Dead Ringer

by Sarah Fox

  The woman’s blue eyes widened with shock and one hand went to her mouth. “Dear Father in heaven!”

  “Do you have a phone?”

  Before the woman had a chance to respond, which I wasn’t entirely sure she was going to do, a man came down the stairs behind her, stopping when he saw Jeremy’s body. He wore a black clergy shirt and clerical collar. Even in my panicked state, I was able to conclude that he was the reverend.

  “What’s happened here?” he asked with concern.

  The woman grabbed his arm. “Darling, he’s dead.”

  “Heavens! How did that happen?”

  “Telephone!” I shouted, perhaps a little louder than strictly necessary. “Do either of you have a telephone?”

  “Oh, ah, yes.” The reverend seemed to get somewhat of a grasp on the situation. He addressed the blond woman. “Cindy, dear, go up to the office and call 911.”

  The woman clasped her hand to the collar of her cashmere cardigan. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  With one last glance at Jeremy’s unmoving form, she turned on her low-­heeled pumps and retreated up the stairway.

  The reverend was about to continue downstairs and pick his way past Jeremy’s body when I stopped him.

  “Wait!’

  He halted, his expression bewildered.

  “You shouldn’t walk through a crime scene. Is there another way down?”

  “Oh. Yes, there is.” The reverend retreated up the stairs and disappeared around the corner of the landing. Seconds later he reappeared, descending a parallel stairway that I hadn’t noticed earlier. It was only twenty or thirty feet from the one where Jeremy lay dead.

  The reverend came over to stand beside me, eyeing Jeremy’s body. “Any idea what happened?”

  “This is how I found him.” I hugged myself, an unpleasant chill working its way through my body. “Look at his neck.”

  The reverend leaned closer to Jeremy but drew back quickly. “Oh dear. Murder? In a house of God?” His eyes darted about, as if expecting God to appear in person to express His displeasure.

  Or maybe he was looking for the murderer. He or she could still be lurking inside the church. Why hadn’t that occurred to me before?

  Another chill ran up my spine and I hugged myself more tightly.

  “Midori!”

  My heart nearly leapt out of my chest when Mikayla appeared from around the corner.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. “Rehearsal’s starting again in about ten seconds.”

  All I could do was point at Jeremy’s body. She stepped into view of the stairway and her jaw dropped. “Is he . . . ?”

  “Dead? Yes,” I said. “And it looks like murder.”

  “Oh my God.” Her gaze flicked to the reverend. “Oops. Sorry, Reverend.”

  Eyes closed and head bowed, the reverend was too busy murmuring a prayer over Jeremy’s body to notice what Mikayla had said. As he closed with “Amen,” Cindy reappeared. She’d descended the parallel staircase, wisely avoiding the scene of death.

  “The police will be here any moment.” She glanced in Jeremy’s direction, but then winced and averted her gaze.

  Mikayla put a hand on my arm and gave it a quick squeeze. “I’ll go tell the others.”

  “Make sure they don’t all come swarming up here.”

  “I will.”

  As soon as Mikayla left, I wished she’d stayed. Standing there staring at Jeremy’s body gave me the creeps. So did the thought that whoever had killed him could still be nearby. I tried to turn away, to focus on something other than Jeremy, but my eyes remained glued to him.

  A police siren became audible, wailing in the distance, drawing closer every second. I shivered, wishing I could go home and soak in a hot bath. But then I felt guilty for wishing that. Jeremy had died. He’d been murdered. Thinking of myself was selfish.

  Still, I was cold and could have used something to warm me up.

  “Midori?”

  I hadn’t realized how tense I was until a wave of relief washed over me at the sight of Hans rushing toward me. I was tempted to hug him, to hold onto him tightly, but I managed to restrain myself. I didn’t want anyone thinking our relationship was anything but professional, and I didn’t want to play the role of a damsel in distress. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate the strong hand that came to rest on my back.

  “Mikayla told me what happened.” He stared hard at Jeremy’s body for a second or two before turning his ice blue eyes to me. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so.”

  The police siren grew louder and cut off abruptly. The reverend hurried off toward the front of the church, most likely to meet the officers. Whatever tension had left my body on Hans’s arrival returned with a vengeance. My muscles were taut, like violin strings strung too tightly. I closed my eyes and focused on the feel of Hans’s hand on my back. That helped to calm me.

  When several sets of footsteps thumped on the floor, I opened my eyes. The reverend had returned, with two uniformed police officers accompanying him.

  “Please stand back,” the taller of the two officers cautioned the reverend, who was about to guide them over to the body.

  The reverend stopped and Cindy moved quickly to his side. He put an arm around her, but his gaze followed the officers to the stairway.

  The police officers made a cursory examination of Jeremy’s body, confirming that he was indeed dead. While the shorter of the two officers spoke into his radio, the taller one addressed us onlookers.

  “We’ll need everyone to remain in the building until we’ve questioned you,” he said. His eyes roamed over the four of us. “Which one of you found the body?”

  I lifted a hand. “I did.”

  “Your name?”

  “Midori Bishop.”

  The police officer nodded and jotted my name in his notebook. “Come with me, please.”

  “Can I come with her?” Hans asked, his hand still warming my back and keeping me anchored.

  “Sorry,” the officer said. “You’ll all have to be questioned separately.”

  I glanced at Hans, and he gave me what I guessed was meant to be a reassuring smile. It struck me as more distracted than anything else, but maybe that wasn’t surprising. There was a dead body sprawled out a few feet away from us, after all.

  Leaving Hans behind, I followed the police officer through a set of double wooden doors and into the nave.

  “If you’ll wait in here, ma’am, a detective will come talk to you shortly.”

  “Thank you,” I said, as the officer retreated back through the double doors. They closed with a dull thunk behind him.

  I stood for a moment in the aisle between the two back pews, gazing up at the stained-­glass windows. Even in the evening, with little natural light coming through them, the windows were beautiful. On a sunny day they were probably breathtaking.

  I took a few steps along the aisle and slid into a pew on my right. I already felt more relaxed than I had out by Jeremy’s body. I wasn’t a religious person, but the nave had a calming effect on me. It was peaceful, serene. Sitting there in the polished wooden pew, it was hard to believe that someone had been murdered just down the hall. But it had happened. And now that I thought about it, I probably hadn’t been far from the murderer.

  The thumps I’d heard could have been Jeremy struggling with his attacker or his body falling to the stairs. The hurried, retreating footsteps had probably belonged to his assailant.

  For the first time since I had discovered Jeremy’s body, my thoughts cleared. Which way had the footsteps gone? Up the stairway, I thought, although I couldn’t be sure. Certainly not toward the washroom, otherwise I would have encountered the killer.

  I shuddered at the thought of that happening. It would have been helpful to the police if I’d caught a glimpse of the
murderer, but the thought of getting in his or her way was not one I wanted to dwell on.

  I sat back in my pew and let my eyes wander over the stained-­glass windows again. Now that I was more relaxed, new questions popped into my head.

  Why would anyone want to kill Jeremy?

  Sure, he wasn’t the nicest guy in the world. In fact, he could be downright annoying. But that wasn’t reason enough to kill someone. There had to be more to it. Maybe he’d angered someone. Maybe he’d been mixed up in something criminal or, at least, unsavory.

  No matter what the motive, why was he killed here in the church? Had the killer followed him and simply waited for an opportunity to strike? Or—­and this thought chilled me more than any previous one—­was the killer a member of the orchestra?

  I shook my head, frustrated. All I had were questions. No answers.

  Behind me, one of the wooden doors creaked open. I turned in my pew to see who was there, my heart rate speeding up a notch. Despite the nave’s calming effect, the thought of the killer lurking about in the shadows still had me jumpy.

  The man who came into the nave was dressed in a gray suit, his jacket unbuttoned and his white shirt strained across his wide girth. He had gray and white hair and a bristly gray moustache to match. Everything about him seemed gray, except for his skin, which was a little too ruddy to be healthy.

  Behind him followed a woman in her mid-­thirties, also dressed in business attire, but her honey blond hair and the bright blue of her shirt peeking out from beneath her navy suit jacket made for a far less depressing color palate than that of her older companion.

  “Ms. Bishop?” the man said as he approached.

  I stood up. “Yes.”

  The man extended his hand. “I’m Detective Bachman and this is Detective Salnikova.”

  I shook his hand and then Salnikova’s.

  “Please, take a seat.” Detective Bachman nodded at the pew.

  I sat back down, and he settled himself into the pew directly across the aisle from me. Salnikova took the pew in front of him, and they both angled their bodies to face me.

  “I understand you’re the one who found the victim,” Detective Bachman said as Salnikova removed a notebook and pen from the pocket of her tailored jacket.

  “That’s right.”

  “That must have been quite a shock for you.”

  I swallowed, remembering the red marks that marred the flesh of Jeremy’s throat. “That would be an understatement.”

  Bachman nodded. “Of course. Did you know the victim?”

  “Yes, but not well.”

  “But you know his name?”

  “Yes. Jeremy Ralston.”

  “He was a member of the same orchestra as you?” This time the question came from Salnikova as she wrote in her notebook.

  “Temporarily,” I replied. “He was a ringer.”

  Detective Bachman’s bushy gray eyebrows drew together. “A bell ringer?”

  I might have imagined it, but I thought Salnikova had to fight to suppress a smile. Had the circumstances been less serious, I might have been tempted to roll my eyes. Bachman’s mistake was one I’d heard many times before.

  “No, he was a cellist. A ringer is someone who is hired to add to an orchestra temporarily. One of our cellists is out with an injury so we needed someone to stand in for her for our next concert.”

  “And that person was Mr. Ralston.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So he was in the church this evening for a rehearsal?” Salnikova asked.

  I nodded. “We’re using the basement as a temporary rehearsal space. We normally rehearse at the Abrams Center, but it’s being renovated at the moment.”

  Salnikova wrote another note.

  There was a brief pause and then Detective Bachman said, “Can you explain how you came to find Mr. Ralston’s body?”

  I took in a deep breath to prepare myself to relive the unpleasant experience. I told the detectives how I’d heard the odd thudding noises and had gone to investigate, finding Jeremy’s body on the staircase.

  “And there was no one else in sight when you found him?” Salnikova asked.

  “No one.”

  “What about the footsteps you heard? Do you know which direction they were heading?”

  I repeated the answer I’d come up with in my own mind prior to the detectives’ arrival. “I think they were heading up the stairs, but I can’t be sure.”

  As Salnikova jotted notes in her notebook, Detective Bachman picked up the line of questioning again. “Are you aware of any enemies Mr. Ralston might have had, or any problems he may have been experiencing lately?”

  I shook my head. “Like I said, I didn’t know him all that well. We were just acquaintances, really.”

  “I understand,” Bachman said. “But even when you don’t know someone well, there can sometimes be an indication of a problem. Something said, certain behavior. That sort of thing. Did you notice any of that with Mr. Ralston?”

  I thought carefully about that. “Jeremy wasn’t always the most pleasant person to be around,” I said. “He liked to complain a lot and his personality was a bit . . . abrasive. I guess it wouldn’t shock me to find out that he had conflicts with other ­people. In fact . . .” I trailed off, realizing what I was about to say.

  “In fact?” Bachman prompted.

  I gave myself a mental kick. I didn’t want to bring Hans into this. Then again, it wouldn’t really cause much harm. There was no way that Hans had killed Jeremy, so telling the police about the argument I’d interrupted wasn’t likely to get him into any trouble. Besides, now that the detectives knew I’d been about to say something, they wouldn’t let it drop. I could tell by the sharp way their eyes watched me.

  I let out a breath and finished my sentence. “I overheard Jeremy arguing with someone earlier today.”

  “Do you know who that someone was?”

  I still didn’t want to say Hans’s name, but there was no getting out of it. “Maestro Hans Clausen.”

  Bachman’s eyes flickered with interest but his expression otherwise remained neutral. “And what was it they argued about?”

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t hear much of what was said. But Hans—­” I checked myself and started again. “Maestro Clausen did ask Jeremy if he was threatening him.”

  Salnikova’s pen moved swiftly across the page of her notebook. I wanted to say more, to defend Hans, but I bit my tongue. I doubted that my opinion would mean much to the detectives, and they would find out soon enough that there was no significance to the argument.

  “How angry would you say Maestro Clausen was during this argument?”

  “Not particularly angry. When I asked him about it, he brushed it off as no big deal.”

  “I see,” Bachman said. “And he didn’t tell you what the dispute was about?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Detective Bachman heaved himself to his feet. “Perhaps the maestro himself can enlighten us.”

  Chapter 3

  WHEN DETECTIVE BACHMAN stood up, my hope was that I’d be allowed to go home. I wanted nothing more than a hot bath and my bed. I wasn’t sure that I’d be able to sleep after the evening’s events but I at least wanted a chance to rest.

  “Detective Salnikova will take your official statement,” Bachman said as he straightened his suit jacket.

  I’d been about to get up from my pew but now sank back into it.

  So much for going home.

  With a departing nod in my direction, Bachman lumbered out of the nave.

  Salnikova shifted back one pew, taking the spot vacated by her partner so she and I sat directly across the aisle from one another. Her body turned toward me and her pen poised, she invited me to once again recount my story.

  I did so, in as much detail as pos
sible.

  Once we finished with that, I provided Salnikova with my contact information.

  “Thank you,” she said as she snapped her notebook shut. “That’s all we need from you at the moment.” She handed me a business card. “If you remember anything else, please give me a call.”

  I accepted the card, glancing at it before slipping it into my pocket.

  “You can go home now if you’d like.”

  There was nothing I wanted more.

  Relieved to be free, I stepped out into the narthex. The scene of the crime was now cordoned off with police tape, and technicians were searching for evidence. Detective Salnikova pointed me in the opposite direction, telling me to use a different route to get to the basement where I’d left my belongings.

  With one last, uneasy glance at the scene of Jeremy’s death, I parted company with the detective. As I went in search of the basement’s other access point, I passed Hans. He sat on a wooden bench between the two parallel stairways leading to the second floor. His face took on an expectant expression when he saw me, as if he thought I would approach. I gave him a weak smile but kept moving without a word. I could hear the detectives coming in our direction and didn’t think they would appreciate it if I stopped to chat with another witness before they had a chance to question him.

  Moving on, I found a narrow hallway leading to a descending stairway. I was about to head down to the auditorium when I heard Detective Bachman address Hans.

  “Hans Clausen?”

  “That’s correct,” Hans replied.

  As Bachman introduced himself and Salnikova, I walked softly back along the hallway, stopping when I was around the corner from Hans and the detectives. I knew I shouldn’t eavesdrop on a police interview. Maybe I’d even get dragged off in shackles if I was discovered. But I couldn’t help myself. As sure as I was of Hans’s innocence, I wanted to know what he and Jeremy had argued about.

  I breathed as quietly as possible as I listened in on the conversation around the corner. At first I thought I wouldn’t learn anything of interest. The detectives started out by asking Hans how well he knew Jeremy and how he had happened upon the scene of the crime. I already knew the answers to those questions. Patience wasn’t always one of my dominant traits, but I managed to remain still until the conversation turned toward more interesting matters.