End Me a Tenor

by Joelle Charbonneau

  Back in my car, I looked at the empty seat beside me. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced Bill’s death and the mysterious gift were connected. And while I hadn’t had the opportunity to compare the writing on both notes, my gut was telling me the same person wrote them. But why? Why threaten me? I barely knew the victim.

  The question plagued me as I steered my car back to the Prospect Glen High School parking lot. As I walked the halls to the performing arts wing, I thought I might have an answer. Bill must have told someone about the questions I was asking. Someone who didn’t want me poking into areas they’d rather have left alone.

  Great. Being stalked wasn’t on my Christmas wish list. Neither was tracking down another killer. I’d been there, done that, and almost died in the process. Detective Frewen and his team seemed competent, but they hadn’t fingered the killer in time to save Bill. Which really sucked. As a stage manager, Bill had been organized and professional. As a person, he had been considerate and kind, which was too often a rarity in this dog-eat-dog business. Bill deserved to have his killer brought to justice and at the moment, I wasn’t sure he was going to get that. If I wanted Bill to rest in peace, and if I didn’t want to end up swinging from the ceiling myself, I was going to have to take matters into my own hands.

  Since I had forty-five minutes before my first private lesson began, I slipped into Larry’s office and fired up the computer. It was time to learn more about my fellow Messiah cast members, starting with murder victim number one, David Richard.

  On the other side of the door, the freshman choir belted out its rendition of “Sleigh Ride,” complete with slapstick claps and jingle bells. I clicked on David Richard’s website. His deep blue eyes stared back at me from his headshot in a way that felt like he was looking into my soul. Creepy. Ignoring the photo, I started reading.

  The man was forty-five years old, single, and childless, and, according to his biography, had sung every popular, and some not so popular, tenor roles in the operatic repertoire. From the list of past performances, it looked as though David rarely spent more than a month or two in any city before jetting off to his next performance—until this year, when he landed the guest artist gig at Northwestern University. From what I read, the man had arrived here to give a Fourth of July concert and never left.

  Weird. Stranger still was the lack of performance engagements on his calendar for the rest of the year. The website cited his dedication to the yearlong teaching commitment, but the person I’d bumped into in the greenroom didn’t seem dedicated to anyone but himself.

  David’s discography boasted twenty-five albums with a new one to debut early next year. Trying not to be jealous that David Richard had recorded his first solo album at twenty-eight, I clicked back to his performance résumé and hit print. The best way to discover who wanted David Richard dead was to figure out who in the Messiah cast knew him well enough to harbor a major grudge. I’d just have to cross-check his résumé with the rest of the cast and see how many of them connected.

  Next search: Vanessa Moulton. Her website was brightly colored and filled with review quotes from past roles. The quotes were comprised of words like “rising star” and “amazing potential.” I couldn’t help noticing the quotes were from shows Vanessa had performed over a decade ago. Her résumé since then was made up of minor roles in small companies or ensemble roles with a few of the bigger houses. She was far from the rising star her reviews once predicted her to be.

  Feeling a tug of sympathy, I hit print and scanned her list of credits as I headed to the practice rooms. Time to teach my voice lesson.

  The student was late.

  Normally, I’d be annoyed, but the extra minutes gave me time to compare David Richard’s extensive performance list to Vanessa’s respectable but much smaller one. As Christy Masonic bopped through the door muttering her apologies, I spotted the overlap between David and Vanessa: Glimmerglass Festival in New York almost fifteen years ago. Vanessa spent the summer in the ensemble. David performed Don Ottavio in Don Giovanni.

  While I played Christy’s warm-up vocal exercises, I thought back to what Jonathan had said in the dressing room about David not remembering Vanessa. While that might tick a girl off, it wasn’t exactly a rousing motive for murder. Not even for a woman with Vanessa’s inflated sense of self-importance.

  I tortured Christy with an intense breathing exercise and moved on to her college audition pieces. Christy was planning on going into music education. That meant she needed to sing two classical songs for her auditions for the college programs to which she’d applied. The English song went beautifully. Christy had a pure tone and good command of dynamics. Unfortunately, her memorization of the Italian piece left a lot to be desired. After three tries, I asked her to get out her music and use the words so we could work on the rest.

  Ten minutes later, Christy walked out of the practice room with a stern warning from me to get the Italian song memorized. Then my next lesson walked in. This one was a freshman who had trouble not only with memorization but with nerves. Anytime I looked at her, she turned three shades of red and lost all ability to sing. But in the odd moments she wasn’t in a total panic, she showed huge potential.

  My last lesson of the day was out sick. Left with time on my hands, I closeted myself in Larry’s office and ran a search on Jonathan McMann. The length of the man’s résumé wasn’t a surprise considering he was at least a decade older than the other soloists. According to the website, Jonathan traveled extensively for the first fifteen years of his career before settling down here in Chicago. Since then he’d taken the occasional out-of-town gig, but mainly performed at the Lyric. For the past seven years, he had moonlighted as a Northwestern professor.

  On a whim, I brought up the university website and clicked until I found the vocal music faculty page. Wow. I wondered how Jonathan felt about David Richard’s picture being front and center. The page was also strewn with quotes regarding David’s outstanding work with young singers.

  After a few more clicks, I found an article the Daily Herald had run trumpeting David Richard’s arrival on the Northwestern faculty. The chair of the music department was quoted as saying, “We hope this partnership will extend past this current academic year. With luck, David Richard will decide to make Chicago his permanent home.”

  Setting aside the info on Jonathan, I pulled up whatever I could find on Magdalena. She and David had crossed paths at least a dozen times in the past decade. Magdalena and Jonathan had also worked on a handful of shows together. Not surprising, but I had to wonder if either of those past relationships factored into the current murders.

  The end-of-day bell rang as I hit print on an article about Magdalena’s foray into composition. I added the pages to my enormous pile of investigative materials and then grabbed my stuff and headed to the theater for rehearsal. Time to put the murders out of my head and get the kids ready for tomorrow night’s concert.

  “Ms. Marshall.”

  I turned and spotted Eric racing down the hallway toward me. His all-American face was filled with concern.

  “Are you okay?” he panted. “I was listening to the news during study hall. The reporter said that a member of the Messiah production team died and that one of the singers from the show found him and called the police.”

  While I really wanted to play the responsible teacher card and chastise Eric for listening to the radio during study hall, the concerned look on his face had me saying, “I’m fine, Eric. Honest. The cops are handling it.”

  “What if a serial killer is targeting members of the cast? You could be next.”

  Cheery thought. Sadly, there was a chance he wasn’t far off the truth. “Look, I’m okay. I’ll be even better when you and the rest of the choir show that the new number is ready for tomorrow night’s performance. Otherwise, I have a feeling Chessie and her parents will get to me before any serial killer does.”


  Eric’s face reddened at the mention of his girlfriend, but his eyes didn’t lose their determined focus. Thank goodness the girlfriend in question had great timing. Chessie bounded down the hall, snaked her arm through Eric’s, and gave a toss of her long brown hair. “You forgot to wait for me after ninth period.” Her pink-glossed lips pouted.

  “Sorry.” Eric gave her a wide smile. “I needed to talk to Ms. Marshall about the second lift in the new number. The last time we ran it, I felt a little shaky. I don’t want to risk dropping you.”

  I had to give the kid props. He lied like a champ. Chessie beamed at her boyfriend’s concern and dragged him into the theater while chattering about plans for some party or another. I waited a few seconds and then followed them inside.

  Today was the dress rehearsal with the band. When I’d started this job, I hadn’t realized that competitive show choirs have their own band. According to the band director, Jim Williams, being chosen for the show choir band was a huge honor. That kind of made me think the band kids needed a life, but I wasn’t about to complain. Getting the most talented instrumentalists in the school to accompany the choir made my job a whole lot easier. At least it would if Larry and Jim didn’t let their perpetual power struggle get in the way. Jim was chairman of the music department. Larry ran the more high-profile program and had the financial backing of the choir boosters. Each wanted things done his way, or else. I just hoped the “or else” part didn’t happen today. My nerves couldn’t take it.

  The band was setting up their instruments on stage right. Jim was directing traffic while Larry stood next to him, whispering in his ear. From the way Jim’s eyes bulged, I’d guess Larry wasn’t asking him to catch a drink after rehearsal. Time to step in.

  I dumped my stuff on a chair, climbed onto the stage, and sauntered over to the band as Jim pointed a finger at Larry and yelled, “I don’t care if your choir needs extra space to dance. The band can’t move any farther stage right or we’ll be in the wings.”

  Larry actually seemed to be considering that option, so I hurried to say, “I think a couple of the freshman guys are having trouble with their bow ties. Why don’t you help them, Larry? I’ll work with Jim to get things set up here.”

  Once Larry disappeared into the wings, I gave Jim my widest smile and asked, “How can I help?”

  Jim was a sweet guy with two college-age kids and a wife who baked cookies at least once a week for the teacher’s lounge. He was also a sucker for flattering words and a couple of well-placed giggles. Was I flirting with him? Maybe a little, but it got things reorganized in a way that gave the dancers more space and still allowed the band to be seen by the audience. Sometimes a person has to resort to a little eye-batting to get things done.

  Walking away from Jim, I had to wonder if Vanessa had flirted with David when they ran into each other all those years ago. Maybe things went further than flirting? Not an unusual thing to happen among performers—especially ones who were looking to make a name for themselves. Hooking up with a rising star to bolster a career wasn’t my style, but it might have appealed to someone as ambitious as Vanessa. And his lack of memory of that relationship years later would certainly be a slap to her ego.

  Of course, even if my speculation was close to the truth, it was a pretty far jump from a woman scorned to murderess. Still, it might be worth asking a few questions. Just in case.

  “Ms. Marshall.”

  Oy. I plastered a smile on my face and turned. “Yes, Chessie?”

  The teen looked stunning in the red satin dress trimmed with faux white fur. “My throat feels scratchy. Would it be okay if I didn’t sing today? I’d hate to lose my voice before tomorrow night’s performance, especially after you said how much you depend on me.”

  Yeah, right. The girl’s eyes flashed with malicious mischief. The energy rolling off her was of pure glee. One thing was certain, if Chessie wanted Broadway in her future, she’d have to invest in acting classes. Lots of them.

  Chessie was waiting for me to question whether she was really sick or push her to sing through the phantom illness. If I questioned her vocal distress, she’d run to her parents and report my lack of sensitivity. Since I wasn’t about to give her more ammunition to use against me, I said, “If you don’t want to sing today, you don’t have to. I’m sure Megan will be more than willing to step in and sing your solo.”

  Ha! Chessie didn’t see that one coming. Her eyes narrowed as she contemplated the implications of Megan singing not one, but two features. After a moment, she smiled. “Maybe I could try to sing the first number and see how I feel. I’d hate to put Megan on the spot. She’s already nervous enough about the solo you just assigned to her.”

  Right, and hell was paved with ice-cream sandwiches.

  “Let’s see how you feel.” My voice oozed sympathy. “I’ll tell Megan to be prepared just in case.” Before Chessie retreated, I decided to put one other issue to rest. “Hey, Chessie, how is the Secret Santa thing going? Have you figured out who your Santa is?”

  I looked for glimmers of guilt or excitement in the kid’s expression. Coincidence was hard to swallow, but I’d rather believe the hanging Santa was an evil prank pulled by a willful teen as opposed to a warning from a cold-blooded killer.

  Instead of guilt, annoyance flickered across Chessie’s face. “The whole Secret Santa thing is lame. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

  With a toss of her hair, she tromped off, not knowing her parting words caused more damage than anything else she’d said or done. Chessie’s lack of acting skills made one thing certain—she wasn’t behind Suicide Santa. The killer was.

  My stomach dropped. The killer knew where I worked. If the killer came after me here, I wouldn’t be the only one in danger. My students would end up in the line of fire, too.

  Chapter 8

  Chessie’s singing voice was strong and clear throughout rehearsal. Not a surprise. The rest of the choir looked and sounded fabulous as they finished the seasonal portion of their repertoire. Then they darted off to change costumes for their competition set.

  Ignoring the knot lodged in my chest, I asked Jim to have the band lower the volume in a few specific spots. I then settled back in my seat in the center of the theater to watch the next part of the show. Devlyn joined me as the choir members took their places for the second half of the program.

  “Relax,” he whispered. His hand closed over mine and gave it a quick squeeze. “I saw the first set from the light booth. They’re looking good.”

  I bit my lip and nodded as the lighting changed. The band started playing, and the choir began its next number. Sequins sparkled under the stage lights. The kids twisted, twirled, and sang their hearts out. There were a few spacing issues that needed fixing, and a harmony or two that I wanted to tweak. I jotted notes and held my breath as the band played the intro to the new number. The soloists were strong. That was good. The background vocals were better than they had been earlier. But the kids’ lack of confidence with the dance steps was obvious. Though not bad, the dancing wasn’t as polished as the other numbers and didn’t have the spark. Eventually, it would. The potential was there. Would the school board agree?

  I had the choir practice its costume changes, smoothed some of the trouble spots, and gave a few additional notes to the band. Finally, I said, “No rehearsal in the morning. I want you to be rested and ready for the concert tomorrow night. Mr. O’Shea, Mr. DeWeese, and I have asked a lot of you this week. We’re all incredibly proud of the work you’ve done.”

  I meant every word. My chest tightened. My throat ached as I sniffled back the tears.

  Pushing aside the swell of emotions, I choked out, “Get changed. Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And the kids raced off stage.

  “No rehearsal tomorrow?” Larry scrambled up the escape stairs. “But they need rehearsal. What about the school board?”
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  “The team will perform better if we ease off and give them a break.” Not to mention that a killer couldn’t target them if they weren’t within fifty feet of me. I wouldn’t step foot on school property tomorrow until our call time for the concert. And only then if I could guarantee the students would be safe.

  A text from our assistant stage manager, Jenny, told me tonight’s Messiah rehearsal was still on. There was also a text from Aunt Millie. She’d heard about the newest death and wanted to make sure I was okay.

  I considered going back to Aunt Millie’s house to grab dinner and reassure her of my safety but decided against it. Millie’s message implied she wasn’t home. Without my aunt in residence, Killer would be guarding the refrigerator, which meant another showdown. I wasn’t up to that battle, so I opted to stop at McDonald’s instead. Supersize fries always made me feel like I could take on the world. On top of that, the closest restaurant happened to be a hop, skip, and a jump from a person I really needed to talk to.

  I had just sat down with my salad and monster-size fries as Mike Kaiser appeared in the doorway, looking cold and annoyed. He scanned the room, spotted me in the back, and nodded. A couple minutes later he slid across from me with his own tray.

  “Glad you decided to take me up on the date.” He winked as he unwrapped a double-stacked hamburger. “We could have gone somewhere a little nicer. Cops don’t make a fortune, but I know how to treat a girl right.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I told you this wasn’t a date. I need help with something.” Mike’s cocky grin said he didn’t believe a word I was saying. “Have you talked to Detective Frewen today?”