Death in a Major (7 page)

“Dor—­”

“Thanks for dinner,” I said, not giving him the chance to say anything more. “I'd better run or I'll be late.”

I gave Finnegan a quick pat on the head and waved to JT as I fled down the hall to my studio. I didn't want to address the fact that he didn't believe me. Mostly because he was right not to. Even at that moment, thoughts of motives and suspects filled my head.

Maybe I wasn't mixed up in the investigation yet (not too mixed up in it, anyway), but there was no way I could promise that the situation wouldn't change. In fact, after seeing the heartbreaking mix of emotions in Jordan's eyes, I didn't think I'd be able to stay out of it. Whether Kevin Major was the murderer or not, Jordan needed closure. And if I could help him get it, that's what I'd do.

 

Chapter Seven

W
HEN
I
REACHED
the Abrams Center, I changed out of my jeans and into my black concert clothes. After shoving all my belongings in my locker, I scanned the musicians' lounge for Mikayla. I caught her eye and motioned to her to join me across the room. She said a few words to the ­people she was with and detached herself from their group. As soon as she was within reach, I took her arm and pulled her into a relatively quiet corner of the room.

Although I didn't want to talk about Aaron with JT, I did want to talk about him with Mikayla. I needed to.

“What's up?” she asked with concern.

I lowered my voice so no one else would hear me. “There must be something wrong with me.”

“Okay,” Mikayla said, drawing the word out as she raised one eyebrow. “Does this have something to do with Aaron?”

I was surprised that she'd caught on so quickly. “How did you know?”

“Maybe because you weren't excited about him coming back from London?”

Oh. Right.

My shoulders sagged. “I was hoping things would be better when I actually saw him.”

“But I'm guessing they weren't.”

“No.” I leaned my back against the wall, tempted to let myself slide down to the floor in a heap. “What's wrong with me?”

“Nothing's wrong with you. You're just not feeling it. That's the way it goes sometimes.”

“But Aaron's great. He's sweet and kind and gorgeous. And he has the dreamiest accent. I want to be crazy about him. I do. So why aren't I?”

Mikayla shrugged. “You can't force chemistry.”

I closed my eyes, my heavy dread fusing into a hard, unbreakable rock of certainty. “Oh God. I have to break up with him, don't I?”

“Sounds like it.”

I forced my eyes back open. “But I don't want to hurt him. I really, really don't.”

“It's tough,” Mikayla said, “but if it needs to be done, it needs to be done. Putting it off will only make it harder on both of you.”

I groaned and dropped my head into my hands. I knew she was right.

Mikayla put her arms around me and gave me a hug. “Sorry, hon. I know that's not what you wanted to hear.”

“No, but it's what I needed to hear. It's what I already knew but didn't want to accept.”

I blinked back tears as she gave me another hug before letting go.

“You'll be okay,” she assured me. “I promise. But it's best to get it over with so you can both move on.”

“I know.” I tried for a smile, though happiness eluded me at that moment. “Thanks, Mikayla.”

She gave my arm a sympathetic squeeze before nudging me toward my locker. “We'd better get our instruments. It's almost time to head for the stage.”

I retrieved my violin, glad to have an evening of music on the horizon to help calm me. While Mikayla had told me what I needed to hear, her words hadn't made me feel any better. If anything, I felt worse.

Now I knew for certain that I had to hurt Aaron, and it was impossible to view that scenario in any sort of positive light. I was a terrible person. I had to be. But at least I could lose myself in Rachmaninoff's music for the next two hours.

T
HE CONCERT WAS
as much of a success as the first one of the season. More of a success, actually, considering that nobody died. Sure, Major had died at the reception
after
the first concert, but the incident had cast a shadow over the entire evening. This time, however, the post-­concert mood was a happy one, thrumming with the energy of dozens of musicians pleased with their performance and the audience's reaction to it.

I basked in the thrill of the standing ovation all the way back to the musicians' lounge. It was only when I reached my locker that my mood sank back down to its pre-­concert depth. The knowledge that I had to break up with Aaron the next time I saw him boomed inside my head, over and over like a deep drumbeat, impossible to ignore.

Weighed down by my thoughts, I tucked my violin in its case and loosened my bow. Bronwyn arrived at her locker, located next to mine, and chatted away with her stand partner as she clicked open her combination lock. I was reaching for my jacket when Bronwyn's shoulder bag fell from her locker and hit the floor. The contents spilled out onto the carpet, keys and tubes of lipstick mixed in with a compact and a package of Mentos.

But that wasn't all. A gold brooch with a gleaming sapphire had also spilled out of the bag. I stared down at the piece of jewelry, and so did several other ­people. Slowly, a hush settled over the lounge.

“What the . . .”

The words came from Bronwyn. I raised my eyes from the mess on the floor and took in the sight of her stunned, puzzled expression.

I wanted to say something, but didn't know what. The silence returned, but it seemed to thrum with tension. A shadow fell over the fallen shoulder bag.

Elena had arrived on the scene.

“My brooch!” She swooped down and snatched the jewelry from the ground. She pinned her fierce gaze on Bronwyn, her blue eyes full of icy fire. “You're a thief!”

Bronwyn's eyes widened. “No! I'm not. I swear!”

“Don't bother denying it.” Elena held up the brooch. “Everyone here saw this fall out of your bag.”

“No.” Bronwyn said the word faintly, fear and shock written clearly on her face.

Elena ignored her denial. “You'll be thrown out of the orchestra for this. Maybe you'll even get tossed in jail. It would serve you right.”

Spinning around on her heel, Elena marched out of the lounge. Janine hurried after her, but not before I caught a hint of a smirk on her face.

My eyes followed the two of them out of the room but then returned to Bronwyn. Her back was against the bank of lockers, her face alarmingly pale. Concerned, I grabbed one of her arms and Mikayla took the other. Together we guided Bronwyn over to one of the couches and got her to sit down.

Around us, ­people began talking again, but their voices were lowered to whispers and several pairs of eyes kept darting in our direction.

“I . . . I don't understand,” she said, her face still pale. “I don't know how that brooch got in my bag.” Her face lost more color. “Oh God. I can't go to jail. I've got a daughter to raise.”

“You're not going to jail,” I said firmly, sitting down next to her.

Mikayla sat on her other side. “Midori's right. We'll get this sorted out before it comes to that.”

Bronwyn looked at us each in turn, her eyes desperate. “So you believe me?”

“Of course we believe you,” I said. I'd known Bronwyn for years and she was one of the last ­people I could picture stealing jewelry, or anything else for that matter. But more than that, I knew her well enough to read her expressions, and her shock and puzzlement at seeing the brooch fall out of her bag had been one hundred percent genuine.

She relaxed slightly, but then she noticed the suspicious glances she was getting from other ­people in the room. “But nobody else does.”

“Forget about them,” Mikayla told her.

I nodded in support of her statement. “We're going to get this figured out and clear your name.”

“But how?” Bronwyn asked, unshed tears glistening in her eyes.

I took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “By finding the real thief.”

A
FTER PROVIDING
B
RO
NWYN
with a few more reassurances, Mikayla and I helped her put everything back into her shoulder bag and sent her home to her family.

“Do you really think it's possible to figure out who the real thief is?” Mikayla asked, not bothering to hide her doubt now that Bronwyn was gone.

“I sure hope it is.” I considered what our first move should be. “I think we should talk to Maestro.”

“No doubt Elena already has,” Mikayla said.

“No doubt,” I agreed. “Maybe Mr. Hollingsworth as well. Hopefully not the police, though.”

After securing our lockers, we left the lounge. Fortunately, Hans hadn't left the theater yet and we found him in his office on the second floor. He was finishing up a phone call as I tapped on the open door.

Something like hope or expectation flickered in his eyes when he saw me, but then he spotted Mikayla next to me and his eyebrows drew together. “Are you here about Bronwyn?”

“Yes,” I said.

“We're guessing Elena already spoke to you,” Mikayla said.

“She did,” he confirmed, and for a split second he looked a bit harried.

If I'd been standing in his office for a less serious reason, I might have taken some pleasure in the fact that he didn't seem to have enjoyed his conversation with Elena. As it was, I had more important things to focus on.

“We're not sure yet how the brooch ended up in Bronwyn's bag,” I said.

“Isn't that rather obvious?”

“Elena thinks it is,” Mikayla said, “but we don't.”

“Bronwyn's not a thief,” I added.

Hans raised his eyebrows. “The evidence suggests otherwise.”

I tried to quell my rising frustration. “There has to be another explanation. Surely you won't kick her out of the orchestra without at least giving her a chance to prove her innocence.”

Hans let out a sigh and ran a hand through his blond hair. “To be honest, I don't know what's going to happen. But it's getting late and there's not much we can do about it tonight anyway. I'm meeting with Mr. Hollingsworth tomorrow to discuss the matter.”

I wasn't keen to leave things up in the air, but I could tell we wouldn't get any more from Hans that night. After Mikayla said good night to Hans and tugged on my arm, I followed her out of the office. With my spirits hovering about an inch above the floor, we returned to the lounge, where Dave and a handful of other musicians were still hanging around.

“Some of us are going out for drinks,” Mikayla said as I retrieved my jacket from my locker and pulled it on. “Want to come?”

“No, thanks.” I shoved my music folder into my quilted bag. “Between everything that's happened with Aaron and now Bronwyn, I'm not in much of a celebratory mood.”

“I get that, but don't beat yourself up too much about Aaron. These things happen. As for Bronwyn . . . Hopefully things will turn out okay.”

“Hopefully,” I echoed.

She hesitated, probably because of my low spirits, but I didn't want to hold her back.

“Go on,” I encouraged, doing my best to smile. “I'll be fine.”

She gave me a quick hug and then grabbed her belongings and headed out of the lounge with Dave and three others. Once they were gone, I fished my phone out of my bag and checked for messages. I didn't have any.

A sudden sense of loneliness settled over me. What I really wanted at that moment was to hang out with my best friend, to share all my worries and guilt with him. At the same time, I still didn't want to talk to him about Aaron, and I couldn't do one without doing the other.

With my bag over my shoulder and my instrument case in one hand, I slammed my locker shut and snapped my combination lock into place. Even if I was willing to talk to JT about Aaron, it was too late to bug him. He wouldn't mind what time it was, but I knew he'd be working in the morning and I didn't want to keep him up late with my problems. That meant I'd have to handle all my pre-­breakup emotions on my own. Good thing I had Smarties ice cream in my freezer.

On my way out of the musicians' lounge, I realized I wasn't the last to leave. Ernest was still by his locker. I paused, considering whether or not I should talk to him. It didn't take me long to come to a decision. Reversing my direction, I approached him and stood by his locker as he buttoned up his coat.

“Hi, Ernest. How are you doing?”

He made only the briefest of eye contact with me. “Fine, thank you.”

“It's terrible what happened to Mr. Major the other night, isn't it?”

“Oh.” His neck flushed and his eyes darted around the empty room. “Um. Hrm.” He cleared his throat and returned his focus to his top two buttons.

His reaction only confirmed the suspicion I'd developed on Friday night—­he didn't think it was so terrible that Major had kicked the bucket.

“Right,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, “you didn't like him much, did you?”

Ernest's fingers slipped from his top button. He stared at me through his thick glasses, his gray eyes wide. “What . . . why . . . what makes you say that?”

“I saw the way you glared at him the other night. And then there was the note.”

His eyes almost popped right out of his head. “Note?” Panic pushed up the pitch of his voice. “What note?”

“The one you threw away after Mr. Major collapsed. The police have it now.”

His face flushed red and then drained of color. He shut his locker and fumbled with the lock until it was secure. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Ernest . . .”

“No. No. No.” He clutched his instrument case to his chest. “I really must go.”

He hurried away from me and out the door.

Poor guy. I'd freaked him out and didn't learn anything new in the process. Although if he was a murderer I didn't need to waste my time feeling sorry for him. Then again, if he was innocent I'd stressed him out and put him on Detective Salnikova's radar for no good reason. But of course I'd had to turn the note over to Salnikova. Withholding it would have been irresponsible, especially since I didn't know if Ernest was innocent or guilty. Jordan believed his uncle had killed his grandfather, but in my view Ernest still belonged on the suspect list, especially since he definitely had something to hide.

As I wandered out of the lounge and headed for the theater's nearest exit, I realized that Bronwyn's predicament and my encounter with Ernest had distracted me from my thoughts of Aaron, if only for a short while. Maybe that meant focusing on Major's murder and the jewelry theft would provide me with a good diversion over the next few days. Murder and theft weren't exactly pleasant subjects, but mulling over the crimes was still far less stressful for me than worrying about the sorry state of my love life and what the heck I would say to Aaron when I broke up with him.