End Me a Tenor Page 10
We walked over to the bar and placed our orders. While we waited for our drinks, Devlyn asked, “Do you want me to stick to your side or mingle and pump people for information?”
I was about to tell him to stay nearby when the front door opened and Ruth Jordan strolled in, accompanied by a sandy-haired man. She wore an emerald green coat and an angry expression. The man took her jacket and went off to a table, leaving her hovering near the entrance on her own. “Why don’t you make nice with the woman who just walked through the door?” I suggested. “I think the lead detective has her on his suspect list, and I haven’t a clue why.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“She doesn’t like singers.” Besides, I was supposed to be convincing the murderer that I had backed off and was letting the cops do the investigating. “I’ll be over there if you need me.” I pointed in the direction of an empty high-top table in the corner and grabbed my diet soda with lime. Weaving through the crowd, I said hello to a couple of cast-mates then perched on a stool and watched Devlyn work his charm on the principle violinist.
After a couple of words from Devlyn, Ruth’s scowl disappeared. He bought her a drink, and her mouth spread into a sultry smile. A few minutes later, they were seated at the end of the bar talking as though they were old friends.
“Your friend seems to have deserted you.” Jonathan’s voice reached over my shoulder.
I turned and smiled. “Devlyn will come back at some point. We have some school stuff to discuss.”
Jonathan slid onto the stool next to mine. “He teaches with you?”
“He’s the drama teacher and helps with the show choir choreography.”
Jonathan’s eyes swept over the lilac shirt and turquoise blue scarf that Devlyn had worn to work today. “Is your friend a good dancer?”
Translation: Is your friend gay?
I assured Jonathan that Devlyn was an exceptional dancer, and Jonathan slid his stool closer, saying, “I meant what I said about your singing tonight. It’s an honor to share the stage with you.”
Huh. From the way he was acting, I’d guess Jonathan would be honored to share more than a stage. According to the articles I’d read, Jonathan had settled permanently in Chicago just after a divorce that left his ex-wife living in the suburbs with custody of their two sons. Since then, he’d been photographed escorting a number of beautiful women to charity events and opera openings. So far he hadn’t been interested enough in any of them to take a second plunge into the matrimonial pool. I had no illusions that he was interested in taking more than a dip with me. That being said, I couldn’t help being flattered.
I spotted Vanessa over Jonathan’s shoulder. “From the way Vanessa is glaring at us, I’m guessing she doesn’t share your sentiments.”
“Vanessa only gets along with male singers or female ones whose talent doesn’t match or exceed her own. When you factor in your age and your appearance . . .” He picked up his beer and lifted it in my direction. “Consider her dislike as what it is: a compliment.”
“Well, when you put it that way . . .” I laughed. “Although, the other day you said she was upset with David Richard. Wasn’t he Vanessa’s type?”
Oops. The words popped out before I could reel them back. I was supposed to be demonstrating my lack of interest in the murder investigation. Actively talking about the victim wasn’t going to help my cause.
Thank goodness Jonathan appeared more amused than concerned. Leaning his elbows on the dark wooden table, he said, “David Richard was exactly Vanessa’s type. And according to the grapevine, she was his. Or one of his types. David went for variety. He wasn’t interested in hitching his star to any one woman. Vanessa was disappointed when she couldn’t change his views on commitment when their paths crossed years ago. She thinks her career would have been different had David gone along with her plans. I have a feeling she was hoping when he saw her again he might undergo a change of heart.”
So my guess had been right.
My thoughts must have showed on my face, because Jonathan said, “You don’t approve of Vanessa’s methods for advancement?”
“Networking is important in this business. It’s one of the reasons I came out tonight instead of going home.”
“But . . .”
I took a sip of my soda, contemplated the value of honesty, and decided to give it a whirl. “I want to make it in this business, but more important, I want to know I’ve earned whatever success I have. I don’t want to land a role simply because I’m dating the right guy.”
“But you don’t mind being cast because you’re related to the right person?”
I blinked twice. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how you got this role.” Jonathan drained his beer and signaled to the waitress for another. “I’m friends with the producer.”
“And?”
Jonathan’s smile faded. “You honestly don’t know what I’m talking about.” I shook my head, and he sighed. “Maybe I got it wrong. How did you get cast in this production?”
“My manager submitted my CD. I was invited to audition. A couple days after the audition, my manager told me I got the part.” I’d earned this role. Or had I? The look on Jonathan’s face made my heart sink into my toes. “What did the producer tell you?”
Jonathan developed a sudden interest in the wood grain of the table. “Vince said a friend asked him to pull some strings and get her niece an audition.”
Millie.
I closed my eyes. Embarrassment wedged in my throat. The happiness I’d felt at landing this job, and with my performance tonight, vanished like smoke. Instead of feeling pride, I was lost and more than a little sad. I looked down at my drink and wished the glass were filled with something stronger than caffeine.
Jonathan’s hand rested over one of mine. “The producer told me he expected to turn you down. He already had a soprano in mind for the part. The audition was a technicality—until he heard you sing. Your aunt might have gotten you in the door, but your talent landed the role.”
I wanted to believe Jonathan. Was he telling me the truth or did he add that last part out of guilt?
Shaking off my insecurities, I assured Jonathan I wasn’t upset by his unexpected news and let him introduce me to a group of his students who were part of the Messiah chorus. As Jonathan talked to the students and complimented their work, I could see how much he loved teaching. And the way he fielded questions about a number they were struggling with told me he was good at it. I taught because I needed the cash. Jonathan worked with students because he loved it.
As the students began talking about other things, Jonathan noticed our assistant stage manager hovering in the background and asked, “How are you doing, Jenny? I know this has to be hard—losing Bill and having to take over his job.”
Jenny’s lower lip trembled. “Bill had everything so organized. There isn’t much for me to do right now, which is good. I haven’t slept very well since David’s death.” She pulled out a tissue and dabbed her eyes. “I think the producers might bring in someone else to make sure the performances run smoothly, which is probably for the best. My boyfriend keeps telling me I can handle the job, but he’s in retail. He’s never worked in the theater. He doesn’t understand. Bill worked so hard on this show. I don’t want to screw anything up.”
After reading her bio, I knew that the slight, dark-haired Jenny was majoring in theater management at Northwestern. She was also a music minor, probably in order to feel more comfortable working on these kinds of shows. Jenny was technically the assistant stage manager, but the position was more internship than real authority. Up until today, Jenny’s biggest responsibility had been to make sure everyone signed in for rehearsal. It was no surprise that the death of her mentor and her promotion to stage manager, no matter how short-lived the promotion might be, had her looking overwhelmed.
“Thanks, Paige.” Her eyes filled with gratitude. “I should probably get going. There’s an early production meeting tomorrow. See you at the dress rehearsal.” She gave one last sad smile, struggled into a puffy green coat, and walked away. At the door, Jenny was stopped by Ruth Jordan. Ruth barked something, to which Jenny shook her head and said something back that made Ruth’s eyes narrow. I inched closer, pretending to check messages on my phone while straining to catch what the two were talking about.
No dice. Billy Joel was wailing over the loudspeakers, and Ruth and Jenny were speaking in hushed tones. The combination made it impossible to hear anything. The man Ruth had walked in with appeared. Whatever he said had Jenny in tears as she opened the front door and hurried out into the icy wind. Ruth’s lovely faced looked more than a little annoyed when the guy hurried outside after Jenny.
“I always thought classical music types were more refined than the rest of us.” Devlyn appeared at my side. “After talking to both Ruth and Vanessa tonight, I’m humbled to admit I was wrong.” He slipped an arm around my waist and my pulse danced at his touch. “Do you want to hang around or are you ready to get out of here?”
I looked to where Jonathan was holding court with his students. Vanessa was sitting on the stool next to him, one perfectly manicured hand resting on his arm. Neither looked as though they were leaving anytime soon. I could stay and network or go home and sleep.
Sleep won.
“Let’s get out of here.” I waved good-bye, shrugged into my coat, and headed out into the arctic air. When we got to my car, I asked, “What did Ruth have to say?”
Devlyn adjusted his scarf to cover the bottom of his chin. “She thinks my fingers are the perfect shape and length to play the violin. A strong but sensitive personality is required to play violin, you know.”
“Right.” I rolled my eyes and jammed my hands into my coat pockets to keep them warm. “Did she say anything that didn’t pertain to your anatomy?”
Devlyn flashed a cocky grin. “I’ll have you know, Ruth’s fixation with my anatomy was the only reason she’d answer any of my questions. The woman has a one-track mind, not to mention grabby hands. She also has a serious dislike for your dead tenor. Ruth claimed he was a mediocre talent who skated by on his looks and what she considered questionable charm.”
“She knew him personally?” I found that strange considering her reputation for avoiding singers.
“It sounded like it to me.” Devlyn blew on his hands and rubbed them together. “Ruth tried to convince the producer to replace David Richard weeks ago. She was more than a little upset that her request was dismissed. Had she not already signed a contract to play this show, she would have walked. From our little chat, I’ve learned Ruth considers singers a necessary evil, but her desire to oust David Richard seems to go beyond typical prejudice.”
Why? Devlyn didn’t know. And the wind was cold enough to discourage speculation. I was thankful it didn’t discourage Devlyn from pulling me close, though. When the kiss deepened, I shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the man next to me. His tongue brushed against my bottom lip for one taste. Then another. My fingers dug into his shoulders as my knees went weak. My nose was cold, but the rest of me was very, very warm. When the kiss ended and we stepped apart, we were both breathing hard.
Devlyn’s hand brushed my cheek. “Once this week is over, we’re going to spend lots of time getting to know each other. Right?”
“I have my calendar marked.”
His smile was slow and sexy. “Good. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
After one more heart-stopping kiss, Devlyn held open my car door and I climbed in. He didn’t walk to his car until I pulled out of the lot and started to drive away. A real gentleman. Was I lucky or what? I hoped that when this week was over and Devlyn and I had quality time to spend together, we’d both get a whole lot luckier.
I was so wrapped up in thoughts of Devlyn that it took me a while to realize the silver car behind me had made every turn I had. Or maybe I was just being paranoid. After two murders and a threatening package, who could blame me? To prove I was jumping at shadows, I turned right at the intersection and then waited for the headlights of the other car to appear in my rearview mirror.
Nothing.
I let out a half laugh, half sigh, and then almost stopped breathing as a pair of headlights eased onto the street behind me.
Was it the same car? It was silver; beyond that, it was hard to tell. The streetlight caught the license plate, most which was covered by snow. All I could make out was the letter C.
At the next intersection, I made another right turn and then held my breath. I was halfway down the block when headlights appeared. Same car. Same mostly snow-covered license plate.
Oh, crap!
I pressed on the gas and my car sprang forward, leaving the other car behind. Three more turns and a dozen more glances in the mirror told me I’d ditched my tail. I was also lost in a maze of residential one-way streets. Ten minutes later, my heart rate was back to normal as I turned onto Millie’s street. The beacon of pink lights made me smile with relief until I spotted the pair of headlights on a silver car coming from the other direction. The car was barreling down the road—right at me.
Chapter 10
The silver car’s lights reflected off the snow and ice as it swerved across the road into the path of my car. Out of reflex, I started to jam on the brakes, but then realized the silver car wasn’t slowing. Stopping wouldn’t do me any good. Not unless I wanted to end up flat as a pancake. Wrenching the steering wheel to the right, I prayed for a miracle. My car jolted and then climbed up, on, and over the snowpacked curb.
Oh my god! A brightly lit evergreen tree appeared in my path. I pulled the wheel to the left and jammed my foot onto the brake. My car skidded. I hit a patch of ice, fishtailed for a minute, and then came to a complete stop in one of Millie’s neighbors’ driveways. Taking fast, shallow breaths, I turned and looked out the rear window for the next attack. But there wasn’t one. The silver car and whoever was driving it were gone.
My heart slammed against my rib cage, and I looked up and down the residential street for signs of the silver car’s return. Nothing. No cars. No lights other than the ones decorating the front lawns and houses. Whoever had followed me from the sports bar was gone.
My hands shook as I slowly backed the car down the driveway and drove down the street to Millie’s. When I parked safely in the garage, I sat in the car and waited until my breathing returned to normal before going inside. If Millie was still awake, I didn’t want to freak her out. Hell, I was freaked enough for both of us.
The downstairs lights were off. I flipped the switch, dumped my bag on the kitchen table, and shed my winter coat. The house was warm, but I was chilled to the bone. Even after a shower with the water cranked to boiling, I was still shivering. I guess a near-death experience will do that to a person.
Wrapped in my ratty but comfortable blue flannel pajamas and green terry-cloth robe, I closed my bedroom door, wondering what had happened. The car following me had to belong to the killer, but why had he come after me tonight? If I’d been asking lots of questions at the bar I would almost understand the motivation to scare the hell out of me. But I’d backed off, just like the killer asked, and it hadn’t made a difference. The fact that it didn’t both pissed me off and scared me silly.
Sitting on the bed with my legs crossed, I considered my options. I could call Detective Frewen and report the car incident. While on the surface that seemed like the logical choice, I was pretty sure all it would get me was a condescending pat on the head and a lecture on p
olice department jurisdiction. I could call Mike. He at least would believe my story. Other than looking at the tread marks my car made while sliding across the neighbor’s lawn, however, there wasn’t much he could do. The only real solution to the threatening note and the silver stalker car was to catch the killer and have him locked away. Of course, for that to happen someone would have to figure out the murderer’s identity.
Sliding off the bed, I went downstairs, grabbed a snack of holiday cookies, and then headed back upstairs to my room to fire up my laptop. Munching on one of my great-aunt Gertrude’s famous sugar cookies, I sat at my desk and waited for the computer to boot. The odds of me putting my finger on the killer before the cops were pretty low, but I had to try. I couldn’t just wait around for someone to run me off the road again. I had gotten lucky and no one was hurt. Next time . . .
I clicked open a browser and ran a search on our concert master, Ruth Jordan. Unlike Jonathan and Vanessa, Ruth didn’t have her own website—but that didn’t mean there was a shortage of information. Ruth wasn’t shy and appeared in the local papers a lot. There were articles, reviews, a snide mention of her divorce from a French journalist, and society shots of her and whatever man she was currently dating. The newspaper photographs suggested Ruth liked older men. Much older. Which was interesting, considering her play for Devlyn tonight.
The critics praised Ruth’s playing from coast to coast. Like Jonathan, Ruth had settled here in Chicago when she took a position with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra eight years ago. She wasn’t the principle violinist with the CSO, at least not yet. That probably stung the well-developed ego Devlyn referred to. Ruth was a woman who wanted to be recognized as the best. Which begged the question—why would she take an orchestra position on this production of the Messiah? For someone like me, saying yes to this gig was a no-brainer. Singing with a name like David Richard could launch my career. Ruth was the concert master, which had to make her feel good, but this still was a step down for a violinist used to playing at Orchestra Hall. Sure, the production would get press due to David Richard’s performance. That was enough to encourage almost any performer to take the job. But Devlyn said Ruth had threatened to quit when David was hired, which nixed that motivation. She took this gig for a reason. Too bad I had no idea what that reason was.