Murder for Choir

by Joelle Charbonneau

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I said one. The other one you inferred.”

  A fair if annoying point. “So you don’t believe Dana’s alibi?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Why else would you be here?”

  He grinned. “Maybe I just want to annoy you.”

  If that was the case, it was working. I looked back at Dana’s house, trying to ignore Mike’s eyes boring into the back of my head. The wind made the leaves on the tree flutter. A dog barked in the distance. As far as I could tell, a stakeout was a fancy term for intense boredom.

  “Do you go on stakeouts a lot?” I asked.

  Mike chuckled. “This isn’t a stakeout.”

  “It’s not?” We were in a car watching a house currently occupied by suspects. It felt like a stakeout to me.

  “No. You’re going to go home and take a shower.” He sniffed at the air and shook his head. “You smell like my grandmother. While you do that, I’m going to go knock on the door. Have a good night.”

  He closed the passenger door, waved at me, and walked up to Dana’s oak door. A few seconds later, Dana opened the door and the detective disappeared inside.

  I sniffed at my clothing and sighed. Driving with the windows open had helped air out the worst of the smell, but I needed a shower and a wardrobe change to get rid of the rest. Only, I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Now that Mike was in the house, things might get interesting.

  Nope. Still boring. I watched a fly bang his head against the window in a futile effort to escape the heat. After what felt like hours—but my clock had the nerve to claim was only fifteen minutes—Mike walked out the front door. His eyes narrowed as he spotted me.

  He looked back at the house. Dana was watching from the doorway. He frowned at me, got in his Mustang, and pulled away. A minute later my phone rang.

  “Wait until Dana goes back in the house, then drive away. I’ll meet you at McDonald’s in ten minutes.”

  The call disconnected.

  I watched the Mustang disappear down the street and waited for Dana to duck back inside. She didn’t. Instead, she glanced back inside the house, then stepped outside. Dana paced up and down the driveway, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket, and lit up. Smoking and yoga. Huh.

  My phone rang again.

  “Where are you?”

  Dana let out a puff of smoke and turned. Now she was facing my direction. Crap. I scooted down in my seat to make myself less noticeable.

  “Paige. What are you doing?”

  “Trying not to be seen,” I whispered.

  “Dana’s still outside?”

  I peered over my steering wheel. Dana was puffing hard on her cigarette. “She’s smoking. I’m keeping low so she can’t see me.”

  There was a pause. “Is your car still running?”

  “Yeah.” Air-conditioning required it.

  “Don’t you think it looks suspicious for a car to be running without anyone sitting inside?” He disconnected.

  Good point. Damn. I’d have to remember that for the next stakeout.

  Thank goodness Dana didn’t seem to care. She puffed, dropped the cigarette butt on the grass, and lit up another. I resisted the urge to run out and step on the cigarette butt. Dana clearly hadn’t paid attention to Smokey the Bear.

  A few puffs into Dana’s second cigarette, a red-faced, heavy-breathing Larry darted out of the house as if a team of angry football players was chasing him. He dashed past Dana and opened his car door. Dana shut the door before he could get in and yelled something. I was too far away to hear what it was. Damn it. Next time I’d park closer.

  Larry shook his head no. Dana yelled something else as Larry looked up and down the street. Clearly, he was worried someone would see them. I fought the urge to wave.

  Arms flailing, Dana stomped around. She put her hands on her hips and stared Larry down. He hung his head, dug into his pocket, and handed something to her. Turning on her heel, Dana pocketed the item and stalked up to the house. She locked the front door, headed to her car, and zoomed away. Larry zipped off moments later.

  I counted to twenty before leaving my parking space, just in case. Five minutes later, I pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot next to Detective Kaiser’s muscle car.

  He was sitting at a table near the door. I smiled at him. He didn’t smile back, but he did hand me a supersized order of fries. I took that as a good sign and sat down.

  The minute I had fries in my mouth, Mike said, “After the threatening note today, I would have thought you’d stay out of trouble.”

  Clearly, he didn’t know me that well. As a matter of fact, I’d almost managed to forget about the threatening note. Watching the country club women in the middle of a cage match was distracting. Now that he’d reminded me, my stomach clenched and I put down the fries.

  “The note was most likely a prank. Don’t you think?” I willed Mike to say yes. A killer sending me notes was definitely in the undesirable category.

  “If you hadn’t been poking your nose into a murder investigation, I’d say yes.” He picked up some of my discarded fries and started munching. “I checked the Internet. The review isn’t easy to find, but it’s there. Anyone motivated enough to dig for dirt on you would have found it.”

  Nice to know my failures would be on the Internet for decades to come. For some reason, I felt the need to say, “I got a lot of good reviews, too.”

  He smiled. “Those were easier to find. I guess I should come hear you sing sometime. Most of the reviews say you’re fantastic. Which makes me wonder—why are you annoying me instead of singing onstage somewhere?”

  Good question. One I’d love to know the answer to myself. “Just waiting for the right opportunity.” Now I was depressed and freaked. Time to change the subject. “So what did Dana say when you went inside?”

  I didn’t really expect him to tell me, but I lived in hope. Besides, asking was better than talking about my performing career. Or lack of.

  Mike grabbed a couple of fries and leaned back in the white-and-red chair. “Dana was surprised to see me.”

  “I’ll bet. What about Larry?”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “He was there.” We’d both watched him go in.

  “Not according to Dana. She said a neighbor was parking his car in the driveway.”

  Ha! I waited for Mike to tell me I was right. Dana had just lied to the police. Larry was hiding from a police detective. That had to make them both prime suspects. Eric was off the hook. I grinned. “And?”

  Mike took a hit of his enormous soda. “She answered a couple questions and walked me to the door. End of story.”

  I blinked. “But she lied to you. The car belongs to Larry. He was probably hiding in one of the closets so you wouldn’t catch them together. Why didn’t you arrest them?”

  “For the same reason I haven’t arrested Eric Metz. I like to have real evidence before I charge someone with murder. So far, I know Dana Lucas and your boss have something to hide. Most people do. It’s my job to figure out what that something is.”

  The something probably had to do with the item Larry handed over to Dana. Or maybe the e-mails and Larry’s lack of financial planning. There were lots of possibilities. Too bad I couldn’t share some of them without getting accessorized with handcuffs. This investigating gig was hard work.

  Mike grabbed a few more fries and stood up. “Now, I want you to go home and stay there. Let me do my job. I promise I won’t lock up your student unless I’m certain he’s guilty. Fair enough?”

  My mouth was full of fries. Politeness prevented me from answering, which was pretty handy since I wasn’t about to agree. I really wanted to know what Larry and Dana were up to. If Mike figured it out, the chances of him sharing that information were slim to none.

  Mike started to walk away, then turned back. “Oh. I don’t have to tell you this, but I’m guessing you’re smart enough to figure it out. Th
e house we were at today doesn’t belong to Dana Lucas. It belonged to her ex-husband, Greg.”

  Pulling into Millie’s driveway, I realized I hadn’t asked Mike whether he’d checked out Coach Bennett. Not a surprise considering the detective’s parting words. Knowing Larry and Dana were skulking around Greg’s house looking for God only knew what was creepy.

  Bracing myself for the worst, I walked into Millie’s living room. All signs of the country club chaos had been removed, including the couch and love seat. Casualties of the cosmetics war. Millie, herself, was also missing. She wasn’t in her office, the den, or upstairs. I found a note from her on the kitchen counter: I’m on a date. Don’t wait up. Love, Millie. P.S. Check the machine.

  I grabbed a soda and an apple from the fridge before Killer showed up. Then, crunching into my dinner, I hit play on the machine.

  “Hi, Paige.” The overly chipper voice of my manager, Rick, filled the room, and my heart gave a hopeful skip. “I just got a call about a part that is perfect for you. We have to act fast, but I think this might be the break we’ve been waiting for. With any luck you’ll be singing in Europe next week.”

  I did a happy little dance in the middle of the kitchen floor. Even Killer’s appearance couldn’t deter my elation. My career was going to take off, and show choir would soon be a thing of the past. I felt a tug of disappointment at not being able to show the kids, especially Chessie, the fabulous choreography Devlyn and I came up with. Maybe I’d have time to attend one or two rehearsals next week and help get the ball rolling.

  I hopped up on a kitchen stool and took a swig of soda as Killer glared at me from his place in front of the fridge. I stuck my tongue out at him, and he growled. Fingers shaking, I pulled my phone out of my purse and hit Rick’s number.

  “Hey, Paige. I was hoping you got my message. What do you think?”

  “I think Europe sounds great. What’s the gig?”

  Silence.

  Uh-oh. My heart dropped into my intestines. When there was good news to be had, Rick loved the sound of his own voice.

  “Here’s the thing. An artistic director in Germany is looking for a Musetta for his La Bohème. I told him you’d be perfect, and he’s willing to take a look. Auditions are next week in Berlin. You’ll have to pay your own travel, but the exposure you’d get from the role would more than make up for it.”

  I’d heard that before. “Why can’t we just send them a tape?” The fortune I’d paid for a professionally constructed video was part of the reason I was bunking at my aunt’s house.

  “The director’s seen your tape. He thinks you’re wonderful, and he wants to see you and a few other girls live before he casts the role.”

  “How many other girls?”

  More silence. I waited for the other shoe to drop.

  “Fifteen that I know of. But you’re the only American on the list.” Like that was supposed to make me feel better. I had a one in fifteen chance or worse of getting the role.

  “How much does the role pay?”

  “This isn’t about the money. Reviewers from across Europe will see this show. You can’t pay for this kind of exposure.”

  Actually, I’d paid for this kind of exposure before. Every time I was promised a low-paying but high-profile gig would put me on the road to success. The only success thus far had been on my credit card company’s side.

  I rested my head on the kitchen counter and asked, “When’s the audition?”

  The audition was in ten days, but I had to let Rick know if I was attending in four. My aunt would lend me the money if I asked, but if I didn’t get the role, my job, as crappy as it was, would be gone. At twenty-five I would have jumped at this chance. At thirty I was hard-pressed to find the same kind of enthusiasm for a potential lost cause. Feeling incredibly adult and more than a little depressed, I said, “I can’t afford the trip. Could you try and get them to keep me in the running based on my tape?”

  “I had a feeling you’d say that.” Rick gave a dramatic sigh. “I’ll see what I can do, and don’t worry. If this doesn’t work out, I’ll come up with something else. You’re too talented to sit on the shelf for long.”

  He hung up, and I headed to the freezer. I needed chocolate ice cream. Now.

  “Grrr.” Killer stood up. I reached for the door, and he bared his teeth. Ice cream wasn’t worth losing a limb for.

  “You win,” I told him. “But you’re sleeping in the hallway tonight.”

  I went upstairs and took a hot shower, hoping to ease the tension knotted in my shoulders. It didn’t work, but at least I lost the lingering smell of dying orchids. That was something. I sat on the edge of my bed and called a few friends, hoping they could make my conversation with Rick less depressing. Each call went directly to voice mail. What else could I expect? It was Friday night. My friends were either performing in a show or at one. Knowing I wasn’t made me feel worse.

  I’m not the type that does depression well. I don’t like watching copious amounts of television. I don’t drink alone, and currently I couldn’t get to the fridge to consume empty calories. Without Aunt Millie around, I was going to go stir crazy with only my own company to entertain me. What I needed was a distraction.

  I plopped in front of my laptop. I now knew where Greg Lucas lived. That made me wonder. Where did Dana and her son live? After a couple taps on the keyboard, I found their address. It was a few blocks away from Greg’s house. When he was alive, the proximity must have made visiting his son convenient. Now it meant easy breaking and entering for his ex-wife.

  I plugged Larry’s name into the white pages and doodled on a piece of paper while I waited. Aha. Larry lived in a house a couple of towns over. Writing down the address, I added one more name into the search engine—Coach Curtis Bennett. Grabbing my purse, I made a beeline for the door. Maybe a drive would take my mind off my problems. And if I happened to spot something interesting outside any of my current suspects’ houses, so much the better.

  Dana Lucas’s place was first on my list since she lived the closest. It was only six o’clock. That meant the sun was still shining, which gave me a great view of the two-story yellow house. No cars were in the blacktopped driveway, and no lights were shining inside the house. Not a creature was stirring. The rest of the neighborhood was equally as quiet. Oh well. On to the next location.

  Twenty minutes later I was cruising a street desperately in need of repaving. The extreme Midwest weather changes had taken their toll. I spotted Larry’s car in the driveway of a gray ranch and parked just down the street to observe. Half an hour into my surveillance, a rusting yellow Chevy Cavalier with a Papa John’s pizza delivery light on top pulled into the driveway. A less-than-enthusiastic-looking boy climbed out with a pizza-warmer bag and trudged to the front door. A few minutes later, the door swung open. Larry signed what I was guessing was a credit card slip, then took two pizza boxes from the kid and disappeared back inside. Either Larry was expecting company or he was working on fighting off a depression of his own. Ten more minutes passed, and no one showed. Larry was consuming pizza on his own, and unless he had to make a soda run, he was staying in for the rest of the night. Time to hit the road.

  North Shore High School’s football coach lived the farthest away. Probably a good choice when working with overly testosteroned and immature boys. Living close raised the odds of your house getting toilet-papered after every football game. It took years and hundreds of rolls of toilet paper for my high school’s football coach to figure that out.

  It was only seven thirty, so I still had natural light to observe Coach Bennett’s natural habitat. Two middle-school-aged boys shot hoops in the blue colonial’s driveway. A couple of Schwinns lay on their sides in the grass to their left. A petite brunette woman with a watering can appeared from around back, said something to the boys, and walked over to water the red, white, and blue petunias hanging from baskets on the front porch. The woman had to be Mrs. Bennett.

  A FOR SALE sign in a yard t
wo doors down gave me an idea. I hopped out of my car and walked down the sidewalk, pretending to be checking out the up-for-sale property. From the height of the grass and the number of weeds, I was guessing the place wasn’t occupied. After a couple minutes of staring at the house, I slowly strolled down the sidewalk as if taking in the neighborhood. Mrs. Bennett put down her watering can and walked down the driveway with a wave.

  Score.

  I waved back and walked over to her. “Hi. My name is Paige. Would you happen to know anything about the house for sale? I left a message for the Realtor, but I haven’t gotten a call back.” Yeah. I lied. Practice was making me better at it.

  She looked over at the overgrown house with a small frown. “The Millers relocated about six months ago. The inside is beautiful. Sharon just finished having the kitchen redone when her husband got transferred to the West Coast.”

  “That’s good to hear,” I said with a cheerleader smile. “The outside had me a little concerned.”

  “I’ve been worried about that.” Mrs. Bennett sighed. “I should have my husband mow the lawn when he’s home for more than a few minutes.”

  “Sounds like he travels a lot.”

  She laughed. “He’s a high school football coach, which means I’m basically a single parent from August to November. After all these years, you’d think I’d be used to it. But some weeks are harder than others. Especially this one.” Her smile disappeared. “One of the teachers at my husband’s school died.”

  “I’m so sorry. Was he sick?”

  “No.” Her eyes grew wide, and she looked behind her as if checking to see whether the boys could hear. “He was murdered.”

  I made what I hoped was an appropriate gasp of shock. “That’s terrible.”

  “I know, and it happened in a high school, which makes it even worse.”

  “Were you close with the victim?”

  “My husband couldn’t stand the man,” Mrs. Bennett admitted. “But it’s still a shock that someone killed him.”

  A silver minivan pulled up in the driveway, and the kids playing ball waved at the hulk of a man who got out. He had a buzz cut, hairy thighs, and shoes the size of small boats. One of the boys raced up to the man and demonstrated a couple of fancy dribbles. Not to be outdone, the other kid snagged the ball and shot a basket. Nothing but net. Two points.