“I haven’t heard any news reports,” I said. “Is Jenny going to be all right?”
Mike shrugged. “Physically, yes. The girl caught a break when she landed on those big drums. A dislocated shoulder and a couple of bruises. But mentally—well, the lawyers her mother hired are already talking diminished capacity. From what Detective Frewen can tell, the lawyers aren’t too far off the mark.”
I remembered the singsong quality of Jenny’s voice before she started firing and agreed. Jenny wasn’t playing with a full deck.
“How did she get the potassium cyanide?” I asked. “I know she gave Bill Walters a wet-plate photograph that he thought had been created with the stuff. But the artist doesn’t use cyanide for her work. So, where did the poison come from?”
Mike raised an eyebrow but didn’t bother to ask how I knew about the wet-plate photograph or the gallery. I guess Mike didn’t want to fight. “Jenny was dating a jewelry store clerk. He gave her a tour of the vault and other rooms in the back of the store. While he was in the bathroom, she put on a hospital mask she brought and put the powder in a Ziploc bag. Since it doesn’t take much cyanide to kill someone, the jewelry store owner never noticed any was missing.”
Scary.
“Jenny had some cyanide left, so she slipped a smaller dose into Bill’s wine. Once he was dead, she moved the kitchen table under the light and used it to stand on while she strung him up. Cyanide is a popular suicide drug. Jenny assumed it would lend credibility to the suicide confession scene she set.”
I pictured David Richard taking a drink and falling to the ground. “There wouldn’t be time to hang yourself after taking the poison.”
Mike’s smile was grim. “Logic isn’t the overwhelming force in Jenny’s life. The interviews Frewen did this week say Jenny’s behavior deteriorated around the time David Richard stepped on campus. A lot of people, including her mother, were concerned, but everyone thought it was just the typical college senior stress.”
If only one of those people had reported Jenny’s behavior to health services or to a faculty member . . .
“What about Mark Krauss?” I asked.
“What about him?”
I sighed. “What was his part in all of this?”
Mike’s eyes flicked to me. “As far as I know, Mark Krauss isn’t involved. You told me the silver car that followed you belonged to Eric Metz.” His rolled eyes spoke volumes about my plea to keep that information to himself. I’d also asked whether Mike could get Millie her gun back. He said he’d try, but I was pretty sure I would be buying my aunt a new Beretta for her birthday next year.
“Mark’s wife and Ruth suggested that he was involved in something,” I explained. “They both said he’s been acting strange.”
“Maybe he’s having an affair.” Mike shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll have Frewen ask Jenny about Mark Krauss. But I don’t expect it’ll turn up anything. Once Frewen got the girl talking, she was more than happy to share her secrets.”
Another check mark in the insanity column.
Mike pulled up next to my car, and I waited for him to go for a kiss. Instead, he patted my hand, pecked me on the cheek, and said, “Drive safe. The roads are still a little slick. I’ll see you at the concert tonight.”
Huh. Maybe Mike thought I needed to be treated with kid gloves after almost dying. Sweet, but unnecessary. I was fine. Or I would be after I had a couple more answers.
Since the show had moved locations, the call time had also been changed. That meant I had just enough time to let Millie do my hair and makeup, grab my garment bag, accessories, and dress shoes, and head downtown to the theater. My heart skipped several beats as I walked through the stage door and signed my initials on the call-board. Once again, there were a dozen or more people signed in—only this time the theater wasn’t quiet. There were crew members shouting to one another as they moved risers and stands into position on stage. Someone—I was guessing our new stage manager—was waving his arms while barking into a phone. It was business as usual in show business. Tonight, the only danger I would face would come from the critics.
A list on the board told me my dressing room was on the second floor. I headed toward the stairs, trying hard not to notice the number of stagehand conversations that stopped as I walked past.
The larger theater had more dressing rooms, which meant I no longer had to share. I found the door with my name on it, pushed it open, and was hit by the smell of flowers. Lots and lots of flowers.
I hung up my dress and bag and checked out the cards on the nearly dozen bouquets crammed into the small space. Aunt Millie. Aldo. Devlyn. The Prospect Glen School Board. My manager. The producers of the show. Bill Walters’s family. Mike. There was even one from Jonathan.
Trying hard not to notice the lack of flowers or note from my parents, I closed the door and changed into my red silk gown. The dress had one shoulder strap and hugged my body from the chest to just past my hips, where it gently flared away from my legs. Tiny red beads were sewn down the side of the dress. While the gown showed very little skin, it was sexy, eye-catching, and a perfect color for the holiday season.
I stepped into my sparkly silver shoes, added the dangly diamond earrings I’d borrowed from Aunt Millie, and turned to examine my appearance in the full-length mirror. The eyes staring back at me were filled with excitement and nerves. This was my chance. A chance that had almost been taken away. A chance that might not come again. Which meant I’d better not screw it up.
Taking deep breaths, I grabbed my water bottle and black music folder, stepped out of my dressing room, and just about smacked into Mark Krauss. He looked striking in his black tuxedo—albeit a bit off-balance since I’d caught him preparing to knock.
He gave me a forced smile. “I know we have to walk the stage soon, but I was hoping you could spare a few minutes to talk.”
We had ten minutes until the stage manager would ask us to come downstairs. Plenty of time to get some answers. Stepping back, I waited for Mark to enter the dressing room before closing the door.
Mark adjusted his bow tie and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for what happened to you yesterday. If you’d been hurt . . .”
“You’d have felt responsible?”
Mark sighed. “Nora told me you came by the house. She said you suspected I might be involved with David’s and Bill’s murders.”
It was my turn to look uncomfortable. “I was wrong,” I admitted.
“I didn’t have anything to do with the murders, but I still take some responsibility for them. Jenny was my student. I ran into her outside of David’s studio one day. She was crying. Her hair and clothes looked disheveled. Knowing David’s reputation, I immediately assumed he’d made an attempt to seduce her and tried to get her to file a report. She wouldn’t. When I saw David later that night, I accused him of sleeping with his students. He didn’t deny it, and we ended up in an argument that got a little out of hand.”
The fistfight.
“Jenny heard about the fight and came to my office. That’s when she told me about David being her father. She was so upset when he died. It never occurred to me that she could have had anything to do with his murder. At least, not at first.”
“When did you start to suspect her?”
“After Bill was killed. She said she never saw him that night, but I saw a note she had on her rehearsal schedule about a meeting with him.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
He ran a hand through his sandy hair and started to pace the small space. “I didn’t want to believe she did it. She trusted me with her secret. If I went to the police with my concerns and was proven wrong, my betrayal would have sent her over the edge.”
A neat trick considering she was already there.
“So you did nothing?”
“No. I kept an eye on her. She trusted me, so she didn’
t question when I called every couple of hours to ask how she was doing. I even called all the main cast members in this production to make sure no one had arranged to meet her one-on-one.”
A light bulb went on. “You called my house pretending to be a reporter.”
“The guy I talked to swore your high school choir concert would be packed with people. I never dreamed Jenny would risk going there.”
“Your wife said you were home on Thursday night, but you weren’t. She’s not very good at lying.”
Mark laughed. “She loses at blackjack every time we go to Vegas.” His smile faded. “I sat in my car outside Jenny’s apartment building. If she left I was going to follow her, only she never came out the front door. When I heard about your attack, I thought that proved Jenny was innocent.”
I guess Mark had never heard of the back door.
But I didn’t doubt his sincerity when he raised his eyes to mine and said, “I was wrong and you could have died because of it. You have no idea how sorry I am. I doubt you can ever forgive me, but if I can ever—”
“You’re forgiven.” I held out my hand.
Mark took my hand in his with obvious surprise, but I meant what I said. I might not have liked the outcome of his actions, but I was starting to understand a teacher wanting to do right by the students who were entrusted into his or her care. He wanted to protect Jenny. The purpose behind his actions was just, even if Jenny ultimately didn’t deserve his aid.
The monitor crackled to life, and the voice of the new stage manager asked the cast to walk the stage. The house doors would open in thirty minutes.
Yikes.
My legs shook as I walked next to Mark down the stairs.
The minutes until curtain flew by. I checked to make sure my water and chair were exactly as I wanted them set on stage. My cheeks were kissed in greeting by our new tenor, the incredible Andre Napoletano. There was a conversation with Vanessa, who was jealous she hadn’t been shot at last night. (“Think of the press I would have received.”) Than a chat with Magdalena about a recording project I might be perfect for and a good-luck wish with a suggestion for a post-show celebration from Jonathan.
I didn’t have time to think about my nerves until the chorus walked onto the stage. Butterflies tickled the lining of my stomach as Ruth’s violin played and the orchestra began to tune. The stage manager cued us soloists. My heart thundered. My fingers clutched my black binder. My legs were weak, but my shoulders were straight as I followed Vanessa onto the stage accompanied by thunderous applause from a packed house.
Smiling, I scanned the audience as we waited for Maestro Magdalena Tebar to take the podium in the pit. I spotted Millie, Aldo, and Mike directly in front of my position three rows from the stage. Millie was beaming as she poked Aldo’s arm. Devlyn was ten rows back in the center, holding the hand of an older blonde woman I guessed was his mother. I don’t think I imagined the pride in his smile as he winked at me.
The audience applauded again as Maestro Tebar strutted to her podium. She bowed to the audience, picked up her baton, and indicated for the chorus and soloists to sit. I was halfway into my seat when another group of familiar faces caught my eye: Larry, Eric, Chessie, and members of the Music in Motion cast.
They were here. My eyes skipped from face to face to face. All fourteen of my students had come—for me.
Magdalena raised her baton. My pulse jumped as the first notes of the overture resonated through the theater. My heart soared as our new star tenor, Jonathan and Vanessa, the chorus, and the audience sang their hearts out. And when it was finally my turn to stand, I no longer was scared. I was ready for this performance and whatever tomorrow might bring.
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Berkley Prime Crime titles by Joelle Charbonneau
MURDER FOR CHOIR
END ME A TENOR
Joelle Charbonneau, End Me a Tenor
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