Dead Ringer (2 page)

Curious, I left the washroom and peered up and down the hallway. There was no one in sight. There was, however, another thud, followed by the sound of hurried, retreating footsteps.

I might not have Spidey senses, but I definitely had an inkling that something was amiss.

Ignoring my less-­than-­urgent need to return to the washroom in favor of satisfying my curiosity, I tiptoed along the hallway, away from the stairway that led down to the basement.

I reached the end of the corridor where it joined the narthex. I knew from entering the church earlier that there was a staircase right around the corner, leading to the upper level. Pausing for a second, I listened for any further sounds, but all was quiet. Eerily so.

Goose bumps formed on my arms, and my heart thudded like a drum beaten on by an overzealous percussionist. I drew in a deep breath and moved around the corner.

I was met by a pair of feet. The feet were, unsurprisingly, attached to legs, and the legs were attached to a body. Jeremy Ralston's body, to be precise. He was sprawled on his stomach on the worn red carpet of the staircase, his feet near the bottom, his head higher up. He wasn't moving.

“Jeremy?”

He didn't so much as twitch when I said his name.

Gripping the railing for support, I took two tentative steps up the stairs. That was far enough to allow me to get a good look at his face.

Never the most attractive man to begin with, Jeremy now qualified as hideous. His face was splotchy, mottled with red, and his eyes were open a fraction of an inch.

I barely took the time to register the angry red marks on his throat before I hastily backed down the stairs.

Jeremy was dead.

Murdered.

 

Chapter 2

“H
ELP!”

I spun in a frantic circle, not sure which way to turn. I reached to the pocket of my pants for my cell phone, but I'd left it in my bag.

Find someone!

I was about to retreat to the washroom or, if that proved empty, to the basement, when a blond-­haired woman appeared at the top of the stairs, a pink cashmere cardigan buttoned haphazardly over her white blouse.

“Oh, dear!” She paused on the landing, five steps above Jeremy's head. “Has there been an accident?”

I swallowed, finding it hard to breathe evenly. “I'm pretty sure he's dead.”

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.