Dead Ringer

by Sarah Fox

  “You already did.”

  Hans held his tongue and forced his face into a neutral expression as two violists passed by. “That’s not the same thing,” he said once they were out of earshot.

  Easy for him to say. “Can you blame me for having a hard time trusting you?”

  He let out a frustrated sigh but kept his voice low. “I’m not a criminal, Midori. Hopefully, the police will figure that out and get busy tracking down the real killer. And I hope you’ll come to believe I’m innocent too.” He was about to turn away again but he stopped, his face softening. “Take care of your hand, all right?”

  I nodded, and he returned to the stage.

  I wandered toward the backstage room where I’d left my belongings, an internal battle brewing in my mind. As much as I knew I was better off without Hans, I still wanted to believe his claim to innocence. I didn’t want to think him capable of even attempting to physically harm me, even if he didn’t seem to care much about hurting my heart.

  But he’d fooled me before. I had to remember that.

  A whole week had passed since Jeremy’s murder, and I was no closer to knowing who was responsible. I still didn’t know if one of my fellow musicians was a dangerous criminal. Worst of all, I didn’t know if the person who had broken into my apartment still wanted to harm me.

  I didn’t have time to dwell on those thoughts, which was probably for the best. I had to answer several more questions about the fire from my fellow musicians while I fetched my violin and bow. Within minutes of settling in on the stage, the rehearsal began.

  Although my burn protested about holding my bow, the pain wasn’t too bad, and I was able to play through it at first. We started rehearsing the Brahms pieces, and the familiar act of creating music helped to soothe me and ease the tension that had crept into my shoulders during my conversation with Hans.

  All of the combined sounds of the various instruments knitted together into beautiful strains that washed over me and made my brain and body hum with a gentle peacefulness. This was why I loved playing in the orchestra. Making music on my own was wonderful, but working together with so many others to create something with so much depth and so many layers, that was something else altogether.

  I was so happy to be doing what I loved and so into the music that it took me until the break midway through the rehearsal to realize that the pain in my hand had gone from easily ignored to more insistent. I considered whether I should continue playing after the break or give my hand a rest. I was distracted before I came to a decision.

  Hans had only signaled that we should take a break seconds before, and while I thought about my hand, my eyes roved over the orchestra. ­People stood up from their seats to stretch or head for the washroom, but not before I made note of who was there and who wasn’t.

  Clover was present, over in the bass section, and of course Hans was accounted for as well. But one person of note was absent.

  Ray.

  I tried not to jump to any conclusions, but I was already getting air time.

  Was Ray missing from rehearsal because the police had him in custody?

  Maybe he was sick, or maybe there was some other perfectly innocent explanation for his absence, though that seemed too coincidental.

  First the oboe player had shown an odd interest in whether Jeremy’s place had been searched by the police. Then someone had broken into Jeremy’s basement suite, not once, but twice, and the person responsible—­for the second break-­in, if not the first as well—­was currently enjoying the accommodations Chez Police. And that would make him or her unavailable to attend any sort of function or event, including an orchestra rehearsal.

  Way too coincidental for my liking.

  And since the person in custody had been caught in the act of breaking into Jeremy’s suite, there wasn’t much in the way of doubt with respect to his guilt for that crime. But that didn’t necessarily mean he’d killed Jeremy or set the fire.

  Sure he had the opportunity to set the fire, and possibly even to murder Jeremy, but I still couldn’t come up with a solid motive for him to commit those crimes. As JT had pointed out, simply because someone might be involved in drug trafficking to some degree, that didn’t mean they had a reason to kill anyone.

  I remained in my chair, holding my violin propped on my leg with my bow set on the rim of the music stand. I stared off into space, unable to reconcile what Ray’s absence indicated with my deep suspicions of Reverend McAllister.

  I was missing something. Probably more than one something.

  I needed to find out more about McAllister.

  Mikayla, already on her feet, poked me in the ribs with her bow. “Earth to Midori.”

  I blinked and realized I was one of the few ­people still in my seat.

  “What’s up?” Mikayla asked. “You were a million miles away there.”

  I retrieved my bow from the music stand and got to my feet. “My hand hurts. I’m not sure I can play through the rest of rehearsal.”

  She nodded in Hans’s direction. “You’d better let the maestro know. Unless you’re trying to avoid him.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll talk to him.”

  Avoiding Hans would have been easier than dealing with him, but that option wasn’t really available to me. As soon as I’d taken the first step down the nonprofessional path with him, I’d known there were risks involved. I’d accepted those risks, and now I would deal with the consequences, because he certainly wasn’t worth giving up my place in the orchestra. It was awkward talking to him now, but it would get easier as time eased the pain he’d caused me. At least, I hoped it would.

  As it turned out, I didn’t need to have another conversation with him. I caught his eye when I was still more than ten feet away from him and simply held up my injured hand. He nodded in understanding and I took that as permission to leave. I could have remained for the rest of the rehearsal, listening to his comments and any discussions within my section about bowing changes or other details, but I decided not to. There was something else I wanted to do with my time.

  I packed up my instrument as everyone else trickled back onto the stage. Then, with my bag over my shoulder and my instrument case held in my left hand, I set off in the opposite direction from my peers. When I reached the narthex on the main floor, I paused.

  Several ­people milled about outside the nave. Three men of varying ages and a teenage girl hung off the edges of the group. The men looked as though they wanted to be anywhere but at the church, boredom hunching their shoulders and pulling at their faces. The teenage girl was oblivious to everything going on around her, her face hidden by a cascade of dark hair as she texted away on her phone.

  A grandmotherly figure and two middle-­aged women were busy attempting to calm a woman in her mid-­twenties with her hair dyed a garish shade of red.

  “Where are they? They should have been here ten minutes ago!” the redhead screeched.

  “I’m sure they’ll be here any minute,” one of the middle-­aged women said in a soothing voice.

  Red didn’t even seem to hear. “If they don’t show up they’re going to ruin everything!” She dug a phone out of her purse. “I’m texting them again. And they’d better respond or I swear . . .”

  She didn’t finish her threat, at least not verbally. Judging by her scowl and the way her eyes flashed, I doubted that she was holding back in her text message.

  She started in with her verbal complaints again mere seconds later, but I tuned her out as I spotted Reverend McAllister descending the stairway to my left.

  I intercepted him at the bottom of the stairs. “Evening, Reverend.”

  He seemed surprised to see me. Possibly nervous as well, although I wasn’t positive about that.

  “Evening. Ms. Bishop, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.” I nodded in the direction of the cordo
ned-­off hallway. “Is the damage extensive?”

  “Oh, well, yes and no. The washroom was completely destroyed, but aside from some minor smoke damage out in the hallway, the rest of the church is fine.” He flicked his eyes heavenward. “Thank the Lord.” He refocused on me. “Weren’t you one of the women trapped in the fire?”

  “Yes. Along with a cellist from the youth orchestra.”

  I watched closely for his reaction to my mention of Susannah, but the small crowd outside the nave had drawn his attention away from me.

  “Hmm. Yes. I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, his distraction leeching any sincerity out of his words.

  “Reverend.” I stopped him as he moved to abandon me for the redhead and what I guessed was her extended family.

  His eyes slid back to me, but not without a good deal of reluctance.

  “Were you aware that Jeremy Ralston was a blackmailer?”

  McAllister’s eyes nearly popped out of his head and he sputtered for a moment before echoing my last word. “Blackmailer?”

  “That’s right.” I watched him closely, noting the flush rising up his neck and into his cheeks. “You weren’t aware of that?”

  McAllister swallowed hard. “Of course I wasn’t aware of that.” He tugged at his clerical collar as if he couldn’t get enough air. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a wedding rehearsal to attend to.”

  He hurried off toward the nave with what I thought was far too much eagerness, considering the way the redhead was throwing her hands about and squawking at everyone around her. He didn’t enjoy talking to me. That much was clear.

  Something else was clear too.

  Reverend McAllister had lied to me.

  Chapter 20

  I WOULD BET my beloved violin that McAllister knew full well that Jeremy was a blackmailer. Although I was less certain about how he’d come to know that, I was still fairly sure he’d found out by falling victim to one of Jeremy’s blackmailing schemes. I would bet my bow on that one.

  I needed to find proof, though. If I could find some evidence that Jeremy had demanded money from McAllister in exchange for keeping Susannah’s video a secret, I’d be able to establish the reverend’s motive for committing both the murder and the arson. Maybe for one or more of the break-­ins as well. After all, it was possible that the reverend had hoped to find and destroy any evidence of the fact that Jeremy had blackmailed him.

  I knew that my theory about the reverend didn’t take into account that the police had caught Ray red-­handed trying to break into Jeremy’s basement suite. If, in fact, it was Ray who was in custody. But I had to focus on one thing at a time, or I’d never get anywhere.

  A man and woman in their early thirties burst into the church, two little kids with tearstained faces in tow.

  The woman with the garish red hair threw up her hands and exclaimed, “Finally!”

  She raved on at the harried ­couple, but somehow McAllister managed to usher everyone into the nave. The doors closed behind them, cutting off the redhead’s rant, and all I could hear then were the far-­off strains from the orchestra.

  I tugged at my earlobe. I knew what I wanted to do but I wasn’t sure if I should actually go through with it. In the end, I didn’t hesitate for long. With a quick glance around me, I scooted up the stairs in a light-­footed dash, the red carpeting helping to muffle my footfalls.

  At the top of the stairway I paused and peeked around the corner into the hallway. Aside from me, it appeared that there was nothing on the second story but dust motes drifting in a lazy pattern through a shaft of evening sunlight in an open doorway. I could no longer hear the orchestra playing below, and thick silence was hanging in the air around me.

  I left the red-­carpeted stairs behind and crept along the hardwood floors of the hallway. I cringed as a floorboard creaked beneath my feet but kept moving. When I reached the half-­open door of McAllister’s office, I peered around the door frame. The room was empty except for more dust motes moving in a slow swirl through the sunlight. The door to the office across the hall was closed, but a quick glimpse through the small window near the top of the door revealed that the second room was as empty as the first.

  So far the coast was clear.

  I backtracked down the hallway and checked out the two meeting rooms. Both empty. I had the second floor to myself.

  I didn’t let myself hesitate again. I knew if I did I might chicken out. And if I chickened out, I had no chance of finding out more about McAllister. That wasn’t an option. I wanted answers. I needed answers. Otherwise I might never feel safe in my own home again.

  Still careful to walk quietly, even though I was alone, I returned to McAllister’s office and eased the door open a few more inches. When I stepped over the threshold, the thick silence pressed down around me and I found myself even trying to breathe quietly.

  After a mental shake, I forced myself to move with less care. If I didn’t want to get caught snooping I needed to hurry, and holding my breath and tiptoeing around wouldn’t help me with that.

  I targeted McAllister’s desk first. I set down my belongings, lowered myself into his aging, black leather swivel chair, and surveyed the scene in front of me. The jar of candies on his desk tempted me, but I wasn’t there for snacking and resisted the urge to help myself. Besides, taking a candy would somehow make me feel even guiltier than I already did for poking around the office uninvited. The candies were there for visitors but, I guessed, not clandestine visitors like me. I might be a snoop, but I wasn’t a thief. Not even a candy thief.

  Now that I was at the desk, I heard something besides ringing silence—­the hum of McAllister’s computer. I switched on the flat-­screen monitor and wiggled the mouse. The computer chugged for a second and then woke from its slumber. The reverend had left his desk in the midst of composing an e-­mail. The address and subject lines were empty but the message box contained a partial message.

  I glanced at the open office door to ensure that I was still alone and then riveted my eyes on the screen. As I read the message, my eyebrows rose and my eyes widened.

  Adam, I appreciate your discretion in this matter. As I’m sure you understand, the missing funds concern me deeply. Honesty and trust are such important facets of our community that a breach of those virtues would have repercussions far beyond the financial. As much as I don’t want to believe that someone I trust and care for could betray not only me but the church as well, I must. . .

  That’s where the message ended.

  I sat back in the chair, staring at the highlighted dust motes without seeing them. Missing funds. Missing from where? The church bank account? The donation box? Somewhere else?

  I didn’t know and the unfinished message didn’t provide me with any clues.

  Did the threat to frame Susannah as a thief have to do with these same missing funds?

  That was highly possible.

  I wondered if McAllister knew who was responsible for the missing money. Clearly he was aware that it was someone from within the church community, and that made sense if the funds were connected to the church. But did he know exactly who was responsible, and did any of this have any bearing on the other recent crimes?

  I had no idea.

  I wondered if he were responsible for the theft himself. How else could he hope to frame Susannah? Unless the threat was an empty one, or someone other than the reverend had sent Susannah the message.

  I returned my attention to the computer and accessed McAllister’s Internet browsing history. Over the past week he’d visited various sites related to charities, Chris­tian­ity, and fly fishing, but none that would in any way link him to Jeremy’s murder.

  I didn’t really expect to find that he’d checked out Web sites on how to murder someone, or how to start a fire in a church washroom, but that would have helped me tie things together. Even if McAllister—
­or whoever the murderer was—­lacked enough sense to leave evidence of such searches on his computer, I suspected that the murder and arson were more crimes of opportunity than crimes that had been carefully planned beforehand.

  I shut off the computer monitor and used one foot to propel the swivel chair in a slow circle, checking out the entire office. Books lined the built-­in shelves, and the few knickknacks present were free of dust. Two potted plants that I had no hope of identifying brought some life to the room, thriving under someone’s careful care.

  A crucifix hung on one wall, and the opposite wall featured a framed oil painting of baby Jesus in the arms of the Virgin Mary. Aside from the jar of candies and the computer, the surface of McAllister’s desk was home to a tray filled with three pieces of snail mail, a pencil holder containing several writing implements, a stapler, a sharp letter opener shaped like a miniature sword, and a framed family photo.

  I leaned forward to peer more closely at the letter opener, but didn’t give it more than a second or two of attention. If Jeremy had been stabbed and the murder weapon had been missing from the scene of the crime, the item would have held my interest. But as he had died by strangulation, I moved on.

  I picked up the family photo and studied it. It showed McAllister with one arm around his wife, Cindy, and his free hand resting on the shoulder of a young man I presumed was their son. Cindy had her free hand on the shoulder of a second son, slightly younger than the first. I estimated both young men to be in their early twenties. The photograph suggested they were a perfect, happy family. Perhaps that was even the case, but I had my doubts.

  Approaching footsteps put an abrupt end to my musings. Alarm charged through my bloodstream like a locomotive racing at full speed. My heart pounding out an overzealous beat, I swept my shoulder bag and violin case up off the floor and dashed toward the office door. I halted as I reached the threshold, almost skidding to a stop.