Dead Ringer (7 page)

McAllister got to his feet too. “Any time.”

I smiled at Estelle on my way out the door and checked the time on my cell phone again as I made my way down the hall. Mikayla would probably have arrived by now, so I could ask her about Hans. My eavesdropping and my conversation with the reverend had been interesting but only left me with more questions.

There was something fishy about McAllister, but that didn't necessarily make him a murderer. Still, I couldn't help but wonder what kind of “spiritual guidance” would have led to the heated exchange that Hans had witnessed.

“Ms. Bishop!”

I glanced over my shoulder. Estelle hurried down the hall toward me, so I waited for her at the top of the stairway. When she reached me, she smoothed down her white blouse and navy skirt.

“I'm sorry to waylay you,” she said.

“That's all right.” I was curious why she wanted to talk to me.

“Peter told me that you're the one who found the body the other night.”

I figured Peter must be the reverend. “That's right.”

Estelle gave me a sympathetic smile. “I wanted to say how sorry I am that you had to go through that.”

“Oh. Thank you.” I was puzzled, sensing there was more she wanted to say.

She gestured at the stairway. “Shall I walk with you?”

“Sure.”

Estelle shook her head as we started down the stairs. “Such a tragedy. That poor young man. First the troubles with his relationship, and then he ends up getting murdered. What a shame.”

“Relationship?” I was still puzzled about the woman's interest in talking to me, but I picked up on that one word right away.

“With his girlfriend,” she explained as we reached the landing. “He was concerned that she was cheating on him, and he didn't know what to do about it.”

“You knew Jeremy?” I was surprised. I couldn't imagine Jeremy giving the time of day to the reverend's sister.

“Oh. Oh dear.” Estelle seemed flustered. “I've said far too much, I'm afraid. You see, I overheard the young man speaking to Peter the other day. Accidentally, of course.”

“Of course,” I said, although I suspected it had been as accidental as my eavesdropping on the reverend's phone call.

“But no, I didn't know him. I didn't even meet him, officially. But I did think it was such a terrible tragedy.”

“Yes,” I said, descending the last few stairs. “It was certainly terrible.” I shivered, the memory of what I had discovered only a short distance away resurfacing with disturbing clarity.

“I'm so sorry,” Estelle said. “I didn't mean to upset you.”

“It's all right,” I assured her. Although the woman watched me expectantly, I didn't know what it was she wanted. I glanced at my cell phone. Time was getting on. “I'm sorry, but I have to go.”

“Yes, of course. Don't let me keep you. I just wanted to express my condolences.”

I forced a smile. “Thank you.”

Leaving Estelle in the lobby, I made my way down to the basement, relieved to be away from the older woman. My exchange with her had left me confused, but at least I had more information to work with now. Could Jeremy's troubles with his girlfriend have somehow led to his murder? Maybe she wanted to be with another man and Jeremy didn't want to let her go. If that were the case, could the other man have killed Jeremy to get him out of the way?

That was pure speculation, of course, but it was something to look into, particularly because it was a scenario that didn't involve Hans. Hurrying into the backstage room, now crowded with other musicians, I retrieved my violin and bow from my instrument case. I recognized Mikayla's red bag sitting next to mine and guessed that she was already out on stage. Grabbing my music folder, I went to join her.

Even though my mind was spinning with thoughts about Reverend McAllister, Jeremy, and Jeremy's girlfriend, I hadn't forgotten the original questions I wanted answered. With any luck, I'd have those answers within a matter of minutes and could put any niggling doubts about Hans to rest.

 

Chapter 7

I
TOOK MY
seat on the stage next to Mikayla as she set out the sheet music for Brahms's Double Concerto. After greeting her, I looked around, hoping to spot Hans. I caught sight of Leanne, our assistant conductor, and experienced a wave of panic.

What if the police had never let Hans go? What if they'd arrested him?

But then Hans appeared, making his way to the front of the orchestra, and relief rushed through me, erasing my fears. I closed my eyes as my heart rate returned to normal.

An elbow jabbed me in the ribs and my eyes flew open.

“What's up with you?” Mikayla watched me with curious eyes.

“I . . .” My breath caught in my throat as Hans's gaze roamed over the orchestra, locking with mine for a split second. When he turned his attention elsewhere, I swallowed and tried again to answer Mikayla's question. “Nothing. I'm fine.”

I don't think she believed me, but she let the matter drop, and for that I was grateful. I tuned my violin and then leaned toward her, lowering my voice so she would be the only one to hear me over the noise of the other players practicing and tuning their instruments. “Last rehearsal, when you came to tell Maestro about Jeremy, did you find him here on stage?”

“Yes. Why?”

I ignored her question and asked another of my own. “What about before you came to find me? Did you see him then?”

Mikayla narrowed her eyes at me. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Please, it's important.” I didn't want to explain, especially not with so many other ­people around, even if our conversation was practically drowned out by the noise around us.

Mikayla's eyes remained narrowed, but she considered my question. “I saw him right before I went to find you. He came back on stage and I knew the rehearsal would start up again at any moment, and it wasn't like you to be late coming back, so I decided to see if I could track you down.”

I thought that over. “So he did leave the stage during the break.” That wasn't good. Unless somebody saw him backstage or wherever else he went.

Mikayla poked me in the arm with her bow. “Your turn. Tell me what this is about. You don't think Maestro had something to do with Jeremy's death, do you?”

I looked around, hoping no one had overheard her say that. Luckily, everyone still seemed oblivious to our conversation. “I don't,” I said.

Mikayla's brown eyes widened. “But, what, the police do? Seriously?”

“Shh!” I admonished. “Don't tell anyone, okay?”

Mikayla mimed zipping her mouth shut. She raised her violin to her chin, but then lowered it to her lap again. “Hey, how do you know about this?”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I glanced around again to make sure no one was listening and then leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I was at his house when the police picked him up for questioning.”

“At his house?” Comprehension dawned on her face. “Midori! No way! You and—­”

I shushed her again, frantically this time.

Maestro?
she mouthed, finishing her sentence.

I didn't reply, but my flushed cheeks provided enough of an answer.

She stared at me. “I had no idea!”

“You weren't supposed to,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed again. “I can't believe you didn't tell me.”

“I would have eventually. I mean, if things . . . progressed.”

Mikayla shook her head, still surprised. Hans tapped his baton on his music stand and the orchestra fell quiet, one instrument at a time.

“You owe me details,” she said before focusing on the maestro.

I sighed, but not because she now knew my secret. I was disappointed that I was no closer to clearing Hans's name. I didn't want to interrogate every member of the orchestra, because someone else would be bound to catch on to the fact that Hans was a suspect, just as Mikayla had. Plus, questioning everyone would take ages.

Even though I'd promised JT that I'd avoid spending time alone with Hans for now, I knew I had to talk to him. Who better to tell me where he'd been during the break and whether anyone had seen him?

As Hans told us that we would start the rehearsal with Symphony No. 2, I made up my mind. Before I left the church that evening, I would speak to him and ask the questions that burned away in the back of my mind.

A
S MUCH AS
I enjoyed the rehearsal process and playing in the orchestra, it wasn't easy for me to sit through the next hour. I had to force myself to concentrate as we worked our way through the movements of the symphony. At one point Hans cut us off mid-­piece to ream out the bass players for not knowing their part. I watched him as he lectured Clover and her companions, not hearing his words. I was too focused on his strong profile and his thick blond hair. I remembered the way his lips felt against mine, the butterflies he stirred up in my stomach.

There was no way he could have harmed Jeremy. Was there?

I hated that I doubted him. Even if I proved to myself that he was innocent, would my doubts eventually come between us in some way?

I considered throwing caution to the wind and going to his place after rehearsal, to spend some time alone with him. But then I thought of JT and dismissed the idea. I could never break a promise to JT. Besides, I knew that my best friend was right: I should be careful, no matter how much I wanted to believe in Hans's innocence. Once I was completely convinced that he was not the murderer, and once the police no longer suspected him, I could go back to enjoying his electric touch.

By the time Hans told us to take a ten minute break, I was already up out of my seat. Mikayla shot me a curious look, but I didn't wait around to talk to her, instead navigating my way through the chairs, music stands, and musicians.

“I need to talk to you,” I said to Hans once I reached his side.

He glanced around. A cellist and a clarinet player were heading our way, intent on speaking with the conductor too. Hans saw them coming and nodded at me. “Give me five minutes.”

I stifled my frustration, knowing that the delay couldn't be helped if I didn't want others listening to our every word. As I stepped back, I noticed Mikayla eyeing me from across the stage.

Details,
she mouthed.

I rolled my eyes and mouthed back,
Later.

It was her turn to roll her eyes, but she directed her attention elsewhere, making her way across the stage toward Dave Cyders. I chatted for a minute or two with Katie and Tabitha, two of my fellow second violin players, but excused myself when Hans left the stage, now free of the cellist and clarinet player.

I followed him into the wings. He kept going, and I knew he planned to continue on to where we had our last secret conversation. I put a hand on his arm to stop him, remembering my promise to JT that I'd stay within sight of the other musicians.

We were in plain view of the ­people coming and going from the stage to the back room, so I knew we were in a safe place. It wasn't exactly the best spot for a private conversation, but it would have to do.

Hans smiled at me and put his hands in his pockets. I wondered if that was because he was fighting the temptation to touch me. I hoped so, but maybe it meant nothing. I wanted to reach out to him but knew that I couldn't.

“How are you?” I asked quietly, holding my violin and bow in my left hand.

“I've been better.” He sounded tired, and looked it too, unfamiliar dark rings beneath his eyes.

“How long did the police keep you?”

He waited for two first violinists to pass us by before responding. “Almost four hours.”

I winced. No wonder he was tired. “But why? Why would they even suspect you in the first place?”

Hans shook his head. “They're barking up the wrong tree.”

“But you have an alibi, right? Surely someone from the orchestra saw you at the critical time.”

His eyes didn't meet mine, instead going over my head. “I stepped outside for some fresh air for a few minutes. I was alone.”

That was bad news. I realized that he hadn't answered my question about why the police suspected him. “But—­”

“We shouldn't talk about this here.”

He moved to walk away from me, and I couldn't stop the small stab of rejection that hit me in the chest. But as he passed me, he brushed against my right arm, giving my hand a brief, subtle squeeze.

The stab of rejection eased away, replaced with gentle warmth. He was right. It was too risky to talk about such things here. Neither of us would want it to become common knowledge that he was a suspect. I ached to have some time alone with him, and regretted making my promise to JT. But then I remembered how Hans had avoided my question, how he'd avoided eye contact with me.

Was it simply a matter of not wanting to be overheard, or did he have something to hide?

I didn't know the answer to that question. I had hoped that speaking to him would put my doubts to rest, but that hadn't happened. Instead, they had only grown stronger, and that both troubled and frustrated me.

B
Y THE TIME
the rehearsal wrapped up for the night, all I wanted to do was go home, fall asleep, and forget about Jeremy, Hans, and everything else. My curiosity had other ideas, though. As I packed up my instrument backstage, I caught sight of Andy Erikson. Andy was a cellist, and he was also one of the few ­people who actually seemed to be friends with Jeremy.

Remembering what Estelle had said about Jeremy's troubles with his girlfriend, I followed Andy out of the church and called to him as he unlocked his ancient and rusting station wagon.

“What's up?” he asked as he lifted his cello into the back of the car.

I bit down on my lower lip, unsure of the best way to get the information I wanted. “You knew Jeremy, right?”

The dark shadow of sadness that passed over his gray eyes was evident even in the dim light of the streetlamps. “We were in music together at university,” he said. “I knew him for more than a decade.”

“I'm sorry.” My sympathy was sincere. Even though Jeremy hadn't been my favorite person, I knew how awful it was to lose a friend.

Andy shut the rear door of the station wagon. “You were the one to find him, right?”

“Yes.” I'd lost count of how many times I'd answered that question over the past forty-­eight hours. I didn't want to give him a chance to ask me anything more about my gruesome find, so I rushed on to say, “I've been thinking about his girlfriend.”

“Shelley?” Andy headed for the front of the car, pausing by the driver's door and talking to me over the roof. “What about her?”

“I was hoping to give her my condolences,” I said, having come up with that excuse moments earlier. “Do you know where I can find her?”

Andy paused for a moment, and I wondered if he'd refuse to give me the information. But as he opened the car door, he replied, “Her family owns the Green Willow Café. You can probably find her there.” He nodded at me and climbed into his car.

“Thank you!” I called out as he shut the door.

I stood on the curb and watched him drive away, wondering if I should give up on the thought of approaching Jeremy's girlfriend. I didn't want to upset her, and I didn't know if she would even have any valuable information. It only took a few seconds for me to decide that I'd still try to talk to her. I needed more than ever to prove to myself that Hans wasn't guilty, and if nothing else, maybe Shelley could tell me if Jeremy had any enemies.

Holding my violin in my right hand and hoisting my bag over my left shoulder, I turned in the direction of the bus stop so I could head home. No matter how curious I was and no matter how many questions I wanted answered, it was too late to do anything except sleep that night.

O
NCE
I
HAD
showered and dressed in the morning, I opened the refrigerator, thinking I should probably eat a proper breakfast for a change. The only problem was, there wasn't much in the fridge. Aside from a bottle of ketchup, some wilted lettuce, and a can of root beer, the shelves were empty. The freezer held double chocolate ice cream, some frozen peas, and a tray of ice cubes. Something told me I needed to visit the grocery store.

First, however, I needed something to eat, and I wasn't in the mood for one of the granola bars I so often relied on for meals. The obvious solution was to go out for breakfast. And the obvious place to go out for a meal was to the Green Willow Café. After all, I'd planned to go there anyway, and needing a meal gave me an extra reason to check the place out.

Grabbing my purse, I slipped my cell phone inside and scooped up my keys from the wicker basket on the entryway table. When I left my apartment for the outdoors, birds sang in the leafy trees and the sun shone brightly. There was a scent of freshly cut grass in the air, and the gentle breeze lifted tendrils of my long hair.

I smiled, the beauty of the spring day momentarily chasing away my troubles. When I arrived at a nearby bus stop, I used my phone to look up the exact address of the café. I had a general idea of where it was but had never actually visited the establishment myself. Once I knew its exact location, I boarded a newly arrived bus and rode it to my destination.

The Green Willow Café was on a busy street, but if it was a popular spot for weekday breakfast, I'd missed the rush. There were only a few other patrons present when I arrived, three workmen in paint-­splattered clothing sitting at one table, and two young mothers with a toddler each sitting at another. The eating area was decorated in earthy tones, with wooden furniture and dark green willow trees stenciled onto the light green walls.

A petite young woman wearing a dark green apron called to me from near the kitchen. “Sit anywhere you like. I'll be with you in a moment.”

I claimed a small table by the window and picked up the laminated menu that was propped up between the salt and pepper shakers. I perused the options, and the young woman in the green apron appeared at my table a minute later. Her name tag told me her name was Gina, not Shelley.