I help you...?”
“Hanna Lecter. I thoroughly enjoyed the performance tonight.”
“Thank you. Mr. Acardi played very well.” She pulled the dust cloth over the violin and started loosening her bow, not inviting a continuation of the conversation. Hanna noticed a paleness to her skin beyond that of fatigue as she bent again to place it in the case, and the faint smell of something sweet like rosemary.
“I was happy to note your return to the orchestra,” she pushed. “Its quality of sound has not been the same for the last month.”
Ah, now she had the other woman’s attention. Willa stopped, gently moved to latch her case shut, and then turned back to Hanna, truly taking the stranger in this time. Her neutral demeanor nearly belied the sudden engagement of analytical mental machinery, but not quite.
“I appreciate it,” she acknowledged. “Are you a frequent guest?”
“I am. The Symphony here is both convenient to me and a benefit to Baltimore. I do my best to attend performances and show my support on a sustaining basis.”
“Oh.” Willa understood her meaning. “Well, we’re very grateful for your contributions. If you’ll excuse me, it’s getting late and I can't stay very long tonight.”
“If you would,” Hanna interrupted her, producing the small envelope that had lived in her purse for the past five weeks, “please take this. I am hosting a small dinner gathering this Saturday and would be pleased if you have time available in your schedule to attend.” She smiled like a cat would, if it could.
Willa accepted the offered paper, turning it over before tucking it into the pocket of her blazer.
"Thanks for the invitation,” she replied, her tone a fine balance between courtesy and uncertainty. “I’ll consider the offer.”
“I will look forward to your attendance, should you accept. Have a pleasant night.” Hanna snapped her purse shut and departed, disappearing into the bright light of the lobby just as confidently as she had arrived.
Willa was left with one hand on her old brown jacket, staring as the doors swung shut.
It was past ten by the time Willa pulled into her driveway in Wolf Trap, the tires of her car crunching in the old gravel. The dogs, all seven of them, started yapping and wagging their tails as soon as she turned the housekey, left unloved for the majority of the day. She held the door open as they milled about and dashed into the field.
The house was cold. Willa set her belongings down on the small kitchen table and cranked up the thermostat, then kicked off her shoes, put kibble out, and retrieved the partially depleted fifth of Jim Beam she kept in the cabinet. She was on autopilot. The dogs began barking so she let them in along with more evening chill, pouring herself two fingers of bourbon as they descended on their bowls.
She let out a sigh as she swirled the deep golden liquid around in its glass, a reflection of the faintly buzzing kitchen light bending and warping on its surface. She knew she probably shouldn’t be drinking while she was still feeling sick, but it seemed to help with the ache in her muscles more than the antibiotics she was, amazingly, finishing in their entirety. Her doctor had assured her it was just the flu she'd caught, but it had packed one hell of a punch. She absolutely hated going through the social footwork required in a doctor’s visit, but her symptoms had become so severe that she couldn’t rehearse.
The whiskey numbed other things, too.
Eventually she found herself on the small couch in her living room, outer layers peeled off and a stiff square poking her side through her blazer. She pulled it out, finally revisiting the last events of the night in her mind. The envelope looked fancy, made of some sort of dove-grey designer stationery. "Ms. Willa Graham" was written on the front in elegant looping text, tall and narrow. Willa flipped it over and carefully broke the seal on the flap with her short fingernail.
She fished the invitation out and unbent it from the careful half-fold it had taken to fit in the envelope. Unsurprisingly, it was also made of expensive, heavy-weight paper. Lecter had practically breathed sophistication, the kind of social tact and fashion sense that came only from money and spending too much time at charity galas.
The labradoodle mutt jumped up on the couch with her, and she unthinkingly carded her fingers through its shag as she read.
Dear Ms. Graham,
It is my pleasure to invite you to attend an evening gathering at my home on the evening of this coming Saturday, the 15th of November, to celebrate arts patronage in Baltimore. Dinner will be prepared and served at 7:00pm, followed by cocktails.
Should you attend, please arrive by 6:30.
Regards,
Dr. Hanna Lecter
The address written below Ms. Lecter’s name made Willa dip into a frown. If she remembered correctly, the area was one of Baltimore’s most expensive neighborhoods. She flipped open the laptop on the coffee table and Googled it, finding she was right. Then she searched for Lecter, the name vaguely familiar to her in passing.
Dr. Hanna Lecter, psychiatrist, apparently ran a well-respected private practice in downtown Baltimore providing “the highest quality mental health counseling available in Maryland.” The wealth made sense now given her rates, but the information online didn't help with her questions. Why invite her, far from the best violinist in the BSO, to a fancy dinner? The various conductors, soloists, and first chairs usually received the bulk of social attention in the symphony, which was fine with Willa. The delivery of this invitation, though, had been unsettlingly personal.
She pondered her tumbler. Would not attending offend Lecter enough to impact her donations? God knew her job was already on thin ice, even more so than musicians’ usually were, and Lecter probably knew people in management. On the other hand, the thought of spending a social dinner with the manner of company Lecter probably kept was not one she enjoyed.
Willa knocked back her whiskey and grudgingly started Googling wines.