End Me a Tenor (21 page)

While music was my job, singing was also therapy. With each note, I felt tension leaching out of my shoulders and my lower back. The dull, throbbing headache that had been building since Larry’s phone call began to recede. Aldo played louder. I crescendoed to the end of the song, filling the room with sound. When the last note echoed around the tiny room and faded, I smiled. “Thanks. I needed that.”

Aldo flashed a happy grin. “Me, too. I know you are upset Millie broke her word and helped get you the audition. She might have been wrong to do that, but she is right about your voice. You sing like an angel.”

I’d heard a variation on that compliment countless times through the course of my life. In high school, boys complimented my singing in hopes of scoring a date or more. My friends, relatives, and a number of others over the years had been effusive in their praise. But never had I heard the sentiment spoken in such a matter-of-fact tone. The quiet certainty of Aldo’s words made my entire body flush with pleasure. Not only was the man a musical genius, he was a really nice guy. Which made it doubly sad that my aunt planned to dance the tarantella all over his heart. Today’s shopping adventure with Aunt Millie convinced me her avoidance of a long-term committed relationship with Aldo wasn’t due to a lack of emotion for the man in question. Each gift my aunt bought for him made her glow with delight. In fact, now that I thought about it, I’d never seen my aunt happier than she’d been these past months with Aldo. It would be a shame to see their relationship tanked because of a lifestyle decision Millie made three decades ago. Note to self: In between tracking down a killer and saving my job, I needed to find a way to convince Millie that marriage could be a really good thing.

At the sound of the bell, I led Aldo down the hall, introduced him to Larry, and left the two to talk while I rearranged furniture. I noticed a couple kids giving Aldo a sideways glance as they came through the door, but one look from me made them stifle whatever snide comments they might have made about his skin tone.

When everyone was seated, Larry led warm-ups and ran the choir through its concert repertoire. What Larry lacked in coordination, he more than made up for in directorial abilities. The group sounded fabulous.

He made a few adjustments, ran the music again, and turned rehearsal over to me. I glanced at the clock. I had thirty minutes to reassign the solo, reposition, and rework. Chessie looked ready to explode as Jamie stumbled on the words to the coveted solo. Aldo pounded the piano keys as my kids moved their mouths and feet and I shouted out instructions. The new positions of the couples caused four collisions. By the end of rehearsal, I was pretty sure of three things: Megan’s sister, Claire, was incapable of smiling, an angry Chessie had zero ability to sing in tune, and tonight’s Music in Motion performance was going to be a disaster.

Summoning my acting skills, I plastered a smile on my face and said, “Tonight’s show is going to be fantastic. Remember to be at the theater at six. We’ll have time to run your songs one last time before the concert.”

When the last kid filed out, Aldo patted my shoulder and sighed. “You know what they say—a bad dress rehearsal means a great performance.”

“I hope so.” Otherwise, sayonara, paycheck.

My dejection must have showed because Aldo added, “You no need to worry about your job. When the school board sees the article in the newspaper, they won’t be able to let you go.”

“Article?” I looked at Larry, who shrugged. He was just as in the dark as I was. Both of us looked back at a still-grinning Aldo. “What article?”

“A reporter called at Millie’s house to talk to you about the
Messiah
murders. Since you weren’t home, he asked me a bunch of questions.”

Dread knotted my stomach. “What kind of questions?”

“Where you grew up. The shows you’ve performed. That kind of stuff.”

That didn’t sound so bad. The knot loosened.

Aldo gave me another pat. “He also wanted to know if you had any theories about who killed David Richard or the stage manager. I said if anyone could help the police solve the case, it was you, and told him about the last murderer you helped catch. Well, one thing led to another and I started talking about your teaching.”

The knot tightened. I sincerely doubted a reporter would care whether I had theories as to the killer’s identity. Printing that kind of speculation would only land the reporter and the newspaper in hot water. The only person who would be interested in my thoughts on the subject was the killer. And Aldo chatted him up on the phone. Just thinking about that made my granola lunch do backflips.

Then again, I could be overreacting. The fact that I had once before been involved in a murder investigation could be of interest to a reporter. “Did you get the reporter’s name or the name of the paper?” A quick phone call would verify that I had nothing to worry about. Problem solved.

“I asked, but the reporter got an important call and had to hang up. But don’t worry. You will get a chance to meet him very soon.”

“Why do you say that?”

Aldo beamed. “Because he said he would be at the concert—tonight.”

I could feel the blood drain from my face and the room began to spin. I grabbed the piano for support as Aldo cheerfully said, “I told him about you and the choir, and he wants to do a story. I am thinking it will help you keep your job. Isn’t that great?”

Great? No. Terrifying? Hell, yes. The more Aldo talked, the more convinced I was that the voice on the phone had zero interest in writing an article on my choir. If I was right, Aldo’s new best friend had one reason and one reason only to come to the theater tonight—to put an end to me and my personal murder investigation for good.

The potential coverage of his choir in the paper made Larry vibrate with delight. He gave Aldo a fist bump that almost landed them both in the hospital. With a final thank-you, Larry dashed to his office to spread the good news.

Aldo frowned and looked at me. “You do not think the article is a good thing?”

Well, at least someone had noticed my concern. I gnawed on my bottom lip. “I’m not sure the person who called was a reporter.”

“Who else would call your aunt’s house and ask questions about you and David Richard’s mur—” Aldo’s eyes widened as understanding dawned. “
Merda santa
. I invited a killer to a high school choir concert?”

Maybe. “We don’t know that for sure. Can you remember what the guy said when he first introduced himself? His first name? His title at the paper? Anything?”

Aldo’s forehead crinkled. “No. He never said his name. Just that he was a reporter doing a story. This is no good.”

That was a sentiment I totally agreed with. Since dwelling on the negative wasn’t going to help, I opted to focus on details that might. “Tell me about the guy’s voice. Was it low pitched? Did he have an accent? What did it sound like?”

After my chat with LaVon, I’d moved the men on my suspect list down to the bottom. None of them were the type to sport a black dress. At least, I hadn’t thought so. If Aldo’s caller was a male, however, it meant not only did one of the men feel comfortable in a skirt and pumps, but, with only two men on my current suspect list, Aldo might be able to finger the killer.

“The voice sounded low.”

Mark Krauss was a tenor. I’d never spoken to him, but I was betting money that Jonathan’s voice was lower. This was good.

“But the voice got higher as the phone call went along.”

Huh. Maybe Mark had tried to disguise his voice?

“And now that I think about it, there were times I thought the voice sounded like my dearly departed wife after she smoked one of her cigarettes.”

Well, crap. “So the caller could have been a woman?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Aldo’s bony shoulders drooped. “I think I’m confused.”

So was I. There was only one thing I wasn’t confused about—my students would be in danger tonight. Some of them made me want to tear my hair out, but somehow during the past few months I’d come to care about each and every one of them. Even Chessie. And now they could be hurt. Because of me.

My first instinct was to say the hell with my job and not show up tonight. I was the target. No target, no threat. Right?

Wrong. Bill’s death proved the killer was willing to take out anyone necessary to keep his or her identity a secret. The killer could show up, learn I was a no-show, and take out his disappointment on one of my students. Kidnapping or injuring one of my choir members wasn’t going to bother someone who had already killed twice. The only way to guarantee my students’ safety was to discover the identity of the killer before the concert tonight—and I had under four hours to do so. Too bad I didn’t have a clue how to go about it.

While Aldo drove us to Millie’s, I racked my brain for a plan. By the time I grabbed a change of clothes for the concert and my
Messiah
contact sheet, I had one. Aldo had heard the killer’s voice. Yes, the killer had tried to disguise it, but there was a chance Aldo might recognize the voice if he heard it again. If I could get a recording of each of the suspects, I could make Aldo listen to them. Kind of like an audio lineup. With his ear for tone and timbre, there was a chance Aldo could identify the caller. Not a great chance, but hey—it was better than nothing.

To avoid people identifying me by caller ID, I used Millie’s home phone to call my suspects. By the time I’d dialed everyone on the list, I’d learned Magdalena and Ruth were the only two who used their own voices on voice-mail recordings. I played both messages for Aldo. He didn’t recognize either voice. Bummer.

Since the others weren’t picking up their phones, I was going to have to resort to plan B. Not my favorite option because to get the voices recorded, I had to talk to potential murderers in person. For that, I’d need to bring backup. Devlyn wasn’t available. Mike would just yell at me, with good reason, and I wasn’t about to put Aldo or Millie in the line of fire. If I wanted to unmask the killer before my students got hurt, I only had one other option.

The suspect who lived the farthest away was Vanessa Moulton. I opted to visit her first and headed to Lincoln Park. Vanessa lived in a three-story condo building down the street from the DePaul University School of Music. I considered finding a parking spot only two blocks away a good omen. Grabbing my purse, I hopped out of my car and walked through the biting wind to the building’s front door.

The tiny entrance lobby was warm and empty minus a small topiary tree festooned with silver tinsel and red bows, a bank of mailboxes, and a panel of apartment call buttons. I found Vanessa’s name and pressed the button next to it. Then I slid my hand into my coat pocket and wrapped my fingers around my backup—the cold steel of Millie’s pink Beretta. A couple months ago, Millie had insisted I carry the gun in case of emergency. When that emergency was over, I’d given it back, but Millie made sure I knew where she stashed it. Carrying a concealed weapon with no permit was a bad idea, but going to a potential homicidal maniac’s condo without protection was worse.

I turned on the MP3 recorder app on my phone as Vanessa’s voice asked, “Who is it?” The speaker crackled and popped. Drat. So much for hoping I wouldn’t have to see Vanessa face-to-face.

“Hi, Vanessa. It’s Paige Marshall. Do you have a minute to talk?”

I expected Vanessa to tell me to get lost and was surprised when she said, “Why not. I’ve got nothing better to do.” The door buzzer sounded. I was in.

Vanessa scowled from the doorway of her third-floor condo as I finished my hike up the stairs. “Come on in,” she said as she took a step back, tripped over the entryway rug, and lost her balance. Luckily, the wall was there to break her fall. Otherwise, she would have ended up on her denim-clad butt. I kept my right hand curled around Millie’s gun and used my left to help Vanessa regain her footing.

When she was upright, she shook off my hand and headed into a stylishly decorated but comfortable living room. The high walls were painted a muted yellow outlined by white crown molding. The sofa and love seat were covered in gray-and wine-colored fabrics. Framed posters from opera performances hung throughout the room. Hanging above the white marble fireplace in the position of honor was an enormous glossy photograph of Vanessa. She was standing on a darkened stage, illuminated by a spotlight, and wearing a spectacular red gown. While the photograph was stunning, I wasn’t sure I’d be comfortable kicking back in a room where I was constantly stared at by myself. Then again, I lived in a house with four glass-eyed dogs. I wasn’t in a position to pass judgment.