End Me a Tenor

by Joelle Charbonneau

  “Bill and I are friends.” Or were. Sort of. “Do you know him personally? A referral from him would go a long way to convince us that the photographs are safe.”

  LaVon looked to my aunt, who nodded on cue.

  With an exaggerated sigh, LaVon said, “Give me that,” and pawed through the pages of her book until she reached the photograph purchased by Bill. “I vaguely remember this sale. It took place a couple weeks ago, just before my show closed. The gallery was busy, so one of my staff handled the transaction. However, when I’m in the gallery I insist on meeting any customer who buys one of my pieces. I regret to say this record of sale is wrong.”

  “Why?”

  LaVon closed the book with a snap. “Because the purchaser I met was a woman.”

  Too bad the only other details LaVon was almost positive she recalled was that the woman was shorter than LaVon herself (which only eliminated players in the WNBA) and wearing a black dress. When asked about hair or skin tone, LaVon shrugged and said the person was white.

  Back in the car, I considered what I’d learned. Bill’s purchase of the photograph, or lack of one, was important. Whoever killed Bill must have purchased the photographs and signed his name to the sales certificate weeks ago in order to frame him for David’s murder. If the cops had bought into the suicide, they would have most likely found the purchase logs at LaVon’s gallery and assumed Bill had managed to get the potassium cyanide for David’s murder from her studio. Two cases closed. Problem solved.

  Only, the killer didn’t do enough research. LaVon was too squeamish to use potassium cyanide in her work. So, even if the cops believed Bill’s suicide note, they would have traced the poison source to the gallery and realized that the whole thing was a setup. The murderer, whoever he or she was, had made a mistake. I could only hope that as I continued digging I’d find a few more.

  While Millie drove back to the North Shore, I placed a call to the other wet-plate photographer on Kitty’s list. Yes, the artist used potassium cyanide in his work. To do otherwise would be less than true to his art form. I rolled my eyes and said, “I’m looking for a holiday gift for a friend who loves historical art, but I’m concerned one of my other friends might have beaten me to it. Would you mind looking through your records to make sure they haven’t yet purchased something? I would hate to look unoriginal. How tacky would that be?”

  Millie snickered as she recognized my impersonation of one of her best clients. The woman gravitated toward anything that was one of a kind, no matter the expense or the tackiness quotient. I’d last seen Millie’s client at the country club’s incredibly dull Give Thanks dinner-dance. Her gown was puce silk embellished with gold beads and turkey feathers. Throughout the night, Aunt Millie and I waited for Elmer Fudd to come through the door with his gun to liven things up. Sadly, the only lively event was Aldo tripping over a seeing-eye-dog’s leash and ending up headfirst in the bowl of champagne punch. I laughed. Millie was mortified. Aldo was thrilled. He said it was the best bubble bath he’d had in twenty years.

  The artist on the phone was either impressed by my impersonation or bored silly, because he agreed to fire up his computer and do a search of his buyer list. I went through each suspect, adding in Bill Walters’s and David Richard’s names for good measure. None of them appeared on the list. Huh.

  After thanking the artist for his time, I hung up and tried to decide what my next move should be. It wasn’t until the car had come to a stop that I realized Millie had already chosen our next adventure: shopping at the mall. As though having a killer stalking me wasn’t enough—now I had to face down desperate shoppers and crazed clerks. Talk about joy to the world.

  Before I could protest, Millie jumped out of the car and trekked through the slush to the stores far in the distance. Despite my aunt’s choice of high-heeled footwear, she streaked across the icy asphalt like she was wearing snowshoes. My boots slipped and slid as I hurried to catch up. Maybe it was a good thing we were going to the mall. I needed better footwear.

  It wasn’t until we walked through the doors of the first store that I asked, “Why are we at the mall?”

  “I need help picking out Aldo’s gift.”

  “Why?” My aunt had a black belt in object acquisition. She never needed help selecting gifts.

  “I want Aldo’s gift to convey the correct message.”

  “It’s a Christmas gift, not a fortune cookie.”

  Aunt Millie frowned while the soundtrack playing over the speakers sang about Grandma getting plowed over by reindeer. “Aldo is very dear to me. I want this gift to demonstrate how I feel about him.”

  Maybe Aldo was right. Maybe Aunt Millie had changed her outlook. Maybe this time was going to be different. Picturing my aunt in a hot pink bridal gown, I followed her to the men’s department and watched as she made a beeline toward a deep burgundy satin robe cut in the style of an old-fashioned smoking jacket. The color was sexy, the fabric expensive. And bedroom-wear always screamed romance.

  I started to say the robe was perfect when Millie brushed by it on her quest to pick up . . . a pair of cashmere socks. “What do you think of these?”

  Oh God! “You want to give Aldo socks? That seems kind of . . .” Like a kiss-off? “Impersonal.”

  “Aldo has cold feet.”

  I had a feeling Aldo’s feet weren’t the issue. The only cold feet that really mattered belonged to my aunt. And the only way Aldo was going to get my aunt to say yes to his proposal was through divine intervention.

  Since God had a lot on his plate, I decided to take a crack at it. “Those socks look more like something you’d buy Great-Uncle Ed. Don’t you think?” Great-Uncle Ed was known for making sock puppets to entertain me and my brother. When we were little, we thought it was delightful. Now that we were adults, we found the continuing behavior a little creepy. Not to mention the fact that Great-Uncle Ed wasn’t known for his faithfulness to showering.

  Seeing my aunt falter, I took the opportunity to steer her back to the satin robe. “I think this would be a much better choice for Aldo.”

  My aunt ran a finger down the fabric and frowned. “It’s the perfect color for him, but don’t you think this is too . . . intimate? I wouldn’t want to give him the wrong idea.”

  The man was sleeping in my aunt’s bed. The robe wouldn’t misdirect him any further. “Why don’t you buy it now—just in case. You can always take it back if you find something you like better.”

  “You’re right.” Millie grinned and plucked the robe off the rack. “I don’t know what I was so worried about.”

  Bolstered by the purchase, Millie tore through the store like a champ. By the time she was done, she had purchased several sweaters, two pairs of pants, a set of embroidered handkerchiefs, and a pair of silk pajamas for Aldo—all of which she would probably return. The socks she bought for Great-Uncle Ed. Score one for me.

  Loaded down with bags, we walked out of the store into the brisk December air. “Now what?” I asked.

  “I thought Aldo might like a pair of cufflinks.”

  The crowd roaming the sidewalks of the outdoor mall had multiplied since we first arrived. And while it was sunny, the wind was cold. Walking around the mall didn’t have much appeal.

  “They had cufflinks in there,” I said, pointing to the warmth of the store we had just exited.

  Millie’s eyes twinkled. “I was thinking we need to visit a high-end jewelry store. You said those are the ones that use potassium cyanide, right? I just so happen to have a friend who owns a jewelry store in Evanston. Why don’t we pay her a visit?”

  I smiled and linked my arm through hers. “That sounds like a great idea.”

  The jewelry store in question was housed in a beige building with black awnings in the heart of downtown Evanston. I closed my eyes as Millie wedged her Caddy between two SUVs, and then followed my aunt inside. After a mall teeming
with crazed shoppers and blaring holiday music, the jewelry store with its softly played Tchaikovsky and half-dozen sedate customers was soothing.

  A gray-haired woman in a smart black suit nodded at us as she pulled a tray of rings out of a gleaming glass case. Aunt Millie nodded back and whispered, “That’s Gayle. She owns the store and designs most of the pieces she sells.”

  Gayle’s customer tried on a dozen rings, hemmed and hawed, and eventually left empty-handed. Calmly, Gayle placed the rings back in the case and waved us over.

  “Couldn’t get the customer to make a decision?” my aunt asked.

  “Oh, Barbara made a decision.” Gayle laughed. “Now she’ll go home and drop the card to the store on the kitchen table so her husband will know she was here. He’ll come by tomorrow and purchase the ring she liked, along with a couple of other things I pick out for her. Then the rest of the year they’ll tell everyone how he always guesses exactly what gift she wants. It’s been our little tradition for the past fourteen years.”

  Gayle gave Millie a sly smile. “Are you here to start your own holiday tradition? We’re having a fantastic sale on tourmaline jewelry. There’s a terrific hot pink necklace with your name on it.”

  Millie’s eyes brightened, and Gayle led her over to a case along the back wall. The white gold, tourmaline, and diamond necklace was pink and sparkly and perfect for my aunt.

  “We used to have a matching diamond and pink tourmaline ring, but I sold it earlier this week. Tourmalines are popular this year. If you like this piece, you might want to snap it up.”

  While my aunt contemplated the bright and shiny object in front of her, I said, “Gayle, I’ve read a story that some jewelry stores use potassium cyanide to clean jewelry. Is that true?”

  Gayle raised an eyebrow and looked at my aunt. Millie said, “My niece is investigating David Richard’s murder,” and promptly went back to admiring the sparkly jewels.

  The eyebrow raised higher. “You’re a police detective?”

  I sighed and shot my aunt a dirty look, which she didn’t have the decency to notice. “I’m a classical singer. I was at rehearsal the night David was murdered. Whoever killed him used potassium cyanide.”

  Gayle sighed. “I heard about the murder, and I apologize if you think my questioning your motives for asking was rude.” A small frown crossed her face. “At least once or twice a year someone asks me if they can buy potassium cyanide. It’s a popular choice for suicides.”

  There was a cheery thought. “What do you tell people when they ask?”

  “That we don’t have potassium cyanide in the store and that, while it does a wonderful job cleaning gold, the poison is too difficult to obtain for us to bother with it.”

  “Is that the truth?” Millie asked. Her attention had shifted from jewelry to murder.

  “No.” Gayle lowered her voice. “I have potassium cyanide tablets under lock and key in my studio upstairs. None of the staff know they’re there.”

  I noticed several of the staff members in question watching our little powwow with interest. Perhaps they weren’t as unobservant as Gayle might like to believe. “How can you be sure?”

  “I suppose I can’t be 100 percent certain,” Gayle admitted. “But I only use potassium cyanide under very specific circumstances and only when I’m certain I’m alone in the studio. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for a member of my staff inhaling the fumes too deeply or ingesting it by mistake. As you’ve seen firsthand, potassium cyanide can be incredibly dangerous.”

  Millie frowned. “Then why use it?”

  “Because jewelers are crazy.” Gayle smiled. “The cyanide solution strips the gold, which might sound like a bad thing since it means a small fraction of the gold is removed. But it leaves the metal looking much brighter. I use the cyanide solution after I complete a new piece to get it ready for display in the showroom.”

  “Have you used it recently?” I asked. “I guess what I’m asking is would you know if any of the potassium cyanide in your studio is missing?”

  “I have. I would, and no, nothing is missing.” Gayle leaned across the jewelry case. “If you think there’s a chance someone took cyanide from a jewelry store, I’d be happy to ask around to make sure none has gone missing. Most stores don’t use it, but a few, like me, still do.”

  “That would be great,” I said. Detective Frewen was no doubt questioning jewelers about their stashes of potassium cyanide, but I was betting Gayle could get that information faster. Which left one last question. “Where do you buy the potassium cyanide? Do you need a special permit or something?”

  Gayle gave me a small smile. “With a business license and photo ID, a person can obtain potassium cyanide at any jewelry supply store.”

  While it was nice to know jewelry supply stores had a record of everyone who purchased potentially lethal products, I wasn’t all that hopeful about tracking the killer that way. He or she would have had to be pretty stupid to purchase a murder weapon under a real name. If I was wrong, Detective Frewen would have the culprit behind bars in no time. And boy would I like to be wrong.

  On the off chance Detective Frewen wasn’t at this moment making an arrest, I decided to forge ahead with my own investigation. Tracking the poison was proving more difficult than I’d originally thought it would be. For now, I’d leave that avenue to the pros and focus on an area I might be able to make some progress. While Millie succumbed to bejeweled temptation and forked over her credit card, I considered options for getting information about David’s relationships with my primary suspects without drawing attention to myself. I had a cast list at home with Jonathan’s and Vanessa’s addresses on it. Maybe I could “happen” to bump into them . . .

  The ring of my cell phone cut off my train of thought. I fished through my purse and looked at the display.

  Larry.

  He was probably calling to say we didn’t have enough tinsel on the front of the stage. The man was obsessed with making the theater look as shiny as possible. I wasn’t sure if that was a commentary on his decorating aesthetic or his worries that the audience would need something to distract them during my choir’s performance.

  I flipped open the phone prepared to talk Larry off the ledge. Yep—I was right. Larry was upset. Only this wasn’t about decorations. Between the high pitch of his voice, bad reception in the store, and Larry’s stuttering I could only understand a few words. The ones I caught made my knees buckle.

  “Come now . . . trouble . . . Megan . . . dead.”

  Chapter 13

  I took several deep breaths and asked, “Did you say Megan was dead?” No response. I looked down at my phone. Crap. No bars.

  I walked toward the front doors, hoping to regain my phone signal. “Hello? Larry?” My phone display told me I now had a signal. Larry, however, was long gone.

  Punching in Larry’s number, I waved my thanks to Gayle, told my aunt we had to go, and hurried out the door knowing Millie would be right behind. The phone rang five times and went to voice mail. Larry must be in a reception dead zone or he was too busy to answer. I left a quick message telling him I was on my way, hung up, and dialed Devlyn. Maybe he’d know what was going on. Straight to voice mail. Damn.

  I considered calling the school’s office and decided against it. If something terrible had happened, the office staff would be swamped with calls from panicked parents. While I was freaked, parents would be even more upset. Their needs came first. And on the off chance Larry was overreacting, clueing the office staff in on the problem wasn’t going to help anyone.

  Saying a quick prayer that Megan was okay, I hopped into Millie’s car and gave her the rundown on Larry’s phone call. I asked my aunt to drive to Prospect Glen High School—fast—and turned on the radio. Something bad happening at a high school would be a lead story. At least it would be after the station was done hawking HoneyBaked ham.


  It took an array of colorful language and a couple of bumper collisions before Millie extricated the car from its parallel parking spot. She pulled into traffic and hit the gas. My stomach lurched into my throat, and I reached for the safety bar. Horns honked. Aunt Millie gave the middle-finger salute, and I reminded myself to breathe as the guy on the radio began reciting the news. Fire in the city . . . blah, blah, blah. Armed robbery . . . yadda, yadda, yadda. Kids throwing snowballs from an overpass onto the road, causing several accidents.

  Nothing about Megan Posey or Prospect Glen High School. I took that and the lack of emergency vehicles in front of the school as a good sign. Millie let me off at the front entrance and I raced inside. The hallways were quiet as I strode across the scarred linoleum toward the performing arts wing. The clock told me the quiet wouldn’t last long. The bell signaling the end of fourth period was about to ring.

  My hand was reaching for the choir room doorknob as the bell jangled. I jumped out of the way as the door flew open and a herd of kids stormed out. When the coast was clear, I peeked into the room, braced for the worst. Larry was seated at the grand piano, gazing off into the distance, his cell phone clutched in his hands. For some reason, the quiet pose disturbed me more than if he’d been yelling at the top of his lungs. Larry wasn’t exactly a sit-still kind of guy.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Larry yelped and spun around. The fast motion combined with Larry’s lack of coordination caused him to slip off the edge of the piano bench, smack onto the tile floor.

  I raced over, grabbed Larry’s hand, and hauled him upright. “Are you okay? Is Megan? I only caught a couple of words before the phone connection cut us off.” Just enough to scare the hell out of me.

  Larry’s eyebrows knitted together. His mouth trembled. Oh my God. Megan really was dead. Did the killer come looking for me and find one of my students? My throat closed up and a flood of tears churned behind my eyes as I waited for the news that would make them fall.