End Me a Tenor (22 page)

“If you came here to warn me off Jonathan, you can save your breath.” Vanessa dropped onto the couch and plucked a glass from the white wicker coffee table. “Jonathan already read me the riot act.”

The slight slur in her voice suggested the glass of amber liquid wasn’t the first she’d consumed today. Maybe alcohol was the reason I hadn’t the faintest clue what she was talking about.

I perched on the arm of the love seat. “Why did Jonathan read you the riot act?”

Vanessa smiled. The smile wasn’t friendly; it was one characters use in horror movies before they pull out a knife and start hacking away. “You don’t have to pretend with me.” Her eyes narrowed. “We both know Jonathan has a thing for you.”

Thing? What thing?

“I met Jonathan four days ago.” Or maybe it was five. Who was counting?

Vanessa laughed. “What does that have to do with anything?” Before I could answer, she added, “Look, I don’t blame you for using Jonathan to climb the ladder. I’d think less of you if you didn’t. Talent only gets you so far in this business. Having someone willing to go to bat for you is more important, and Jonathan’s a great choice. He’s not big-time. At least, not anymore, but he knows the right people. Once he’s invested, he’ll go the extra mile to help give you a boost. He’s different than most of the men I’ve been involved with.”

I was torn between being offended, flattered, and fascinated. Since the booze was making Vanessa friendlier than normal, I opted to focus on fascinated. It would yield the most information.

“Was David Richard one of the less trustworthy types you were involved with?”

“You bet your ass he was.” Vanessa drained her glass and looked into it as though waiting for more alcohol to magically appear. “He told me we’d set the opera world on fire. But when I asked him to introduce me to his manager or to some of the directors who came to see the show, he had excuse after excuse as to why it wasn’t the right time.”

“That must have been upsetting.”

“I knew sleeping with David was a risk. Up until then, I’d only dated men a few professional rungs above me. David was on his way to being a world-renowned star and an even bigger horse’s backside. I was determined to go along for the ride whether I liked him or not. I never thought I’d fall in love with the jerk. But I did, and when the show was over and he left without a backward glance, I told myself I’d get over him.” Vanessa sighed. “I was wrong.”

A single tear streaked down Vanessa’s cheek. My heart squeezed in sympathy, and I released my grip on Millie’s gun. Vanessa might not be my favorite person, but I felt sorry for her. Was there anything worse than pining away after a man you knew wasn’t worth it? Suddenly, I felt bad for every negative thing I’d thought about Vanessa. Who knew, maybe after this conversation we’d end up good friends.

“Did you contact David and tell him how you felt?”

“Are you stupid?”

Okay—the good friends thing was totally out.

“If you loved him,” I explained, “I would have thought you’d try to contact him. Maybe he was bad at expressing himself.” He’d had no trouble expressing his dislike of me when I bumped into him or turning on the charm when he realized who I was, but people can change. Right?

Vanessa snickered. “David wasn’t the falling-in-love type. Unfortunately, I am. And I was stupid enough to think being cast in this show was a sign we belonged together. Of course, that was before I actually talked to him.” Her lip curled, and her hand turned white as it clenched the empty glass. “I guess I should be glad someone killed him.”

“Why?”

Her smile was chilling. “Otherwise I would have had to kill him myself.”

By the time I was back in my car, I knew three things: Vanessa and I were never going to like each other, she snored when she passed out, and, unless my instincts were totally off, she wasn’t the murderer.

Did I think she had the killer instinct? You’d better believe it. The woman was scary. But my gut told me Vanessa was the type who’d want credit for her crime. The cast-aside former lover of David Richard exacting revenge would get tons of media attention. A good lawyer could argue mental distress. Vanessa could score a reduced sentence and a record contract all at the same time. Sure, she might have to wear orange jumpsuits and special bracelets for her appearances, but to someone like Vanessa fame was worth the trade-off.

Cranking the heat in my car, I tried to come up with a good excuse for dropping by Mark Krauss’s Andersonville home. Unfortunately, by the time I turned down the bungalow-lined street, only lame excuses had come to mind. I was going to have to improvise.

While I cruised down the street looking for the house number, I spotted a familiar, sandy-haired man skidding on the icy sidewalks in an attempt to keep up with a very large, very energetic Great Dane. Eureka!

I rolled down the window and yelled, “Mark!”

His head snapped around as he looked for the sound. I waved. Oops. The minute Mark’s attention focused on me, the dog bolted. The leash flew out of Mark’s hand as the dog bounded down the sidewalk. About a hundred feet away, the dog stopped, turned around, and howled.

After pulling over, I killed the engine, climbed out of my car, and gave chase. The dog took one look at my pursuit, let out a loud bark, and bounded into the snow as though daring me to follow. Lovely. I was shown up by Killer on a daily basis. There was no way I was going to let this dog get the best of me as well.

Snow crunched under my feet as I approached the dog. When I got within five feet, the horse-size canine bounded into the next yard, plopped his butt into the snow, and gave me what looked to be a doggie grin. The handle of the red leash sat in front of him as though daring me to take it.

I took several slow steps toward the dog and made a leap for the leash. My fingertips brushed against the handle as the Great Dane dashed to the left. He looked at me and let out a happy bark before dashing into the next yard.

Great. The dog was laughing at me.

I was contemplating a new strategy when a loud whistle pierced the air. The dog stopped, turned, and bounded to the sidewalk, where Mark stood in his camel-colored trench with a Milk Bone in his hand. The Great Dane picked up the handle of the leash with his teeth and dropped it into Mark’s waiting hand. Mark then presented the dog with his treat.

“Neat trick,” I yelled, brushing snow off my pants.

Mark grinned. “I would have called Penelope sooner, but you looked like you were having fun.”

Mark and I had wildly different definitions of the word “fun.”

Walking through the snow toward the sidewalk, I scanned the area. Several children were building a snow fort across the street. A woman was watching the kids’ progress from a picture window. Knowing there were people around made me feel safe enough to chat without clutching Millie’s gun. I feigned receiving a text message and turned the recorder app for my phone on as Mark said, “I didn’t know you lived around here.”

“I don’t. I was visiting a friend a couple blocks away and got turned around heading home.” And my music professors said I’d never use my theater improv classes in the real world. Ha!

“Who’s your friend? I might know her.”

Uh . . . “Sara Smith.” Okay—maybe I needed to take another class. Time to change the subject. “I’m sorry I interrupted your walk.”

“Penelope likes to play.” At the sound of her name, Penelope wormed her head under my hand. Mark grinned. But the smile disappeared as his eyes met mine. “How are you doing? Jonathan was worried you might be overwhelmed due to the show and . . . everything.”

If “everything” meant two murders and a killer coming after me—yeah, overwhelmed was the right word. “I didn’t know you and Jonathan were friends.”

“We’re both on the faculty at Northwestern. Jonathan teaches voice lessons. I do conducting and am in charge of the choral program. Our assistant stage manager, Jenny, and a bunch of the Northwestern kids in the chorus are my students.”

“Oh.” I bit my lip and feigned surprised dismay. “David Richard taught at Northwestern. Were you friends with him, too?”

Penelope got tired of my petting and walked over to sniff at Mark’s pocket. Probably looking for more treats. Mark didn’t look like he was in the mood to accommodate. In fact, from the way his lip curled, I’d say Mark was pissed.

“David Richard didn’t have friends,” Mark said. “He had conquests and enemies.”

“Which one were you?”

“The man made a pass at my wife. Which do you think?”

Definitely an enemy. “Sorry, I didn’t know. I guess you’re not all that sorry someone killed him.”

“I hate knowing people in the cast will be forever haunted by seeing him die, but, no. I’m not sorry. Whoever poisoned David Richard did the world a favor. David won’t have the opportunity to ruin any more lives.”

Yikes. The tone of his voice made me cold in a way subzero temperatures couldn’t. Swallowing hard, I asked, “And Bill Walters?”

Mark unclenched his hands. “Bill had a weakness for trusting the wrong people. It’s too bad. Bill was a nice guy.”

Penelope got bored looking for a handout and tugged on the leash. Mark gave her an absentminded pat on the head. “Penelope is ready to go back. Do you need directions to get home?”

I shook my head.

Mark gave me a tense smile. “Then drive safe. I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow night.”

Mark trudged down the sidewalk with Penelope prancing in front of him. I hit stop on my phone’s recording app and then hurried to my car and cranked the heat. While I waited for my nose to thaw, I watched Mark and Penelope disappear inside a house at the end of the block. Suddenly it struck me that I knew where I’d seen him in that coat before. He’d been wearing that same camel trench last night when he escorted Ruth Jordan into the bar. Weird. I guess her attitude toward singers didn’t extend toward Mark.

The sky was losing light. The clock said I had less than two hours before I had to be at Prospect Glen High School. Since I was pretty sure Magdalena wasn’t the culprit, I only needed a recording of Jonathan’s voice for my audio lineup. If I was going to return in time, I had to get moving.

As I cruised down the street, I glanced at Mark’s house and jammed on the brakes. Parked next to the redbrick house trimmed with colorful holiday lights was a car. Not just any car—a silver car. And it looked exactly like the one that ran me off the road last night.

I sucked in air and stared at the silver Malibu in Mark’s driveway. My mouth went dry. The light had been too dim for me to see the make of the car yesterday, but the one in front of me was the right color and size. No snow was covering the license plate, making it easy to make out the lettering—CSHRP5. No doubt a musical reference to C-sharp. Knowing tenors, I would guess it was also the highest note Mark could sing.

I found scratch paper in the glove compartment and scribbled down the license plate number—just in case. In case of what? I had no idea, but it gave me something to do besides hyperventilate.