End Me a Tenor (8 page)

“Ms. Marshall, thanks for coming so quickly. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” Detective Frewen walked into the room and made a beeline for the coffeepot in the corner.

As he took the seat across from me, I scanned his jeans and brown sport coat for handcuffs. None that I could see. Considering that a good sign, I sat back and gave him my best “I’m innocent” smile as he said, “I just need to ask you a few more questions and have you sign a witness statement. It shouldn’t take long.”

True to his word, the questions were quick and mostly a replay of the night before. When he ran out of questions, he asked me to wait for the statement to be typed so I could sign it. No problem. I would also need to be fingerprinted before I left.

Problem.

“Fingerprinted?” I swallowed hard. Fingerprints were for suspects and bad guys. This wasn’t a good sign.

“For elimination purposes. We need to know which prints on the water bottle are yours. I hope you’re okay with that.”

As if I had a choice.

Of course, I might have put up more of a fight about the prints had the detective pointed out to me that the ink wasn’t going to come off my hands. After three rounds of scrubbing with hot water and antiseptic-smelling soap, my hands were red, tingly, and still tipped with black. Crap. I had show choir rehearsal in a matter of hours. The last thing I needed was Chessie reporting my blackened, guilty-looking fingertips to her influential parents. I’d lose my job for sure.

I was still feeling put out when Detective Frewen escorted me to the front door and thanked me for my time. My annoyance over the ink on my fingers was probably why, when he asked if I had any questions, I was brave enough to say, “Why didn’t David taste the poison in his water?” When the detective didn’t answer right away, I explained, “I was watching his face when he drank. He never tasted it. Why?”

Detective Frewen’s steel gray eyes met mine. “You’re Mike’s friend, right?”

The whole “friends” thing was debatable, though that probably wasn’t of interest to Detective Frewen. “We met a couple months ago.”

“Right.” His expression said he was aware of how Mike and I had met.

“I’m not looking to stick my nose into police business,” I assured him, just in case Mike told him otherwise. “I just . . . I watched David die. It would help if I could understand why it happened.”

The detective’s eyes softened. “The lab reports haven’t come back yet, but if you ask your fellow singers they’ll tell you that David Richard was known for adding two things to his water: zinc and a dash of vodka. That was probably the reason he was worried you had the right water bottle after your confrontation.”

Zinc was a favorite tool of performers to keep healthy and in good voice. I kept a stock of zinc lozenges in my bag. In fact, I’d been taking them since I started sneezing on Saturday. This meant I was familiar with the strong metallic, bitter flavor of zinc. One that would have no problem masking the taste of the poison. And if I were to place a bet, I’d say the killer was familiar with the taste of zinc, too.

I’d intended to avoid my well-meaning but overly protective aunt today. Instead, I found myself smiling as I spotted her signature pink Cadillac in the garage. If anyone could remove fingerprint ink before show choir rehearsal, it was Millie.

“Do you know how to get this stuff off my hands?” I asked as I spotted Millie stirring something on the stove.

“The police fingerprinted you?” The spoon Millie had been using dropped into the pot, spattering red liquid across the counter and onto her hot pink apron. “There’s no way you killed David Richard. This is police harassment. I’m going to make some calls. By the time I’m done, those cops will never eat donuts again.”

Before my aunt could dial the National Guard, I said, “I’m not a suspect. They needed my prints for elimination purposes. But now I can’t get the ink off my hands. Do you have anything that will help?”

Aunt Millie put her cell phone on the counter and walked over to look at my hands. When faced with a choice between righteous indignation and a skin-care emergency, my aunt picked skin care every single time.

It took almost two hours and a half-dozen phone consults with fellow Mary Kay associates before the ink was removed along with what had to be half of my skin. The air smelled of smoke from the pan my aunt forgot to move off the stove, and my fingers stung from the combination of lemon juice, nail polish remover, passion-fruit sugar scrub, and whatever other products my aunt employed. Ouch.

Aunt Millie handed me a bottle of moisturizing lotion. “I’m going to set up a meeting with research and development. We could make a killing with a skin-care line aimed at law enforcement.”

Leave it to my aunt to turn my personal crisis into a business opportunity. “Your company is lucky to have you.”

“The high school is lucky to have you.” Her eyes narrowed behind her pink-framed glasses. “I was going to make some phone calls this morning, but Aldo told me I should wait and talk to you first.”

When I next saw Aldo, I was going to kiss him atop his semi-bald head. “I appreciate the support, but phone calls aren’t going to help. The show choir will turn in a great performance on Thursday and the problem will be solved.” I hoped.

I tried not to squirm as Millie studied my face for hints of deception. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her because she picked up her cell phone and shoved it into her pocket. “Aldo and I have invited lots of friends to the concert on Thursday. If that school board steps out of line, they won’t know what hit them.”

Yikes. Time to change the subject. “Where is Aldo?”

“He’s playing piano for a charity luncheon at the country club.”

“Why didn’t you go with him?” The ladies who lunch bought makeup by the gross. It wasn’t like my aunt to miss an opportunity to rake in the orders.

Now it was Millie’s turn to look uncomfortable. “I don’t want to give Aldo the wrong idea about our relationship.”

“He’s living in your house.”

“That’s just geography. But I think he’s starting to believe we’re a couple. I can’t imagine what would have given him that idea.”

Holding hands. Making dinner together. Sharing a bed.

“I thought you liked Aldo.” I did. Who wouldn’t like a guy who played Mozart and whipped up a killer manicotti?

Millie blushed. “I do.”

“Then, what’s the problem?” From what I could see, having Aldo around not only made Millie happy, it saved her from buying new pots and pans every month. It was a win-win.

“You wouldn’t understand. Let’s just say that I’m a career woman. Aldo’s a traditional man. We’re both set in our ways and have standards for our lives that aren’t negotiable.”

The fact that Aldo was willing to live in a house inhabited by four lifeless dogs told me Aldo’s standards were totally negotiable. But what did I know.

Before I could say something in Aldo’s defense, Aunt Millie adjusted her glasses and grabbed her purse off the counter. “I have to do a consult before I pick Aldo up from the club. Remember, use that lotion at least once every hour and feed Killer before you go.”

Since nothing was too good for Millie’s baby, Killer’s dog food was made by a personal chef who also happened to be a Mary Kay client. The food was healthy, well-balanced, and smelled like musty fish. I dumped a bunch of it in Killer’s bowl and decided to get a snack of my own before I headed for rehearsal.

I froze as Killer sauntered into the kitchen, nails clicking. His eyes zeroed in on me, and his pompon tail stopped wagging. Then he walked straight to the refrigerator, stopped, and planted his butt on the floor with a short menacing woof.

My stomach growled. I had two choices. Show the dog who was boss or go hungry. I took a step toward the fridge and Killer’s lips curled back into a snarl, making me back up several steps. Killer knew how to be scary. When Millie was around, Killer tolerated me. When she wasn’t, his mission in life was to see me starve.

Well, two could play at that game.

Careful not to turn my back to Killer, I put the dog food bag back in the pantry and walked over to his doggie dish. “Do you want to eat?” I picked up the rhinestone-studded bowl.

Killer growled again, this time giving me a nice view of his professionally whitened teeth. Giving Killer a wide smile, I walked toward the garbage can in the corner of the room and put my foot on the pedal. The lid popped open.

“Do you want your food?” I dangled the bowl of food over the open trash can. Killer got to his feet. A high-pitched whine mixed with the throaty dog growl. “Millie won’t be back for hours. If I don’t eat, you don’t eat.”

Killer took a step forward and whined again. This time without the snarl. His big brown eyes stared at the bowl, and the whine dissolved into a whimper. Slowly he edged toward me, making pathetic doggie sounds. When he was about three feet away, his pompon tail drooped as he lowered himself to the floor. With another pitiful whine, he lowered his fluffy white head to the ground in between his paws and looked up at me.

“Okay, fine. You can have your food.” I stomped over to the mat embroidered with the fancy French version of his name and put the bowl down on the ground. “Are you happy now?”

Killer got to his feet, barked, and lunged toward my ankle. Yikes. I bolted for the door, trying not to feel embarrassed that a poodle had gotten the best of me.

By the time I pulled into the parking lot at the high school, I was feeling better, which no doubt had something to do with the extra-large order of fries I’d consumed. My phone rang as I cut the engine. It was probably Devlyn wondering where I was. Normally, I was at least ten minutes early. Today, I was going to be exactly on time.

Wiping salty, grease-coated fingers on my pants, I slid my phone out of my purse. I hit the on button as I climbed out of the car into the cold.

“Paige, it’s Bill Walters. I’m calling about tomorrow night’s rehearsal.”

“Did Maestro Tebar move the rehearsal time up?” I asked, hoping the answer was no. I’d thought I’d have time to work on the Mozart
Requiem
piece today. My unexpected trip to the police department meant that I needed all the time tomorrow I could get to practice.

“Maestro Tebar has asked that I send her apologies but she will be unable to attend tomorrow’s rehearsal. The associate conductor will be running rehearsal in her stead.”

“Why?” I stopped in my tracks, causing a couple of girls to scowl as they dodged around me. “Did something happen to Magdalena?” The idea that someone was bumping off
Messiah
staff made my mouth go dry.

I braced myself for the news that Magdalena was dead and instead heard, “Magdalena has been detained by the police. The producers are hoping this is just a minor setback that will be cleared up by Saturday. Otherwise . . .”

“Otherwise what?”

“They will have no choice but to cancel the show.”

The choir room was a madhouse. Music was blaring from the CD player, and a couple of kids practiced dance steps on one side of the room while others flirted, shared makeup techniques, or texted. A red-faced Larry stood in the middle of it all, waving his hands and yelling to get the kids’ attention. Unfortunately, whatever he was saying was lost in the wave of teenage chatter. While Larry was an excellent choral conductor, he had a lot to learn about vocal projection.

“Hey!” All eyes swung toward me. A moment later, the CD player was turned off and everyone was quiet. If nothing else, my opera training had taught me how to be loud. “Since you’re all so busy doing stuff other than practicing, I’m going to assume it means you’ve perfected the new number—lifts and all. So, let’s see it.”

The kids scrambled to get into position. I marched over to the CD player and queued up the music, trying not to think about Bill Walters’s news. If Magdalena had killed David Richard, she deserved to be arrested. Still, the prospect of losing both my day job and my potential career-breaking gig in the same week was enough to make me curl up into a ball and cry. But there was no way I was going to lose it in front of Chessie Bock.