“I thought I asked you to stay home.” Mike uncrossed his arms and glared.
“Actually, you ordered me to stay home.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t listen.” I glanced at the people streaming out of the theater. Devlyn was nowhere in sight, but I was betting he’d give up his quest to find Larry soon and come looking for me. Call me crazy, but I didn’t want to be found. Through the fear, I tried to smile. “However, now that I’ve paid my respects, I’d be happy to go back to my aunt’s house. Can you give me a lift?”
Mike blinked. “You want a ride?”
“Devlyn is busy.” At least I hoped he stayed busy until I got the hell out of here. “He choreographed the musical at North Shore High School so he knows a lot of kids and parents here. Some of them have been asking for college advice.”
That sounded like it would take lots of time. Right? Better yet, I was telling the truth. No twitching eyebrow here—not that I believed it actually twitched.
Detective Mike stared at me. My muscles tightened with every passing second. I used ever ounce of willpower to keep from glancing at the people streaming through the theater door towards the post-memorial reception. Mike scanned the room and signaled to a guy in a dark blue suit. Immediately, the guy zigzagged through the meandering mourners over to us.
“I’m going to escort Ms. Marshall home. Keep an eye out for Larry DeWeese, and call me if you see anything suspicious.” Mike turned to me. “Do you want to tell Mr. O’Shea that you’re leaving?”
Not even remotely. “I’ll text him.” I plastered a smile on my face and started walking.
Mike’s Mustang was parked in a loading zone near the front entrance. I raised an eyebrow, and he smiled as if daring me to question the morality of his parking practices. I would, but I really wanted to get out of here. Biting my lip, I climbed into the sweltering car and pulled out my phone. My sweaty fingers typed, Being escorted home by Detective Kaiser. Keep looking for Larry. Call you later, to Devlyn.
I hit send and leaned back as Mike cranked the air. Huh. Mike wasn’t kidding when he said the air-conditioning in my Cobalt was better. The air coming out of the vents was lukewarm at best.
Mike steered the car out of the parking lot. After a few minutes of silence he asked, “So what’s the real reason you were looking to get out of there?”
I opened my mouth to tell Mike about Devlyn and Coach Bennett’s hallway conversation. Then I stopped. I couldn’t do it. Not yet. Yes, it sounded suspicious, but something Devlyn said the other day stopped me. What if they weren’t guilty? Devlyn didn’t turn Greg Lucas in for hitting on a student because Greg might have been innocent. His career would have been ruined on the suspicion alone. Detective Mike wanted to catch the killer, and he wasn’t above making an innocent teenage kid look like a suspect in order to do it. What would he do if I told him about Devlyn and Coach Bennett’s conversation? Did I have enough faith in my own investigatory skills to chance blowing Devlyn’s career out of the water with my suspicions alone?
No. No, I didn’t.
This sucked. I let out a sigh and improvised, “My near-death experience this morning made the whole celebrating the end of life thing too much for me to take.”
“I can see that.” Mike’s eyes flicked over my face before reaffixing to the road. “Are you sure that’s the only reason you wanted to leave?”
“What other reason is there?”
Detective Mike shot me a knowing glance. “Well, the two of us alone in my car seems like a pretty good reason to me.”
“What?” The man wasn’t making sense.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed.” He grinned. “I admire a woman who goes for what she wants. As a matter of fact, I want the same thing you do, especially after this morning. But I was serious when I said we can’t do anything about it until this case is closed.”
I went from confused to stunned to totally pissed off in two seconds flat. This arrogant son of a bitch thought I was looking for a naked tour of his backseat in addition to my ride home. In his world, being shot at was probably an aphrodisiac. In mine, it was a total buzzkill.
“You think I’m looking for a hookup?”
Mike glanced over at me, and his smile faded. “You’re not?”
“I think I have more important things to worry about.” I did my best to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Mike’s wince told me I failed. Oh well.
Mike drove the rest of the way to Aunt Millie’s in silence. He looked uncomfortable with the situation. I wasn’t. The quiet gave me time to think. Since turning Devlyn into the authorities with the information I currently had made me feel queasy, I needed an alternative plan. By the time Mike pulled up to Aunt Millie’s front door, I had one.
Not quite meeting my eyes, Mike gave me the requisite “stay inside and out of trouble line” before watching me unlock the door and close it behind me. Grateful to be in real air-conditioning, I locked the door and headed upstairs to my computer. I needed proof that Devlyn was up to no good, and from what I could tell only one person could give it to me.
Football dropout Drew Roane.
No cars were in the driveway at the Roane house. No one milled around the yard. I rang the bell. Yep—no one was home. I waited in my car for a while. When my butt went numb, I decided to call it quits and head home.
I walked into Millie’s with a McDonald’s bag filled with hamburgers and fries and jumped as Millie yelled, “There you are. I was starting to get worried. We have to do your hair and makeup or you’ll never be ready in time.” Millie grabbed my arm and pulled me up the stairs.
“Ready for what?”
Millie stopped. “The Ockinickys’ benefit. Did you forget?”
“No.” Yes. Although Millie’s sparkly pink satin ensemble should have been a clue. “I didn’t realize we needed to get ready this early. The benefit isn’t until seven.”
“But you have to be there early to rehearse with the accompanist. Didn’t I tell you?”
“I don’t think so.” After the past few days, I wasn’t sure of anything.
Millie sighed and resumed stair-climbing. “I probably didn’t tell you on purpose. Marge Mitchell’s son is playing for you tonight. I tried to talk Gloria Ockinicky out of it, but she didn’t want to upset Marge. They’re cousins.”
Great.
Well, I was used to singing with less-than-gifted piano players. I used to think opera companies would employ the best accompanists because the music was often very challenging. I was wrong. A couple of years ago, after a string of bad audition experiences, I invested in some easy piano versions of my favorite opera arias and started carrying them with me to auditions—just in case. I figured if I could play them then the audition pianists could, too. My aunt’s expression told me I’d best bring those songs with me tonight.
While scarfing down French fries, I struggled into panty hose and slipped into one of my favorite recital dresses—a royal blue sheath with a halter top that hugged my torso and hips then fell in graceful waves to the floor. The front was pretty. The back, or lack of one, was sexy as hell. The only problem was I had to wear heels—high ones—or else the dress dragged on the floor. Slipping into my four-inch sparkly silver stilettos, I prayed that the shooter would take a break for the night. There was no way I’d outrun my great-aunt Edna let alone bullets in these. And while I had Aunt Millie’s gun, I didn’t think I could actually shoot someone. Millie might, but I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.
Once Millie did her makeup and hair magic, she grinned. “Too bad the detective can’t see you looking like this. He’d have extra motivation to catch the killer.”
A part of me wished he could, too. If nothing else, he’d know exactly what he was missing. “Catching killers is his job. I think that should be motivation enough. Besides, I think there’s a rule that police officers can’t date their witnesses.”
“Cops know how to bend those kinds of rules. I should know. Six or seven years ago I d
ated a cop. He knew exactly how to skirt the system so neither of us would get busted if we got caught without a license.”
“You got caught driving without your license and didn’t get a ticket?”
“I wasn’t driving. I was fishing. Mick was a wildlife and forestry cop. I used to call him Smokey Bear in bed. Trust me—he knew how to make a woman feel hot.”
I winced. Talk about too much information.
The Ockinickys lived one town over in an enormous white house complete with pillars, fountains, and two acres of perfectly groomed lawn, flowers, and trees. Gloria Ockinicky was nowhere to be found, so the caterers let us into the house, and Millie led me down a huge staircase into the living room.
High-top cocktail tables decorated with vases of sunflowers and votive candles were scattered throughout the room. Whatever furniture typically resided atop the shining parquet floor had been carted away. Everything except the white grand piano. The piano was beautiful. The pimply faced teenage boy seated behind it was not.
He looked up at us and scowled. “The party doesn’t start until seven.”
“I know,” I said before a frowning Millie could reply. Being nice to the accompanist was a must. “That’s why we’re here early. I’m Paige Marshall. You and I are tonight’s entertainment.”
“Jonathan Mitchell.” He shook my hand as his eyes ran up and down my body. The angry expression disappeared, replaced by a leer. “I didn’t know opera singers looked like you. The ones my aunt listens to are all fat.”
Generalizations like that really pissed me off. I wanted to give the kid a piece of my mind, but I satisfied myself with dropping my black binder of music on the piano with a thud. “Shall we rehearse?”
The kid was worse than bad. In fact, I doubted whether he could play chopsticks without making a mistake. After three failed attempts at the simplified introduction of “O mio babbino caro,” I asked if he’d be more comfortable reading through the music without an audience. He agreed and pointed Millie and me in the direction of the kitchen. The minute my feet hit the marble tile, I sent up a prayer to the music gods that the kid had a bad case of the nerves and would get better.
“What are you going to do?” Millie asked, dodging a tuxedo-shirt wearing woman balancing a tray of wineglasses.
The fabulous acoustics in the living room made Jonathan’s practicing ring loud and clear throughout the house. Even with the chatter of the caterers and the clinking of flatware, we could hear every painful note played on the piano.
“I’m going to sing.” That was my job no matter how terrible the piano playing. Taking a deep breath, I plastered a cheerful smile onto my face and marched back into the living room. My aunt didn’t follow. “How’s it going in here?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know.
Jonathan’s skin had taken on a slightly green color. He looked down at the keyboard as if it were going to bite him. “I might need a bit more time to practice.”
Years might help. We had thirty minutes.
“If you don’t feel comfortable playing, I can always sing a cappella.”
The kid’s shoulder’s drooped. “My mom said I had to play.”
Once the party was over, Mom and I were going to have a long chat. “Why?”
“She’s been bragging to her friends that I take piano lessons, and she wants to show off what I’ve learned.”
“How many lessons have you had?”
Jonathon’s pasty skin now took on a pinkish cast. He swallowed hard. “Five.”
I rolled my eyes. Mom was a nitwit. How could she possibly think five lessons qualified her kid for a beginner recital let alone playing at a benefit? Unless…“How many lessons does your mother think you’ve had?”
“Three years’ worth.” His freaked-out eyes met mine. “I hate piano. Dad told me I could quit, but we didn’t need to tell Mom. Mom’s a lawyer so she’s never home.”
I wanted to ask where Dad’s bright ideas were when Mom was getting Jonathan this gig. The caterers laid out the food, and the bartender was finishing setting up shop in the corner of the living room. This party was about to get started, and Jonathan looked ready to puke in the middle of the pâté.
That gave me an idea. “Go home, get into bed, and pretend to be sick. If your mother asks, I’ll say you have the stomach flu.”
“Really?” The kid jumped up from the piano and gave me a hug. “I totally owe you one.” Something told me it was no accident that his hand brushed my backside as he beat a hasty retreat.
Once Jonathan disappeared, I sat down at the piano and flipped through the music. For the most part, opera arias didn’t sound right without some sort of accompaniment.
“Where did Liberace go?” Aunt Millie appeared from the kitchen, munching on a wedge of cheese.
“He wasn’t feeling well.”
“Having no musical ability will do that to a person.” Millie polished off the cheese and grabbed a napkin off a high-top table. “Well, I’m glad you ditched the kid before his replacement arrives.”
“Replacement?”
“An old boyfriend of mine is going to swing by and play a few songs for you. Trust me, the man can tickle the ivories even better than he played me. And he was damn good at both.”
Huh. Maybe this guy was movie-star gorgeous. Then Millie might fixate on her own love life instead of mine. “Does your friend have a name?”
“Aldo Mangialardi.”
The man in question stood five feet five inches tall, wore a powder blue tux and a white ruffled shirt, and was definitely not movie-star gorgeous. With the tiny tufts of white hair springing out from behind his ears and a thick accent, he reminded me more of an Italian hobbit than a Hollywood leading man. He also arrived thirty minutes after the party officially started. Thank God it was after our hostess fainted. She passed out upon learning her original pianist had gone home, while the kid’s mother screamed at the catering staff for poisoning her talented son although no one else seemed to have a problem scarfing down the munchies. Millie and I secretly thought Gloria Ockinicky’s fainting was out of relief. The twenty-foot ceilings and hardwood floors made sound travel in this place.
Aldo grabbed my aunt’s hand and kissed it. The expression on his face was filled with adoration as she led him over to me. “This is my niece, Paige.”
“Beauty runs in-a your family. The two of you could be sisters.” He kissed my hand and left a trail of spittle in his wake.
My aunt blushed and giggled. I looked for an unsuspecting soul to wipe my hand on. Thank goodness a waiter passed by with a puff pastry and spinach appetizer and a large stack of napkins. I availed myself of both.
An hour into the party, Aldo took a seat behind the piano and played a couple tremolos to get the crowd’s attention. Gloria Ockinicky walked across the room and stood next to the piano. Her black satin evening suit looked regal next to the white grand piano, and not a single ash blonde hair was out of place as she addressed the crowd. “Thank you all for coming tonight to support Education Through the Arts. Study after study finds that our youth excel in the areas of math, science, and English when they are also exposed to the visual and performing arts. Yet, year after year, the music, theater, and art programs are slashed from the public school curriculum. Your generous donations to Education Through the Arts will provide funding for these types of programs so that underprivileged youths throughout Chicago and the suburbs can work with teachers like Paige Marshall.”
I blinked at the sound of my name. Aunt Millie nudged me and beamed. Gloria waved me forward, and I walked through the crowd to stand next to her. “Paige is a wonderful example of how the arts can positively impact a life.” I tried not to fidget or look embarrassed as Gloria regaled the partygoers with my academic and performing résumé. She then added, “Our community is fortunate that Paige has decided to spread her love of the arts through teaching at a local high school. And we are even luckier to have her performing for us tonight.”
The crowd clapped for Gloria as s
he stepped away from the piano. Seconds later, Aldo started to play. There was no time to contemplate Gloria’s introduction or her cheerful and flattering categorization of my teaching job. I’d think about that later. Right now, it was time for me to do the one thing I knew how to do best—sing.
While Gloria had requested I sing opera arias, I decided to kick things off with a musical theater number. Upbeat, happy, and words in English were always a good idea.
The crowd tapped their toes along with “I Could Have Danced All Night” from My Fair Lady. Once that was over, the incredibly skilled Aldo played the opening of Bizet’s famous “Habanera” from Carmen. The crowd didn’t care that I was singing in French. They understood the sexy beat and the sultry music. I strutted around the room flirting with men then giving them Carmen’s patented kiss-off.
Before the event, Gloria gave me instructions to sing a few songs. As soon as the audience grew restless, I was supposed to stop. Only, Aldo and I had been performing Puccini, Mozart, and Romberg for a half hour and so far no one looked ready to bail. Flattering as that was, the whole point of this concert was to raise money. The necessary schmoozing couldn’t happen while I commanded the floor. As much fun as I was having, it was time to bring this show to a close.
The final notes to “Quando m’en vo” rang out in the hall, and the audience applauded. When they grew quiet again, I announced, “Thank you so much for being such a wonderful audience. While this is our last song of the night, your generous donations will ensure that music and the arts continue long into the future.”
I nodded to Aldo, and he began playing “Con te partiro”—“Time to Say Good-bye.” Appropriate, beautiful, and one that always gets the crowd teary-eyed. In this case, I was hoping it would also get them to open their wallets.