Murder for Choir

  “They did.” Devlyn plugged the CD player into the back wall. “After searching the entire building, they decided the only thing off-limits is the auditorium—including the backstage, the dressing rooms, and my office.” He grimaced. “I’m hoping the fingerprint dust cleans up easily. They let me take a quick look, and you wouldn’t believe the mess they made.”

  “They fingerprinted your office?”

  “And the piano, the microphone cord, and the door handles. I doubt they find anything useful, though. Hundreds of kids and a bunch of teachers touch those things every semester, and the janitorial staff doesn’t get paid well enough to polish doors.”

  Fair point.

  Putting down my bag, I pulled out the CD I’d burned of this year’s music choices. “You said you worked with Greg, right?”

  He took the CD and nodded.

  “I don’t mean to be nosy, but you don’t seem that upset by his death. No one does.” Except me and poor Eric.

  Devlyn clenched his jaw. “Greg Lucas was a hard man to work with. He was an even harder man to like. I’m not surprised someone wanted him dead.”

  Yowzah. “Anyone you can think of that might top the list?”

  He smiled. “Are you investigating?”

  “No.” Not really. Maybe. “I’m concerned about Eric. There must be better suspects out there than a seventeen-year-old high school student.”

  “I can name four or five off the top of my head.”

  “Like who?” I asked with a touch more intensity than I’d meant to.

  Devlyn laughed. “Honey, you need a hobby.”

  “Humor me.”

  His smile dropped. He stepped back, perched a hand on his hip, and cocked his head to one side while studying me. I fought the urge to squirm. Finally, he said, “Okay, I’ll play along. There’s the ex-wife, Dana. She was seriously put out when a judge gave Greg joint custody of their son. Dana showed up at West Side Story rehearsal at least once a week in a rage over something, threatening to kill Greg. Catfight city.”

  Dana Lucas sounded like a great suspect, although I’d hate to think what would happen to the son if she’d done it. “Who else?”

  “North Shore High’s football coach, Curtis Bennett, would also be a top contender.”

  “Why would the football coach have a problem with a choir director?” If Greg taught marching band, I would almost understand.

  Leaning against the wall, Devlyn gave me a grim smile. “Somehow Greg got the star wide receiver to give up playing football to sing in the show choir. The football coach was pissed.”

  “Losing a football player isn’t a reason to commit murder.”

  He arched an eyebrow at me. “Tell me that after you’ve met Coach Bennett.”

  I decided to add the coach to my mental list. “Anyone else?”

  “How much time do you have?” Devlyn popped the CD into the player and hit play. The intro to “Ease on Down the Road” echoed through the room. “Larry is an obvious choice. So are a number of female students who hit on Greg and were turned down. Greg was an alley cat who liked the thrill of the hunt. Aggressive women didn’t do it for him. Come on.”

  He sauntered past the piano to an empty space in the room and executed a perfect double turn. Holding out his hand, he said, “This is what I was thinking for this number. Let’s dance.” He strutted, turned, and added some hip-hop-style stomping.

  I shook my head. “They won’t be able to sing. This is show choir. If they can’t sing while they’re dancing, what’s the point? How about something like…” I did a couple of tap flaps and stomps in between some poses all the while followed by Devlyn’s intense gaze. The fact I didn’t trip over my own feet under his watchful eyes was cause for celebration.

  “I like the tap, but the steps aren’t flashy enough.” Devlyn tried a couple variations of what I had just done. “We need minimal-effort glitz with a few lifts or harder moves thrown in to wow the judges. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  Holy crap. Devlyn was a machine. Once we got a combination we liked, he insisted I repeat it several times while singing, just to make sure I could. I reminded him that my breathing technique was better than that of the average high school singer. He just shrugged and said I’d teach them to do it. I appreciated his confidence in me. Too bad he didn’t realize the entire choir thought I was a joke.

  Aunt Millie had always told me that women don’t sweat, they glow. She was nuts. Sweat poured off my face and trickled down my back. It was Devlyn who glowed. His skin just glistened with a touch of moisture, making his muscles look even more sculpted than they had before.

  He grabbed my arm and twirled me up against his chest. “Want to try a lift?” he asked.

  No. I wasn’t the cute, one-hundred-pounds-sopping-wet ballerina type. Opera singers didn’t have to be rail thin to succeed. Still, while my head insisted I say no, the rest of me was enamored with the way Devlyn’s body felt pressed up against my back. The man was gay. That alone should limit the attraction. Right?

  Wrong.

  Growing up, I always wanted whatever I couldn’t have. As a toddler I wanted matches. My preteen self wanted purple hair and Julia Roberts’s nose (which Aunt Millie was willing to help with, but my parents nixed), and as a teen I wanted any good-looking guy who happened to be in a solid relationship or was otherwise unavailable. My aunt told me that this was my youthful self’s way of helping me avoid getting knocked up and that I would grow out of it. I thought I had.

  Until now.

  “Are you ready?” Devlyn’s voice was deep and sexy in my ear. I tried to pretend he was my brother. Or my mortician second cousin whose only topic of conversation was making dead people look lifelike. Talk about a turnoff. “I’m going to lift you up onto my shoulder. One. Two.”

  Wait. What?

  “Three.”

  Devlyn put his hands on my waist and lifted. I went up and felt his hands start to slip against my sweaty sides as he tried to prop me onto his shoulder. For a moment the world went into slow motion as my backside brushed his collarbone, then started to descend.

  Thunk.

  Yeouch! My hip and knee hit the tile, sending a wave of pain through my right side. That was going to leave a mark. At least my hands had stopped my face from colliding with the ground. Otherwise, I would have needed that long-wished-for nose job.

  “Oh God, Paige. Are you okay?” Devlyn looked down at me from above.

  I frowned. “Why aren’t you on the ground with me?”

  He gaped, then laughed. “Because I wasn’t the one up in the air.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “Mine.” Still chuckling, he held out a hand. “Next time I promise I’ll fall first so you have something soft to land on.”

  Oh goody. Something to look forward to.

  I took his hand and let him haul me to my feet. My whole body ached. To top it off, the sweat on my skin had attracted every dust mite on the linoleum floor. For the first time I was thankful Devlyn wasn’t attracted to women. My current state made the Bride of Frankenstein look like a cover model.

  “Why don’t we call it quits for the day?” Devlyn walked over to the CD player and killed the music. “We can finish blocking the ending tomorrow after camp. Larry said it was going to be an abbreviated schedule considering everything that’s happened.”

  Made sense to me. It was hard to preach about jazz hands and Vaseline smiles after a murder.

  “Hey,” I said. “You never finished your list of murder suspects. You named the ex-wife, the coach, and Larry, but you said you could name at least four or five.”

  Devlyn walked over to a gray duffel bag near the door and pulled out a towel. “I’ll finish the list if you tell me why you’re so certain Eric didn’t do it. You’ve known him for all of three days.”

  Technically four, but who was counting? “Eric doesn’t strike me as the murdering type.” He was more like the playing-video-games-
while-eating-greasy-pizza kind.

  “I saw Eric when I stopped by my office on Tuesday night. He looked pretty angry.”

  “Angry enough to strangle someone with a microphone cord?”

  Devlyn shrugged. “The cops asked the same thing. I told them that teenagers get angry. They stomp and scream and sometimes they punch things. Then they move on.”

  “So who wouldn’t move on? Who else was angry enough with Greg Lucas to kill him?”

  “You really want to know?”

  I nodded.

  Devlyn wiped the back of his neck with a towel. Then he shoved the towel into his workout bag and winked. “Me.”

  He was joking. He had to be. Right?

  I asked myself that question at least a dozen times on the ride back to Millie’s place. No person in his right mind would willingly offer himself up as a murder suspect. Then again, what person in his right mind actually murdered someone? I didn’t know what to think.

  The only thing I was certain of was my need for a shower. I bounded up the living room steps to the second story before Killer could come find me, grabbed a clean set of clothes from my bedroom, and headed for the bathroom. Peeling off my sweaty shirt, shorts, and underwear, I dropped them on the floor, hit the light switch, and took a step toward the shower.

  Eek!

  Sitting next to the toilet, looking at me with its mouth half open, was a lifeless black poodle. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my torso. Yeah, I was being silly. The dog’s beady blue glass eyes couldn’t see me. But they were enough to wig me out.

  I tied the towel tight around me, grabbed my clothes both clean and dirty, and went in search of another bathroom. This week had been stressful enough. Having a lifelike poodle watch me shower was more than my blood pressure could take.

  Once I was clean, I went to my frilly green-and-white bedroom to check my cell messages. I lived in hope that my manager would call with an offer to take me away from all this. Nothing. I booted up my laptop. Damn. He hadn’t e-mailed me, either.

  I sat back in the ornately decorated wood chair and sighed. If I’d gotten the role with the Lyric Opera, I probably would have heard by now. My heart sank. Until another opportunity presented itself, I’d have to suck it up and do the best job I could with the hand I was dealt.

  Snagging my purse off the floor, I pulled a piece of paper out of the side pocket and unfolded it. Ex-wife, Dana Lucas. Football coach, Curtis Bennett. My boss, Larry DeWeese. My three suspects. Grabbing a pen, I added Eric Metz and Devlyn O’Shea. I didn’t think either one of them killed Greg Lucas, but keeping them in mind couldn’t hurt.

  Turning to my laptop, I typed Greg Lucas and North Shore High into the search box and hit enter. I saw several articles dated today about his murder, all giving sketchy details as to the circumstances. Larry was quoted in all of them saying Greg was a talented educator who would be missed. I wondered whether Larry’s nose had grown while spouting that eulogy. One of the articles ran a picture of Greg, his wife, and their son, Jacob. I clicked onto Facebook and did a search for Dana Lucas. Bingo. Her work history was set for public viewing—yoga and Zumba instructor at the Women’s Wellness Center.

  I called the center. Yes, Dana Lucas was teaching there. She had a beginning and an advanced yoga class scheduled for the afternoon. Would I be interested in taking one of them? The beginner class was scheduled for five thirty. That gave me an hour and fifteen minutes to get there. I wasn’t sure what I would get out of meeting the former Mrs. Lucas besides a workout, but I figured going wouldn’t hurt. I signed myself up and typed “Coach Curtis Bennett” into the search box.

  Wow. The guy got a lot of ink in the local papers. Probably because his team won. A lot. Scratch that. They used to win. For the past three years, Coach Bennett’s luck with talented teams seemed to have run dry. Last year the team won two games, and one article reported some boosters were saying the coach should step aside. If I were the coach, I’d be pissed. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad suspect after all.

  Directions to the workout center in hand, I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs. After getting a soda, I left Aunt Millie a note letting her know I’d be late for dinner. Then I headed out the door. The class didn’t start for an hour, but I had a stop I wanted to make first.

  Detective Mike Kaiser took one look at me being led into the squad room and shook his head. I thanked my escorting officer and strolled over to the back corner desk where the detective was seated. Today the room was filled with cops in uniform writing reports, sucking down coffee, talking loudly, and occasionally lobbing balled-up pieces of paper into wastepaper baskets. This was my idea of what a police station should look like.

  The detective leaned back in his chair. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Do you still have Eric Metz in custody?” I asked.

  “Did you bring a cake and nail file with you?”

  I smiled. “I’m not much of a baker.”

  He laughed. “Too bad. Most of the guys around here have a sweet tooth.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind if ever I get picked up for jaywalking.”

  Detective Mike leaned forward. “I took Eric home last night with strict instructions not to leave town. His parents promised to bring him in for questioning when they get back. Does that work for you?”

  I wanted to do a happy dance, but my muscles were too sore. Instead I said, “I’m glad to hear it. Eric’s a good kid.”

  “A week of teaching at show choir camp gave you that insight?”

  I chose to ignore the snide emphasis the detective placed on “show choir.” Face it, I felt the same way. “Musical extracurricular activities draw a group of dedicated, artistic kids. Eric is one of them.”

  “He’s also a kid who threatened to kill my murder victim.” Detective Kaiser’s smile disappeared. “I have to take that seriously.”

  “I understand, Detective,” I said. “I just want to make sure you’re not overlooking the multitude of other people with motive to kill Greg.”

  “I told you to call me Mike. What other people are you talking about?” His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t have any suggestions when you were here last night.”

  “You told me to keep my ears open, so I did.” I rattled off my suspects, leaving Devlyn off the list. The more I thought about it, the more I was certain he was pulling my chain. “What do you think?”

  Detective Mike gave me a smug smile. “I’ve already talked to the ex-wife. Nothing there. The coach is an interesting theory, but no one else mentioned him. And your boss seems to have an alibi. Your student is my best option so far, but I appreciate your initiative even if you’re off the mark. Not bad for a complete amateur.” The phone on his desk rang. “I have to take this. Feel free to let me know if you have any more theories.”

  By the time I got out to the parking lot, I was feeling as steamed as the inside of my car. As a college student, I’d heard “you have incredible potential” almost weekly from my vocal music instructors. At first, the praise thrilled me. Then it just pissed me off. I wanted to be fabulous, not just have the potential to be fabulous. So being called a complete amateur irked me. At this moment, I didn’t want to be any kind of amateur. I wanted to prove to Detective “Call-Me-Mike” Kaiser that he was wrong about Eric and about me.

  Stepping on the gas, I tooled over to the Women’s Wellness Center for my yoga class, determined to succeed where Detective Kaiser had failed.

  The Women’s Wellness Center took up half of a ritzy-looking strip mall at the south end of suburban Glenview. One step into the frigid, arctic air-conditioned building, and I knew I’d never want to come back. All the women in the place were wearing designer spandex on their perfectly toned bodies. I looked down at my red shorts and white tank and considered hightailing it out the door.

  “Are you here for a class?” A perky blonde in a black-and-pink-zebra-striped leotard tapped me on the shoulder. She was standing directly in front of the door, blocking my escape.
br />   “I signed up for Dana Lucas’s beginning yoga class, but I forgot my workout clothes.”

  The blonde giggled. “That’s the best part about being in an all-female gym. We don’t have to impress anyone with what we’re wearing. Comfort is our top priority.”

  A dark-haired woman walked by in a thong leotard. At least I assumed it was a thong. The thong itself had gone where the sun doesn’t shine, giving her what had to be the world’s worst wedgie. Yeah, comfort was king around here.

  “Come on.” The blonde grabbed my arm with her perfectly manicured nails and pulled me deeper into the building. “I’ll help you find Dana. Her room is just down the hall.”

  I followed along beside the girl as she continued to yammer. “We’ve had several cancellations for today’s class, so you’ll be getting a lot of personalized attention. Here we are.”

  We stopped in front of an open door. The blonde gave me an encouraging shove into the room. I stumbled in, and three pairs of eyes turned toward me. Two of the women smiled. One glared and stalked to the back of the room.

  “Hi,” I said to the two friendly women. “My name’s Paige. I’m new.”

  A petite fiftysomething woman with painted-on eyebrows smiled at me. “I’m Marta. I’m definitely not new.” She shot a glance over at the woman at the back of the room and lowered her voice. “If Dana starts to yell at you, just pretend to pull a muscle. She’ll back off.”

  “That’s Dana?” Wow. Greg must have liked to live on the edge if he cheated on her. The woman was at least six feet tall with broad shoulders, short spiky blonde hair, and biceps Arnold Schwarzenegger would kill for.

  The other woman brushed back a tendril of brown hair and nodded. “Dana’s really a nice person, but she takes her yoga classes a bit too seriously.”

  “A bit?” Marta snorted. “She’s a Nazi. You’d think the future of the world depended on the perfection of my tree pose.”

  I had to ask. “Then why do you come to class?”

  Marta’s penciled eyebrows knitted together. “Dana’s been having a hard time. I know what that’s like. Her ex has been jerking her around on child support and a bunch of other things. Been there. Done that.”