End Me a Tenor (4 page)

Well, most of the team.

“For now, everyone learns everything.” When Chessie opened her mouth to complain, I added, “Solo or not, I would think you’d have the biggest motivation for learning the routine. Aspiring music theater majors are expected to learn and perform dance routines in under an hour at their college auditions.”

Chessie’s eyes narrowed, but she stepped back in line. I counted off the routine again, trying not to let my embarrassment show. Yes, I was purposely avoiding casting the solos so I didn’t have to deal with the fallout that would occur when Chessie didn’t receive one. The girl didn’t have the right sound for the song. It was as simple as that.

Sneezing, I glanced at the clock and hit stop on the CD player. While the choir could use more work, I had to get going or I’d be late for my next rehearsal. “That’s it for today. I expect everyone to come in tomorrow morning with the dance steps learned. Mr. O’Shea will be here for both rehearsals tomorrow to help demonstrate the two lifts we will be adding into the choreography. Get some rest, and I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

I popped a zinc cough drop into my mouth and watched as the kids slowly gathered up their stuff, shrugged on their coats, and strolled toward the door. I tried not to look anxious about heading to the exit myself. If I left in the next couple minutes, I’d still have time to hit the drive-thru and get dinner before my six o’clock rehearsal.

“Ms. Marshall.”

Crap.

“Yes, Chessie?”

“Can you give me any advice on what I should work on for my solo audition? My parents are hoping that I’ll get another solo, and I’d like to do everything I can to make that happen.” She gave me a sweet smile, but I could see the implied threat in the glimmer of her eyes. Chessie knew my job was at stake, and she was trying to leverage that into a second solo. I wanted to scream.

Instead, I gave a wide smile and said, “Make sure you keep your sound open and don’t push when you get to the high notes. We’ll have solo auditions on Wednesday morning. That gives you plenty of time to practice.”

I glanced at the clock and grabbed my bag, hoping to make my escape, but Chessie had several more questions. By the time I shook her loose and got to my car, snow was falling. Even without stopping for dinner, I’d need a miracle to make it to rehearsal on time.

I practiced my arias as traffic crawled while trying hard not to think about Chessie’s not-so-veiled threats. If I didn’t give her the solo, I could kiss my job good-bye. If I caved, I’d be compromising my musical integrity and the chances of the group winning the national competition in the spring. Well, at least my day couldn’t possibly get worse.

It took ten minutes to find street parking at the theater. The snow was falling harder as I slipped and slid down the sidewalk to the stage door.

The loud chatter of voices hit me the minute I stepped into the building. Today was a full run-through, which meant both the orchestra and the chorus were in attendance. The place was a madhouse. This version of the sing-along
Messiah
was getting media attention not only because of David Richard’s stunning tenor voice but also because the chorus was comprised of both professional and college singers. Richard was currently a visiting faculty member at Northwestern University and had hand-selected the students who were participating in this concert. From the articles I’d read, the selected students not only got to sing in the concert, but also received private coaching sessions with David. At their age, I would have killed to have both on my résumé.

I signed my initials next to my name on the cast list on the call-board and followed the posted instructions for soloists to wait in their dressing rooms until the orchestra and chorus had been seated and warmed up. Several string players, instruments in hand, were filing into the orchestra pit as I walked through the greenroom to the soloist dressing rooms on the other side. A gorgeous and somewhat familiar-looking redhead carrying a violin case almost smacked right into me, but I ignored both the woman and the dirty look she shot me as I stared at my name listed next to one of the dressing room doors. It didn’t matter how many shows I’d been in, seeing my name on a dressing room gave me chills. The fact that Vanessa Moulton was sitting in the dressing room, pushing buttons on her cell phone, didn’t alter my excitement in the least.

“You’re late.” She glanced up at me. “Half the chorus and orchestra are late. So much for this being a professional production. I’ve already talked to my manager about filing a complaint.”

Before I could say anything, a deep voice from behind said, “Give it a rest, Vanessa. Your manager can’t control the weather.” Our bass soloist, Jonathan McMann, smiled at me in the mirror. “Don’t mind Vanessa. She’s just testy because our star didn’t remember her.”

“He was simply distracted, that’s all.”

“Probably by his reflection in the mirror.” Jonathan laughed. “Hell, if I looked half as good as he does, I’d probably be enamored with myself, too.”

Vanessa gave Jonathan a weak smile. “You’ve always looked good to me.”

Me, too. While gray threaded through Jonathan’s close-cropped brown hair, the signs of age only served to set off the flecks of silver in his green eyes. With that and his six-foot-three height, Jonathan was still capturing romantic lead roles both in the smaller opera companies here in the city and no doubt in the dreams of many of the Northwestern female population he gave voice lessons to.

Hanging up my coat, I tried not to feel left out as Vanessa and Jonathan chatted like old friends. Since my water was only half full, I grabbed the bottle and my music and left the dressing room. I headed toward the water fountain at the other end of the greenroom—and ran smack into a snow-covered David Richard. Music and water bottles hit the deck. I would have, too, if not for a pair of strong arms catching me before gravity took effect.

My heart cringed. While I wanted to make an impression, this was so not it. I started to apologize, but was cut off as David hoisted me to my feet and yelled, “What the hell do you think you’re doing down here? All chorus members are supposed to be on stage. You don’t belong in this business if you can’t follow the simplest of instructions.”

I couldn’t decide whether I was embarrassed or angry that he assumed I was a member of the ensemble. Straightening my shoulders, I said, “I’m not a member of the chorus.”

The chiseled face that my aunt admired sneered. “Well, if you’re a fan looking for an autograph, you’re going to be disappointed. I’m here to perform, not be fawned over.”

Decision made. I was pissed. World-class singer or not, the man needed an attitude adjustment. “It’s a good thing fawning isn’t on my to-do list.” I held out my hand. “Paige Marshall—soprano soloist. I would say it is nice to meet you, but neither of us would believe it.”

I watched understanding bloom in David Richard’s deep blue eyes. He ran a hand through his wavy dark hair, flashed the same crooked smile that appeared on every one of his CDs, and took my hand in one of his perfectly tanned ones. “I apologize for my behavior. You are so much more attractive than your photograph. I didn’t recognize you.”

Sure. Photography, not ego, was the problem here.

While I didn’t buy his apology for a minute, I knew when to back off. “I appreciate the compliment.” I stooped down and picked up my binder and bottle of water, only to have the bottle snatched out of my hand.

“That one is mine.” David reached down and snagged a second bottle that had rolled under a folding chair. “This is yours.”

The brand, bottle size, and quantity of liquid inside were, to me, identical. I wasn’t sure how he could tell the difference. Before I had a chance to ask, our stage manager’s voice rang out from the monitors. Soloists needed to report to the stage in five minutes.

David gave me another cover-model smile. “I need to warm up before we take the stage.” With a wink, he disappeared into the dressing room next to mine.

I considered heading back to my own dressing room, but the warm chuckle I heard from Jonathan made me think I’d be interrupting. So I headed for the stairs. My stomach danced with nerves as I stood in the wings and waited for my fellow soloists to join me. Today was just a rehearsal. Soloists still had two more—one on Wednesday and another on Friday—before we would face the public and the critics. While mistakes didn’t technically matter today, they mattered to me. I needed to prove I belonged on this stage.

Vanessa strolled up next to me. “Nervous?”

Yes. “Should I be?”

She smiled. “If I were you, I’d be terrified. This place will be teeming with critics on Saturday. I’ve handled that kind of pressure before. Have you?”

Okay, if Vanessa was trying to freak me out, it was totally working. Desperate to change the subject, I asked, “Where’s Jonathan and David?”

“They’re having a rather loud discussion behind their dressing room door.”

“Why are they fighting?”

“David doesn’t need a reason to have a tantrum.” Vanessa laughed. “If you hadn’t already guessed, David is a lot like a toddler—both in angelic looks and irrational temperament. He also doesn’t play nice with others unless he expects something in return.”

“Soloists, please take the stage,” a voice crackled over the monitor, making my heart trip. Showtime.

Jonathan appeared and smoothly walked onto the stage. Vanessa went next. I brought up the rear and walked to my chair near Vanessa’s located downstage right. The chorus applauded. The redhead who had almost run into me started to tap her bow on the music stand in front of her. A moment later, the rest of the strings players followed her lead and tapped their bows as Maestro Tebar took her place behind the podium. As the redhead put her bow down and the others followed suit, I realized why she looked familiar. The red-haired woman was none other than Ruth Jordan, best known for her virtuosic violin playing and her equally impressive dislike of singers.

Maestro Tebar’s eyes narrowed the minute they settled on David Richard’s empty chair. Her hand tightened on her baton, but her voice was calm and professional as she said, “My name is Magdalena Tebar and it is my honor to work with all of you on one of my favorite pieces of music. With the talent assembled in this room, I’m certain this show will be talked about for years to come.”

She paused and the expectation for greatness hung in the silence.

“We will run the entire oratorio tonight. I will only stop if there is a major issue that needs to be addressed.”

Excited whispers made me turn my head in time to watch David Richard stroll across the stage, waving at the ensemble like he had just been crowned Miss America. When he reached his chair, he set his bottle of water next to it, opened his black music binder, and gave Magdalena a cocky grin. “Are we ready to begin?”

Magdalena’s hands shook slightly as she opened her conductor’s score, but they were steady when she raised her baton to signal the start of the overture. Personally, I was amazed at her restraint. The man deserved a baton upside the nose.

As the orchestra played the overture, I took several deep breaths and told myself to enjoy the music. There was a good thirty minutes of it before my first aria. Panicking now was pointless.

Magdalena smiled her approval as the overture came to an end, and then nodded to David. He stood and raised his black binder, and the music for his first solo began.

The man might be a jerk, but his voice was glorious. The high notes soared with hope tinged with sorrow. He navigated the passages of fast-running notes with effortless panache. The guy was a genius. And I was on stage with him.

When the final note shimmered across the hall, Magdalena waited a moment before giving the chorus its cue to rise. As the members began their number, I watched David take his seat. He looked relaxed as he listened to the ensemble sing their piece. When the song came to a close, David picked up his water bottle, uncapped it, and noticed me watching him. His smile was fast and playful, giving his classically sculpted face a boyish quality. Lifting the bottle in a silent toast, he leaned back in his chair and took a drink while Jonathan sang about the earth shaking.

And maybe the earth did shake because David’s water bottle hit the floor, and David’s body followed a moment later. David clutched his throat and began to convulse. Someone shrieked. The orchestra stopped playing as Magdalena yelled for the stage manager to call 911. Jonathan knelt next to David. He began CPR as I raced over, sank to my knees near to the puddle of water left by the dropped bottle, and took David’s hand. I wasn’t sure if I could help, but I wanted to try.

After a few minutes it was clear: No amount of medical assistance would be of use. World-renowned tenor David Richard was dead.