End Me a Tenor

by Joelle Charbonneau

  The opening steps went off without a hitch. The harmonies were dead on. Suddenly, I felt as though everything might be okay. The kids would rock this out. The school board would love it. My job would be safe.

  Then the kids reached the lifts and everything fell apart.

  Crap.

  “Okay.” I stopped the music before anyone got injured or worse. “Let’s run both lifts, couple by couple so I can make sure you have the technique down.”

  Thank goodness Devlyn arrived before Larry could insist on helping to demonstrate the moves. While Larry’s current girlfriend had him going to the gym and doing marathon sessions of Yoga, neither had given him the upper-body strength needed to get me off the ground. At five feet seven, I wasn’t the light-as-a-feather type.

  After two hours, the group could execute the lifts without bodily harm and sing the song, which was good. Unfortunately, they were still having problems doing both at the same time. That was bad. I could only hope that after a night of practicing on their own they’d be able to remember both the words and the steps.

  A quick glance at the clock made me sigh. I couldn’t put it off any longer. I needed to audition the solos and make a decision—give Chessie another feature with the hope it would save my paycheck or cast the singer I thought would do the best job.

  “Everyone line up. It’s audition time.”

  My stomach was in knots as I listened to the boys sing first, then the girls. When the auditions were over, I looked at the row of nervous faces in front of me and knew exactly which ones should be cast. Plastering a smile on my face, I said, “I’m going to think it over tonight and let you know tomorrow who the soloists are going to be.”

  Was I stalling? Absolutely. Sue me.

  “Chessie’s parents won’t be angry if you don’t give her one of the solos,” Devlyn said after the last student had vanished out the door.

  “Are you sure?” I wanted to believe him, but I had Christmas gifts to pay for.

  Devlyn shut the door and then walked over to put his arm around me. Larry had left with the students. He hadn’t wanted to be late for Yoga, which meant Devlyn and I had to lock up. “The group looks better than they ever have.”

  “They still can’t sing and execute the final lift.”

  “They will.”

  “If they don’t—”

  My thought was cut off by the brush of Devlyn’s lips. For a second, my mind went a little fuzzy. After his mouth left mine I said, “Can we simplify the ending to make—”

  Okay, maybe I started protesting again because I knew it would get me another kiss. Can you blame me? And Devlyn didn’t disappoint. His mouth met mine again and all choir concerns disappeared. My fingers dug into Devlyn’s shoulders as my knees went weak. His lips brushed mine twice before settling for a longer taste. And wow, did he taste good. Like lemon. I was going to have to start drinking Devlyn’s lemon-flavored water. Yum.

  I went back for more, but Devlyn glanced at the door and eased away. “We should probably take this conversation somewhere else. Just in case.”

  Devlyn was right. A school was no place to be caught kissing. Twenty minutes later, we were wedged into a booth at an Evanston Irish pub. Devlyn had chosen the place based on its tasty food and the slim-to-none chance that Prospect Glen students would make an appearance. If they did, the lighting in our corner was dim enough the students wouldn’t notice either of us. While I appreciated the ambiance, the idea that we needed to hide our relationship put a dent in the romantic mood.

  Still, it was hard to complain when Devlyn’s deep blue eyes were focused on me. “I wanted to come by last night after your aunt called, but I wasn’t sure if you’d want company. Are you really okay?”

  I intended to say yes, but as my lips started to form the word my throat tightened and tears pricked the back of my eyes. When Devlyn took my hands in his and gave them a squeeze, I was a goner. A tear escaped down my cheek. Then another. I sniffled and tried to hold back the tears, but now that they’d started, there was no stopping them. Putting my head down on our joined hands, I gave up fighting and cried.

  I hated crying. It made my eyes puffy, made my nose run, and made me feel like a wimp. Even worse, I was crying on a date and I didn’t have a tissue to mop my face or blow my nose. I was a mess.

  Suddenly grateful for the out-of-the-way dining location, I took a deep breath and sat up. Devlyn didn’t tell me it was all going to be okay or say that things weren’t as bad as they seemed. He just handed me a napkin and pushed his glass of wine across the table to me.

  It’s hard to blow your nose in a discreet manner. Feeling stupid and embarrassed, I shoved the used napkin into my pocket and took a sip of Devlyn’s wine before saying, “Sorry about that.”

  Devlyn gave me one of his killer smiles and brushed a strand of hair away from my mouth. “Don’t apologize. Watching a man die and the threat of losing your job is enough to upset anyone.”

  “Don’t forget having my Messiah gig canceled.” If we were going to list my problems, we might as well be thorough.

  “What do you mean, canceled? My mother told me she called the theater this morning. The box office said the performance was going on as scheduled.”

  Knowing Devlyn had planned to bring his mother to see me sing was enough to make me want to cry again. “The stage manager called a couple hours ago. Our conductor, Magdalena Tebar, is currently under investigation for David Richard’s death. If she’s arrested, the show will be canceled. The worst part is that it’s all my fault.”

  “That the conductor killed David Richard?”

  “No. That the cops are going to arrest Magdalena.” The waitress arrived with our food. Over fish-and-chips, I gave Devlyn the rundown on Magdalena’s right hook.

  “But you don’t think she killed him?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, spinning a French fry between my fingers. “She could have, but I’ve been thinking about the look on Magdalena’s face after she hit David. She looked happy. Satisfied. Like she’d done the job she set out to do. Not like she was getting ready to take him down. And when she realized he was dead, she fainted.”

  “She could have faked it.”

  I pictured the way she’d toppled into the arms of the violist with quick reflexes. The billowy purple skirt she’d worn had hiked up to the top of her thighs as the violist laid her on the pit’s concrete floor and checked her pulse. She didn’t seem like the type to allow the entire string section a bird’s-eye view of her lacy red underwear. “Maybe.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  I shrugged and stabbed a piece of fried fish. Did I really believe Magdalena was innocent or did I just want her to be so I could sing in the show this weekend? It was hard to tell.

  “Eric wasn’t wrong this morning.” Devlyn put down his fork. “The cops aren’t always right. Eric would be in jail if you hadn’t trusted your instincts. Maybe you should trust them now.”

  Devlyn and Eric both had a point. My eyewitness account was the reason the police suspected Magdalena. That meant it was my responsibility to make sure the conductor wasn’t getting a bum rap. Right?

  By the time Devlyn walked me to my car and gave me a toe-curling good-night kiss, I’d convinced myself that asking a couple of questions wasn’t just self-serving. It was my moral obligation. While the performers involved would cooperate with the police, they’d be hyperaware of the press generated by David’s murder. My fellow performers wouldn’t share anything that didn’t make them look good. Which meant the police would be lacking information. Unless someone else got it for them. I could only hope the other singers felt more comfortable sharing juicy industry gossip with one of their own.

  And when it came to the gossip sources, I knew exactly where to start.

  Chapter 6

  While the cops might be focused on the people who performed in
front of the curtain, I knew where the real power in the performance world lay—with the stage manager. Stage managers know all. They are in charge of everything in front of and behind the stage, and have the ear of the producers, directors, and performers. They are also in charge of making sure the performers are given the support they need to perform to the best of their abilities. Which is why Bill Walters had agreed to meet for coffee and a chat. The last thing he needed was a performer wigging out.

  Since the coffee shop was located near the Northwestern University campus, the place was teeming with college kids hunched over laptops while sucking down copious amounts of caffeine. Even had Bill not been waving, I would have spotted him on a couch in the back of the café. The receding hairline and button-down pink shirt were dead giveaways. He was armed with two cups of coffee and a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach his hazel eyes.

  “Thanks for coming out to talk with me,” I said, taking a seat on the couch.

  “I’m happy to do it. The lighting designer was supposed to finish focusing lights tonight, but the police won’t let us back in the building until tomorrow.” Bill sat down and handed me a coffee cup. After being out in the cold, my hands soaked in the warmth. “I know you’re worried about the show.”

  I took a deep breath and plunged into the script I’d created for myself during the drive over. “The show’s important to me, but what happened last night . . .” I looked down at my hands. “David Richard didn’t seem like a nice guy, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill him.”

  “Honey, everyone who worked with David wanted to kill him. The man was a menace.” Bill took a sip of his coffee. “Most big opera houses refused to work with him. It’s one of the reasons he agreed to be an artist in residence at Northwestern this year and do this show. David and his manager were working hard to reinvent David’s public image.”

  “I didn’t know that. Was it working?”

  Bill chugged some more coffee and shrugged. “Probably. David knew how to turn on the charm when he wanted to.”

  I took a sip of coffee and smiled. “How did you know I liked gingerbread lattes?”

  Bill shot me a gapped-tooth grin. “Your manager gave us a list of your likes and dislikes. Yours was the shortest of the five preference lists, which makes it easy to remember.”

  The idea that anyone in show business thought I was important enough to worry about my coffee preference made me flush with pleasure. It also gave me a new line of questioning. “If you know everyone’s preferences, did you also know that David Richard added zinc to his water?”

  Bill’s smile disappeared. “Why do you want to know?”

  Busted.

  Hoping to look worried and vulnerable, I gnawed on my bottom lip and said, “I almost took his water bottle. The idea that I might have drank from it has given me some bad moments.”

  “I heard about that from Jonathan.” Bill gave my arm a sympathetic squeeze. “Just about everyone who worked with David knew about his special water. The whole zinc thing isn’t all that unusual. I’ve stage-managed a lot of shows where singers have listed zinc lozenges or drops on their preference riders. I had to make sure that Jenny and the rest of the production staff took special precautions on this production considering Magdalena’s allergies.”

  Allergies? “What allergies?”

  Bill blinked. His reddish-tinged cheeks told me he’d spoken out of turn. “I shouldn’t have mentioned Magdalena’s personal business.”

  Probably not, but now that he had, I wasn’t about to let him off the hook. Taking a sip of coffee, I employed a technique my mother used to use when she wanted to know something—silence. Bill put his coffee on the table, wiped his hands on his pants, and picked the cup back up. Looking into the dregs of his drink, he said, “Look, Magdalena is a very private person. The staff knows they need to take special precautions, but they don’t know why. Magdalena’s allergies weren’t even listed on the rider because she was afraid someone could invade her privacy. But I had to take notes and do some research on the Internet to make sure I didn’t screw up and buy the wrong kind of hand cream or serve her too much red meat, otherwise she’d end up in the hospital.”

  Since Bill didn’t seem inclined to dish further on Magdalena, I asked, “What about Vanessa and Jonathan? Did they have any unusual requests? I’d like to get them both something for opening night and I don’t want to get the wrong thing.”

  Bill smiled. “Well, don’t take offense if Vanessa hates anything you get her. She’s only going to like you and your gifts if you can do something for her career.”

  “Which means she’s never going to like me.”

  “I think you’re sensational, and I overheard Magdalena telling David Richard that you have the spark. That’s something Vanessa would be jealous of, too. She’s a strong singer and a decent actress, but she doesn’t have that extra something. David Richard had it. So does Jonathan, only Jonathan would rather teach than travel. You have to be willing to travel to be an opera star.”

  Which is why I kept my passport current. Too bad I hadn’t had reason to use it recently.

  “Were David and Jonathan friends, then? I know they were both teaching at Northwestern this year.”

  Bill laughed. “Jonathan knew how to play the game. He acted friendly with David in public, but I’ve worked a couple shows with the two of them. They weren’t friends. Jonathan’s one of the nicest singers in the business, but David had a history of pushing Jonathan’s buttons. I hated the idea of putting them in the same dressing room for this, but I didn’t have a choice.” He looked back into his coffee cup. “Now I guess I don’t have to worry about it.”

  History? What history? Before I could ask, Bill’s phone rang. Apologizing, he got up in search of a quieter spot, leaving me wondering if the police knew about Jonathan and David’s past. That the kind and debonair Jonathan could have had anything to do with David Richard’s death was hard to believe. Still, I’d learned firsthand that while psychopaths in movies looked the part, real-life killers could appear completely normal.

  I drained the rest of my coffee and waited for Bill to return. When he did, his face was pale and his eyes a little wild.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  Bill might work with actors, but the look in his eyes said none of the performers’ training had rubbed off. “Everything’s fine. Just a few details that need ironing out,” he stammered, shrugging into his coat. “Let me know if you need anything before tomorrow night’s rehearsal. Okay?”

  Without giving me a chance to answer, Bill hurried to the door and disappeared into the cold. Grabbing a latte for the road, I headed back to Millie’s with the radio tuned into the local news channel in case the police had made an arrest in the case. By the time I arrived home, I’d learned someone had stolen Baby Jesus from the Old St. Patrick’s nativity and replaced it with Yoda. No arrests in either that bit of strangeness or my Messiah case.

  My fingers were raw and tingly from the cold when I peeled off my gloves and walked into the kitchen. Since Killer was nowhere in sight, I made a beeline for the refrigerator, grabbed a diet soda, and contemplated a snack.

  “You forgot your moisturizer.” Millie’s voice made me jump, sending my can of soda crashing to the ground.

  I picked up the dented can and looked over at my aunt. She was standing in the kitchen doorway in a sexy pink satin robe and fuzzy pink slippers. From the careful application of her makeup and the wafting scent of floral perfume, I guessed sleep wasn’t my aunt’s next activity of choice.

  She grabbed the soda and put it on the counter. Taking my hands in hers, Millie examined my fingers and gave a sigh of dismay. “Regular moisturizer isn’t going to do the trick. You’re going to need something stronger. Come with me. I have extra-emollient cream in my office. That should do it.”

  I followed Millie down the hall into the cosmetics c
ommand center. The room was painted a pale pink. Aside from that splash of color and the taxidermied border collie standing guard at the door, the room could have belonged to any Fortune 500 CEO. Framed college degrees hung on the wall along with photographic evidence of the sports figures and television journalists who made up Millie’s clientele. In the center of the room was a massive mahogany desk equipped with a high-powered laptop, an array of computer accessories, and a phone system that NASA employees would have a hard time using.

  Millie went to the back of the office and plucked a small pink tube off one of the meticulously organized shelves. “Here. Try this.”

  My aunt’s tone said it would be best not to argue. I unscrewed the top, slathered a bunch of cream on my fingers, and felt immediate relief. When it came to skin creams and cosmetics, my aunt was always right. Which made me wonder. “Do you know of an allergy that makes a person sensitive to hand lotions and red meat?” Since the question sounded strange even to me, I added, “One of the suspects in David Richard’s murder is allergic to both those things.”

  The minute I mentioned the murder, Aunt Millie’s eyes narrowed. “Hand-cream ingredients can trigger all sorts of allergies. Do you know if the lotion had a fragrance or doubled as a sunscreen?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  My aunt fired up the computer, rolled up her sleeves, and started to search through her database of cosmetics. As the minutes ticked by, I began to fidget. Finally, I said, “You don’t have to spend time on this now. I don’t want to interrupt your plans.”

  “Plans?” My aunt gave me a quizzical look. “What plans?” The tiny red flush blooming under the perfectly applied base makeup belied her innocent tone.

  Now I had a decision to make. I had to feign ignorance of my aunt’s sex life or meet it head on. When I was growing up, my parents taught me to steer clear of uncomfortable conversations. They believed in avoiding unpleasantness at all costs, which is probably why they didn’t call or visit. My parents loved me, they just didn’t understand my life choices. While they wanted me to be happy, they would rather that happiness occur on the farm down the road doing something they understood. Growing corn and milking cows made sense. Singing and dancing on stage? Not so much. Even if the Messiah went on as planned, the tickets I’d set aside for my folks would most likely never be used. Millie, on the other hand, would be front and center. She believed in facing life head-on.