End Me a Tenor

  No. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

  “I hated the idea of you being upset and driving home in all this snow. Aldo told me not to worry, but I couldn’t help myself. He’ll be so glad to know he was right. He’s in the living room, helping me give Mary Kay opinions on some potential products.”

  While I desperately wanted to take a hot bath and burrow under the covers, I knew my aunt. If she wanted to reassure herself of my mental and physical well-being, she would go to any lengths to do it. Since I didn’t want her camping out on the toilet while I shaved my legs, I grabbed a cookie from the Christmas assortment that had arrived yesterday from Cousin Ashley and headed for the living room.

  A cheerful fire crackled in the fireplace as Bing Crosby’s voice crooned about a white Christmas. The Christmas tree’s silver and pink ornaments glistened from the corner of the room. An ever-growing stack of brightly wrapped presents was nestled under the evergreen boughs. Four dogs sat warming themselves in front of the fire. The scene would have looked like something out of a Currier & Ives holiday card if not for the fact that the dogs had glass eyes and permanent-press fur. Aunt Millie couldn’t bear the idea of burying her pets when they died. She thought taxidermy was much more dignified. Since the dogs in question were currently accessorized with pink antlers and jingle bells, I wasn’t sure the word “dignified” applied.

  Since Killer was less than fond of his taxidermied counterparts—a feeling we shared—he was nowhere in sight. That allowed me to take a seat on the couch without being growled at. Which was good; after the night I’d had, I wasn’t sure my nerves were up to dealing with canine intimidation tactics.

  “See, Millie? I told you that you worry for nothing.” Aldo’s lips twitched in what was probably meant to be a smile. The blue face goop he was sporting looked as though it had hardened to the consistency of stone. “When you no come home right away, she started calling your friends.”

  “Devlyn said he’d be up late in case you needed to talk. Otherwise, he’ll see you at rehearsal in the morning.” Millie grabbed a towel and swiped some of the green glop off her face. “He also said I should tell you not to worry about losing your job. The new choir number is going to wow the school board.”

  Busted.

  “It’s not—”

  Millie gave me one of her looks. “Don’t tell me this isn’t important. We all know that’s a lie.” I opened my mouth to explain, but Millie held up her hand. “We won’t talk about it now because you’ve had a rough night, but tomorrow the two of us are going to have a heart-to-heart. If that school board thinks they can fire the best thing that ever happened to them, they have another think coming. The mayor is going to hear about this.”

  So much for not talking about it tonight. I was thankful the doorbell rang, saving me from whatever other phone calls Millie planned on making.

  I made a mental note to steal Millie’s Rolodex and took the opportunity to escape by volunteering to answer the door. Since Millie’s and Aldo’s friends weren’t the types to visit after ten, I assumed whoever was at the door was here for me. Hoping Devlyn had decided to offer his very sexy shoulder to lean on, I flung open the door—and almost slammed it shut on the smirking face of Prospect Glen detective and all-around pain in my butt, Michael Kaiser.

  “What are you doing here?” Not the most gracious greeting in the world, but sue me, I’d had a rough day. Seeing the man who’d investigated the last dead body I’d run into wasn’t making my day any better.

  Mike’s smile widened as he scooted inside and brushed the snow off his long, navy blue coat. “Aw, I’ve missed you, too. And I’m here because your aunt called me.”

  Of course she did. “Look, I’m sorry Aunt Millie interrupted your evening. She was worried about me driving home in all this snow.”

  “I can see how that would upset her, although I’d think hearing her niece witnessed a man drop dead from cyanide poisoning would freak her out more.”

  Cyanide. In the water that I almost drank. Oh my God. Trying to get a grip, I asked, “How could you know it was cyanide poisoning? It’s not your case.”

  “When a famous opera guy ends up dead, it makes me curious. And when I find out my favorite brunette singer is a witness . . .” He leaned against the wall and gave me a crooked smile. “I made a couple calls. The tox screens won’t be in for a while, but the dead guy had seizures, his face turned red, and his breath had what the paramedics described as an almond smell. All the hallmarks of potassium cyanide. Someone really didn’t like the dead guy.”

  “Do they have any idea who?”

  His smile disappeared. “They’re questioning several persons of interest. At the top of their list is the one who waves the stick at the band, but right below her was a person I found a little more interesting.”

  “Who?” Vanessa? Jonathan?

  Mike’s brown eyes met mine as his lips formed the word. “You.”

  Chapter 4

  “Me?” Clearly the glop on Millie’s face had hallucinogenic properties because I was most definitely hearing things. “I just met David Richard. Why would I kill him?”

  Mike folded his arms across his chest. “That’s a really good question. A question Detective Frewen has no doubt already asked himself, which is why you aren’t the current focus of the investigation.”

  “I don’t understand why they’d focus on me at all.” My voice was starting to sound a little like I’d inhaled helium, but I couldn’t help it.

  Mike rolled his eyes. “Probably because you are the only one who admitted to touching the murder weapon. That tends to get a cop’s attention.”

  I’d spent so much time contemplating the possibility of my own death from that bottle that I hadn’t considered that my fingerprints were on the murder weapon. Yowzah. I was a murder suspect.

  My legs went limp, and I leaned against the wall for support. “Now what do I do?”

  “Nothing.” Mike’s voice was low and firm. His eyes lost their usual glint of sardonic humor. “Detective Frewen and his team might ask you to come down to the station and answer a few more questions. Your job is to do what they ask and nothing more. You don’t want to stick your pretty little nose into a murder case again. You could have died last time.” He pushed away from the wall and strolled over to me. “I’d hate to see you push your luck and lose.”

  Me, too. Facing the wrong end of a gun was not an experience I’d care to repeat. I had no intention of poking into this murder case. Still, the macho “back off and let the men handle it” attitude had me saying, “If the cops do their jobs, there won’t be any need for me to poke my nose into their business. If not . . .”

  If I was hoping to get a rise out of Mike, I hit the bull’s-eye. His eyes narrowed, his face turned bright red, and the vein on his forehead began to dance the mambo. Yeah—score a direct hit for me.

  “Are you implying that it was my fault you got nosy and almost got killed?”

  Maybe. Had Mike investigated the real murderer instead of one of my students, I would never have needed to ask my own questions or face down a killer. Since I wasn’t interested in watching Mike implode, however, I crossed my fingers behind my back and said, “Of course not. Look, between watching a man die and finding out I’m a potential suspect, I’ve had a long day. What do you say we call a truce?”

  Mike’s expression softened. He reached up his hand and brushed a lock of hair off my face. “Paige, the Evanston police know you didn’t kill the opera guy. Do what they ask and everything will be okay. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.” He smiled and put on his gloves. “And just in case you were wondering—the blonde I was seeing moved to Florida. I thought this might be a good time for the two of us to think about resuming our relationship.”

  Relationship? What relationship? Mike and I had kissed twice. The kisses were spectacular, which should have
led to something more interesting. Too bad after both occasions Mike felt compelled to ruin the moment by speaking. And while Mike’s rugged features and toned muscles still made me sigh, I wasn’t sure going back for another round was in my best interest.

  Opening the door to a burst of arctic air, I gave Mike a sweet smile and said, “Thanks for dropping by. It was nice seeing you.”

  Grinning, Mike strolled past me toward the door and then stopped and turned. Before I could protest, his lips brushed against mine, making my pulse leap. Then Mike stepped back, gave me a wink, and headed out the door with a promise to see me soon.

  Damn. As if I didn’t have enough trouble.

  “Who was at the door, dear?” Millie asked as I walked back into the living room. Her eyes were wide, her face a mask of complete innocence. The Las Vegas casinos were lucky my aunt had gone into makeup sales. If ever she decided to take a whack at poker, she’d break the bank in no time.

  “Detective Kaiser stopped by,” I answered as though she didn’t already know. “He wanted to make sure I’d gotten home safe and sound.” Informing Millie about my murder-suspect status seemed like a bad idea. Between that and my job issues, Millie would freak out, which would be a waste of energy since I was freaking out enough for the both of us.

  “How nice of him. You know . . .” Millie’s eyes twinkled. Crap. I knew that look. “You don’t have a date to the country club’s Winter Ball yet. I’m sure Michael would be happy to go if you asked.”

  While my aunt had yet to bop down the aisle to Here Comes the Bride, she felt compelled to ensure I didn’t escape taking that trip. While I couldn’t fault her for her loving concern, I did take issue with her methods. More than once, I’d been sent on an errand only to be accosted in the store by a guy with a fistful of flowers and a dinner reservation down the block. I guess my refusal to do any more of Millie’s shopping had resulted in more drastic measures.

  “Mike’s not the country club type.” Unless I was performing, neither was I, but that wasn’t the point. I wasn’t going to be pressured into a relationship with Detective Mike or anyone else. Since my aunt wasn’t about to agree with my point of view, I faked a wide yawn, plead exhaustion, and bolted upstairs. Did I know how to handle confrontation or what?

  My sore muscles whimpered with relief as I cranked the shower to scalding. For several minutes, I just stood under the steaming water, trying to wash away the mental image of David Richard collapsing to the ground. When I was clean and dry, I pulled on a pair of worn flannel pajamas, set my alarm for the crack of dawn, and climbed into bed.

  An hour later, I was still staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come. No matter how fatigued my body was, my mind wouldn’t hit the off switch. Tired of lying in the dark, I flipped on the light and padded over to the desk. A moment later my laptop hummed to life.

  As a performer, I’d had a couple of opportunities to act out murder on the stage. My favorite was playing Rosa in the Mystery of Edwin Drood. The music was challenging, the humor dark, and the audience got to vote on the person they believed was responsible for the murder and watch that ending play out on stage. I was thrilled when the audience voted for my character. On stage, being an accused murderer was fun. Real life? Not so much.

  Since none of the murderous shows I’d performed in involved potassium cyanide, I decided to Google it. Less than a minute had passed between David chugging his water and his becoming intimately acquainted with the stage floor. A poison that potent should be hard to acquire, right?

  According to the Internet, Mike was right. The hallmarks of potassium cyanide poisoning were seizures and red cheeks. Crystals of potassium cyanide were reported to smell like bitter almonds, which explained the paramedic’s report on David’s breath. The small salt-like crystals were easily dissolved in water, and if I did the math right, a teaspoon of the stuff mixed in David’s water would have been enough to fell a small elephant in almost no time.

  My stomach clenched. Had the poison been added before or after my run-in with David? As a singer, drinking from my water bottle was a reflex, something I did without thought. At least twenty minutes passed between the time I smacked into David and the moment he took that deadly drink of water. The bottle hadn’t been full when I picked it up off the floor. Like mine, the bottle had been half empty, but the bottle David Richard toasted me with had been filled to the top with water. That meant someone had refilled the bottle and added the drug sometime between the time David waltzed into his dressing room and his appearance on stage.

  My stomach muscles unclenched. Even if I had ended up with the wrong bottle, I wouldn’t have suffered David’s fate. More important, after filling my own bottle, I had gone upstairs and waited in the wings of the stage. Several backstage techs walked by while I was there, which meant I had an alibi for the time of the poisoning. While Mike said I wasn’t a serious contender for the murder-suspect title, a rock-solid alibi would take me out of the running for sure.

  Phew.

  Now that I had a method of proving my innocence to the cops, my mind started working. If the crystallized version of the poison smelled like bitter almonds, I doubted the drug was tasteless. Of course, according to the Internet, no one who tasted the drug actually lived. But if the poison had a strong smell, I was banking on it having some kind of flavor.

  A flavor David didn’t notice. If he had, I’m sure there would have been a look on his face. From our brief encounter, I suspected David wasn’t the type to suffer imperfect-tasting water. His dissatisfaction would have shown. But it hadn’t. I’d been looking straight at him, and he’d smiled. The water tasted as he expected it to. That had to mean something. Too bad I didn’t have a clue what that something was.

  Deciding the cops would have to come up with the answer to that one, I crawled back into bed and made a vow. Now that I could clear myself of any suspicion, I was going to steer clear of this murder investigation. End of story.

  Sneaking out of the house before Millie got out of bed wasn’t cowardice. It was self-preservation. The radio report told me the public works department had shattered the snow-day dreams of my students. Most days, I would have joined the students in their disappointment, but today was Tuesday. There were only two days left until the school board would pass judgment on my show choir coaching abilities. If I didn’t want to find myself unemployed, my choir needed all the rehearsal time it could get.

  Several students were waiting at the choir room door when I arrived. I slid the key in the lock and asked everyone to take off their wet shoes before tracking slush into the room. The way my luck was going, the combination of wet floors and complicated dance moves would land someone in the emergency room.

  Dumping my coat and bag in the office, I changed my shoes, got out the music, and headed back into the choir room ready to work. A quick head count told me twelve of my fourteen singers had arrived. I heard the final two come through the door as I walked to the closet to retrieve the CD player. Voices whispered behind me. The minute I turned, everyone went quiet.

  Crap. There were only two reasons for teenagers to stop whispering when you faced them: because you had an alien-looking pimple on your nose or because you were the topic of juicy gossip. For the first time in my life, I was hoping I had a zit.

  “Is it true you watched a guy get murdered last night?”

  Damn. So much for the pimple. “Yes, I was at rehearsal last night when David Richard died.”

  “Was there lots of blood?” Blonde, angelic-looking Emily Svoboda’s eyes were filled with equal parts disgust and glee.

  Yikes. I chewed on my bottom lip as I debated what I should say. When I’d taken this job, Larry had sat me down and given me a dissertation on the topics that were and were not acceptable when talking to students. Murder hadn’t been on either list. Now what?

  I could try to stall until a real teacher walked through the door. Devlyn would be here
any minute. But waiting felt wimpy, so I said, “No, Emily. There wasn’t any blood. David Richard was poisoned.”

  The boys looked fascinated. The girls were shocked. Chessie looked intrigued. Great.

  Making a note to keep my water bottle with me at all times, I sat at the piano to start vocal warm-ups. Before my fingers could play the first chord, Eric asked, “Have the police arrested anyone yet?”

  “Not that I know of, Eric.” But I was hoping they’d have it wrapped up soon. Being on the potential suspect list, even if I was at the very bottom, wasn’t any fun. “I’m sure the police are working hard to track down the person behind David’s murder.”

  My fingers moved toward the piano keys.

  But Eric wasn’t ready to sing. “Are you going to help the cops solve the murder?”

  “I think the police are more than capable of solving the murder themselves.”

  “They weren’t last time.”

  I met Eric’s serious eyes and could see the concern behind them. No doubt he was thinking about the time the police questioned and almost arrested him for murder of choir director Greg Lucas. I was the one who had gotten him off the hook. “I’m sure this investigation will go more smoothly. Now, if you guys don’t mind, we have work to do.”

  Devlyn arrived in the middle of vocal warm-ups. His smile was bright as he strode into the room wearing vibrantly hued purple workout pants and a purple and lime green shirt, but I could see the question in his eyes when he looked at me. Nodding, I let him know I was okay, and we got down to business.

  Out of the three disciplines of stage performing—acting, singing, and dancing—dancing was the hardest for me. I’d taken all the classes and knew the technique. I could do time steps and execute a triple turn without falling flat on my face. But for some reason no matter how much I practiced, I always felt self-conscious and awkward at dance auditions. And auditions were a piece of cake compared to demonstrating choreography to a group of high school students.