End Me a Tenor Page 7

  Which is why I asked, “Isn’t Aldo waiting for you upstairs?”

  Millie looked back at the computer screen and began typing away. “He’s finishing up a facial treatment. The face mask he tested last night gave his skin a slightly cerulean undertone. I’m hoping the new treatment will help bolster his mood.”

  “If not, the lacy number you have on under the robe should do it.”

  My aunt blushed, but flashed a wide grin. “That was kind of the idea. Wait. I think I have a couple possible answers for you. According to the cosmetics forum, the most common hand-cream allergies related to food are triggered by milk and soy products. But your suspect could also be allergic to zinc oxide and certain oils.” My aunt kept talking, but the mention of zinc oxide had my Spidey senses tingling.

  I was so distracted, I barely noticed Aldo when he bopped through the door wearing a black silk robe and what might have been a come hither smile. His blue-tinged face made it hard to tell.

  Excusing myself, I raced upstairs, fired up my laptop, and looked up zinc oxide. Zinc oxide was an ingredient in a number of sunblock skin creams. All of which said they shouldn’t be used by people with allergies to zinc. A person highly allergic to zinc could break out in a rash or hives if her skin came in direct contact. A few more keystrokes told me people with zinc allergies often avoid red meats.

  Bull’s-eye.

  If Magdalena was allergic to zinc, and my nonexistent investigator instincts were telling me she was, why would she risk handling a water bottle that was full of the stuff? Risking a rash didn’t seem like the best plan for getting away with a crime. Magdalena had been wearing short sleeves the night David died. Gloves would have protected her hands, but not the rest of her arms. An allergic reaction would not have gone unnoticed.

  My gut told me this was important. While the cops might not say an allergy to the murder weapon was definitive proof of innocence, I was pretty sure it would at least cast some doubt on her guilt. Doubt would keep her out of jail, and behind the podium for the concert.

  Of course, this all hinged on Magdalena actually being allergic to zinc. There was only one way to find out. I glanced at the clock. It was just after ten. Betting Bill was still awake, I dialed his number. When he answered, I asked, “Is Magdalena Tebar allergic to zinc?”

  The stunned silence spoke volumes. Score one for me.

  “Has she mentioned her allergy to the police?”

  “No.” The word was barely a whisper. “And the nondisclosure agreement I signed won’t let me tell them.”

  “Well, I could—”

  “You can’t say anything.” Bill sounded panicked. “Magdalena will sue me, and I promise she’ll find a way to end your career before it begins.”

  Yikes. My stomach went squishy at the idea of Magdalena Tebar using her influence to blackball me. Still. “Doesn’t she know her zinc allergy makes it less likely the police will look at her as a suspect?”

  “She says she has her reasons for keeping her medical condition quiet.” A voice murmured in the background. Bill whispered something I couldn’t quite make out back before saying to me, “Look, Paige, I have to get going. Magdalena wants to handle this her way. I’d strongly suggest that you let her.” And with that, Bill was gone.

  Between the worry that Magdalena would be falsely arrested and the knowledge that Millie and Aldo were doing “skin care treatments” down the hall, I had trouble sleeping. So it wasn’t a surprise it took several growls and a loud bark from Killer to rouse me out of bed. I was thankful that by the time I got to school for rehearsal, the two cups of coffee I’d chugged had kicked in and I was ready to sing and dance.

  The minute I spotted Chessie waiting at the choir room door, I felt my caffeinated energy sag. With my attention focused on David Richard’s murder, I’d forgotten about casting the solos. The gleam in Chessie’s eyes and the fact she was fifteen minutes early for our 6:15 A.M. rehearsal told me she had not.

  My stomach knotted as I unlocked the door and flipped the light switch. While I hadn’t given this decision much thought since yesterday, I knew what I was going to do. If a choice had to be made between doing what was best for me or best for the choir, it was my job to choose the choir. Pulling off my jacket, I turned to Chessie and said, “I’m sorry, but you’re not going to be assigned one of the new solos. I’m giving the female feature to Megan.”

  Chessie dumped her bag on the floor and planted her hands on her hips. “If there is something I should have done differently—”

  “There isn’t.” I took a deep breath. “You’re a strong singer even when you dance. Right now, the group is struggling to project sound while doing the choreography. If I take you out of the ensemble, the whole thing will fall apart.” Was that the whole truth? No, but it was part of it. Besides, complimenting Chessie was always the best way to get her to cooperate.

  Chessie’s eyes narrowed. “You know my father is on the school board, right?”

  So much for cooperation.

  The implied threat of her father’s position hung in the air. I could see Chessie waiting for me to back down. Yeah, right. “If your father wants to talk to me about why you have only one solo in the concert, I’ll be happy to explain my reasoning to him. Feel free to tell him that.”

  Ignoring the angry stare, I began setting up for rehearsal. By the time the room was rearranged, the rest of the choir had arrived. They were bleary-eyed but ready to work.

  Instead of practicing on the new song, I ran them through the older numbers, hoping familiar songs would build their confidence. In doing so, it also built mine. While watching the kids twist and twirl and sound fabulous through the numbers, I felt a kick of pleasure. While I was often proud of my own performances, this was different. These kids were good when we started. They were better now. Whether I’d wanted this job or not, I’d made a difference. That meant something.

  “Okay. Time for the new number. We’re going to run through it first, then make adjustments for the soloists as needed. Remember—your singing matters just as much as the dancing. I want to be impressed by your volume and your feet.”

  The dancing was better than yesterday. The opening was solid. The first lift went off without a hitch. Then things started to fall apart. Two of the girls zigged when they should have zagged, and one of the guys tripped trying to avoid bumping into them and took two other singers down in the process.

  Crap. Crap. Crap.

  “Okay, let’s try it again.”

  I made them dance through the number again. And again. By the time I worked with my two soloists, Megan and Trevor, and added them into the mix, Devlyn and Larry had arrived. Devlyn and I worked through the glitches while Larry did his best not to get in the way. The choir ran the entire song again, and the number looked good. Maybe better than good. Despite Chessie’s angry scowl, by the time the first bell rang I was optimistic at my group’s chances of impressing tomorrow night’s crowd.

  “Don’t worry,” Devlyn said as the last teen walked out the door. “They’ll be ready. We’ll have the dress rehearsal after school today, and you’ll be able to go off and sing tonight without a care in the world.”

  “I’m glad to hear the Messiah hasn’t been canceled. I was worried it was going to be.” Larry dumped a load of papers on the piano and gave me a red-faced smile. “Then again, knowing the cops are close to making an arrest will probably make the audience feel like it’s safe to attend the show.”

  “Close to an arrest?” My legs went limp. If I hadn’t grabbed onto the piano, my backside would have hit the floor. “Where did you hear that?”

  “I heard it on the news report this morning.”

  I swallowed hard. “Did they say who?”

  “I don’t think so, but . . .” Several folders of music slid off the piano. Larry tried to catch them, but while Yoga had improved his breathing, it had done nothing for his
reflexes. Within seconds, the folders hit the ground and burst open, sending music skittering across the floor and under chairs. With his ears turning the same vibrant shade of red as his sweater, Larry crawled around the floor, collecting papers. Devlyn and I leaned down to help, but Larry waved us off. “Y . . . y . . . you guys have other w . . . work to do. I can take c . . . c . . . care of this. Please.”

  Normally, I would have insisted on helping, but the stuttering told me Larry’s embarrassment was at an all-time high. Sticking around would just make it worse.

  Since I didn’t have voice lessons until after lunch, I grabbed my stuff and headed for the door. Devlyn looked up and down the empty hall before giving me a kiss on the cheek as we parted ways—him for his office, me on a mission to discover whether Magdalena had been locked up and the show was on its way to being canceled.

  First, I checked to see whether Bill had left a message. Nothing. Stepping into the cold air, I debated calling him. Theater people weren’t known for being early risers. Then again, if Magdalena had been arrested, Bill was probably long awake and dealing with the fallout.

  With my conscience cleared, I pushed send and waited for an answer. Voice mail. Drat. I’d try again later. Shoving my phone in my pocket, I walked to my car and smiled as I spotted a brightly wrapped gift resting on the hood of my car. The show choir kids had been doing the Secret Santa thing for the last week or so. I’d even helped a couple of kids slip cards or silly little gifts into one another’s bags to keep identities hidden. I couldn’t help feeling a warm glow at being included in the fun.

  Getting in the car, I put the package on the seat and revved the engine. While waiting for the heater to kick in, I picked up the box and turned it over in my hands, looking for clues to my Secret Santa’s identity. No card. Just snowman paper and a bright green bow.

  I smiled as I ripped the shiny wrapping, flipped open the lid, and dug through the tissue paper. My smile disappeared. Sitting in the box was a Santa ornament with a noose around its neck. Underneath Santa was a note.

  If you’re not careful, you’ll be next.

  Okay, I knew I should be freaked. I mean, someone hung Santa. But I was pretty certain who had to be behind this. When I first took the job, Chessie had used threatening notes in her campaign to get me to quit. Obviously, she hadn’t learned her lesson.

  Neither had I. The warm glow of acceptance I’d felt finding the gift was replaced by icy rejection. No matter how much I tried to succeed at this job, the kids were always going to consider me an outsider. Watching them improve and grow, writing them recommendation letters, and talking about their college dreams hadn’t changed a thing. Chessie might be behind this, but she wasn’t the type to wage battles against popular opinion. Maybe the stress of everything was unhinging me, but, to me, hangman Santa sent a message loud and clear—my team wanted to win and they still thought I wasn’t good enough to help them reach their goal.

  My chest tightened. Unexpected tears made my throat ache as I fought to keep them from falling. I wasn’t going to cry over a couple of spoiled teenage kids. Hell, I didn’t even want this job. If things worked out and the Messiah went on as planned, I wouldn’t need it. I could quit and make everyone happy.

  Brushing aside an idiotic tear, I pulled out my phone and dialed Bill again. Voice mail. Damn. Time for plan B. I fished an Evanston Police Department card out of my purse and punched in Detective Frewen’s phone number.

  If he didn’t sound happy to be answering a call at eight o’clock in the morning, he sounded less thrilled when I asked, “Did you make an arrest in David Richard’s murder?”

  “No arrests have been made.” Phew. “But we currently have a person of interest in custody.”

  Crap. I asked for a name, but the detective wasn’t in the mood to share. Before I could consider telling him what I knew about Magdalena’s medical condition, Detective Frewen thanked me for my cooperation and disconnected.

  Double crap. Now what?

  Digging through my bag, I came up with the Messiah contact sheet, which listed Bill’s phone number and home address. If Bill was sleeping in, he might not know Magdalena had been taken into custody. He could call her manager and have him give the police the information about her zinc allergy. Bill wouldn’t get sued, and the cops would have to think twice about their suspect. Problem solved.

  Bill lived in a redbrick bungalow a couple blocks from the Northwestern University campus. I parallel parked my car and tried his phone one more time. Still no answer. Rehearsing my arguments for Bill to get involved in clearing Magdalena’s name, I locked the car, marched up the sidewalk, and rang the bell.

  No answer, but I could see a light on inside. Time to knock. I banged on the heavy wooden door and was surprised to feel the door shift and open a crack.

  “Bill?” I yelled.

  Okay, this was getting spooky. Pushing the door open the rest of the way, I peered into what had to be a living room. Worn brown couch. Scarred wooden coffee table. On the table was an open binder, two empty coffee cups, and a dish with a crumb-filled muffin wrapper. Bill’s winter jacket hung on a coat tree just inside the door. Bill wouldn’t go outside in this weather without that coat. Not unless he wanted a spectacular case of frostbite. That meant he had to be somewhere inside.

  “Bill?” Still no answer. If the guy was in bed, he slept like the dead. I headed for the hallway at the back of the living room, calling Bill’s name, and stopped cold in the doorway. My stomach rolled, and my knees went weak. I sucked in air and felt a scream build inside me.

  Swinging on a rope from the kitchen’s ceiling fan was Bill. I had been wrong. He wasn’t sleeping like the dead. He was dead.

  Chapter 7

  My brain screamed at me to jump into action. To cut Bill down and get him help. But my feet wouldn’t move—and even if they would, I could see Bill was beyond assistance. His face was pale. His head hung to one side. His body was still.

  Hands shaking, I found Detective Frewen’s number in my call log and hit send. I had to swallow twice before I could speak and even then I barely recognized the thin, terrified sound. The minute I identified myself, Detective Frewen sighed. “I appreciate your interest in this investigation, Ms. Marshall, but I’m not at liberty to discuss any details.”

  “Bill Walters is dead.” Once the words started, they flew out of my mouth. I gave the detective the address, assured him I hadn’t and wouldn’t touch anything, and promised to go outside and wait for his arrival—all while feeling like I was being watched by Bill’s lifeless eyes. I needed to get out of here. After the sadistic Secret Santa gift and seeing Bill hung from the ceiling, I was about to completely lose it.

  Wait . . .

  A part of my brain that had shut down after seeing Bill’s lifeless body turned back on. Could the similarity between that gift and Bill’s death be a coincidence? If so, it was a pretty big coincidence, and while coincidences were possible, this didn’t feel like one. That meant a pissed-off Chessie hadn’t given me the gift—the killer had. A killer who warned me I might be next.

  Shit.

  The room swam in front of my eyes, and I hung onto the doorjamb for support. Finding a dead body was bad. Learning the person who killed that person might want to kill you, too, was even worse.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a piece of paper with black writing scrawled on it on the kitchen table. A suicide note? I took two steps toward the scarred wooden table and squinted to read: I never meant for anyone else to take the blame. David Richard deserved to die, and so do I.

  Next to the paper was a mostly empty bottle of wine and a bottle opener. But no wineglass. Huh.

  Trying my best to ignore Bill’s corpse, I peered over the counter into the sink. No dirty dishes. No dishwasher, either. Did I think that Bill wrote his confession, downed most of a bottle of wine, and washed and put away his glass before taking his own l
ife? No way in hell.

  Taking several deep breaths, I scanned the kitchen one more time before heading back to the front stoop to wait for the cavalry. My nose was frozen by the time Detective Frewen pulled up in a black SUV. He instructed me to stay where I was and went inside. A few minutes later he was back and barking into his phone for assistance. When he hung up he glanced at me. “You look cold.”

  You think? Red, runny nose. Arms wrapped around myself, shivering. No wonder he was a detective.

  He crooked a finger toward the street. “We can sit in my car while I get your statement.”

  The SUV had heated seats, which had my butt thawing long before the rest of me. But even warm and toasty, my hands continued to shake. Detective Frewen shifted to look at me. “Tell me again why you came to see Bill Walters this morning?”

  I took a deep breath and weighed what I should say. Telling everything meant risking my career—a career I’d worked hard to get off the ground. But a man had died. As far as I was concerned, my would-be career paled in comparison. So I spilled. I told Detective Frewen about Bill’s mention of Magdalena’s secret medical condition. My concern that the information would impact the investigation. My hope that talking face-to-face with Bill would convince him to share the information with Detective Frewen himself or beg Magdalena’s manager to do it.

  I could see the vein in the detective’s neck begin to pulse under his scarf. To his credit, his voice was calm as he walked me through the events of the morning, including the hangman Santa I’d unwrapped. I could tell he wasn’t sure whether the two events were connected, but he retrieved the items from my car anyway. More emergency vehicles arrived, filling the street with blinking lights. As police officers and paramedics climbed out of their cars, Detective Frewen told me to call him if I remembered anything else. Then he headed into the house, leaving me out in the cold.