End Me a Tenor

by Joelle Charbonneau

  “The man was a royal pain in the ass.” Jack cheerfully sawed at his breakfast steak and popped a piece into his mouth. He spoke while he chewed. “And from what I’ve heard, David wasn’t much of a teacher.”

  I ignored the view of partially masticated meat in Jack’s mouth and asked, “Then why did he accept a guest artist position when it was offered to him?”

  Jack shook his head and shoveled more food. “He wasn’t offered the job. He asked for it.”

  My fork clanged against the side of my plate. “Why?”

  “The dean said it was because David loved the city and was compelled to give back to the next generation of singers.”

  “You don’t believe that?” I asked.

  Jack slathered an English muffin with butter and grape jelly before taking a big bite. “The man canceled half the lessons he was scheduled to teach and was late to every one of his master classes. Teaching was the last thing David Richard wanted to do.”

  “So why was David Richard really here at Northwestern?” Millie touched Jack’s fork-free hand. He promptly turned three shades of red and started to choke. Millie didn’t blink. She just leaned over and smacked him on the back—hard. The momentum pitched him toward his plate of food. Before I could react, Millie stopped his forward movement and pushed him back in his chair a split second before his nose made contact with his steak. Looking serene, Millie picked up her coffee cup and took a small sip. Clearly, the agility classes she was taking Killer to had rubbed off.

  Jack cleared his throat and looked down at the table as though wishing it would swallow him whole. When the table didn’t comply, he picked up his fork, straightened his shoulders, and did the next best thing to disappearing—he pretended the embarrassing event had never happened. “What did you ask again, Millie?”

  My aunt gave him a sweet smile. “If David Richard didn’t like teaching, why was he at Northwestern? He must have had hundreds of other opportunities to choose from.”

  “He did.” Jack resumed eating. “At the two fund-raisers I got him to attend, David told anyone who would listen about the opportunities he gave up in order to take the one-year guest artist position. London, Rome, Tokyo, New York. He put them all on hold so he could help discover the next great opera singer. At least, that was the way his public relations team was spinning it to smooth out the rough edges of his reputation. Too bad the only thing he discovered was how to rub his colleagues the wrong way.”

  “He wasn’t well-liked by the faculty?”

  Jack laughed. I winced. The combination of red jelly and meat in his mouth looked like blood. It was disturbing to say the least. Jack didn’t notice my discomfort as he explained, “The other faculty members were counting the days until David’s contract expired. Especially Cynthia Goodrich, Mark Krauss, and Jonathan McMann. The three of them went wild when they heard David asked the dean for a permanent, full-time teaching position.”

  I knew Cynthia Goodrich by reputation. Strong soprano voice. Even stronger teaching skills. Cynthia’s former students were gracing opera stages across the world. The opportunity to work with her was one of the reasons vocal performance students wanted to attend Northwestern. Jonathan I knew, but while the name Mark Krauss rang a bell, I couldn’t remember why.

  Thank goodness Millie jumped to my rescue. She asked about the other teachers, which gave Jack a chance to flex his fund-raising muscles while extolling the virtues of Northwestern’s teachers. As he talked about Mark’s wonderful work with the university’s choral program, it hit me. “Mark Krauss is the tenor section leader for the Messiah ensemble.”

  Jack nodded. “He also sings in a number of award-winning chamber groups. The man is a good singer, but his real passion is teaching. He takes pride in Northwestern’s dedication to the students. That’s why he organized the petition to keep David Richard from being offered a permanent faculty position. The petition drew criticism from some of the higher-ups, but Mark didn’t care. He’s the kind of guy who puts students first.”

  He was also a guy with possible motive and opportunity. That put him smack at the top of my suspect list. Hoping to learn more about the motive part, I asked, “Do you know why Mark wanted to keep David from being offered a spot on the faculty?”

  “The petition said it was to maintain the high standards of teaching at the school.” Jack shoveled the last of the home fries into his mouth. “While I’m sure that was part of it, teaching standards aren’t the typical reason men get into fistfights. You know?”

  Nope. I didn’t know. But I was dying to find out. “When did Mark and David get into a fight?”

  “It was during the faculty meeting just before the end of semester. From what I’ve heard, one minute Mark and David were talking in the corner of the room, the next the two were brawling.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Probably over a woman,” Millie guessed as she adjusted her glasses. “Men think women are impressed by out-of-control testosterone. Personally, I’ve never been all that excited when men fight over me. They always expect me to tend their wounds and clean their clothes. Do you know how hard it is to get bloodstains out of linen shirts? After the sixth or seventh time you start to get the hang of it, but still . . .”

  Jack gaped at Millie. I just shook my head and asked, “Did anyone tell you what the fight was about?”

  “A few people speculated that David insulted Mark’s wife, but no one really knows. When I ran into Mark, I asked him about it. He said he overreacted and clammed up about the rest.” Jack shoved the last third of his English muffin into his mouth and chased it with coffee. He swallowed, then changed subjects and told Aunt Millie how fabulous she looked.

  I tuned out Jack’s attempts at flattery and considered my newest suspect. If the university had been in session, I could have sauntered into the School of Music and arranged to bump into Mark Krauss. Unfortunately, school was out until January. That put a crimp in my nonexistent investigation style. It’s not like I could march up to Mark’s door and ask him questions. If he was the killer, that tact would most likely land me in the same state as David and Bill—dead.

  Since I wanted to keep breathing, I decided to let the whole investigating Mark problem simmer in the back of my brain while I shifted my focus to tracking down the poison. Finding where the poison was acquired meant finding the killer. I needed to start focusing on jewelry stores and photographers. The sheer volume of jewelry stores in the North Shore alone made investigating that avenue daunting at best. Photography seemed more manageable. How many artsy photographers could possibly be using potassium cyanide for their work? The number had to be low, right?

  By the time Jack had finished putting the moves on Millie and Millie had sufficiently deflated his hopes, I had my next investigative move planned.

  I settled into the passenger seat of the hot pink Caddy and asked, “Do you know any artistic photographers?”

  Yikes. I smacked against the seat belt as the car that had just started moving jolted to a stop. I looked around for the cause of Millie’s sudden braking and saw nothing. No other moving cars in sight.

  I turned to my aunt and was floored by the anger shimmering in her eyes. Pointing a finger at me, she said, “Paige Marshall, if you need money, you only need to ask me for a loan.”

  I blinked. “I don’t need a loan.” What I needed was a translator, because I didn’t understand my aunt’s train of thought.

  “Look.” Millie put the car in park. “I know you don’t want to take money from me. I admire that. You know I support a woman’s right to make whatever choices are correct for her and her career. But I want you to think twice before making a decision that will impact both your performing and teaching.”

  Okay, now I was really confused. What did seeing an artistic photographer have to do with my career? I was going to ask when it hit me. Oh my God!

  “You think I want to be in Pla
yboy?”

  Millie sighed. “I know those kinds of magazines pay well . . .”

  I couldn’t decide if I was insulted that Millie thought I’d pose naked for cash or flattered since I was past the age of a typical Playmate. I opted for the flattered route. It required less emotional angst. Carefully, I explained about the role potassium cyanide played in the wet collodion photography technique.

  Understanding dawned in my aunt’s eyes, along with a healthy dose of embarrassment. Putting the car back in gear, she said, “Kitty Upson is always going to art galleries. She took some art classes a while back. Her work was horrendous, but it wasn’t a complete loss since the art teacher became husband number four. So far the marriage and the gallery attending have stuck. If anyone would know who the artistic photographers are, it would be them.”

  Millie found the number and hit send on her cell with one hand while steering the car out into traffic with the other. She cut off three cars, blew one stop sign, and almost plowed into a garbage truck while she chatted with Kitty. By the time she hung up the phone, I’d promised my first-born child to the automotive gods and Millie had the names of two Chicagoland photographers known for their wet-plate technique. Aunt Millie also had a thousand-dollar order for Mary Kay products, which she promised would arrive in time for Christmas. No grass growing under Millie’s feet.

  First stop: LaVon Brady. Kitty’s husband said LaVon was a black-and-white photographic specialist whose most recent gallery show featured the wet-plate technique. A quick Google search on Millie’s phone landed the number for the gallery in question. We also ended up in an intimate relationship with a Dumpster, which I was working hard to pretend never happened. Taking Millie’s phone from her hand, I instructed her to concentrate on driving. I called the gallery and got a recorded message: Due to the holiday shopping season, the gallery was now open two hours earlier. Score.

  The Brady Gallery was located in a warehouse loft on the north side of the city. While the redbrick warehouse appeared several decades old, the condos and shops on the street looked brand-new.

  After a ten-minute search for parking, Millie and I hurried through the biting wind down the sidewalk to the Brady Gallery. A large sign on the front door advertised the show of a new up-and-coming artist. Inside, the warehouse space had hardwood floors, brick walls, and wooden rafters. The paintings on the wall looked like something Killer could create if Millie provided him with Crayola watercolors and some paper. The nearest canvas was streaked with an indecipherable pattern of blue, purple, and a strange brown-green color that couldn’t possibly be found in nature. A quick glance at the price tag made me yelp. Murder wasn’t the only crime being committed this holiday season.

  “Can I help you ladies?” An impossibly tall, dark-skinned woman, made that much taller by spiky pink heels and a pink and turquoise turban, sauntered toward us.

  I smiled. “My aunt was hoping to see some of LaVon Brady’s work. We’re told Ms. Brady is one of the few artists in the city who experiment with wet-plate technique.”

  Turban Woman straightened her shoulders, which made her look even taller. “I’m LaVon Brady, and yes, I am one of two artists in the city who use the wet-plate technique. It’s a historic and time-intensive practice that requires a great deal of skill and patience. I believe that no time is wasted when it is dedicated to great art.”

  If what was on the walls was LaVon’s idea of great art, I would have argued that the time used would have been better spent on a nap.

  Nodding, I asked, “Are any of your wet-plate photographs still available for sale? We’ve heard so much about them. It would be an honor to look at your work.”

  LaVon beamed. “A great number of pieces sold during my last show, but I do have one or two here in the gallery. There are also a few back in my personal studio.”

  “Can we see the ones that are here?” my aunt asked. “I’m looking for a holiday present for a very special friend.” Before LaVon could say yea or nay, Millie added, “Cost is no object.”

  I could see dollar signs dancing through LaVon’s head as she asked us to follow her. By the time we reached the back of the gallery, my head was spinning from the wild array of colors and vegetable-like shapes we’d passed. LaVon claimed the paintings were getting rave reviews in the art world. Clearly, the art critics were blind or insane.

  We stepped into a small side room and the colorful veggies were replaced by stunning black-and-white photographs. Chicago buildings. Shots of the lake. And one of a little girl and her grandmother feeding the pigeons in a park. While the two people were smiling, something about the shadows gave the scene an ominous feel. LaVon had talent.

  LaVon led us to a corner of the room and pointed. “Those two photographs are part of my recent show.” Both photographs were portraits. One was of a little girl with enormous eyes and lots of freckles. The other was of a woman who looked as though she’d spent the last several hours mailing her holiday packages at the post office. Both photographs drew attention to the subjects’ eyes. The price tags were as exorbitant as the ones on the vegetable paintings, but in my opinion the photographs were worth the money.

  Too bad complimenting LaVon wasn’t going to get me the answers I was looking for. I needed to know if my suspects were her friends or clients.

  Frowning, I said, “These are fantastic, but I don’t think they’re exactly what my aunt is looking for.”

  “My friend prefers photographs of objects or landscapes.” Millie adjusted her glasses. “It’s a shame you don’t have anything like that here. You do such beautiful work. You mentioned having others back in your studio . . .”

  LaVon preened under my aunt’s praise. “I have an album of all the work that appeared in my most recent show. Several of the ones I still have at my studio might fit what you’re looking for. I’d be happy to bring out the book and let you flip through it. If a piece is to your liking, I can arrange for you to see it in person. Wait here.”

  LaVon moved like lightning on those ice-pick heels. Within moments, she’d returned with a huge black binder and placed it in my aunt’s hands. Each page had a 5 x 7 photograph of one of LaVon’s pieces. Beneath each photograph was the title of the work, a typewritten description, and the price. If the work had already been sold, the name of the buyer was listed.

  I read each buyer’s name as Millie slowly turned the pages. My heart tripped when I saw one that was familiar. Listed as the purchaser of one of the less expensive but still pricy wet-plate photographs was a man I’d last seen hanging from his kitchen rafters: our former stage manager, Bill Walters.

  Chapter 12

  Millie cooed over the photos and asked questions. LaVon smiled as she talked about the techniques involved in using nineteenth-century equipment to capture the images. I couldn’t get my mind to focus on anything but Bill’s name written in neat block handwriting under that photograph.

  Out of all the names I might have recognized, his was the last I’d expected to see. Bill’s complete access to the theater made him an obvious suspect. Or would have, had he not been dead. Maybe Bill had killed David and someone learned he was the murderer. That person could have been angry enough to avenge David’s death. But I found that scenario hard to swallow. Why take that kind of risk? If someone wanted Bill punished, all he or she would have to do is pick up the phone and dial 911. Besides, while lots of people admired David’s talent, I doubted anyone cared enough to kill for him.

  Could Bill owning a wet-plate photograph be a coincidence? Anything was possible. Too bad I was having a hard time convincing myself of that.

  When LaVon started giving Millie the hard sell, I interrupted and asked, “Isn’t it dangerous to use the wet-plate technique?”

  Annoyance flickered over LaVon’s features before they settled back into a smile. “Great art always involves risk.”

  She turned back to Millie, and I asked, “Death is a pre
tty big risk for your art, don’t you think?”

  The woman’s head swung toward me so fast her turban slid precariously to the left. “The chemicals involved in wet-plate technique are dangerous if used improperly. That’s one of the reasons schools don’t often teach the process and what makes photographs using the technique so valuable. Now, if you like one of these—”

  “If the chemicals are dangerous, are the photographs safe to own?” I bit my lip and put on my best concerned face. “My aunt’s friend has children. They might not want to hang something on their wall that has potassium cyanide on it.”

  LaVon’s eyes bulged and her turban hit the floor with a thud, exposing hair that clearly hadn’t recently seen a brush. Taking deep breaths, the artist stooped down, picked up her head covering, and gave me a scary-looking smile. If Millie weren’t around, LaVon would be using me for turban target practice. Good thing I wasn’t here to make friends.

  Through clenched teeth she said, “I can see how you might be concerned, but I assure you that none of my photographs have been created with potassium cyanide.” Her nostrils flared, but I gave her huge credit for the calm tone. “I have chosen to use hypo thiosulfate. While this is not historically accurate and I don’t make it widely known, I am of the belief that all art must evolve. I have chosen to take place in that evolution.”

  Translation: LaVon Brady didn’t want to die.

  Since I was equally opposed to death, I decided I should probably get out of there before LaVon could inflict damage with her long, pink nails. Still, there was something I had to know. “I saw that Bill Walters purchased one of your wet-plate photographs.”

  “Many people purchase my photographs.” The tone told me my worry about LaVon using her nails wasn’t all that far off. It was time to ask my final questions and clear out.