by Sarah Fox
Cameron shook his head, his face miserable. “Igor has his fences. He probably got rid of the stuff within the first few days. I’m sorry, man. Really.”
JT didn’t acknowledge Cameron’s apology. Instead he looked my way, and I saw turmoil in his eyes. I wished I knew the right decision so I could share it with him. Cameron deserved to be turned in to the police, but what good would that do? Maybe it would deter him from future misdeeds, but maybe it wouldn’t. And if what Cameron had said was true, turning him in wouldn’t get JT’s equipment back. Still, letting Cameron go scot-free didn’t seem right either.
“I need time to think,” JT said after a moment.
“What if I paid you back?” Cameron said, a note of desperation creeping into his voice.
“With what?” I asked. “You have no money. That’s what got you into this mess in the first place.”
“If I could get a decent job . . .”
“Let’s talk about it another time,” JT said, shutting the conversation down. “But whatever I decide to do, you can’t be in the band anymore, not after what you’ve done.”
Cameron’s shoulders sagged. “I get that.”
He remained standing there, his eyes going back and forth between me and JT. When neither of us said anything more, he took the hint and gathered up his gear. JT, being the good guy that he was, gave him a hand loading his drum kit into his van. I stood out in the alley behind the pub, shivering in the cold night air, watching as they got everything loaded away.
Before climbing into the driver’s seat of his van, Cameron looked at JT once more. “I really am sorry.”
JT didn’t respond, and Cameron didn’t seem to expect him to. He got into his van and shut the door, starting the engine a second later. We watched him drive away and then went back inside without a word. JT retrieved his jacket and guitar, and we left the pub for a final time. We didn’t say much as we walked out to his truck, or even once JT had merged with the nighttime traffic and had set a course for my neighborhood.
Although Cameron had confessed and had confirmed my suspicions about his involvement in the theft, I felt no satisfaction, no sense of triumph. I hated that JT’s bandmate had betrayed him, and I hated that my best friend would now have to decide what to do or not do about it. The whole situation left me feeling as though a heavy weight sat across my shoulders.
At least I knew now that Cameron didn’t know anything about Pavlina’s death. Yes, I only had Cameron’s word to go on in that respect, and he wasn’t the most honest person in the world. However, he also wasn’t great at hiding his feelings, judging by the agitation he’d displayed on several occasions over the past week. Igor was still on my suspect list, though. According to Cameron’s story, Igor had shown up at the theater only after finding out that Cameron was there. So, more likely than not, Igor hadn’t known Pavlina would be at the theater that night, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t killed her.
Had he run into Pavlina in the back hallways? Had seeing her brought his festering grudge to the surface, flooding him with anger and the need for revenge?
Possibly.
Sitting there in the passenger seat of JT’s truck, I tugged on my left earlobe as I thought things over. There was still something bothering me, something I couldn’t quite pin down. Maybe it was nothing important, but I sensed that it was. But no matter how much I sifted through my memories, I couldn’t find that elusive piece of information.
“You okay?” JT asked as he stopped the truck at a red light.
“Yes,” I said. “Just thinking. Are you okay?”
He nodded as the light turned green and he eased the truck into motion again. “Disappointed, but okay.”
I reached over and gave his arm a squeeze. “I’m sorry you had to find out about Cameron’s betrayal.”
He flashed me a sad smile. “Better to know than to go on thinking he was someone I could trust.”
That was true.
“You’re not going to turn him in to the police, are you?” I knew him well enough to guess that was the case.
“I don’t think so, but I don’t mind letting him squirm for a day or two.”
“He deserves that, at the very least,” I said with approval.
JT turned the truck onto my street and stopped in front of my building.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said. “And I really enjoyed the concert.”
“I’m glad.” JT put the truck into park. “You look great tonight, by the way.”
Butterflies fluttered in my stomach and my cheeks grew warm. “Thanks.”
I wanted to say more, but I couldn’t come up with any words. My phone buzzed in my purse, and I dug it out, hoping JT wouldn’t notice the color in my cheeks.
“Oh no,” I said, my butterflies dying mid-flight as I read the text from Mikayla.
“What is it?”
“Mikayla and Dave had an argument. Another one. They already argued earlier in the day.”
“Things aren’t going too well for them?”
“Unfortunately.” I felt so bad for Mikayla. It was terrible knowing she was upset. “Why do relationships have to be so difficult?” I said out of frustration.
“I don’t know,” JT said. “They all take work, but maybe the ones that are really difficult aren’t meant to be.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
I stared out the windshield, thinking. Knowing that Mikayla and Dave’s relationship had started out so well and now seemed to be going downhill fast only stoked the fears I had about being in love with JT. Even if my feelings were reciprocated, if our relationship ever fell apart, I’d be devastated.
Was it worth the risk?
My phone buzzed in my hand, nudging me out of my thoughts. Mikayla had sent another text message.
“I should probably get back to her,” I said, more to myself than to JT.
“All right. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Monday,” I agreed.
I hesitated, but then opened the door and slid out of the truck. After saying good night to JT, I hurried through the chilly night air to my apartment building, for some reason feeling upset for myself as well as for Mikayla.
AFTER TAKING OFF my coat and gloves, I texted Mikayla to see if she wanted to talk. She thanked me but said she was going to try and get some sleep. I decided to do the same and changed into my pajamas.
I thought I might lie awake for hours, my mind spinning around like a carousel, centered around thoughts of Cameron’s confession and all the remaining suspects in the murder case. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. Within minutes of resting my head on the pillow, sleep pulled me into its depths and I didn’t stir until after eight in the morning.
Since it was Sunday and I didn’t have to be anywhere, I took my time getting out of bed. Once I’d showered and dressed, I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast while reading a couple of chapters from a historical mystery novel I’d recently checked out of the library. Taking a sip of tea, I set down the book and considered the real-life mystery I had yet to solve. I wondered if the police had made any more progress with their investigation than I had with mine. As far as I knew they still hadn’t made any arrests, but that didn’t mean they weren’t closing in on someone.
I wished I knew how much information the police had, which people were on their suspect list aside from Elena and Igor. Detectives Van den Broek and Chowdhury wouldn’t share that information with me though, of that I was certain.
While I was sitting there pondering the mystery, I heard a quiet buzzing sound. My phone. I tried to remember where I’d left it the night before and located it seconds later on my coffee table. As I picked up the device, I was surprised to see I had a text message from Hans. He hadn’t sent me a private message since our relationship had ended months ago.
Have you had any luck clearing Elena’s name? his message read.
“And good morning to you too,” I grumbled.
Before I had a chance to tap out a real response, he sent me another text.
She says the police are harassing her. We really need to get this cleared up.
I rolled my eyes. “Harassing” in Elena’s case probably meant the detectives had dared to ask her a few questions, but I wasn’t about to quibble about her likely exaggerations. The truth was that I could use some inside information on Igor Malakhov, and Elena was likely the best source for it.
Do you think she’d talk to me? I wrote. I need to ask her some questions about her cousin.
Good idea, he wrote back seconds later, not directly answering my question. I talked to her a few minutes ago. She’s at Café Marciano on Fourth Avenue. You could meet her there.
“Great,” I said aloud. “Just how I wanted to spend my Sunday morning.”
Despite my grumbling, I wrote back to Hans, agreeing to the suggestion. After all, I did want to find out more about Igor.
I’ll let her know you’re on the way, Hans’s final text message read.
With a sigh that might have been described as overly dramatic if anyone had heard it, I finished off my tea and rinsed my breakfast dishes, leaving them in the sink to be washed later. After brushing my teeth and getting bundled up, I set off for Café Marciano, less than thrilled about who I’d be meeting there.
Chapter Eighteen
WHEN I ARRIVED at Café Marciano, I wasn’t surprised to find it bustling with activity, filled mostly with hipsters enjoying fancy caffeinated concoctions, their conversations creating a rumble of sound around me. Despite the number of patrons present, I spotted Elena within seconds. She sat on her own at a table halfway along one wall, flipping through a magazine while sipping at a cappuccino. She didn’t look up until I’d pulled out the chair across from her.
“Good morning,” I greeted cheerily, knowing I wouldn’t receive the same type of reception.
I was right.
Elena flicked her eyes up at me for a fraction of a second before returning them to her magazine. “Melody, isn’t it?” she said with a slight sigh, as if my mere presence was putting her out.
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to smile as I sat down at the table. “Midori,” I corrected, knowing she wouldn’t care. It wasn’t the first time she’d called me by the wrong name and I suspected she’d done so on purpose.
“I hope this isn’t about Hans,” she said as she turned a page of the magazine, still not bothering to look at me.
“Um, no,” I said, confused. “Didn’t he tell you why I wanted to talk to you?”
She let out a quiet huff and finally tore her attention away from her riveting magazine. “He told me you wanted to ask about my cousin, but how was I to know if that was the truth? For all I know, you want my advice on how to get back together with Hans.”
If I’d been eating or drinking I probably would have choked. “I have no interest in getting back together with Hans,” I said once I’d recovered enough to speak.
And even if I did, I most certainly wouldn’t come to you for advice, I added silently.
“If you say so.” She sipped at her cappuccino, her eyes straying beyond me to wander around the café.
I knew her actions were meant to tell me that my interests—and my presence, for that matter—were of zero importance to her. Her act of superiority grated at my nerves, but I forced myself to remain polite.
“I understand the police think you and your cousin could have been involved in Pavlina’s murder,” I said as I shrugged out of my coat and let it drape over the back of my chair.
I pulled my knitted hat from my head and smoothed my hand over my hair, hoping I didn’t look as though I’d been electrocuted. Elena’s hair, of course, was absolutely perfect, every shining blond strand in place.
“Utterly ridiculous,” she said with contempt, setting her cappuccino cup on the table. “They think I got Igor to kill her on my behalf. They also believe he might have killed her for his own purposes. They can’t even choose between those theories.” She shook her head, as if she’d never encountered stupidity as great as that she attributed to Detectives Van den Broek and Chowdhury.
“But you didn’t get him to kill her, right?” I asked, deciding it would be best to check.
She directed her contemptuous blue eyes at me. “Of course not. Why would I waste my time on someone like Pavlina?”
Her response took me aback for a second, although it shouldn’t have. It was typical of her to suggest that the idea of arranging Pavlina’s death was ridiculous because the composer wasn’t of sufficient importance to warrant her attention.
“Okay,” I said, unable to help drawing the word out. “Do you think it’s possible that Igor killed her for his own reasons? He has a criminal record and it wouldn’t be surprising if he’d had a grudge against Pavlina after what happened when they were in high school.”
Elena regarded me with her icy eyes for a long moment. I didn’t know if she was trying to intimidate me, or if she was simply taking time to choose her next words. Although I was tempted to squirm beneath the chill of her gaze, I forced myself to remain still and keep my face politely impassive.
Eventually she stopped her study of me and took another sip of her cappuccino. “Igor is a stupid boy,” she said. “He always has been. Stealing, lying. He’s a disgrace to our family.”
“So you think he could be capable of killing someone?”
“It’s possible. He doesn’t think. He just acts.”
“So if he’d run into Pavlina at the theater that night, maybe all his anger came bubbling up to the surface and he lost control.”
Elena shrugged, somehow making the ordinary gesture elegant and haughty. “It could have happened.”
“Did you tell that to the police?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Of course not.”
“But if Igor killed Pavlina, he should be in jail.”
“That would break my aunt’s heart.”
“That’s unfortunate, but if he’s killed once, he could kill again.”
That didn’t seem to concern her. I tried a different tactic.
“As long as this case remains unsolved, the police will keep bothering you,” I pointed out. “And that could damage the orchestra’s reputation, not to mention your own.”
I knew my last words were the most likely ones to have an effect, and they did. It was subtle, but a hint of her disinterest fell away.
“Fine.” She reached into her designer purse and pulled out her phone. “I’ve had enough of this. We’ll put an end to it once and for all.”
“How?” I asked as she tapped out a message on her phone.
“I’ve always been able to tell when Igor’s lying,” she said, still typing. “I’ll tell him to meet us here and I’ll ask him if he killed her. No matter how he answers, I’ll know if it’s the truth.”
“You mean you haven’t asked him that already?”
She set her phone down on the table, and for the first time I caught a brief glimpse of a crack in her armor of superiority. In that tiny rift I saw uncertainty, maybe even a hint of fear.
“I didn’t want to know the answer.” She cleared her throat and let her gaze wander around the café again, her haughtiness shifting firmly back into place.
I wanted to shake my head at her state of denial. Wouldn’t it be better to know the answer than to go on wondering if her cousin was a killer?
To me the answer to that question was easy. My curiosity would have driven me to ask him right away, if he were my relative. But maybe Elena wasn’t quite as cold and untouched by the world around her as she appeared. Maybe she couldn’t bear the thought of her younger cousin doing something so terrible.
I didn’t follow that thought too far, however. I had no desire to start sympathizing wi
th Elena in any way.
Her phone buzzed on the tabletop and she snatched it up. “He’s on his way,” she said after she’d checked the new message.
Setting her phone down again, she returned her focus to the magazine, acting as if I were no longer there. After half a minute of being ignored, I decided I might as well enjoy what the café had to offer since the company left plenty to be desired.
Leaving my coat on my chair, I got up and made my way around two tables until I was near the counter. I got in line behind the patrons ahead of me, studying the food and drink choices on the menu on the wall. When it was my turn to be served, I ordered a vanilla latte and a sandwich—smoked salmon and veggies on a croissant. It hadn’t been all that long since I’d eaten breakfast, but I figured I’d need the fuel to help me survive more time spent with Elena.
On my way back to the table with my purchases, I snagged a newspaper from a rack of free copies. If Elena was going to ignore me in favor of her magazine, it would be nice to have something to do aside from stare across the table at her. She didn’t acknowledge my presence when I returned, and that was as I expected. It didn’t bother me, and I settled in to enjoy my food.
I’d read a few articles and had consumed half my croissant sandwich when Igor Malakhov appeared next to our table, looming over us. Frowning, he fixed his steely gray eyes on me before turning his attention to his cousin.
“I’m here.”
“I can see that,” Elena said, with no more warmth than she’d shown me. “Sit down.”
It was an order rather than a request, and Igor obeyed. He pulled out a chair and slouched down into it, not bothering to remove his coat. Most likely he wasn’t planning on staying long.
“Who’s she?” Igor asked his cousin, with barely a nod in my direction.
“She’s . . .” Elena glanced my way. “A colleague.” She closed her magazine and fixed her gaze on Igor again. “We’re going to ask you some questions, and you’d better answer truthfully.”
“Fine. Whatever,” he said with a shrug, slouching so far down into his chair that I was afraid he’d slip under the table.