End Me a Tenor (10 page)

Bill smiled. “Well, don’t take offense if Vanessa hates anything you get her. She’s only going to like you and your gifts if you can do something for her career.”

“Which means she’s never going to like me.”

“I think you’re sensational, and I overheard Magdalena telling David Richard that you have the spark. That’s something Vanessa would be jealous of, too. She’s a strong singer and a decent actress, but she doesn’t have that extra something. David Richard had it. So does Jonathan, only Jonathan would rather teach than travel. You have to be willing to travel to be an opera star.”

Which is why I kept my passport current. Too bad I hadn’t had reason to use it recently.

“Were David and Jonathan friends, then? I know they were both teaching at Northwestern this year.”

Bill laughed. “Jonathan knew how to play the game. He acted friendly with David in public, but I’ve worked a couple shows with the two of them. They weren’t friends. Jonathan’s one of the nicest singers in the business, but David had a history of pushing Jonathan’s buttons. I hated the idea of putting them in the same dressing room for this, but I didn’t have a choice.” He looked back into his coffee cup. “Now I guess I don’t have to worry about it.”

History? What history? Before I could ask, Bill’s phone rang. Apologizing, he got up in search of a quieter spot, leaving me wondering if the police knew about Jonathan and David’s past. That the kind and debonair Jonathan could have had anything to do with David Richard’s death was hard to believe. Still, I’d learned firsthand that while psychopaths in movies looked the part, real-life killers could appear completely normal.

I drained the rest of my coffee and waited for Bill to return. When he did, his face was pale and his eyes a little wild.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

Bill might work with actors, but the look in his eyes said none of the performers’ training had rubbed off. “Everything’s fine. Just a few details that need ironing out,” he stammered, shrugging into his coat. “Let me know if you need anything before tomorrow night’s rehearsal. Okay?”

Without giving me a chance to answer, Bill hurried to the door and disappeared into the cold. Grabbing a latte for the road, I headed back to Millie’s with the radio tuned into the local news channel in case the police had made an arrest in the case. By the time I arrived home, I’d learned someone had stolen Baby Jesus from the Old St. Patrick’s nativity and replaced it with Yoda. No arrests in either that bit of strangeness or my
Messiah
case.

My fingers were raw and tingly from the cold when I peeled off my gloves and walked into the kitchen. Since Killer was nowhere in sight, I made a beeline for the refrigerator, grabbed a diet soda, and contemplated a snack.

“You forgot your moisturizer.” Millie’s voice made me jump, sending my can of soda crashing to the ground.

I picked up the dented can and looked over at my aunt. She was standing in the kitchen doorway in a sexy pink satin robe and fuzzy pink slippers. From the careful application of her makeup and the wafting scent of floral perfume, I guessed sleep wasn’t my aunt’s next activity of choice.

She grabbed the soda and put it on the counter. Taking my hands in hers, Millie examined my fingers and gave a sigh of dismay. “Regular moisturizer isn’t going to do the trick. You’re going to need something stronger. Come with me. I have extra-emollient cream in my office. That should do it.”

I followed Millie down the hall into the cosmetics command center. The room was painted a pale pink. Aside from that splash of color and the taxidermied border collie standing guard at the door, the room could have belonged to any Fortune 500 CEO. Framed college degrees hung on the wall along with photographic evidence of the sports figures and television journalists who made up Millie’s clientele. In the center of the room was a massive mahogany desk equipped with a high-powered laptop, an array of computer accessories, and a phone system that NASA employees would have a hard time using.

Millie went to the back of the office and plucked a small pink tube off one of the meticulously organized shelves. “Here. Try this.”

My aunt’s tone said it would be best not to argue. I unscrewed the top, slathered a bunch of cream on my fingers, and felt immediate relief. When it came to skin creams and cosmetics, my aunt was always right. Which made me wonder. “Do you know of an allergy that makes a person sensitive to hand lotions and red meat?” Since the question sounded strange even to me, I added, “One of the suspects in David Richard’s murder is allergic to both those things.”

The minute I mentioned the murder, Aunt Millie’s eyes narrowed. “Hand-cream ingredients can trigger all sorts of allergies. Do you know if the lotion had a fragrance or doubled as a sunscreen?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

My aunt fired up the computer, rolled up her sleeves, and started to search through her database of cosmetics. As the minutes ticked by, I began to fidget. Finally, I said, “You don’t have to spend time on this now. I don’t want to interrupt your plans.”

“Plans?” My aunt gave me a quizzical look. “What plans?” The tiny red flush blooming under the perfectly applied base makeup belied her innocent tone.

Now I had a decision to make. I had to feign ignorance of my aunt’s sex life or meet it head on. When I was growing up, my parents taught me to steer clear of uncomfortable conversations. They believed in avoiding unpleasantness at all costs, which is probably why they didn’t call or visit. My parents loved me, they just didn’t understand my life choices. While they wanted me to be happy, they would rather that happiness occur on the farm down the road doing something they understood. Growing corn and milking cows made sense. Singing and dancing on stage? Not so much. Even if the
Messiah
went on as planned, the tickets I’d set aside for my folks would most likely never be used. Millie, on the other hand, would be front and center. She believed in facing life head-on.

Which is why I asked, “Isn’t Aldo waiting for you upstairs?”

Millie looked back at the computer screen and began typing away. “He’s finishing up a facial treatment. The face mask he tested last night gave his skin a slightly cerulean undertone. I’m hoping the new treatment will help bolster his mood.”

“If not, the lacy number you have on under the robe should do it.”

My aunt blushed, but flashed a wide grin. “That was kind of the idea. Wait. I think I have a couple possible answers for you. According to the cosmetics forum, the most common hand-cream allergies related to food are triggered by milk and soy products. But your suspect could also be allergic to zinc oxide and certain oils.” My aunt kept talking, but the mention of zinc oxide had my Spidey senses tingling.

I was so distracted, I barely noticed Aldo when he bopped through the door wearing a black silk robe and what might have been a come hither smile. His blue-tinged face made it hard to tell.

Excusing myself, I raced upstairs, fired up my laptop, and looked up zinc oxide. Zinc oxide was an ingredient in a number of sunblock skin creams. All of which said they shouldn’t be used by people with allergies to zinc. A person highly allergic to zinc could break out in a rash or hives if her skin came in direct contact. A few more keystrokes told me people with zinc allergies often avoid red meats.

Bull’s-eye.

If Magdalena was allergic to zinc, and my nonexistent investigator instincts were telling me she was, why would she risk handling a water bottle that was full of the stuff? Risking a rash didn’t seem like the best plan for getting away with a crime. Magdalena had been wearing short sleeves the night David died. Gloves would have protected her hands, but not the rest of her arms. An allergic reaction would not have gone unnoticed.

My gut told me this was important. While the cops might not say an allergy to the murder weapon was definitive proof of innocence, I was pretty sure it would at least cast some doubt on her guilt. Doubt would keep her out of jail, and behind the podium for the concert.

Of course, this all hinged on Magdalena actually being allergic to zinc. There was only one way to find out. I glanced at the clock. It was just after ten. Betting Bill was still awake, I dialed his number. When he answered, I asked, “Is Magdalena Tebar allergic to zinc?”

The stunned silence spoke volumes. Score one for me.

“Has she mentioned her allergy to the police?”

“No.” The word was barely a whisper. “And the nondisclosure agreement I signed won’t let me tell them.”

“Well, I could—”

“You can’t say anything.” Bill sounded panicked. “Magdalena will sue me, and I promise she’ll find a way to end your career before it begins.”

Yikes. My stomach went squishy at the idea of Magdalena Tebar using her influence to blackball me. Still. “Doesn’t she know her zinc allergy makes it less likely the police will look at her as a suspect?”

“She says she has her reasons for keeping her medical condition quiet.” A voice murmured in the background. Bill whispered something I couldn’t quite make out back before saying to me, “Look, Paige, I have to get going. Magdalena wants to handle this her way. I’d strongly suggest that you let her.” And with that, Bill was gone.

Between the worry that Magdalena would be falsely arrested and the knowledge that Millie and Aldo were doing “skin care treatments” down the hall, I had trouble sleeping. So it wasn’t a surprise it took several growls and a loud bark from Killer to rouse me out of bed. I was thankful that by the time I got to school for rehearsal, the two cups of coffee I’d chugged had kicked in and I was ready to sing and dance.

The minute I spotted Chessie waiting at the choir room door, I felt my caffeinated energy sag. With my attention focused on David Richard’s murder, I’d forgotten about casting the solos. The gleam in Chessie’s eyes and the fact she was fifteen minutes early for our 6:15
A.M.
rehearsal told me she had not.

My stomach knotted as I unlocked the door and flipped the light switch. While I hadn’t given this decision much thought since yesterday, I knew what I was going to do. If a choice had to be made between doing what was best for me or best for the choir, it was my job to choose the choir. Pulling off my jacket, I turned to Chessie and said, “I’m sorry, but you’re not going to be assigned one of the new solos. I’m giving the female feature to Megan.”

Chessie dumped her bag on the floor and planted her hands on her hips. “If there is something I should have done differently—”

“There isn’t.” I took a deep breath. “You’re a strong singer even when you dance. Right now, the group is struggling to project sound while doing the choreography. If I take you out of the ensemble, the whole thing will fall apart.” Was that the whole truth? No, but it was part of it. Besides, complimenting Chessie was always the best way to get her to cooperate.

Chessie’s eyes narrowed. “You know my father is on the school board, right?”

So much for cooperation.

The implied threat of her father’s position hung in the air. I could see Chessie waiting for me to back down. Yeah, right. “If your father wants to talk to me about why you have only one solo in the concert, I’ll be happy to explain my reasoning to him. Feel free to tell him that.”

Ignoring the angry stare, I began setting up for rehearsal. By the time the room was rearranged, the rest of the choir had arrived. They were bleary-eyed but ready to work.

Instead of practicing on the new song, I ran them through the older numbers, hoping familiar songs would build their confidence. In doing so, it also built mine. While watching the kids twist and twirl and sound fabulous through the numbers, I felt a kick of pleasure. While I was often proud of my own performances, this was different. These kids were good when we started. They were better now. Whether I’d wanted this job or not, I’d made a difference. That meant something.

“Okay. Time for the new number. We’re going to run through it first, then make adjustments for the soloists as needed. Remember—your singing matters just as much as the dancing. I want to be impressed by your volume and your feet.”

The dancing was better than yesterday. The opening was solid. The first lift went off without a hitch. Then things started to fall apart. Two of the girls zigged when they should have zagged, and one of the guys tripped trying to avoid bumping into them and took two other singers down in the process.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

“Okay, let’s try it again.”

I made them dance through the number again. And again. By the time I worked with my two soloists, Megan and Trevor, and added them into the mix, Devlyn and Larry had arrived. Devlyn and I worked through the glitches while Larry did his best not to get in the way. The choir ran the entire song again, and the number looked good. Maybe better than good. Despite Chessie’s angry scowl, by the time the first bell rang I was optimistic at my group’s chances of impressing tomorrow night’s crowd.