Dead Ringer (5 page)

After Hans had rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, he held up what remained of the bottle of wine. “Another drink?”

“No, thanks. I'm fine.” I'd already had two glasses and wanted to keep my mind clear.

“How about we go into the living room?” Hans suggested. “I'll turn on the fireplace.”

He took my hand and I let him lead me down the hallway to the front of the house. He switched on the gas fireplace and turned back to me, taking both of my hands in his.

“Thank you for coming tonight.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” I said. “It's been nice.”

“I think we should do this again sometime.”

I smiled. “Me too.”

He leaned in to kiss me. His arms went around me and my right hand slid up his neck to the back of his head, my fingers raking through his thick blond hair. I was so caught up in our kiss, so focused only on the two of us, that I nearly jumped higher than a kangaroo when someone pounded on the front door.

Hans and I broke apart.

“Hold that thought,” he said, moving away from me with reluctance.

I followed him to the edge of the living room but hung back out of sight as he opened the door, just in case it was someone who knew both of us.

It turned out that it was someone who knew both of us, but not in the way that had crossed my mind.

“Evening, Mr. Clausen,” Detective Bachman greeted Hans tersely.

“Detectives,” Hans returned. “What brings you here at this hour?”

I stepped into sight. Detective Salnikova was on the doorstep along with Bachman and they both looked past Hans to me when I appeared.

Bachman nodded in my direction. “Ms. Bishop.”

If he was surprised to find me there, he didn't show it. Neither did Salnikova.

“We'd like to ask you some more questions about the circumstances surrounding Mr. Ralston's death,” Bachman said, turning his attention back to Hans.

“I've already told you everything I know.” Hans sounded puzzled and slightly annoyed.

“We'd still like to ask you some questions.” Detective Bachman wasn't about to back down.

Hans sighed but stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

The detectives didn't budge. “We'd like you to come to the station with us.”

I gripped the edge of the living room doorway. “Why?” I asked. “Why can't you talk to him here?” There was an edge of panic to my voice.

Detective Bachman ignored me. “Mr. Clausen?”

A second or two ticked by before Hans responded. “I'll get my coat.”

As he opened the hall closet, I went to his side, putting a hand on his arm. “Hans, why are they doing this?”

“I don't know.” He took his leather jacket off its hanger and paused, meeting my eyes. “Everything will be fine, Midori. I'm sorry this has spoiled our evening. Should I call you a cab?”

“That's okay. I'll do it.” I removed my hand from his arm and grabbed my clutch from the hall table while he shrugged into his jacket.

After Hans switched off the gas fireplace, we stepped out onto the front porch. I waited while he locked the front door. The detectives stood on the sidewalk, the yellow light from a nearby streetlight giving their faces a pasty, sickly appearance. My stomach clenched at the thought of them spiriting Hans away for what didn't seem like a friendly visit.

Slipping his keys into his pocket, Hans kissed me on the cheek. “I'll talk to you tomorrow. Don't worry. I'll be fine.”

He descended the stairs and joined the detectives on the sidewalk, leaving me there on the porch. As the detectives' car set off down the street, all I could do was watch and wonder if Hans really would be fine. The police had taken him in for questioning, and despite what he'd told me, I had a feeling that he knew why.

 

Chapter 5

I
DIDN'T SLEEP
much that night. I kept tossing and turning, unable to stop worrying about Hans and thinking about Jeremy's murder. What interest could the police possibly have in Hans? He'd explained about the argument I'd overheard, so what else could the police want to know? I regretted ever telling the police about the argument. Then again, I couldn't have held information like that back. I never really thought it would get Hans in trouble, because I was so convinced of his innocence. But were the police?

Maybe Hans wasn't a suspect. Maybe the police simply thought he had some valuable information that hadn't even occurred to him earlier. I didn't quite buy that explanation, though. The detectives' demeanor had suggested that Hans was indeed a suspect, which was ridiculous.

Or was it?

I pushed that flicker of doubt aside, but it continued to tickle at my mind, working its way back into my thoughts slowly but surely. How much did I really know about Hans? He'd only started conducting the Point Grey Philharmonic three months ago, and last night was the first time we'd spent any real time alone together. What if he did have a reason to kill Jeremy?

Turning over and tugging at my blankets, I told myself that I was crazy to doubt Hans even for a second. He wasn't a murderer. He couldn't be.

Maybe everything would make more sense in the morning. I'd get in touch with Hans and he'd tell me that everything was fine, that the police had no more interest in him. At least, I hoped that was the way it would play out.

Holding onto that hope, I finally managed to drift off into a fitful sleep in the early hours of the morning. But even what sleep I did manage to get was troubled by restless, disturbing dreams, filled with shadowy dangers and a sense of being hunted. When I woke just after six-­thirty, I didn't bother trying to get back to sleep. Throwing aside my blankets, I headed straight for the shower, hoping that the soothing, hot water would help to clear and calm my mind.

It didn't.

After dressing and eating a banana, I sent a text message to Hans.

Are you ok? How did things go?

I stared at my phone, hoping for an immediate reply. None came.

On edge, I worked away at cleaning my kitchen, putting away the dishes I'd left in the drying rack and washing the countertops.

Hans still hadn't replied.

I moved on to the bathroom, scrubbing all the surfaces until they shined.

Still no reply.

I couldn't stand it any longer. I was anxious and wound up, my nerves taut and strained like the hairs of a violin bow tightened too far. When I took a second to really think, I realized that the whole thing with Hans wasn't all that bothered me. I didn't like how I'd left things with JT. I didn't want to hear any more of his opinions about my relationship with Hans, but I also didn't want anything putting a strain on our friendship. It was far too important to me.

I picked up my phone—­still without any messages from Hans—­and sent a quick text to JT.

Sorry about yesterday. Can I come over?

This time I didn't have to wait long for a response. JT texted me back less than a minute later.

I'm sorry too. Come on over.

I smiled with relief, some of the tension easing out of my body. I gathered up everything I would need for the day, including my violin, and set off for JT's place. A quarter of an hour later, I arrived at his house and entered through the front door. This time, JT and Finnegan met me in the front hall.

After my customary hug fest with Finnegan, I stood up, leaving my violin case on the floor by my feet. JT gave me a lopsided grin that warmed my heart and eased away even more of my tension.

“Why don't we forget about yesterday?” he said.

I smiled back at him, feeling the best I had since the police had shown up on Hans's doorstep. “Sounds good to me.”

He nodded toward the back door. “It's nice and sunny out. Finn and I were thinking of hanging out in the backyard for a while.”

I looked at Finnegan and he wagged his fluffy tail, giving me his biggest doggie grin. I patted him on the head and picked up my violin. “I'll join you guys in a second.”

I went into my studio and dropped off my shoulder bag and instrument. I checked my phone before slipping it into the pocket of my jeans. I hadn't received any messages. I tried not to let my anxiety make a comeback, but worry gnawed at one corner of my mind.

After stopping in the kitchen to make myself a vanilla latte, I joined JT and Finnegan out in the grassy yard. While Finn chewed on a rubber squirrel, I sat down next to JT in a blue Adirondack chair that matched his own.

“What do you have lined up for today?” I asked, blowing on my latte to cool it.

“I've got a new indie duo coming over later to work on their first album. Twin sisters.”

I grinned at him over my latte. “Cute?”

“Sure,” he said with a wry grin. “But they're also nineteen. That's a little young for me.”

His words immediately brought to mind his comments about the age difference between me and Hans. I frowned, and when JT caught my expression, he seemed to realize the connection I'd made.

“I'm sorry, Dor,” he said quickly. “I didn't mean anything by that.”

“I know you didn't.” I turned my face up to the sun and sighed as the warmth seeped into my skin. “To be honest, I'd probably be a bit creeped out if you started dating a teenager. I do think that age differences become less significant the older we get, but . . . I guess I can see where you were coming from yesterday.”

“And I can see where you were coming from,” JT said. “You can make your own decisions and don't need me interfering.”

I smiled, but my heart wasn't in it. My thoughts were with Hans again. I took another sip of my latte and tugged on my left ear.

“What's wrong?” JT asked.

“Wrong?” I echoed, distracted.

“You've got something on your mind.” He gave his own earlobe a tug. “I can tell.”

“Oh.” I dropped my hand. I'd always had a habit of pulling on my ear when troubled or deep in thought. My grandpa had often joked that my earlobe would end up down by my knees if I didn't stop. I'd never managed to break the habit, but despite my grandpa's warnings, my left earlobe was still the same size as my right one. “It's Hans,” I said after a moment. “The police took him in for questioning last night and I haven't heard from him since.”

“Questioning? You mean he's a suspect?”

“I don't know. I hope not, but . . . I'm worried.”

“Dori, if he's the murderer—­”

“He's not!” I exclaimed, cutting him off.

“How do you know?”

I opened my mouth to reply but realized I didn't have a good answer. “He can't be,” I said weakly.

JT let out a frustrated breath, no longer his usual laid-­back self. “Dori, please tell me you won't spend any time alone with this guy until the police get everything sorted out.”

A thought struck me. “I bet there are witnesses who can vouch for his whereabouts at the time of the murder.” I brightened. “As soon as the police find that out, Hans won't be a suspect anymore. If he even is at the moment.”

“Dori!” JT's voice broke through my spoken thoughts.

I blinked at him, not used to seeing his face so serious.

“Promise me,” he said, his brown eyes burning into me in a way they never had before.

“I . . .” I set my cup on the arm of my chair, buying myself a second or two. My mind was suddenly muddled and my tongue didn't want to work properly. “I'm sure it wasn't him, JT.”

His eyes didn't leave mine. “No, you're not. I know you'd like to be, but you're not.”

I wanted to protest, but the niggling doubt that had bothered me in the night resurfaced. JT was right. I really wanted to believe Hans was innocent, but I couldn't be completely sure that he was.

I sank back in my chair and watched Finnegan roll around in the grass. “All right,” I said finally, my voice resigned. “I won't spend any more time alone with him.” I thought of the nice dinner we'd shared the night before and added, “For now.”

Some of the intensity had left JT's eyes when I met his gaze again, but he still seemed less relaxed than usual. The only one completely at ease was Finnegan. He trotted over to us and sat at my feet, looking up at me expectantly. I scratched his head, thinking.

If I could find proof that Hans was innocent, that he hadn't been anywhere near Jeremy when the murder occurred, then I could rest easy and the two of us could resume our developing relationship. Surely someone had seen Hans during the break in our rehearsal. He often spent our break times chatting with the players, answering questions or discussing issues about upcoming concerts or the pieces we were playing.

All I had to do was ask around and find someone who remembered seeing Hans at the critical time. I'd have to be discreet about it since I didn't want to be the one to spread rumors about the detectives' interest in our conductor. But still, I thought I could manage it, and there was a rehearsal that very evening, so I wouldn't have to wait long to start my inquiries.

Now that I had an idea in mind, I couldn't wait to get started. I'd feel so much better once I could prove to myself and everyone else that there was no reason to suspect Hans. I bit down on my lower lip, wondering who would be best to approach first.

“Now what are you thinking?” JT asked as he leaned over to pick up the rubber squirrel. He tossed the toy across the yard.

Finnegan bounded after it and pounced, picking up the fake squirrel and giving it a good shake.

“I'm sure I can prove Hans's innocence,” I said. “It'll only be a matter of asking the right ­people a few questions.”

“Dori,” JT said, and I could tell right away that he disapproved. “That's for the police to do. Leave it to them.”

“Oh, I'm sure they're asking questions too. But they're not going to tell me what they find out. And I need to put my mind at ease. I need to know for one hundred percent certain that Hans isn't the killer.”

“Dori.”

I rolled my eyes. “JT, don't worry. All I'll do is ask my fellow orchestra members a few questions. It's no big deal.”

“No? And what if one of the ­people you start questioning turns out to be the killer? They might not be too thrilled with the idea of you sticking your nose into things.”

“I doubt that will happen. The killer probably has no association with the orchestra at all.”

“You don't know that.”

Okay, so I didn't. That was true. But I needed to do this. I needed to reassure myself that the man I was developing strong feelings for wasn't a murderer. “I'll be careful.”

I could tell that JT wanted to say more, but his phone rang then, interrupting our conversation. He glanced at the device, which sat on the arm of his chair. “I'll have to take this.”

I got to my feet and smiled, my spirits lifting now that I had a plan. “I'll see you later.”

Leaving JT to his phone call, I headed to my studio to await my first student of the day, anxious to get the afternoon over with so I could start asking the questions that would clear Hans's name.

A
LTHOUGH
I
MANAGED
not to usher my last student out the door, I didn't waste any time following her. It was only once I was on the bus, traveling toward the church, that my rumbling stomach alerted me to the fact that I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I'd been so caught up in my thoughts that it hadn't even occurred to me to grab some lunch before I started teaching.

I didn't want to stop somewhere to pick up food because I wanted to make sure that I arrived at the rehearsal early enough to ask my questions. At the same time, I didn't want to pass out in the middle of Brahms's Double Concerto. I dug around in my quilted shoulder bag and came up with a somewhat crumbled granola bar. It would have to do.

I munched on my makeshift dinner as I walked from the bus stop to the church, planning my first move. Mikayla was probably the best person to talk to. She was the one who had alerted Hans to the fact that I'd found Jeremy's body. Maybe she could tell me who else she'd talked to upon her return to the basement, and who had been present upon her arrival. Of course, several minutes had passed between the time of Jeremy's murder and the moment when Mikayla found me with the body. So if the killer was a member of the orchestra, he or she would have had plenty of time to return to the basement by the far stairwell before Mikayla reported the incident.

Crumpling up the wrapper of my granola bar and shoving it into my shoulder bag, I considered something else. I was quite certain the killer had fled up the stairs after strangling Jeremy. Why had he or she fled in that direction? Had the killer heard me coming and simply taken the only route available, or was there more to it?

Arriving at the church, I paused at the foot of the stone steps leading to the entrance. I recalled that there was another stairway leading down from the second floor, but the foot of it was in view of the staircase where I'd found the body. If the killer had run up the stairs, he or she had either remained up there awhile and then slipped down the other stairs without me noticing, or else had come downstairs in plain view.

Two ­people had done that—­Reverend McAllister and Cindy, who I assumed was the reverend's wife.

But why would either of them want to kill Jeremy?

It was all quite confusing. The only way I could stop all those muddled thoughts from clogging my brain was to find some answers to my questions.

With any luck, I'd start getting those answers within minutes.