OSCAR SCHMIDT IS GUILTY!

By Robert Lopresti

The scene is the signing room at a mystery convention. At the north end sits the author of this year’s big thriller, signing copy after copy like an automaton for a never-ending assembly line of fans. At the south end is the beloved author of fifty cozies, coping with a mob of people carrying hardcovers, paperbacks, and tea towels for her autograph.

And in between them sit the rest of the bunch, the non-bestsellers, with their master works enticingly displayed on tables in front of them. They give each passerby their best come-hither smile, but the customers rush past, afraid that if they make eye contact they will be dragged over and forced to buy a book.

Among the desperate would-be signers is one who stands out because of his calm manner, his relaxed attitude, and, of course, his rugged good looks.

That would be me.

The reason I appear to be at peace is that I am making my little corner of the room a better place by strumming a tune on a strange, boxlike musical instrument.

It not only catches the ear, but the eye as well. A conference-goer hesitates, then walks over.

“Is that a dulcimer?” he asks.

Close but no cigar. I explain that there are two unrelated instruments called dulcimers, Appalachian and hammered, but that this is neither. It is an autoharp, taxonomically a chorded zither. Its roots are in Germany but it was perfected in the good old U.S.A. by the Oscar Schmidt company. It is popular in the world of folk music, which coincidentally is the
setting for this fine mystery novel you see before you. We accept all major credit cards.

And another sucker falls prey to the mystical wiles of the autoharp. I have sworn to use my powers only for good. (Hey, selling books is good. Literacy, free press, stuff like that.)

Originally the magic of the autoharp was used to sell, well, autoharps. In the nineteenth century salesmen traveled door-to-door with a wide variety of instruments, some of which seem to have come from someone’s nightmare (and happily have returned to them). Think how wonderful it would be, he told the customer, to have the family gather around the
hearth and sing hymns together while you strum this little gem.

Five minutes after the money changed hands the first string would go out of tune and the customer would say: uh oh. Unless someone in the neighborhood had very good pitch the gadget wound up in the attic. Such was the fate of most of these instruments.

But unlike the majority of its brethren, the autoharp survived. The key, I think, is that the big box is like chess: you can learn the basics in an hour and spend the rest of your life trying to master it.

Countless school teachers have learned to bang out a few chords to accompany a song, but more talented people pick out melodies and make it sound great. Like the bagpipes and accordion, the autoharp is scorned and misunderstood by many, but those who love it, love it.

I am one of the chord-banging crowd. I play mostly so that I’m not singing my songs a capella. But if you want to hear masters at work, try Autoharp Legacy.

Bryan Bowers, who many think is the world’s greatest player, invited fifty of his favorite colleagues to each take a star turn with a group of Nashville’s finest studio musicians. The result is a 3 CD set. The site I link to sells it for twenty bucks, which is practically stealing it.

And speaking of theft, this is a column about crime fiction, remember? I can’t offer you any mysteries about the autoharp, but here are the lyrics of a song I built myself with tools I had around the house. It is an eerie tale of the supernatural, which I hope is close enough to mystery to please you.

“Devil Take the Autoharp”

The devil had an hour free
Some mischief for to make
He stalked the southern mountains
For a soul that he could take

He saw an old time music jam
With fiddlers by the score
But frankly he was bored with them
He’d played their game before
And most were hellbound, anyway
He didn’t need one more

But then he saw a girl named Pearl
Who played the autoharp
Her face was sad and mournful
And her notes were sour and sharp

He said, my dear, you know me
By my pitchfork and my tail
And if you sell your soul to me
I promise, without fail
To grant you any gift you wish
And keep you out of jail

Now Pearl had been a righteous girl
Not of the sinful kind
But years of playing the autoharp
Had twisted her young mind

She said, all right then, Satan, I’ll
Just test your skills a bit
I’m sick of all the shame and scorn
And sneers and so-called wit
Musicians heap on this dear child
Of noble Oscar Schmidt

When each who hears the autoharp
Respects it and adores
Its golden chorded zither sound
Then, Nick, my soul is yours

The devil thought about the words
That pretty Pearl had said
He looked down at the autoharp
And shook his horny head
Let’s start with something simpler
How about world peace instead?

So Pearl just sighed and walked away
Which hurt the devil’s pride
And so he seized the autoharp
And forced his way inside

An instrument possessed, it shrieked
As if it felt the flame
Its wails were weird and out of tune
With chords that knew no name
And everyone who heard it said
It sounded just the same

So Pearl gave up the autoharp
And shut it in its box
The devil wasn’t quick enough
To slip past all the locks

And that’s why every autoharp
Receives so much abuse
And usually is welcome as
A hand grenade or noose
Cause when you open up the case
All hell starts breaking loose.