Disclaimer: NUMB3RS and its associated characters, etc., belong to the show's creators and to CBS, wonderful people whom I have never met and have no connection to. I hope they don't mind me using them here; no legal infringement intended.
Author's Note: Here comes chapter two! As always, I welcome feedback, especially constructive criticism. Thank you beta readers - you're my chocolate milk.
Pitch Perfect - Chapter 2
by Deichtine
Alan came into the kitchen to find his two sons sitting hunched over the table, talking softly.
"Sorry I'm late, Charlie. Mrs. MacPhee decided to filibuster. Hey Don. So what's for supper?" Alan put his folder of community association paraphernalia on the counter and, realizing he hadn't received an answer, turned to look more closely at what his sons were looking at with such intensity. When he recognized the object as decidedly not food, he sighed.
"Ah, so I see we're having music boxes tonight," he said, unfazed. "I hope you got the crunchy kind, because I'm starved."
"What?" Charlie finally looked up at his father, taking a moment to shift mental gears and process the remark. Supper. He was supposed to make supper.
"Oh, Dad, I'm sorry. I for - I mean, I didn't forget. Well - not at first, but with the bomb squad and everything -"
"Bomb squad?" Alan interrupted. He turned on his older son, alarmed. "Don, is this your doing?"
"Not exactly." Don's voice was calm, reassuring. "Someone sent an anonymous, unmarked package here today, and I was a little -"
"Paranoid?" Charlie jumped in, helpfully.
"No!" Don gave his brother a look. "I was cautious because I have been trained to recognize suspicious packages, and this fit the bill to a T. So I had the guys come over to check it out."
"And it was a music box?" Alan asked.
"Yeah. So, false alarm for now, but I, for one," - at this he looked again at Charlie, who was smiling behind his glass of water - "happen to think that, considering my job, it's better to be a little overcautious than seriously injured."
Alan made a conciliatory gesture. "Well, I'm just glad it was a false alarm. So let's hear it."
"Hear what?" Charlie asked, with genuine puzzlement.
"The song. It does play music, doesn't it?"
"Oh," Charlie said, a little embarrassed. Of course. He wound the mechanism and allowed the box to play its weird, staccato song for his father. When the box wound down, Alan hrumphed dismissively.
"Doesn't sound like much, does it? Is it broken or something?" he asked, as he pulled a box of spaghetti noodles out of the cupboard.
"Well, that's what we've been trying to figure out," Don said, taking a moment to massage his eyes. "The barrel thing, the thing with all the little tines, and the winding mechanism look fine, though we'll have to take it apart - maybe take it to an expert - to be sure."
"But first," Charlie said, "we're going to have to make some good quality recordings, get the notes transcribed, and see if there's anything to be learned from the music."
"I presume that's where you come in," Alan said, putting the water on to boil.
"Yeah. So, sorry about supper. I've been a little preoccupied."
"No problem. I can see how a visit from the bomb squad and the appearance of an unexplained, unmusical music box would disrupt your plans."
"Hazardous materials, not bomb squad," Don corrected.
Alan ignored him; he was searching the cupboards. "Where's the tomato sauce?"
Charlie froze. "Oh, um, yeah. Tomato sauce. That would require grocery shopping, wouldn't it?"
Alan looked at his apologetic younger son, sighed, and put the spaghetti noodles away.
Don arrived at work the next morning tired and grumpy, and not at all enthusiastic at the ribbing he was sure to get for calling the dangerous goods guys out the previous night on a false alarm. He and Charlie had been up until midnight with the music box, Charlie playing that stupid song-that-wasn't-a-song again and again as he watched the rotating cylinder, attempting to chart the little bumps on paper so he could start the pattern analysis. Don had spent the time trying to think - when he could think at all, with the music box playing almost continuously - of names, listing people who might have reason to want to get back at him, then people who might be playing a practical joke on him, then people who might have honestly wanted to send him a gift. The first list was depressingly longer than the others.
"Morning, Don."
"Morning, Terry." The petite blonde entered the elevator just before the doors closed, and positioned herself across from him.
"So, I hear you had a bit of a scare at your place last night."
"Well, technically at my dad's - I mean, Charlie's place. False alarm. So how'd you hear about it?"
"You'd be surprised how fast news travels when dangerous goods personnel are called from their evenings at home to another agent's house for an impromptu gift opening." Don opened his mouth to defend his actions, but she stopped him with a raised hand. "Don't worry, Don, nobody blames you. From what I'm told, the package was pretty suspicious looking, and the tech guys agreed with your decision to call them in. They're just pissed off at the jerk who sent it to you."
Don nodded, mollified. "Yeah, well, they're not alone in that."
They stepped off the elevator and passed one by one through the security door to their office area, flashing their passes to the door guard.
"So what was it, anyway?"
"A music box."
Terry's eyebrows rose. "Really?"
Don made a face. "Well, more accurately, a 'varied pitch sounds' box, as Charlie put it, 'cause what it's playing sure isn't music; it's all just jumbled notes. It reminds me of when Charlie was two and mom would sit him in her lap at the piano, and he'd hit random keys." He paused, remembering. "You know, even then he was kinda different. Most kids that age want to bang on the keys with the whole hand, make a lot of noise. Charlie wanted to hear each note distinctly."
"So do you have any idea who sent it yet?"
"No, not really. I'm gonna take a look at my recent cases, see if anything pops, but frankly I don't know how much I'll find. It's pretty much out of the blue. And I have a mountain of reports to go through for this case."
"What about tracing the box itself?"
"Charlie's looking into that today."
Charlie pushed open the door to the little antique shop, a bell tinkling to announce his arrival, and wondered again how he had been conned into spending his class prep day biking, bussing, and taxi-ing around the closer parts of Los Angeles looking for antique and hobby shops. He didn't mind the exercise particularly, or the fare, but it was difficult to navigate traffic or watch for his bus stops and mark his students' proofs simultaneously. He had a feeling he would be giving his new TA something of a 'baptism by fire' tomorrow.
"Good morning, sir," said the man behind the counter brightly. Tall and slender, he had that particular combination of rimless glasses, English accent, and attitude of willing, cheerful service that was at once reassuring and vaguely intimidating. "How might I be of service?"
Charlie reached into his backpack, pulled out the (carefully wrapped) box, and set it on the counter. "I was wondering what you might be able to tell me about this," he said, as he pulled the wrapping away to reveal the polished wood. "It was...given to my family, but we don't know anything about where it comes from. Mark, at Roarke's Antiques, said that there was someone here who has a particular interest in music boxes, and might be able to point me in the right direction."
"Did he, now!" The man looked as pleased as though Charlie had just given him a birthday present. "He was indeed correct. I have some small knowledge of the craft. Let's have a look."
He took the box in the tips of his long fingers, gently turning it over and over. "Very clean work, if a bit plain," he observed. "Is it functional?"
"Yes – we think."
The man looked up at Charlie. "You're not sure?"
"It seems to be working fine; at least I can't find anything wrong with it. But the tune seems to be garbled somehow."
"Odd. That should not be possible." The shopkeeper gently lifted the lid to reveal the mechanism; produced a magnifying glass, and examined it for a moment in silence. "Very nice. Very nice, indeed. Definitely custom made, but there's not maker's mark anywhere. The comb is highly unusual, having only - two, four..sixteen tines, tuned in pairs -"
"And therefore the potential to play only eight notes," Charlie finished, a little more forcefully than he'd intended; he knew all this already.
"Exactly. What really interests me, however, is that the cylinder seems to have been hand-pinned."
Charlie blinked. That he hadn't known. "How do you mean?"
The man pointed, holding the magnifying glass over the cylinder. "As you know, the sound of a music box is formed when one of the comb's tines, each of which is carefully tuned, like a tuning fork, is struck and caused to vibrate by one of the bumps on the cylinder, which turns to bring the bumps around to the comb. The bumps themselves are formed by pushing small pins through the brass; it's the pin which actually strikes the comb. On this cylinder, there are many more holes than necessary; only some of them have pins."
Charlie stared. How had he missed this? "So what do you think that means?"
The man blinked at him from behind his glasses. "I'm not sure. My guess is that each hole was originally pinned, and some pins were afterward removed, to make the song you have now. Look." He moved the magnifying glass slightly to focus on the blue-tinted screws holding the mechanism in place. "The cylinder has been removed and replaced."
"That is fascinating," Charlie agreed, squinting at the screws, seeing the telltale scrapes in the metal.
The man finally withdrew the magnifying glass and gave the box a considering look. "You know, if it is indeed playable, it might still be worth something, even not knowing who the maker was, especially if we can reconstruct the original tune. It is a fine piece of workmanship." He moved to turn the key to wind the movement, then stopped. "May I?"
Charlie made a 'go-ahead' gesture. "Please."
They listened, and the shopkeeper shook his head. "I don't understand. Why would someone go to all the work - and it would be a great deal of very fine, very painstaking work - to vandalise this movement?"
Charlie nodded, and there was a moment of pensive silence. "Are you looking to sell it?" the man ventured finally. "I could give you something for it, if just for the curiosity value."
Charlie shook his head and closed the box. "No, thanks, not yet. I'm going to follow this mystery a little further." He paused, and tried to think of what Don would do with this information, what questions he might ask. "Do you have any idea who might custom-make a box like this, or who might have the knowledge to re-pin the cylinder?"
"Companies, yes. Individuals?...It's a rare hobby. I will do some asking around, if you like."
"I'd appreciate it." Charlie dug a business card out of his backpack, and handed it to the antiquarian. "Please do let me know if you think of anything. I'd really like to meet the man who sent this to me."
"I would myself." The man took the card and peered at the small type and the university crest. "A maths professor, are you?"
"Yes, at CalSci."
"Forgive me for saying it, but you don't really look like what I'd expect of a maths professor."
Charlie picked up the box, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and smiled blandly. "We never do."
End Chapter Two.
You can learn more about how music boxes work at the website for Reuge, a Swiss company which manufactures fine music boxes. w w w . reugemusic . com
Special thanks to Ice Queen1, SD, sidhe-ranma, sammac, D. Lerious and Anonymous for hitting that "review" button. Stay tuned!
