End Me a Tenor (28 page)

I glanced at the papers on the table and blinked. Staff paper. I unballed a sheet next to the DVD player. More staff paper. It was all staff paper. Some of the pages had lots of music notes written on the staves. Others had a couple notes with scratch-outs. Some even had Spanish lyrics and titles. While Spanish wasn’t my best language, I had ordered enough burritos and guacamole to recognize it.

Setting aside the music, I took a peek at the clock. I had three minutes before Harold came knocking. I needed to hurry. I dumped my balance ball and bag on the floor and made a beeline for the bedroom. The king-size bed looked like it hadn’t been straightened in days. Magdalena’s temper and paper problem no doubt encouraged housekeeping to keep its distance.

Near the window stood an electronic travel piano. Strewn across the floor between the bed and the piano was at least a week’s worth of pants, skirts, shirts, and lacy underwear. On the nightstand under a discarded hot pink bra was a hotel notepad filled with doodles and phone numbers.

I scribbled the phone numbers onto another piece of paper, shoved it into my jacket pocket, and checked the end-table drawers. A Bible and some chewing gum. Moving on.

Back in the living room, I looked around for anything that might tell me whether Magdalena was guilty of more than being a slob. There was a computer buried under a stack of papers on an armchair. No doubt something interesting was stored on the hard drive, but I didn’t have time to boot the sucker up, let alone dig through its contents. I was feeling stymied.

Wait.

A piece of paper on the table was a different color than the others. Only the corner was showing, but while the staff paper was a cream color, this paper was light blue. I pulled the blue paper out from the stack. It had handwriting on it. At the top of the list was the name David Richard—at least, I was pretty sure that’s what it said under the red-pen slash marks. The rest of the names, however, were still intact. Placido Domingo and Juan Diego Florez topped the list of names. Most I recognized as operatic tenors, including the newest edition to the
Messiah
cast, Andre Napoletano. Next to their names were the words “full voice” and a series of letters and numbers. F2-E5. C2-D5. Next to that was the word “falsetto” and more numbers and letters to indicate the person’s vocal range.

The door handle jangled. Yikes.

I slid the paper under a stack of others, grabbed my cell, and shoved the phone against my ear as Harold strolled in. I waved at him as I spoke to my phantom phone friend. “Yeah. I understand. Tell your mom I hope she feels better.” Pretending to hang up, I sighed. “My friend called. Ms. Tebar rescheduled today’s workout. I guess I won’t need to wait around for her after all. Which is good because Yoga requires focus. I don’t think I could focus in this mess.”

Back in my car, I pulled the phone numbers I’d scribbled out of my pocket and studied them. Two had New York area codes. The third was definitely overseas. Since my cell plan covered calls in the States, I decided to give the New York numbers a whirl.

A perky girl answered at the first number. “Columbia Artists Management. How may I direct your call?”

I disconnected and dialed the next number. “IMG Artists.”

Huh. I was guessing if I dialed the international number it, too, would be a high-ranking operatic talent agency. I was familiar with both companies I had just dialed. Their clients were a who’s who of the operatic stage. While I was grateful to have a manager, I knew his connections were limited. I hoped to land more influential representation in the future. With that in mind, every month or so I Googled my dream management companies and read about the amazing gigs they’d landed for their clients. Come to think of it, several names on Magdalena’s list of tenors were represented by these two agencies. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

I found our assistant stage manager’s number in my phone and dialed. Jenny’s quiet voice came on the line. “I have a strange question. Was Maestro Tebar involved in casting for the
Messiah
?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Bill said she only agreed to the contract after she heard David Richard had accepted the job. I guess Magdalena and David were involved in some kind of project together.”

“What kind of project?”

“I think it was some kind of recording project, but I’m not really sure. Bill knew more about it. Bill knew about everything.”

There was a catch in Jenny’s voice when she said Bill’s name. My heart went out to her. Jenny sounded sad and overwhelmed.

“Bill would have been really proud of the job you’re doing on this show.”

Jenny sniffled. “Things are so confusing. The police are going to be at tonight’s rehearsal, which upset Magdalena and her manager. I told them I’m doing my best to make it all work, but—”

“No buts,” I said, trying to sound upbeat. “Everything is going to turn out great. You’ll see.”

I hoped I was right. The poor girl sounded wrecked. Losing her mentor and having the organization of the show dumped on her shoulders had to be stressful.

The good news was, talking to Jenny had helped me put the pieces together—the list of tenors, the keyboard and sheet music, the angry cross-out of David’s name and the project they were working on, the mention of composition I’d seen on Magdalena’s website. Now I just had to confirm my suspicion.

Unfortunately, for that I needed to talk to the maestro herself, and she was occupied. I could try her manager again, but I wasn’t feeling confident in my ability to pull off another accent. There was one person, however, who might have his finger on the pulse of Magdalena’s aspirations. The downside being that he was also one of the most likely suspects to team up with another cast member to off David and Bill. Jonathan McMann was friendly and inspired trust. If I was going to pick someone to murder with, he’d be at the top of my list.

Jonathan answered on the first ring. “How was the concert?”

Okay, last week I would have thought Jonathan McMann having my number programmed into his phone was cool as hell. Today, it rated high on the creep meter. “I still have a job,” I answered honestly.

“That’s good.” He laughed. “Although after this weekend, you won’t need it anymore. You’ll be too busy singing around the world to coach show choir.”

I wondered why that thought didn’t make me do a happy dance. Probably because it was coming from a potential maniac. It was hard to take seriously compliments from possible killers no matter how sexy their phone voices. “I had a question about Magdalena Tebar and thought you might know the answer. Is Magdalena working on making a name for herself as a composer?”

Jonathan let out a sigh. “Why are you asking?”

“I saw something on her website that made me think she might be.”

“Magdalena hasn’t had her work publicly performed—yet. It’s not common knowledge, but she was hoping to make a big splash by having David Richard record one of her songs and put it on his new CD.”

“Let me guess, David said he would do it and then backed out of the deal.” I was getting to know the man pretty well. The broken deal between David and Magdalena explained the slap I’d witnessed. It also explained Magdalena’s fainting spell when David died. A dead David meant no chance of David releasing the song on his CD.

I did have one unanswered question. “If Magdalena didn’t want the recording to be public knowledge, how did you learn about it?”

Jonathan laughed. “David loved to brag. Everyone in the faculty lounge heard about his record deals, the roles he was offered, and his dates. He had no shame. He even bragged about the number of paternity suits naming him as a deadbeat father.”

“Is that why Mark Krauss petitioned to keep David from a full-time faculty job?”

There was a pause. When Jonathan spoke there was an edge to his voice. “Why don’t you ask Mark yourself? The two of us are meeting for lunch. We’d be happy to have you join us.”

Eek.

“That sounds like fun, but I have some last-minute Christmas shopping to do. See you tonight.”

I disconnected and put my car in gear. Jonathan had just let me know two things—that he and Mark were close enough to make lunch plans when school wasn’t in session and that Mark was having lunch out. The first put the two of them much higher on my suspect list. The second told me Mark wasn’t at home. While my discussion with LaVon had me thinking at least one of the murdering pair was female, her wishy-washy description left room for doubt. Maybe the knock on the head had totally taken away any sense I had because I was steering my car to Mark’s house in the hopes I could talk Penelope the dog into letting me take a peek inside.

There were lights on inside Mark’s house. Had Mark left them on or was someone else in there? I parked my car at the curb and contemplated the question. Today’s weather forecast had been for snow. So far none had fallen, but the sun had opted not to get out of bed. Due to the overcast sky, several houses on the block had their lights on. Maybe Mark had forgotten to turn the lights off on his way out the door. My brother used to do that all the time when we were growing up. The behavior was always rewarded with a lecture on responsibility. Something told me, if Mark caught me inside his house, responsibility was the last thing he’d want to discuss.

I jumped as my phone vibrated. I had a text message.
Forgot to mention earlier, Maestro Tebar would like everyone at the theater 45 minutes early. New call time: 5:45 p.m.—Jenny

The text reminded me that I should be home preparing for tonight’s final rehearsal. Instead I was contemplating breaking and entering. How stupid was that?

Staring at the house, I considered my options. I could be smart and drive away or I could march up to the door and hope for the best. The silver car was gone. That made me feel mostly confident the place was empty. Too bad mostly confident wasn’t good enough. The way my luck was going, mostly confident would get me killed.

Swallowing down a couple of ibuprofen, I put the car in gear and caught a glimpse of a woman inside Mark’s house walking past the picture window.

Mark’s wife. And since the car was gone, I could surmise she was inside alone.

Before I could second-guess myself, I pulled into the drive and hoofed it up to the front door. If Mrs. Mark could alibi her husband for last night, I could cross him off the list of suspects. A man curled up with his wife and dog couldn’t have chased me down a hall or bashed me over the head.

Penelope’s barking started the second my finger hit the doorbell. If I were a burglar, I wouldn’t think twice. I’d hear that sound, turn tail, and run. Thank goodness I knew the dog was more mischievous than maniacal, so I wasn’t worried about a canine attack when the door swung open.

An attractive woman with a cap of wavy red hair, a dusting of freckles on her cheeks, and a fabulous figure frowned at Penelope. Immediately, the dog stopped barking and plopped on its butt at her feet. “Can I help you?”