The smile disappeared. The eyes narrowed. Mike went into cop mode. “I called him after you called me. You’ve had another busy day.”
“Not intentionally.”
“Which is scary considering how many dead bodies you’ve found. Most people don’t ever stumble across one, let alone three.”
Technically, I’d only stumbled across two—Greg, the murder victim Mike had investigated, and Bill. David Richard died in front of a lot of us. I doubted Mike would be impressed by the distinction. Instead of quibbling over details, I admitted, “I need help. There’s a possibility that whoever killed David and Bill might come after me.”
Mike crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back in his seat. “What did you do?”
“Someone is threatening my life and you’re asking what I did?” Call me crazy, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t to blame for someone else’s homicidal tendencies. If Mike was going to say I was, he was going to get a French fry upside the head.
His expression didn’t change. “The killer wouldn’t come after you without a reason. Now, what did you do?”
I put down the French fry. The man had a valid point. Taking a sip of my soda, I gave him the rundown on my meeting with Bill and the hints he’d dropped about Magdalena’s mysterious allergy. As I talked, a sick, oily sensation spread through my gut. “You don’t think Bill died because I asked him to meet with me last night?”
I waited for Mike to offer immediate reassurance. When he didn’t, the salad I’d eaten threatened to reappear. “I’m the reason Bill died?”
“No.” Mike leaned forward, looking me square in the eyes. “The killer is the reason Bill’s dead. Bill either knew something the killer didn’t want getting out or the killer thought the cops would buy the suicide/confession routine.”
“Which they don’t.”
“Not for a minute.” He took a sip of his soda. “Contrary to popular belief, most suicide victims don’t leave notes. The killer got creative. He also got too clever cleaning up after himself. Detective Frewen is waiting for the medical examiner to rule officially, but he’s betting the same person who murdered the singer offed the stage manager, too.”
The same guy who was now after me. Gulp.
I pushed my food to the side. “The killer knows where I work. I’m worried he’ll come after me and end up hurting one of my students.”
“I’d like to say he won’t, but at this point anything is possible.”
That was not the answer I wanted to hear. “We have a concert tomorrow night. It’s been advertised in the newspaper, and it’s listed on the school’s website. Do you think there’s a chance the killer will show up?”
“Maybe.”
Note to self: Never go to Mike when you want to feel better about anything. The guy had a gun, however, and knew how to use it. At this point, that meant more than words of comfort.
Sneezing, I tried to ignore the panic bubbling inside my chest. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
Mike grinned. “Already setting up a second date?”
“I want you to come to the concert and keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”
“You want me to watch a high school choir concert?”
The horror in his voice made me laugh. “I promise it won’t be as bad as you think.” If it was, it would be the last high school choir concert either one of us would see. “I’ll feel better if I know you’re there to protect my kids in case of emergency.”
“I’ve had to sit through my niece’s choir concerts. They’re brutal.”
“This one won’t be.” At least, I hoped not. Mike didn’t look convinced, so I added, “You’d never forgive yourself if the killer showed up and you weren’t there.” Mike still didn’t cave. “How about I buy you a drink after the concert to say thank you?”
“It’s going to need to be a really big drink.”
“It will be. I promise.”
“The chances of the killer showing up at the school are slim. You know that, right?”
I nodded.
“Good.” Mike grinned. “Then I can pretend this was an elaborate ruse to ask me out on a date.” He stood up and brushed a wayward sesame seed off his lap. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. Wear a sexy dress and don’t do anything to antagonize the killer before then. Keep your head down, your mouth shut, and let the cops do their jobs. Okay?”
Without waiting for an answer, Mike winked and strolled out the restaurant door, leaving me to clean up his trash. Who said chivalry was dead?
Bolstered—albeit slightly queasy—from my dinner of salt, greenery, and grease, I steered my car through traffic to the theater. During the drive, Mike’s warning to keep my head down rang in my head. The idea of further antagonizing a killer had zero appeal. Maybe if I followed Mike’s advice and avoided asking questions, the killer would see I was keeping out of things and leave me alone. While it went against my nature to sit back and do nothing, I was more than happy to go against type if it kept me alive. Alive was good. Dead . . . not so much.
Vowing to make myself look as disinterested in the murderer’s identity as possible, I walked through the stage door and scanned the sign-in sheet. According to the cast list, I wasn’t the only one who had arrived before call time. Both Jonathan and Vanessa were somewhere in the building, as were a large number of chorus and orchestra members. While being surrounded by other people hadn’t helped David Richard, knowing I wasn’t alone with an unmasked murderer did loosen the knot in my shoulders.
Taking a deep breath, I double-checked to make sure the water bottle I brought was sealed and then headed downstairs. With any luck, Vanessa wouldn’t be in our dressing room. Call me crazy, but the idea of being alone with Vanessa’s sunny disposition was low on my bucket list.
A number of choristers and orchestra members were milling around the greenroom. Their voices were subdued. From the tension and tears, I could tell they’d heard about Bill’s death. Like me, they were wondering if this rehearsal was only to inform us that the show had been canceled.
The tears continued in my dressing room. I opened the door and found Vanessa sobbing in Jonathan’s arms. “I can’t believe Bill’s gone. If only he’d told someone how unhappy he was . . .” Vanessa’s bottom lip trembled, and her eyes swam with tears. Either the woman was miserably unhappy or she had better acting abilities than Chessie.
Vanessa spotted me in the doorway. She pulled out of Jonathan’s arms, wiped at her face, and went from devastated to diva in two seconds flat. “This is a private conversation.”
My new “don’t antagonize homicide suspects” mandate had me stepping backward. I’d almost made it to safety when Jonathan insisted, “Paige, don’t leave. Vanessa, it isn’t fair to yell at Paige.” Jonathan’s voice was low. The tone sounded as though he was comforting a wounded and potentially dangerous animal. “Just because she didn’t know Bill and David as well as we did doesn’t mean she isn’t upset.” Jonathan looked at me with tired eyes. “I hope you’ll forgive us for being on edge. Bill was a good friend. Getting a call from Jenny telling us that Bill committed suicide knocked us for a loop.”
Clearly, our assistant stage manager hadn’t heard that the police didn’t buy the suicide routine. Since I’d vowed to be seen and not heard, I opted to keep that information to myself.
Not that Vanessa would have cared what I had to say anyway. From the way she threw herself back into Jonathan’s arms and pressed against him, I’d say she was interested in more than comfort. Jonathan didn’t look like he minded. Feeling like three was most definitely a crowd, I ran through a list of excuses to get me out of this dressing room before lifelong therapy became a necessity.
Thank goodness the feminine but firm voice of Jenny Grothe rang out from the monitor. Places. It was time to sing.
Magdalena took the podium, looking poised. Behind her, an anxious-looking Je
nny hovered with a clipboard. Magdalena’s lightly accented voice was controlled as she thanked everyone for coming to rehearsal under such difficult circumstances. “This week has been a tragedy for the opera community. The producers and I discussed canceling the show, but ultimately it was decided the best way to celebrate the lives of David Richard and Bill Walters was to share the music they loved with the world. To help with that mission, several radio stations have agreed to broadcast a recording of this concert as a part of a musical tribute to my friend David Richard.”
My heart skipped into my throat. My voice broadcast beyond this theater into people’s cars and homes was a dream come true. The publicity surrounding the broadcast could potentially launch my career into the stratosphere. This was everything I ever wanted. Too bad I was finding it hard to be happy. Knowing two people had died in order for my dream to come true made it impossible to celebrate. I wanted to earn my success, not walk across the memories of the dead to achieve it. A glance to my left told me Vanessa wasn’t having the same moral dilemma. She looked thrilled.
“Andre Napoletano has agreed not only to sing the tenor role but also to perform a number I composed in David’s, and now Bill’s honor. Together, we will make sure that those we have lost are remembered around the world.”
Magdalena’s final words drew applause and sniffles. The minute she raised her baton, both ended and rehearsal began. Another member of Northwestern University’s voice faculty stepped in to sing the tenor role for the night. His voice was strong and beautiful, but it didn’t hold a candle to the memory of David Richard’s final performance.
My muscles tightened as I waited for my first aria. The French fries from earlier rolled in my stomach, and I made a mental note not to eat before Saturday’s performance. Finally, my turn came. My legs trembled as I stood. My heart thundered in my chest as I reminded myself to take deep, controlled breaths. The orchestra hit a chord, and I started to sing.
The opening line was just my voice over the held note in the orchestra. I could hear a slight quaver. Nerves. The quaver disappeared as I finished the opening line and the strings played a series of moving notes. By the time I sang the next line the nerves were gone, and I lost myself in the joy of making music. Magdalena cued the chorus as I finished the last note of my opening salvo and smiled. For the first time in days, I felt a spurt of joy. With so much recent unhappiness and stress, it was easy to forget why I was here. Why I struggled day after day to make it as a performer. It was this feeling—the giddy happiness at being able to create something magical out of notes on a page. These moments made all the auditions and the inevitable slew of rejections worthwhile.
The chorus sat down. The orchestra played the opening to my aria, and I concentrated on the music. The long passes of running notes in this aria tripped up a lot of singers. I’d practiced this aria for weeks so I could execute it with precision, passion, and flair. My goal was to make the vocal gymnastics of the aria sound and look easy. In Millie’s living room, I’d accomplished all of the above. Now it was time to see whether my practice had paid off.
The music was fast. I reminded myself to breathe slow and low. While I wanted to hit every note just right, the only way to do that was to trust the prep work I’d done and relax. The opening notes sounded strong and clear. The first passage of fast, running notes was dead on. So was the next. I stopped thinking and let the music flow out of me until Magdalena directed the orchestra into the tempo change.
While the opening section of the song was light and happy, this part of the music required a tone infused with warmth and compassion. The audience needed to feel the peace and kindness I was singing about.
The music returned to the bright, effervescent tempo and I worked to sound buoyant and effortless. When I finished the final notes and the orchestra played the last section of the piece, Magdalena smiled up at me. Sitting down, I basked in the unspoken praise. And when I caught Jonathan’s nodding approval, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had nailed it. For the first time since my manager had called to tell me I’d landed this part, I felt as though I belonged.
The rest of rehearsal flew by. I lost myself in the joy of the production until the end of my last solo. As I finished singing the final measure, I looked away from Magdalena and spotted Detective Frewen. He was seated on the aisle near the back of the theater. His arms rested on the seat in front of him as he studied the players on stage. Not just players; suspects. For the last two hours, I’d forgotten that I was more than likely sharing the stage with a murderer. Now reality came crashing back, and I struggled to eke out the notes of the last ensemble number.
When the last chord was sung, Magdalena put down her baton and smiled. “Very good. Friday night’s rehearsal will be even better with a couple of changes.” She gave notes to the orchestra and asked the chorus master to work with the ensemble on a few sections. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Detective Frewen rise, walk down the aisle, and fold his arms across his chest as he watched us.
No. Not us.
Detective Frewen’s attention was focused squarely on one person. Not one of the soloists or Maestro Tebar, but a person seated in the orchestra pit immediately to the left of the conductor. A person I had never formally met and only knew by her stunning red hair and intimidating reputation—principal violinist and concert master Ruth Jordan.
Chapter 9
Ruth shifted and fingered the bow resting across her lap, making it clear she was aware of Detective Frewen’s scrutiny. Since the violinist was known equally for her playing and her spectacular beauty, there was a chance the detective was just being a guy and admiring the view. But I didn’t think so. His eyes were too steely. His jaw was clenched. No, this wasn’t a man hoping to bag a date. This was a guy looking to catch a killer.
Which had me baffled. Why would Ruth Jordan be a suspect in David’s and Bill’s deaths? Despite his illustrious career and ability to turn on the charm, David Richard was a vocalist. For most people that wouldn’t be a negative, but Ruth Jordan had a reputation in the musical community for avoiding personal encounters with singers. Several of my friends warned me to steer clear of Ruth when they learned she’d be playing this show. While it wasn’t unusual for instrumentalists to crack jokes about their superior talent, Ruth Jordan wasn’t laughing when she claimed singers impersonated real musicians. Still, while her attitude might not rate the Woman of the Year trophy, I doubted it rated high on the motive for murder scale. And Bill? Well, Bill had been a stage manager. In performer terms, that was like being Switzerland: neutral and interested in everyone getting along.
I was so busy watching the bi-play between Ruth and Detective Frewen, I almost missed Jenny announcing the end of rehearsal. Grabbing my water and my book, I stood up and almost walked smack into Jonathan.
“You sounded great tonight.”
My cheeks warmed with pleasure. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.”
“A few of us are going out to raise a glass to David and Bill. I’d love if you could come along.”
For a second, I felt like I was back in high school, only this time the cool kids weren’t ignoring me. They were asking me to sit at their lunch table. Too bad one of them might be a stone-cold killer.
When I didn’t answer right away, Jonathan lowered his voice and asked, “Are you worried about Vanessa? I know she can be a little abrupt around people she doesn’t know well. You’ll like her once you get to know her better.”
Something told me Vanessa and I were never going to exchange beauty tips and swap clothes. And to be honest, I wasn’t certain I wanted to go out drinking with a couple of murder suspects. “I’m not sure if I should go. Tonight is a school night.”
“I didn’t realize you had kids.”
“I have fourteen of them.” I laughed at his confused expression. “I coach the show choir at Prospect Glen High School.”
Jonathan smiled.
“I didn’t know you were a fellow teacher. I’d love to compare notes, and I promise I’ll make sure you get home in plenty of time to get your beauty sleep. Although you certainly don’t need it.”
My heart skipped several beats at the compliment. Not only was the guy handsome, he knew how to flirt. If several people hadn’t died, I would have jumped at his offer. As it stood, I was still tempted. Having drinks with a group of accomplished professional performers was appealing. And Jonathan had looked genuinely shocked to hear I taught at a high school. That made me feel marginally better, since my sadistic Secret Santa knew exactly where I worked. Desire to network and be accepted by the Chicago music community warred with my sense of self-preservation. Turning down a chance to schmooze with people who could help my career seemed like a really bad idea. Going into a potentially dangerous situation without someone watching my back seemed even worse.
While Jonathan gave directions to the after-party location to a couple of chorus members, I pulled out my phone, waved it around to find a signal, and dialed. Twenty minutes later, I’d followed Jonathan’s directions to a local sports bar and found Devlyn waiting for me out front.
I hurried as fast as I dared across the icy parking lot to meet him. “Thanks for coming.”
“I should thank you,” Devlyn said as I made it safely to the sidewalk. “Playing Watson to your Sherlock is more entertaining than reading my sophomores’ thoughts on Hamlet. And getting to do this makes it even better.” Before I could ask what this was, Devlyn kissed me.
Devlyn’s lips were warm despite the cold temperature. When his arms pulled me up against him, I forgot about the biting wind as the rest of me heated up. Too bad we were here to mingle.
Classic rock blared as Devlyn and I walked into the bar. The place was dimly lit by florescent signs hawking a variety of beers and other spirits. A dozen televisions broadcasted whatever sporting events were happening around the world. Chandeliers hung low over high-top tables filled with patrons. A couple of jean-clad guys were playing pool to my right. Clustered around the tables to the left were at least a dozen people I recognized from rehearsal, including Jonathan and Vanessa.