End Me a Tenor

by Joelle Charbonneau

  I watched understanding bloom in David Richard’s deep blue eyes. He ran a hand through his wavy dark hair, flashed the same crooked smile that appeared on every one of his CDs, and took my hand in one of his perfectly tanned ones. “I apologize for my behavior. You are so much more attractive than your photograph. I didn’t recognize you.”

  Sure. Photography, not ego, was the problem here.

  While I didn’t buy his apology for a minute, I knew when to back off. “I appreciate the compliment.” I stooped down and picked up my binder and bottle of water, only to have the bottle snatched out of my hand.

  “That one is mine.” David reached down and snagged a second bottle that had rolled under a folding chair. “This is yours.”

  The brand, bottle size, and quantity of liquid inside were, to me, identical. I wasn’t sure how he could tell the difference. Before I had a chance to ask, our stage manager’s voice rang out from the monitors. Soloists needed to report to the stage in five minutes.

  David gave me another cover-model smile. “I need to warm up before we take the stage.” With a wink, he disappeared into the dressing room next to mine.

  I considered heading back to my own dressing room, but the warm chuckle I heard from Jonathan made me think I’d be interrupting. So I headed for the stairs. My stomach danced with nerves as I stood in the wings and waited for my fellow soloists to join me. Today was just a rehearsal. Soloists still had two more—one on Wednesday and another on Friday—before we would face the public and the critics. While mistakes didn’t technically matter today, they mattered to me. I needed to prove I belonged on this stage.

  Vanessa strolled up next to me. “Nervous?”

  Yes. “Should I be?”

  She smiled. “If I were you, I’d be terrified. This place will be teeming with critics on Saturday. I’ve handled that kind of pressure before. Have you?”

  Okay, if Vanessa was trying to freak me out, it was totally working. Desperate to change the subject, I asked, “Where’s Jonathan and David?”

  “They’re having a rather loud discussion behind their dressing room door.”

  “Why are they fighting?”

  “David doesn’t need a reason to have a tantrum.” Vanessa laughed. “If you hadn’t already guessed, David is a lot like a toddler—both in angelic looks and irrational temperament. He also doesn’t play nice with others unless he expects something in return.”

  “Soloists, please take the stage,” a voice crackled over the monitor, making my heart trip. Showtime.

  Jonathan appeared and smoothly walked onto the stage. Vanessa went next. I brought up the rear and walked to my chair near Vanessa’s located downstage right. The chorus applauded. The redhead who had almost run into me started to tap her bow on the music stand in front of her. A moment later, the rest of the strings players followed her lead and tapped their bows as Maestro Tebar took her place behind the podium. As the redhead put her bow down and the others followed suit, I realized why she looked familiar. The red-haired woman was none other than Ruth Jordan, best known for her virtuosic violin playing and her equally impressive dislike of singers.

  Maestro Tebar’s eyes narrowed the minute they settled on David Richard’s empty chair. Her hand tightened on her baton, but her voice was calm and professional as she said, “My name is Magdalena Tebar and it is my honor to work with all of you on one of my favorite pieces of music. With the talent assembled in this room, I’m certain this show will be talked about for years to come.”

  She paused and the expectation for greatness hung in the silence.

  “We will run the entire oratorio tonight. I will only stop if there is a major issue that needs to be addressed.”

  Excited whispers made me turn my head in time to watch David Richard stroll across the stage, waving at the ensemble like he had just been crowned Miss America. When he reached his chair, he set his bottle of water next to it, opened his black music binder, and gave Magdalena a cocky grin. “Are we ready to begin?”

  Magdalena’s hands shook slightly as she opened her conductor’s score, but they were steady when she raised her baton to signal the start of the overture. Personally, I was amazed at her restraint. The man deserved a baton upside the nose.

  As the orchestra played the overture, I took several deep breaths and told myself to enjoy the music. There was a good thirty minutes of it before my first aria. Panicking now was pointless.

  Magdalena smiled her approval as the overture came to an end, and then nodded to David. He stood and raised his black binder, and the music for his first solo began.

  The man might be a jerk, but his voice was glorious. The high notes soared with hope tinged with sorrow. He navigated the passages of fast-running notes with effortless panache. The guy was a genius. And I was on stage with him.

  When the final note shimmered across the hall, Magdalena waited a moment before giving the chorus its cue to rise. As the members began their number, I watched David take his seat. He looked relaxed as he listened to the ensemble sing their piece. When the song came to a close, David picked up his water bottle, uncapped it, and noticed me watching him. His smile was fast and playful, giving his classically sculpted face a boyish quality. Lifting the bottle in a silent toast, he leaned back in his chair and took a drink while Jonathan sang about the earth shaking.

  And maybe the earth did shake because David’s water bottle hit the floor, and David’s body followed a moment later. David clutched his throat and began to convulse. Someone shrieked. The orchestra stopped playing as Magdalena yelled for the stage manager to call 911. Jonathan knelt next to David. He began CPR as I raced over, sank to my knees near to the puddle of water left by the dropped bottle, and took David’s hand. I wasn’t sure if I could help, but I wanted to try.

  After a few minutes it was clear: No amount of medical assistance would be of use. World-renowned tenor David Richard was dead.

  Chapter 3

  I’d thought stumbling across a dead body on Prospect Glen’s stage would be the worst thing I’d ever see in a theater. I’d thought wrong. The flushed cheeks and empty eyes of David Richard as he stared unseeing up at the rafters of the auditorium were worse. Much worse.

  Whispered voices filled with tears echoed in the hall. Holding tight to David’s lifeless hand, I watched as Jonathan stood up, looked at Maestro Tebar, and shook his head. For a moment, everything went still.

  “No.” The word trembled on Maestro Tebar’s lips. The color drained from her face, her eyes rolled back, and down she went. She, too, would have hit the ground had it not been for the quick reflexes of a violist who dove to catch her. That’s when all hell broke loose. Hysterical screams mixed with shouts of despair. People sobbed. A few ensemble members ran off stage and into the wings. I couldn’t move as I watched our stage manager, Bill Walters, climb onto the stage and holler for everyone to be quiet.

  At least, that’s what I think he said. It was hard to tell over the mass hysteria. After several tries, the stage manager finally got everyone’s attention, and by the time the paramedics stormed down the center aisle, the chorus and orchestra were headed off the stage and down the stairs to the greenroom.

  I placed David’s hand gently on his chest and joined my fellow soloists at the edge of the stage along with our stage manager and a now conscious but still pale Magdalena Tebar. The EMTs raced up the escape stairs and checked David’s pulse and eyes and even smelled his breath. Several uniformed police officers arrived as the paramedics were finishing their examination.

  Vanessa buried her face in Jonathan’s chest. Magdalena blinked back tears as she watched one of the uniformed cops make a call on his radio. My throat was tight, but my eyes were dry. I was too numb to cry.

  Stage manager Bill pulled out his phone. “I have to send a message to the producers and find out if they want to hire a replacement or go with David’s understudy.” When we
all stared at him, he said, “Yes, I know this is a terrible tragedy, but David Richard would be the first to say the show should go on. It’s my job to make sure it does.”

  With a dramatic huff, Bill hurried down the escape stairs and into the theater in search of a signal and a replacement tenor. That left the rest of us to talk to the officers who were heading in our direction.

  The tall mustached blond hooked a finger at Bill’s back. “Where’s he going?”

  Magdalena brushed a tear off her cheek and stepped forward. “Bill is contacting the producers of the show. They need to be informed of David’s tragic death. It must have been a heart attack, don’t you think?”

  The officers exchanged a look that made the back of my neck tingle. The shorter, gray-haired cop said, “We need to take your statements. If you could all wait in the lobby, we’ll talk to you one by one as well as anyone else who witnessed the deceased’s final moments.”

  Sitting on a hard, metal chair in the back corner of the lobby, I watched as Jonathan comforted Vanessa and Magdalena until they were escorted into the theater to be questioned. When someone finally came to talk to me, it wasn’t one of the uniforms, but a steely-eyed, gray-and-black-haired detective dressed in jeans and a worn navy sport jacket. Instead of going into the theater, he pulled up a folding chair and sat down next to me.

  “Thanks for waiting. I know it’s been a long night.” From the way the detective looked at me, I had a feeling it was going to get even longer. “I’ve already talked to the alto. You must be the soprano.”

  I nodded. “Paige Marshall.”

  “Will you be offended if I say I haven’t heard of you?”

  That made me laugh. “No, but I’m guessing the others were.” His smile said I’d hit the target in one. “I’m still breaking into the business. Singing with David Richard was a career making opportunity for me.”

  “And now he’s dead.” The detective took a notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Could you describe what happened tonight after the deceased took the stage?”

  My throat ached as I walked the detective through David’s belated entrance to holding his hand after he died. Tears pricked the back of my eyes and my chest burned. Talking about David’s death made it feel real.

  The detective flipped a page in his book. “The others mentioned that you and David had an altercation before rehearsal began.”

  Hurt and embarrassment swirled in my stomach. I should have expected Vanessa and Jonathan to mention my encounter with David. “I left my dressing room and ran smack into David. He read me the riot act. I yelled back, and he apologized for his behavior. We sorted out whose water bottle was whose, and he went into his dressing room. End of story. I can’t imagine two minutes of yelling at me triggered his heart attack on stage. From what I can tell, the man was always fighting with someone.”

  “I thought the two of you just met today.”

  “We did.” I took a deep breath and explained. “Vanessa was upset with David when I walked into our dressing room today, and yesterday I saw our conductor smack him in the face.”

  The detective flipped through the pages of his book. “David Richard wasn’t at rehearsal yesterday.”

  “David didn’t sing,” I agreed. “He wasn’t scheduled to be at rehearsal. But he and Magdalena were having an argument in the greenroom before rehearsal. I walked into the room as her fist made contact with his nose, and backed out before either of them noticed I was there.”

  The detective asked a couple more questions about my fight with David and the water bottles. He then took my contact information and handed me his card. “If you think of anyone else who might have had a problem with the victim, please let me know.”

  I nodded as alarm bells jangled in my head. Not deceased. Victim. David Richard wasn’t just dead. He had been murdered.

  “I don’t see why we can’t go home.” Vanessa paced the greenroom like a caged bear. “They already released the chorus. At the very least, I would think we’d demand the same consideration.”

  A half hour earlier, the police had sent the members of the orchestra and chorus home and then moved the rest of us to the greenroom to wait. Bill, Magdalena, and our assistant stage manager/intern, Jenny Grothe, closeted themselves away in the ensemble dressing room in order to powwow on Bill’s cell with the producers. I wasn’t sure how much help Jenny was going to be. Not only was she twenty-one years old, but the last time I’d seen her, Jenny looked ready to throw up or pass out. Or both. Meanwhile, Jonathan was doing his best to soothe Vanessa from his perch on the worn sofa. “The police are just doing their jobs.”

  Vanessa rolled her eyes. “They’re covering their asses. David died. It’s a tragedy, but there’s nothing any of us can do about it.”

  “I think they assume one of us may have had something to do with it.” I shifted in my chair as Jonathan and Vanessa looked at me.

  “Why would you say that?” Jonathan’s eyes met mine.

  “Well . . .”

  “Don’t humor her, Jonathan.” Vanessa glared at me. “She’s just being dramatic. You know how young performers are.”

  I wanted to be insulted, but I couldn’t get up the energy for it. Besides, Jonathan looked insulted enough for the both of us. “Don’t take your frustration out on Paige. You’re upset David is dead. We all are.”

  Vanessa let out a bark of laughter. “Are you kidding? David’s death is the best thing that could have ever happened to you. Now you don’t have to worry about him taking your job.”

  “David wasn’t interested in being a professor of music.” The look on Jonathan’s face, however, made me think perhaps the opposite was true.

  Vanessa’s smile said she thought the same. “David was interested in taking anything that didn’t belong to him. I should know.”

  Yikes.

  “People.” Bill emerged from the dressing room with a wide smile. “The time for fighting is over. The show has been saved. Maestro Tebar and the producers have convinced Andre Napoletano to fly in from New York and perform with us this weekend.”

  Holy crap. Andre Napoletano was a rising star in the opera world. Critics tripped all over themselves comparing him to the great tenors of the past.

  Bill paused to give us time to absorb his news and then continued. “Andre will not be able to make Wednesday’s rehearsal and was inclined to turn us down. He has worked with Maestro Tebar before, however, and she was able to convince him that he will not need the extra rehearsal to create a spectacular performance. Which, of course, will be performed in David Richard’s honor.”

  At the mention of her name, a red-eyed Magdalena swept out of the dressing room. “To ensure a flawless performance, I would like all of you to set aside the constraints of your contracts and come to rehearsal early. I would also like to add a movement of Mozart’s Requiem to our first performance to honor David’s remarkable life.”

  Magdalena brushed a tear from her face as Bill discussed how best to deliver the music to us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the detective I’d spoken with earlier standing in the doorway. When Bill finished talking, the detective crossed the room to stand next to Magdalena.

  “Are we free to leave, Detective?” she asked.

  “If you, Mr. Walters, and Ms. Grothe could stay for a couple more minutes, I have a few things you can clear up. The rest are free to go.”

  Walking up the stairs to the stage door, I heard Vanessa behind me whisper, “With the publicity from David’s death and Andre Napoletano singing tenor, this will be the most talked-about production of the Messiah ever.”

  I hated the zing of excitement I felt at Vanessa’s prediction and had to wonder if creating the most talked-about production was exactly what the killer had intended all along.

  Snow fell hard and fast as I turned onto Aunt Millie’s street. Though I could barely see the street in fro
nt of me, there was zero chance of missing Millie’s house. Astronauts on the space station couldn’t miss it. Millie was serious about three things in life: her work selling Mary Kay products, her show dogs, and decorating for the holidays. While most of her Fortune 500 executive and professional sports–playing neighbors decorated their places with tasteful white lights, Millie had opted to merge her marketing plan and the holidays. Twinkling pink lights outlined the castle-like house. A row of pink and white candy canes bright enough to land planes outlined the driveway, and tree after tree was glistening with Aunt Millie’s favorite color. Even Santa’s suit and Rudolph’s nose had been customized to go along with the theme.

  I opened the garage door, steered my blue Chevy Cobalt into Millie’s three-car garage, and cut the engine. Leaning my head against the steering wheel, I sat there for a moment as the emotions I’d been holding at bay threatened to overwhelm me. David Richard was dead. Murdered. Driving home, I’d pictured him in those final moments. Cocky. Proud. Toasting me from across the stage with the water bottle I’d knocked from his hands only a half hour before.

  Holy crap. The bottle.

  I sat up straight, and the world spun around me. David had drank from the bottle and died. The bottle I had thought was mine. If David hadn’t noticed the difference, I might not be sitting here now.

  My throat went dry, and I automatically reached in my bag for my water. Then I ditched the idea. I’d get a drink inside.

  Leaving my boots in the laundry room, I tiptoed through the dimly lit kitchen to grab a soda. The house was quiet, and I hoped that meant Aunt Millie and Aldo had already gone to bed. Talking about tonight’s events was definitely not high on my to-do list.

  “Paige,” Millie yelled, “is that you?” A minute later, she burst into the kitchen and wrapped her arms around me. At least, I thought it was my aunt. The lack of glasses and the green glop on her face made it hard to tell. When she stepped back she said, “We heard on the news about David Richard. Are you okay?”