Dead Ringer (6 page)

 

Chapter 6

W
HEN
I
ENTERED
the church, I hesitated inside the doors. I didn't have any desire to pass by the scene of the crime again, but fortunately I didn't have to. Heading to my right, I followed the same narrow hallway that had led me to the last rehearsal. I passed by the washrooms and descended the creaky stairs to the basement auditorium. The chairs and music stands were set up on the stage, but there was no one in sight. That wasn't surprising, since I was at least half an hour earlier than usual.

I crossed in front of the stage and climbed the eight steps that led up to the wings. I heard the sound of voices, and when I reached the back room, I saw that I wasn't the first to arrive after all. Ray, an oboe player, and Clover, a bass player, were lounging in folding chairs, drinking pop from cans.

I said hello to them and set my instrument and bag down on a table, sniffing the air. I wasn't an expert by any means, but I thought I smelled a hint of marijuana. It wasn't the first time I'd smelled it at a rehearsal, and I never appreciated it. The distinctive skunklike aroma tended to give me a headache.

“Were you the one to find Jeremy's body?” The question came from Ray.

“Yes,” I confirmed, wondering how many ­people would ask me about that over the course of the evening.

Clover shuddered. “That's so awful. I didn't even want to come back here after what happened.”

“Freaky,” Ray said, nodding.

I decided I might as well start my inquiries right then, since they had provided me with an opening. “Do either of you have any idea who might have killed him?”

“No way,” Clover replied. “Not a clue. I mean, the guy could be a jerk, but he was nice sometimes too.”

He was? She must have known a side of Jeremy I wasn't familiar with.

Ray stared hard at the top of his pop can and then took a long drink.

“Ray?” I prompted, when it became clear he didn't intend to answer my question.

“Nah. I barely knew the guy.” The oboe player's eyes wandered the room, focusing on anything but me. “Did the cops search his place?”

His question threw me off for a second. “I don't know,” I said after a short pause, “but they probably did. Why do you want to know?”

He shrugged. “No reason.”

He was trying to act nonchalant, but his eyes were now shiftier than ever, and I thought I detected a few beads of perspiration on his forehead. I didn't know much about the pale, balding oboe player other than the fact that he'd been in the orchestra since before I'd joined. I couldn't recall ever seeing him with Jeremy, but the way he was acting now made me wonder if there was more of a connection between the two of them than he'd admitted to.

“Did either of you see Jeremy during the break in our last rehearsal?” I asked, focusing most of my attention on Ray, watching for his reaction to my question.

The perspiration at his hairline was more noticeable now, and he still wouldn't meet my eyes. “Nope. I went outside for a smoke.” He got to his feet, the can of pop in hand. “Which is where I'm going right now.”

He left the room without another word.

“He's an odd one,” Clover said when Ray was gone. “It's probably the drugs.”

“Drugs?”

“That guy smokes pot more than I drink coffee. And that's saying something.”

That explained the odor of marijuana I'd detected.

“And I don't remember seeing Jeremy during the break,” Clover added, her eyes not meeting mine. “The police asked us these questions on the night of the murder. How come you're asking them all over again?”

“I'm just trying to make sense of things in my head,” I said, in no way willing to reveal that I was actually trying to clear the name of our conductor. “I guess it's my way of dealing with what happened.”

Clover tucked her short dark hair behind her ear and dug through her messenger bag. A moment later she came up with a Snickers bar. “I hope the police catch the killer.”

I did too, but anxiety about a murderer being on the loose—­possibly even in our midst—­gave me even more incentive to do some investigating of my own.

Another bass player arrived and struck up a conversation with Clover, so I collected my wallet and cell phone and headed out of the room. As I stepped out the door, I nearly collided with Elena Vasilyeva, the PGP's concertmaster.

“Oops. Sorry,” I said as I stepped aside.

Elena looked down her nose at me. “You're the one who found the ringer's body.” Her accented words held a hint of distaste, as if I were somehow tainted by the unpleasant experience of finding Jeremy.

“Yes.”

She tossed her thick blond hair over her shoulder and placed her hands on her hips. “This is all so inconvenient.”

“Um . . . Jeremy dying was inconvenient?” I wasn't sure if that was what she meant.

She threw her hands up in the air. “All of it! The other evening was a complete circus, with the police running around. We lost an entire hour of rehearsal time.”

Was she seriously more concerned with the loss of rehearsal time than the loss of life? I'd always found Elena to be snooty, but that was downright cold.

“Somebody did die,” I reminded her. “I think that's a bit more important than an hour of rehearsal time.”

She glared at me. “Maybe for you. But I don't want to be embarrassed at the next concert when somebody messes up because they don't know their part.”

I knew she wasn't suggesting that she'd be the one to mess up.

“Besides,” she went on, “he was just a ringer.”

My jaw nearly dropped to the floor.

Elena didn't notice my reaction, however. With another toss of her perfect blond hair, she brushed past me into the backstage room.

It took me several seconds to recover from the shock of my encounter with her. Sure, she was the leader of the first violins and a brilliantly gifted musician, but her personality left something to be desired. I didn't know how she could be so insensitive.

I shook my head, deciding not to waste any more time thinking about her. There were more important things I could be doing. Leaving Elena and the bass players behind, I followed the hallway past the spot where Hans and I had shared our backstage kiss and went upstairs to the main floor. From there, I walked along another hallway to the narthex.

Across from double doors leading to the nave were the two staircases. They were separated by an alcove that housed a long wooden bench with a potted plant at each end. The far staircase was the one where I'd found Jeremy's body. The closer one was the route Cindy had taken to get back downstairs after calling the police.

I headed for the latter set of stairs, still wanting to avoid the scene of Jeremy's death. As I climbed upward, I realized that both stairways led to a shared landing. A single set of stairs then led from the middle of the landing up the rest of the way to the second story.

I paused at the midway point between the two floors. The common landing meant that the killer could easily have fled up one staircase and down the other in a matter of seconds. Even though I found Jeremy's body less than a minute after hearing the retreating footsteps, his murderer could have escaped more readily than I had previously realized.

I could have given up on my explorations right then and stuck to asking questions to gather information, but I was curious about what I would find upstairs. After all, I didn't know for sure that the killer had escaped down the opposite stairway. There was still a possibility that he or she had fled to the second story.

If there was another way to get down from the church's upper floor, I wanted to know. If someone had seen anyone leave through a window or down yet another staircase, maybe that would lead to the identification of a suspect. A suspect who wasn't Hans.

I crept quietly up the second flight of stairs, my footsteps muffled by the worn red carpet. At the top of the stairway a hallway stretched off to my left and right. A total of four doors opened off of it, two on each side. I turned first to my left, peeking through the doors, both of which stood open. The rooms appeared to be small classrooms or meeting rooms, filled with mismatched chairs and scuffed wooden tables. Aside from the furniture, both rooms were empty. There were windows, but none that provided a realistic means of escape, with no rooftop or handy tree in close proximity.

Retracing my steps, I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and glanced at the display. I still had plenty of time before I had to be back downstairs for the rehearsal. I figured I might as well do some more poking around.

I was about to investigate the remaining two rooms when a phone rang somewhere nearby. I froze. The ringing cut off and I heard a man's voice say, “Hello?”

Clearly, I wasn't alone on the second floor. The ringing and the voice had come from the right-­hand side of the hallway. Not wanting to get caught sticking my nose where it didn't belong, I decided to give up on my snooping and go back down to the auditorium. Until I heard the man's voice again.

“I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. How would anyone find out?”

During the pause that followed his question, I tiptoed a few steps closer to the open doorway. That turned out to be a good thing, as the next time he spoke he lowered his voice significantly.

“By check.”

I thought I recognized the voice as Reverend McAllister's. It wasn't surprising that he was present since we were in his church, but I was more than a little curious about his telephone conversation. I stood still and breathed as quietly as possible, listening for more.

“I didn't have any cash on me at the time and I didn't think . . . yes, yes, I know. But I'm sure no one will find out . . . I don't think she'll be a problem . . . yes, but . . .”

I shifted my weight and a floorboard creaked. I held my breath.

“I have to go,” the reverend said. “We'll talk later.”

I knew he was aware of my presence now, so I stepped forward into the open doorway, doing my best to keep my face neutral.

“Oh, hi, Reverend,” I said. “I was hoping to find you here.”

McAllister's face was flushed, and he cleared his throat as he stood up behind his cherrywood desk. “You're the young lady who discovered the, ah, unfortunate scene the other day.”

“Yes. That's why I'm here, actually.” I waited for a lightning bolt to strike me down for telling a lie in a church, but nothing happened.

“Please, come in.” The reverend gestured to one of two chairs placed in front of his desk.

I left the doorway and settled into the offered chair. It was lumpy and I detected what I thought was a broken spring digging into my backside, but I wasn't about to complain. I had more important things on my mind. “It's just . . . I've never seen anything like . . . well, like what I saw on the stairs and . . .” I sniffled and blinked my eyes, hoping the reverend wouldn't notice that they were completely dry.

“Of course, of course,” McAllister said in a soothing voice as he sat back down. “It was a terrible shock.”

“It was,” I agreed. “And it was all the worse because I knew him.”

“Ah, yes. You're in the orchestra.”

I nodded and added in some more rapid blinking. When I first stepped into Reverend McAllister's view, I'd simply tried to come up with a way to explain my presence. Now, however, I recognized an opportunity to find out more about the discussion Hans had observed between Jeremy and the reverend. McAllister's phone conversation had also made me curious about the man. What was it that he didn't want anyone to find out about? Maybe it had nothing whatsoever to do with Jeremy, but then again, what if it did?

McAllister sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Naturally, it's unsettling to see the results of such a violent act, to lose someone you knew in such a sudden and shocking manner. Have you prayed about it?”

“Er,” I said eloquently. I didn't think it would be right to tell him that praying wasn't really my thing.

“Give it a try,” the reverend suggested. “I think you'll find it a comfort to share your burden with the Lord.”

“Um. Okay.” I shifted in my seat in an attempt to escape the stabbing of the broken spring. It didn't work. “You knew Jeremy too, didn't you?” I asked, hoping to steer the conversation in a more illuminating direction.

McAllister was taken aback by my question. “No, no. I didn't know him,” he said, his cheeks flushing again.

“Oh.” I didn't have to feign my confusion, but I tried to make my next words sound innocent rather than accusatory. “But I thought you talked to him the day he died. At least, that's what I heard.”

The reverend cleared his throat. “Oh. Yes. That.” He fiddled with a stapler on his desk. “I wouldn't say that I knew him. He came to me for spiritual guidance, but we never had much of a chance to truly discuss things before he . . . well, before he passed.”

That explanation didn't sit right with me, but I didn't let on. “Spiritual guidance? Oh dear. Was he troubled?” I pretended to find the idea distressing.

“Ah . . .” McAllister hesitated. “I'm afraid I can't divulge the nature of our discussion in any more detail.”

“Of course not. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry into confidential matters.”

Reverend McAllister waved off my apology, his eyes going to the door behind me. “Estelle.”

I twisted in my seat—­a mistake, I realized, as the broken spring dug deeper into my derriere—­to get a look at the new arrival. The woman who stood in the doorway was probably close to fifty, her light brown hair cut in a sleek, chin-­length bob.

“My sister, Estelle,” Reverend McAllister said to me. “Estelle, this is . . .”

“Midori Bishop,” I supplied. I stood up, grateful to escape the bite of the rogue spring. “I'd better be on my way. Thank you, Reverend.”