The Player's Encore: Player Piano Mysteries Book 2

By Joe Cosentino

Can a man and a ghost be soulmates? When young music teacher Andre Beaufort unleashed the ghost of dapper Roaring Twenties playboy Freddy Birtwistle from his antique player piano, he never imagined they would fall in love and solve two murder mysteries. Now Freddy yearns to visit his family's beach house in Florida. So, Andre and Freddy embark on a vacation to the stunning home which has become a bed and breakfast. Before Freddy can say "zotched," a young, mysterious houseboy is murdered, the second hunky houseboy to meet the same fate. Will Andre and Freddy find the murderer to save the inn—and themselves?

A year later, Andre and Freddy venture off on a vacation with Andre's uncle, an ex-priest, to Tuscany, staying at an inn which happens to have once been Freddy's old family villa. Before the sun sets golden on the hills, a handsome young guest is murdered. Will Andre and Freddy uncover the secrets of Freddy's ancestral home, solve the mystery, and find eternal love?

The Player's Encore, the second installment in the popular Player Piano Mysteries series by Joe Cosentino, includes two cozy mysteries: The Beach House and The Villa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Cosentino
• Release date: Mar 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005956622

Joe Cosentino

JOE COSENTINO was voted Favorite MM Mystery, Humorous, and Contemporary Author of the Year by the readers of Divine Magazine for Drama Queen, the first Nicky and Noah mystery novel. He is also the author of the remaining Nicky and Noah mysteries: Drama Muscle, Drama Cruise, Drama Luau, Drama Detective, Drama Fraternity, Drama Castle, Drama Dance, Drama Faerie, Drama Runway, Drama Christmas, Drama Pan, Drama TV, Drama Oz, Drama Prince, Drama Merry, Drama Daddy, and Drama King; the Player Piano Mysteries: The Player and The Player's Encore; the Jana Lane Mysteries: Paper Doll, Porcelain Doll, Satin Doll, China Doll, Rag Doll; the Cozzi Cove series: Cozzi Cove: Bouncing Back, Moving Forward, Stepping Out, New Beginnings, Happy Endings; the In My Heart Anthology: An Infatuation & A Shooting Star; the Tales from Fairyland Anthology: The Naked Prince and Other Tales from Fairyland and Holiday Tales from Fairyland; the Bobby and Paolo Holiday Stories Anthology: A Home for the Holidays, The Perfect Gift, The First Noel; and the Found At Last Anthology: Finding Giorgio and Finding Armando. His books have won numerous Book of the Month awards and Rainbow Award Honorable Mentions. As an actor, Joe appeared in principal roles in film, television, and theatre, opposite stars such as Bruce Willis, Rosie O'Donnell, Nathan Lane, Jason Robards, and Holland Taylor. He received his Master of Fine Arts degree from Goddard College, Master's degree from SUNY New Paltz, and is a happily married emeritus college theatre professor residing in New York State.

Book preview

The Player’s Encore

A Player Piano Mystery Book 2

Joe Cosentino

Can a man and a ghost be soulmates? When young music teacher Andre Beaufort unleashed the ghost of dapper Roaring Twenties playboy Freddy Birtwistle from his antique player piano, he never imagined they would fall in love and solve two murder mysteries. Now Freddy yearns to visit his family’s beach house in Florida. So, Andre and Freddy embark on a vacation to the stunning home which has become a bed and breakfast. Before Freddy can say zotched, a young, mysterious houseboy is murdered, the second hunky houseboy to meet the same fate. Will Andre and Freddy find the murderer to save the inn—and themselves?

A year later, Andre and Freddy venture off on a vacation with Andre’s uncle, an ex-priest, to Tuscany, staying at an inn which happens to have once been Freddy’s old family villa. Before the sun sets golden on the hills, a handsome young guest is murdered. Will Andre and Freddy uncover the secrets of Freddy’s ancestral home, solve the mystery, and find eternal love?

The Player’s Encore, the second installment in the popular Player Piano Mysteries series by Joe Cosentino, includes two cozy mysteries: The Beach House and The Villa.

Praise for Joe Cosentino’s books:

Joe Cosentino has a unique and fabulous gift. His writing is flawless… will have you guessing until the very last page, which makes his books a joy to read. His books are worth their weight in gold, and if you haven't discovered them yet you are in for a rare treat. —Divine Magazine

adventure, mystery, and romance with every page…. Funny, clever, and sweet. —Urban Book Reviews

The author executed his storyline with a marvelous precision that would be the envy of many authors. He draws the readers into the lives of his characters, they become real and in turn, their emotions becomes yours…. If you can only afford to buy one more book this year, buy this one. —Three Books Over the Rainbow Reviews

I really loved this book and having an ending that made me laugh and cry at the same time is testament to the brilliant writing. —BooksLaidBareBoys

In true Joe Cosentino style… this cast of characters will have you laughing out loud one minute before ripping your heart out the next. —Joyfully Jay Reviews

Table of Contents

The Beach House

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Epilogue

The Villa

Chapter Uno

Chapter Due

Chapter Tre

Chapter Quattro

Chapter Cinque

Chapter Sei

Chapter Sette

Chapter Otto

Chapter Nove

Epilogo

About the Authur

Connect with the Author

Other Books by the Author

Copyright © 2021 Joe Cosentino

Printed in the United States of America

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the author.

This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers.

Cover art and cover/interior design by Fred Wolinsky

Dedication

To Fred for everything over all these years, the readers who begged for another Player Piano mystery, and to everyone in love with a ghost. Special thanks to my biggest fans: Nancy, Carla, Joe, Bill, Cathy, Danielle, Fay, and Lorraine!

The Beach House

Chapter One

My head pounded like a drum. My legs slid underneath me like a slide trombone. My arms twitched like an orchestra conductor with a neurological disorder. It was the end of the school year, and I was an exhausted teacher. In my delirious state, I somehow managed to walk the five blocks from the grade school in Hoboken, New Jersey to my apartment building. I thanked the local gym for my powerful arms, legs, and firm bubble butt.

The Art Deco style apartment building was once the home of wealthy playboy Freddy Birtwistle, who inherited the house at age twenty-four after his parents and sister died from influenza. Freddy met his end on his thirtieth birthday in 1935, when a misguided jealous husband shot him. However, that wasn’t really the end for Freddy. After I rescued an old player piano from the basement, my pedaling somehow brought Freddy back to life, or at least his ghost into my apartment. To my surprise, Freddy and I fell in love and solved two murder mysteries together.

Summoning all my strength, I pried open the heavy silver front door, and considered resting in my aunt Nia’s first floor manager’s apartment before going upstairs. After my parents, a French American and an African American, and my baby brother had died in a car accident when I was four, Aunt Nia, my mother’s sister, had become my sole family. However, I assumed Aunt Nia was otherwise engaged with her new husband, the detective. So, I dragged my battle-scarred body up the two flights of stairs.

When I reached the third floor, I thought about knocking on Victor’s door down the hall. Victor had often complained to me about his career—or lack thereof—as an actor, and turnabout is fair play. However, I assumed my best buddy was busy with his new husband, the lawyer. Though I knew everything about Aunt Nia’s husband and Victor’s spouse, my aunt and best friend had no knowledge of Freddy. Having a ghost as a boyfriend isn’t easy to talk about, especially since others can’t see or hear him.

When I finally arrived at apartment 3A, my home for the last six years, I somehow unlocked the door and swung it open. I dropped my bookbag on the narrow table and maneuvered myself across the living room, passing the Gustavian scalloped pedestal and side table, noticing my haggard reflection in the tiered mirror over the screened fireplace. I landed with my back flat on the turquoise chaise opposite two wide armchairs in the balconied bay window.

You look zozzled.

You know I don’t drink, Freddy.

Then perhaps you should start on the giggle water. Freddy walked through the arched doorway of the kitchen, passing the dining alcove, and stood in the living room next to two statues of singers from his Roaring Twenties period. Did little Marva lose her lunch in a tuba, and did Bobby Jr. place an arrow in his violin bow and stab someone in the eye?

"That was last week." My school year flashed before me: screaming children demanding to play rock music instead of learning about Beethoven and Chopin, ogre parents insisting their tone-deaf children will be the next Mozart, overpaid administrators burying me in paperwork and reports.

Freddy sat next to me, placing his large hand on my shoulder. As usual, I shivered from his touch. Though we had been together for two years, Freddy appeared exactly as I had first met him: tall, thin, with black hair parted in the middle and slicked back off his handsome face. You should have been a dewdropper, Andre.

Over the past two years, I learned a lot of Freddy’s colorful Roaring Twenties lingo. He was speaking of someone like himself, who lived off his family’s wealth. I love being a music teacher. Grinning, I added, Especially in the summer.

Freddy placed his arms around me and rested my head on his lap. I gazed up at the man of my dreams. As always, he looked amazing in the clothing of his era: a pinstriped black suit and vest, white silk shirt, and gray suspenders with matching bow tie and silk pocket handkerchief. He also wore his tantalizingly sexy smile. Time for a beat session, my love.

This isn’t what you think. A beat session is Freddy’s jargon for a chat between two men. I’m too tired, I whined.

Freddy rubbed my forehead and temples, his long, thin fingers like silk on my skin. As I once said to my old friend Israel—Irving Berlin to you—after I turned down Israel’s advances in the music room of his manse, ‘When you’re put out because someone won’t put out, it’s time for Puttin’ on the Ritz!’ And the rest is history!

I sat up and focused on his perfectly proportioned face. What does that have to do with me feeling exhausted?

It’s time for us to put on the Ritz. Dress up. Party. Have a change in scenery.

I moaned. I can’t move. The scenery in this apartment is fine with me.

He placed a warm hand on my cheek. As my dear friend Mae West once asked me, ‘You want to play in the sand with me and then make some waves?’

I was lost in his violet eyes, sparkling like jewels. What do you mean?

Andre Beaufort, love of my life, I’m asking you to run away with me to the beach. Freddy nibbled on what he called my milk chocolate neck, which caused my pants to tighten.

I held his beautiful face in my hands, enjoying the feel of his peaches-and-cream complexion. Freddy, have you forgotten? You’re a ghost. For some reason, Freddy’s ghostly status meant I was the only person who could see him, and Freddy was unable to leave his former sitting room, bar, and bedroom—my apartment. Happily for Freddy, I had decided to keep the Art Deco character of the rooms.

Freddy cocked his head at me. "Have you forgotten we went to my country home upstate New York?"

Because it was turned into a bed and breakfast, and I was able to summon you there via the player piano in my room—your old bedroom.

Now you’re in the trolley! His soft ruby lips covered mine, and I melted into his arms.

In a dreamlike state from his champagne scent, I ran my hands along his broad back as we shared another kiss and then another. Each was deeper, wetter, and more passionate than the one before it. As we parted, I played back in my mind what Freddy had said. A light bulb went off. Your family had a beach house?

Of course.

I rested my hands on his broad shoulders. Where?

His white smile widened. On Key West in Florida.

I kissed his dimple then the cleft in his chin. Your family had a home in Key West?

He rested back on the chaise, his shiny black patent leather shoes with white spats dangling off it. We most certainly did.

Was there a player piano in your bedroom there?

Now you know your onions. He winked at me. As my chum Greta Garbo once told me, ‘It’s so much fun to play with yourself.’

Freddy, just because I was able to materialize you from the player piano here and via the pianola in your country home, that doesn’t mean I’ll be able to do the same in your beach house. Besides, we don’t even know if your old beach house has become an inn, or if it still has your player piano!

There’s only one way to find out. He helped me up and across the living room.

With renewed energy, courtesy of the man I love, I made it through the kitchenette— Freddy’s former bar—into the bedroom. After passing my bed with its fanned silver headboard and somehow not collapsing onto it, I sat behind the mahogany desk. Then I turned on my laptop and searched for the Birtwistle’s former estate in Key West, Florida.

Freddy was behind me like a specter. Literally. What does the magic box say? A moment later, he gasped at a picture on the screen of a mansion overlooking the beach. That’s it!

I read the copy. The Apollo Branchus Inn, named after the Greek gods of music and the sun, is a gay-friendly bed and breakfast at the edge of Key West. The home was originally owned by railroad magnet Leighton Birtwistle. Upon the death of his son Frederick, the residence was left to a cousin, Whitiker…

Greedy guts!

…whose son, Thompson, sold it to the Mastangello family who converted it into a bed and breakfast. The inn is currently owned by Ernest Rahp.

Freddy groaned. I don’t see how earnest Rahp can be, since he stole my family’s beach house.

I said over my shoulder, He didn’t steal it. Rahp bought it.

Because my ingrate of a cousin sold the house from under me.

"Actually, from over you, since you were six feet under at the time. I clicked through the pictures. Which room was yours?"

Freddy pointed to the screen. This one! The last room at the end of the hall on the second floor. And there’s my pianola!

It was a masculine-looking turret room with a large mahogany king-size bed, desk, bookcase, and an armchair at the white marble fireplace mantel. The player piano rested in one corner opposite a balcony. I rose and rested my arms around Freddy’s narrow waist. If I stay at Apollo Branchus, do you think I can summon you via your old player piano?

It’s worth a try.

If it works, I assume you won’t be able to leave your room.

That’s fine with me. He kissed the top of my head. Since we’ll be together. Taking me in his arms, Freddy said, You need a vacation, my love.

Every day here with you is like a fabulous vacation.

But I want you to see my beach house, take in the sun, and breathe the sea air.

After considering it, I said, I’d like that too.

We shared a hug.

When we parted, Freddy said, Make your reservation.

After taking the phone out of my pocket, I made a reservation with a man named Yusef Raji for room five at their earliest opening the following week. With Freddy’s chin on my shoulder, I hit my laptop again to make my travel plans.

The week flew by as I arranged for Aunt Nia to bring in my mail, and Victor to keep an eye on the apartment. I packed light with just one bag, wishing I could stuff Freddy inside of it too.

On the morning of my departure, I threw on a peach polo shirt and jeans. Freddy made me a mouth-watering Roaring Twenties breakfast of poached eggs with lemon butter chive sauce, banana buttermilk waffles, vanilla crème French toast, and a mixed fruit parfait. As was our habit due to Freddy’s foodless ghostly status, he sat opposite me in the dining alcove enjoying me enjoying my breakfast.

Moments later, I stood at the doorway opposite the man of my heart. I’ll miss you, Freddy.

Play for me as soon as you can?

You know I will.

We kissed tenderly but with ferocity, as I wondered when I’d see Freddy again. Then I grabbed my bag and went on my way.

At twenty-seven, I felt like a child running away from home. Hurrying down the apartment steps, I already missed Freddy like crazy. Concentrating on my online instructions, I took a taxi to Newark Airport. After braving the endlessly long security line, I boarded a plane to Miami. Sitting at a window seat, I marveled as tall buildings transformed into miniatures, and vast waterways became ponds.

When we landed, I rode on a crowded ferry boat to Key West, enjoying the crisp, cloudless azure sky and turquoise ripples of water bowing to welcome my arrival. As I finished the lunch Freddy had packed for me—Oysters Rockefeller—the boat arrived at the dock. I hopped inside a taxi and gave the driver the address. As we drove, I nodded at the palm trees waving to me in the soft summer breeze.

After passing by hotels, restaurants, bars, and shops, the last stretch of the ride led me to houses—first small and then quite large. Moments later, I was struck by the beauty of Freddy’s former home. I paid the driver and stood marveling at the all-white structure, which filled an entire block. A white stone walkway led from the house to the beach. Two marble statues of the handsome, muscular Greek gods Apollo and Branchus flanked a wide staircase leading to a huge wraparound porch crowned with balconies and turrets. After making my way to the top of the stairs, I stood there a moment to breathe in the salty sea air. Then I gazed out at the white sailboats gliding through the crystal-clear ocean. I enjoyed the sound of the seagulls accompanied by the crash of the foamy waves on the jagged rocks.

As I turned to face the house, I noticed a wispy-looking little girl sitting on a white wicker rocking chair with her nose buried inside a book. Her T-shirt and jeans appeared to be hand-me-downs.

Finding the girl a welcome relief from my students who read only texts on their phones, I said, Hi. What are you reading?

Her large walnut eyes peered over the book. A mystery.

Nancy Drew?

She grimaced. "That’s for kids. I’m finishing Paper Doll, the first Jana Lane mystery."

It’s a great series.

She seemed shocked. You’ve read it?

I nodded. It’s one of my favorites.

The author follows the Agatha Christie rules.

Meaning?

Interesting, quirky characters, humor, and cozy locations. The clues to guess the murderer come early, but they’re hidden well. And there are lots of red herrings and surprises, especially the ending. She pulled her long dark hair behind her ears. What other mystery series do you like?

"The Nicky and Noah mysteries starting with Drama Queen."

I loved that series! They’re so funny, and the endings are shockers! She slid to the edge of her seat. Are you staying here?

I sat on a white wicker glider. I reserved room five for three nights.

That’s the player piano room. She explained, In honor of the god of music, Apollo, each room has a musical instrument in it. Room one has an old phonograph. Room two an old accordion, three a harp, and four a radio.

How about Branchus, the sun god? How is he honored at the inn?

She pointed at the golden sky.

We shared a smile.

She glanced around the porch. This place would make a great location for a cozy murder mystery.

I agree.

Rocking in her chair, she said, Apollo and Branchus were a couple, you know? Like Nicky and Noah.

Right. Living in Key West had clearly rubbed off on her.

Are you gay? she asked.

Yes.

Do you have a boyfriend?

I do.

Where is he?

I answered carefully. I’m hoping he can join me later on. Extending my hand, I said, I’m Andre Beaufort.

As we shook hands, she replied, Ava Grey. My father’s the manager here.

I wondered why the manager dressed his daughter in old, faded clothes. Do you live here with your father?

She nodded. My mom passed away.

I’m sorry.

So’s my dad. She seemed to be examining me. Where are you from?

Hoboken, New Jersey.

What do you do there?

I’m a grade school teacher.

She cocked her head at me. Are you a mean teacher or a nice teacher?

Definitely a nice teacher.

You don’t teach math, do you?

I teach music.

She seemed satisfied.

What grade are you in?

"I was