“The group holding the charity event would like to talk to Ms. Tebar personally. If she is to be the spokesperson, the organizers would like to be sure she believes in the cause and can speak passionately about it.”
“What’s the cause?”
Um . . . Killer barked and made a leap for my bagel. I whisked it out of reach of his teeth. “Animal starvation and cruelty. We plan on raising awareness with a national campaign, which is why the organizers would like to talk to Magdalena today if possible.” I popped a piece of bagel in my mouth and gave Killer a big smile.
Killer whimpered. The manager sighed. He also told me Magdalena would be at the Lyric Opera all morning but free for a phone chat this afternoon. Eureka. Magdalena’s hotel room was empty.
I made another call and then went upstairs for a costume change. Ten minutes later, I was in my car decked out in black spandex pants, a tight purple spandex tank, and a workout jacket. First stop: Yoga instructor Dana Lucas’s house for props.
Dana had short cropped hair, an aggressive personality, and a soft spot for my boss, Larry. I’d taken her Yoga class once and found it to be a more than a little scary, but somehow Dana and I had become friends. Which was good since I doubted she’d lend a perfect stranger two Yoga mats and a cotton candy–colored balance ball. I don’t know if she bought my story of doing a photo shoot for a friend, but she didn’t ask any questions as she passed the gear over and congratulated me on keeping my show choir coaching gig.
Next stop: Magdalena’s Evanston hotel.
I just hoped this part of my plan worked. When a singer, actor, or conductor signed a contract, she got to add a rider asking for all sorts of cool stuff. The bigger the star, the bigger the demands: food, accommodations, a personal driver. At this point in my career, I was happy when the contract offered me enough money to pay the bills, but I dreamed of a time where I could make demands of my own. One of the most common demands was for a personal trainer, which was why I was impersonating Yoga Barbie. Now I just needed to find an employee gullible enough to let me into Magdalena’s room so I could take a look around.
By the time I walked into the hotel’s red, black, and white art deco lobby, I was beginning to have serious doubts about my plan. In movies, people sneak into hotel rooms all the time. But this wasn’t a movie. This was real life. The way my luck was going, I’d more likely end up talking myself into a jail cell instead of into Magdalena’s room.
The two people behind the check-in counter looked calm and cool as a woman loudly complained about not getting whatever discount she was promised on the Internet. Nope. These people weren’t going to hand over a key to Magdalena’s suite just because I asked them to. I needed to go with plan B—getting out of here fast.
I was starting to put plan B into effect when a male voice asked, “Can I help you with something?”
I turned and smiled at a short, fresh-faced boy with a round, earnest face. Had he not been wearing a gray and white hotel uniform, I would have assumed he was a freshman in high school. His name tag read Harold Weddle.
Since Harold looked less intimidating than the folks behind the check-in counter, I decided plan A might still have a chance. If not, I was pretty sure I could outrun Harold before he could call the cops.
Getting into character, I bit my lip and gave him what I hoped was a vacant smile. The dumber I looked, the less likely he was to suspect me of any wrongdoing. Right?
“I just realized I forgot my key,” I confided quietly.
The kid brightened. “No problem. Just tell me what room you’re staying in and I’ll get you another key.”
Wow. That was easy.
“Do you have your driver’s license with you?”
Okay, maybe it wasn’t going to be that easy after all.
According to my acting teachers, the key to a convincing performance was actually believing what you were saying. If you believed it, everyone else would. Keeping that in mind, I said, “The key isn’t for my room. I’m Magdalena Tebar’s personal Yoga and fitness instructor. Or at least, I am today. My friend’s been doing the job, but his mom fell down the stairs and broke her hip so he asked me to fill in. He gave me the key to her suite, but I think I left it on the kitchen counter when I was putting the Yoga mats in my bag.”
I held up the bag with rolled-up pink and purple mats sticking out.
The kid peered into the bag with a frown. “That’s a problem. What are you going to do?”
I did a mental eye roll and tried to conjure up some tears. Nope. No tears. Crying on command was something I’d never gotten the hang of. I needed better motivation for crying than a missed Yoga lesson. The best I could manage was a trembling lip. “I’m not sure. My friend said Magdalena is real particular about having everything set up before she arrives. I don’t want him to get fired because I screwed up.”
I managed to eke out one tear. Huzzah! The kid’s eyes followed the lone tear as it streaked down my face. He then looked around to see if anyone was watching him before saying, “Wait right here.”
For a slightly pudgy guy, Harold moved fast. The kid zipped behind one of the empty computers at the check-in counter and started typing. He stared at the screen as one of the hyperefficient employees resolved the problem with the complainer and walked over to him. She said something. He pointed at the screen and then at me. Eek. Every nerve in my body began to jangle as I pointed my feet toward the exit and prepared to run.
The woman said something back to Harold, shook her head, and walked away. Harold hit a few more keys, did a key card swipe thing, and came around the counter. “My manager isn’t surprised that your friend didn’t show up today. The staff has had some problems with Ms. Tebar. She has trouble restraining her emotions.”
This wasn’t a news flash. She was a conductor. Conductors were known for their controlling natures and frequent rehearsal meltdowns. Most attributed those emotional explosions to a conductor’s passion for music. The press ate up the temper tantrums and ran stories about artistic natures, which is why some of the most level-headed conductors I knew staged their own artistic outbursts. They wanted to be certain their passion wasn’t overlooked. Personally, I thought the whole thing was a crock. Just because you acted like a three-year-old didn’t make you a musical genius. It just meant you needed a time-out.
Since telling that to Harold wasn’t going to help, I put on my best worried face and said, “My friend never mentioned her temper problem.”
“That might not be the only thing he lied about.” Harold gave me a sad smile. “I’m going to bet his mom didn’t break her hip.”
“I guess I won’t be sending flowers.”
Harold said to follow him and escorted me up to the top floor and Magdalena’s suite. “Technically, we aren’t supposed to let you into the room, but none of us wants to cause Ms. Tebar any inconvenience. I’ll give you five minutes to set up your equipment. Then you’ll have to wait out here for Ms. Tebar to arrive.”
He knocked and yelled, “Housekeeping.” When no one answered, Harold slid the key card into the lock, opened the door, and held it open. “Five minutes. If Ms. Tebar returns before that, I’ll let you know.” Harold pulled the door closed behind me, and I walked into Magdalena’s suite.
The suite’s living room was enormous. White walls. Cream-colored carpet. Black conference table with eight black and red chairs. A long red couch. An art deco, uncomfortable-looking armchair. A kick-ass sound system and television. And papers. Lots and lots of papers. There were papers on the table. On the floor. Strewn across the couch and around the armchair. Some were crumpled into balls ready for a game of wastepaper basketball. Others were lying in piles. The place was an advertisement for the virtues of recycling.
The sheer amount of papers overwhelmed me. I had five minutes to find something incriminating in this mess, and I didn’t know where to begin.
I glanced at t
he papers on the table and blinked. Staff paper. I unballed a sheet next to the DVD player. More staff paper. It was all staff paper. Some of the pages had lots of music notes written on the staves. Others had a couple notes with scratch-outs. Some even had Spanish lyrics and titles. While Spanish wasn’t my best language, I had ordered enough burritos and guacamole to recognize it.
Setting aside the music, I took a peek at the clock. I had three minutes before Harold came knocking. I needed to hurry. I dumped my balance ball and bag on the floor and made a beeline for the bedroom. The king-size bed looked like it hadn’t been straightened in days. Magdalena’s temper and paper problem no doubt encouraged housekeeping to keep its distance.
Near the window stood an electronic travel piano. Strewn across the floor between the bed and the piano was at least a week’s worth of pants, skirts, shirts, and lacy underwear. On the nightstand under a discarded hot pink bra was a hotel notepad filled with doodles and phone numbers.
I scribbled the phone numbers onto another piece of paper, shoved it into my jacket pocket, and checked the end-table drawers. A Bible and some chewing gum. Moving on.
Back in the living room, I looked around for anything that might tell me whether Magdalena was guilty of more than being a slob. There was a computer buried under a stack of papers on an armchair. No doubt something interesting was stored on the hard drive, but I didn’t have time to boot the sucker up, let alone dig through its contents. I was feeling stymied.
Wait.
A piece of paper on the table was a different color than the others. Only the corner was showing, but while the staff paper was a cream color, this paper was light blue. I pulled the blue paper out from the stack. It had handwriting on it. At the top of the list was the name David Richard—at least, I was pretty sure that’s what it said under the red-pen slash marks. The rest of the names, however, were still intact. Placido Domingo and Juan Diego Florez topped the list of names. Most I recognized as operatic tenors, including the newest edition to the Messiah cast, Andre Napoletano. Next to their names were the words “full voice” and a series of letters and numbers. F2-E5. C2-D5. Next to that was the word “falsetto” and more numbers and letters to indicate the person’s vocal range.
The door handle jangled. Yikes.
I slid the paper under a stack of others, grabbed my cell, and shoved the phone against my ear as Harold strolled in. I waved at him as I spoke to my phantom phone friend. “Yeah. I understand. Tell your mom I hope she feels better.” Pretending to hang up, I sighed. “My friend called. Ms. Tebar rescheduled today’s workout. I guess I won’t need to wait around for her after all. Which is good because Yoga requires focus. I don’t think I could focus in this mess.”
Back in my car, I pulled the phone numbers I’d scribbled out of my pocket and studied them. Two had New York area codes. The third was definitely overseas. Since my cell plan covered calls in the States, I decided to give the New York numbers a whirl.
A perky girl answered at the first number. “Columbia Artists Management. How may I direct your call?”
I disconnected and dialed the next number. “IMG Artists.”
Huh. I was guessing if I dialed the international number it, too, would be a high-ranking operatic talent agency. I was familiar with both companies I had just dialed. Their clients were a who’s who of the operatic stage. While I was grateful to have a manager, I knew his connections were limited. I hoped to land more influential representation in the future. With that in mind, every month or so I Googled my dream management companies and read about the amazing gigs they’d landed for their clients. Come to think of it, several names on Magdalena’s list of tenors were represented by these two agencies. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
I found our assistant stage manager’s number in my phone and dialed. Jenny’s quiet voice came on the line. “I have a strange question. Was Maestro Tebar involved in casting for the Messiah?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Bill said she only agreed to the contract after she heard David Richard had accepted the job. I guess Magdalena and David were involved in some kind of project together.”
“What kind of project?”
“I think it was some kind of recording project, but I’m not really sure. Bill knew more about it. Bill knew about everything.”
There was a catch in Jenny’s voice when she said Bill’s name. My heart went out to her. Jenny sounded sad and overwhelmed.
“Bill would have been really proud of the job you’re doing on this show.”
Jenny sniffled. “Things are so confusing. The police are going to be at tonight’s rehearsal, which upset Magdalena and her manager. I told them I’m doing my best to make it all work, but—”
“No buts,” I said, trying to sound upbeat. “Everything is going to turn out great. You’ll see.”
I hoped I was right. The poor girl sounded wrecked. Losing her mentor and having the organization of the show dumped on her shoulders had to be stressful.
The good news was, talking to Jenny had helped me put the pieces together—the list of tenors, the keyboard and sheet music, the angry cross-out of David’s name and the project they were working on, the mention of composition I’d seen on Magdalena’s website. Now I just had to confirm my suspicion.
Unfortunately, for that I needed to talk to the maestro herself, and she was occupied. I could try her manager again, but I wasn’t feeling confident in my ability to pull off another accent. There was one person, however, who might have his finger on the pulse of Magdalena’s aspirations. The downside being that he was also one of the most likely suspects to team up with another cast member to off David and Bill. Jonathan McMann was friendly and inspired trust. If I was going to pick someone to murder with, he’d be at the top of my list.
Jonathan answered on the first ring. “How was the concert?”
Okay, last week I would have thought Jonathan McMann having my number programmed into his phone was cool as hell. Today, it rated high on the creep meter. “I still have a job,” I answered honestly.
“That’s good.” He laughed. “Although after this weekend, you won’t need it anymore. You’ll be too busy singing around the world to coach show choir.”
I wondered why that thought didn’t make me do a happy dance. Probably because it was coming from a potential maniac. It was hard to take seriously compliments from possible killers no matter how sexy their phone voices. “I had a question about Magdalena Tebar and thought you might know the answer. Is Magdalena working on making a name for herself as a composer?”
Jonathan let out a sigh. “Why are you asking?”
“I saw something on her website that made me think she might be.”
“Magdalena hasn’t had her work publicly performed—yet. It’s not common knowledge, but she was hoping to make a big splash by having David Richard record one of her songs and put it on his new CD.”
“Let me guess, David said he would do it and then backed out of the deal.” I was getting to know the man pretty well. The broken deal between David and Magdalena explained the slap I’d witnessed. It also explained Magdalena’s fainting spell when David died. A dead David meant no chance of David releasing the song on his CD.
I did have one unanswered question. “If Magdalena didn’t want the recording to be public knowledge, how did you learn about it?”
Jonathan laughed. “David loved to brag. Everyone in the faculty lounge heard about his record deals, the roles he was offered, and his dates. He had no shame. He even bragged about the number of paternity suits naming him as a deadbeat father.”
“Is that why Mark Krauss petitioned to keep David from a full-time faculty job?”
There was a pause. When Jonathan spoke there was an edge to his voice. “Why don’t you ask Mark yourself? The two of us are meeting for lunch. We’d be happy to have you join us.”
Eek.
“That so
unds like fun, but I have some last-minute Christmas shopping to do. See you tonight.”
I disconnected and put my car in gear. Jonathan had just let me know two things—that he and Mark were close enough to make lunch plans when school wasn’t in session and that Mark was having lunch out. The first put the two of them much higher on my suspect list. The second told me Mark wasn’t at home. While my discussion with LaVon had me thinking at least one of the murdering pair was female, her wishy-washy description left room for doubt. Maybe the knock on the head had totally taken away any sense I had because I was steering my car to Mark’s house in the hopes I could talk Penelope the dog into letting me take a peek inside.
Chapter 19
There were lights on inside Mark’s house. Had Mark left them on or was someone else in there? I parked my car at the curb and contemplated the question. Today’s weather forecast had been for snow. So far none had fallen, but the sun had opted not to get out of bed. Due to the overcast sky, several houses on the block had their lights on. Maybe Mark had forgotten to turn the lights off on his way out the door. My brother used to do that all the time when we were growing up. The behavior was always rewarded with a lecture on responsibility. Something told me, if Mark caught me inside his house, responsibility was the last thing he’d want to discuss.
I jumped as my phone vibrated. I had a text message. Forgot to mention earlier, Maestro Tebar would like everyone at the theater 45 minutes early. New call time: 5:45 p.m.—Jenny
The text reminded me that I should be home preparing for tonight’s final rehearsal. Instead I was contemplating breaking and entering. How stupid was that?
Staring at the house, I considered my options. I could be smart and drive away or I could march up to the door and hope for the best. The silver car was gone. That made me feel mostly confident the place was empty. Too bad mostly confident wasn’t good enough. The way my luck was going, mostly confident would get me killed.
End Me a Tenor Page 19
