Deadly Overtures: A Music Lover's Mystery (22 page)

“Like a bakery so he can pick up a cake?” JT was still grinning.

I glared at him again. “It’s not only innocent people who throw parties. Killers can too.”

“Okay, sure. But you have to admit the words ‘They don’t suspect a thing’ has more than one connotation now.”

I frowned as I stared through the window at the party supply store. “Fine,” I admitted reluctantly, knowing he was right. “Maybe he was talking about a surprise party. But,” I added quickly, “we don’t know that for sure. His phone conversations aren’t the only things that put him on my suspect list.”

“Are you saying you still want to follow him when he gets out of there?”

“Yes.”

JT sighed, no longer grinning. “Can I at least go get a coffee?” He nodded at the coffee shop across the street.

“There’s no time,” I said. “Here he comes.”

I didn’t miss the rolling of JT’s eyes as I slid back down out of sight. He might have thought I was being silly, but I didn’t want to know how Jeb would react if he found out I’d been following him. Getting better acquainted with his nasty temper was something I’d rather avoid.

“What do the balloons say?” I asked, having caught a brief glimpse of several helium ones as Jeb exited the shop.

JT leaned closer to the passenger side window. “Happy fiftieth anniversary. The party’s probably for his parents.”

“Probably,” I agreed.

When JT turned the key in the ignition a moment later, I carefully rose up from my hiding spot. A quick glance over my shoulder showed me that Jeb was in his own truck again, signaling to pull out into traffic. Two cars got between us before JT was able to follow, but he was still well within sight.

At the end of the street, Jeb made a right turn onto a side street and JT did the same several seconds later. After another right turn a minute or so later, my hopes of catching the judge in the act of something sinister faded away like the last note of a song, a decrescendo into nothing.

“Looks like he’s heading home,” JT said.

It didn’t take long to get confirmation of that theory. We soon followed Jeb onto the street where he lived, my shoulders sagging with disappointment. The dark truck disappeared into the underground parking lot and JT pulled to a stop outside the townhouse complex, across the street from my MINI Cooper.

“Don’t look so dejected, Dori,” JT said as I unclipped my seat belt.

“I really thought he was up to something bad.”

“Like you said, he could still be the killer. His phone calls just weren’t as incriminating as you thought.”

I made a vague sound of acknowledgment, staring out the window toward the entrance to the underground parking lot. A few raindrops hit the windshield, drizzling down the glass and obscuring my view.

“I have to get home,” JT said. “The studio’s booked for eleven.”

“Okay.” I did my best to appear less dispirited. “Thanks for hanging out with me.”

“You’re not going to stay here for the rest of the morning, are you?”

“No, that would probably be a waste of time.” I took a second to consider my options. “Is it all right if I hang out at your place and get some practice in?”

“Of course.”

“All right.” I reached for the door. “See you soon then.”

With my tote bag over my shoulder and my violin case in hand, I crossed the street to my car, getting pelted by the raindrops that now fell steadily from the sky. Soon after, I pulled my car out into the street behind JT’s truck and trailed him to his house. Once in my studio, I immersed myself in some Paganini, allowing the music to file the edge off the disappointment that came from failing to identify Pavlina and Ethan’s killer.

Chapter Twenty-Four

B
Y THE TIME
I’d finished teaching for the day, I’d recovered from my disappointment over not catching Jeb in the act of something incriminating. One fruitless stakeout didn’t mean all was lost. The killer could still be caught, whether that person was Jeb or somebody else. I simply needed to continue searching for clues.

As I prepared to leave JT’s house, I remembered the threatening note still tucked away in my bag. I needed to deliver it to the police, but I didn’t have time to do so that day. It would have to wait until the next morning. Detective Van den Broek would no doubt be less than thrilled to see me again, but the feeling would be mutual.

Despite heavy traffic made worse by the pouring rain, I arrived at the theater early that evening. The musicians’ lounge was empty upon my arrival, and once I’d secured my belongings in my locker, I wondered what I should do next. I’d promised JT that I’d stick close to someone I trusted while at the theater, but until Mikayla or my other fellow musicians arrived, I was on my own.

Recalling the discovery of Ethan’s body the other night—a short distance down the hallway—my skin prickled. I didn’t feel comfortable hanging out in the lounge on my own. The silence was creeping me out.

Although I knew it meant I’d have to pass by the judges’ lounge, I decided to go upstairs and see if Hans was in his office. He wasn’t my first choice for company, and while he wasn’t the most honest person—as I’d learned from experience—I knew he wasn’t a killer. I might not have the time of my life while hanging out with him, but I’d be safe.

I quietly climbed the carpeted stairs to the second floor and peered into the hallway. I let out a breath of relief when I saw that the door to the judges’ lounge was shut. I continued to move quietly, not wanting to draw attention to myself from any corner, and my relief intensified when I realized that the door to Hans’s office was open and the room was illuminated by the overhead light.

When I reached the door, I tapped on the frame. Hans looked up from his seat behind his desk.

“Midori,” he greeted. He glanced over my shoulder at the hallway and lowered his voice. “Any news?”

I pushed his office door shut all but a crack and sank down into the chair in front of his desk. “No, not really. Ethan was my prime suspect, but now that he’s dead . . .”

Hans nodded. “I guess that strikes him off the list, assuming that the two deaths are related, which seems most likely.”

“It does,” I said, agreeing to everything he’d said.

Hans glanced at his watch and got to his feet. “I need to have a quick word with the judges before everything gets under way.”

I was about to protest, to tell him that I didn’t want to be alone, but I quickly changed my mind. I didn’t want to sound helpless or needy, especially not in front of him. Eyeing the laptop on his desk, I got an idea.

“Is it all right if I hang out here for a bit and borrow your laptop?” I asked. “I want to do a little research into something to do with Pavlina.”

Hans paused by the door. “Go ahead. Will this research help you find out who killed her and Ethan?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t want to leave any stone unturned.”

He glanced at his watch again. “Let me know if you find anything of interest. And please shut the door when you leave. It’ll lock automatically.”

I assured him that I would honor both requests and he headed off down the hall, leaving the door standing open. Being alone in the office wasn’t ideal, but it beat hanging out in the musicians’ lounge all by myself. At least up here on the second floor I knew that Hans was likely within shouting distance, probably meeting with the judges two doors down. Until more people arrived at the theater, there was a good chance that no one would hear me call for help if I were downstairs.

Pulling the laptop across the desk, I turned it around so I could see the screen. Hans had left the computer turned on, so I was able to access the Internet within seconds. I didn’t know for sure if the death of Tiffany Alphonse at the music retreat three years earlier had anything to do with the recent murders, but I figured it warranted some consideration. So many people involved in the composing competition had been at that retreat, and both murder victims had been close friends with Tiffany. Maybe that wasn’t significant in any way, but until I dug deeper into the past, I wouldn’t know if that was the case or not.

My first search turned up nothing of interest. All the results that popped up on the screen related to an upcoming version of the retreat, scheduled to take place in Banff, Alberta, in the spring. Trying again, I added Tiffany Alphonse’s name to the search terms, and this time the results appeared far more promising. I clicked the top search result and read through an article about Tiffany’s death. As I’d already known, she’d drowned in a lake near the hotel where the retreat attendees were staying. According to the article, the theory was that she had wandered out into the night alone while drunk, and had either fallen into the water or had decided to go for a swim. Either way, she hadn’t made it out of the water alive.

What I hadn’t already known was that her body was found just after dawn the next day by a man out for an early morning jog. My eyes widened when I read the name of the man who’d discovered Tiffany’s body.

Harold Dempsey.

So Pavlina, Ethan, and Dongmei weren’t the only people associated with the composing competition who’d been at the retreat. According to the article, Harold was one of the instructors. When speaking with the author of the article, he’d expressed shock and sadness at finding the young woman floating lifelessly in the water.

“It’s a terrible loss,” he was quoted as saying. “Not just for her friends and family but for the music community as well. Ms. Alphonse had a promising career ahead of her and, unfortunately, she has been taken from us far too soon.”

I sat back, considering what I’d read. Harold, now a judge for the composing competition, had been present at the retreat when Tiffany had died. He was also the first person—aside from me—to arrive on the scene after Olivia found Ethan’s body. Were either of those facts significant?

Maybe, and maybe not. After all, three of the competition’s finalists were at the retreat as well. But the only one still alive was Dongmei, and I didn’t suspect her of killing anyone.

I tapped my fingers against the desk, but further thought didn’t bring me any brilliant insights so I went back to reading. I found another article with similar information to the first, but it included quotes from some of Tiffany’s friends who were at the retreat with her.

“I’m devastated,” Pavlina had told the reporter. “She was my best friend. I don’t know what I’ll do without her.”

The reporter went on to note that no one had admitted to being with Tiffany that night, to drinking with her, or to seeing her drunk. That was attributed to either fear or guilt, or a combination of the two. However, the police investigation had revealed that Tiffany was most definitely intoxicated at the time of her death, and the drowning was officially ruled accidental.

But was it really an accident? After all that had happened recently, I couldn’t help but wonder if the official ruling was wrong.

I tugged on my left earlobe as I stared at the computer screen without really seeing it. I needed more information, but I wasn’t sure that the Internet would be able to provide it. In case I was wrong, I spent a few more minutes sorting through the search results. After that didn’t turn up anything, I returned to the original article and read it through once more. Still, I didn’t find what I needed.

The floor creaked to my left and I jerked my head around. Harold Dempsey stood in the doorway. His eyes shifted from the computer screen to me.

“I’m looking for Maestro Clausen,” he said.

“Um.” I struggled to recover from my surprise at his presence. “I’m not sure where he is. Sorry.”

Harold nodded and disappeared down the hall. Once he was gone, I realized that my heart was booming out a loud beat in my chest. I’d seen something in Harold’s eyes in that moment when he’d shifted his gaze from the computer screen to me.

Was it fear? No, more like anger. Dark, smoldering anger. It had only been there for a second or two, but I knew I hadn’t imagined it.

Wondering how much he’d seen, I checked the screen. Even if he had perfect vision, he wouldn’t have been able to read the body of the article from the doorway, but the headline was much larger and easy to see.

“Music Retreat Ends on Sour Note with Drowning Death,” it read.

Had the headline simply brought back unpleasant memories from that time? Harold was, after all, the one who’d found Tiffany’s lifeless body.

No, I decided. That didn’t explain his anger. There had to be more to it.

Ill at ease, I shut the Web browser and closed the laptop. I crept quietly toward the door, apprehension skipping along my spine like a series of urgent, staccato notes. When I peered out into the hallway, the coast was clear, although I could hear a low murmur of voices coming from nearby.

Pulling the office door shut as Hans had asked me to do, I hurried down the hall. As I passed the judges’ lounge, I cast a quick glance through the now-open door, spotting only Yvonne Charbonneau, Olivia, and Sasha. They didn’t notice me, and I continued on along the corridor and down the stairway.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I turned the corner at the bottom of the stairway and came face-to-face with Hans. With my hand over my heart, I took a step back and closed my eyes briefly, relieved he wasn’t someone from my list of murder suspects.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, now recovered. “You startled me. That’s all.”

“What did your research turn up?”

I glanced up and down the corridor to check if we were alone. We were.

“I’m thinking there could be a connection between the two murders and the death of a girl named Tiffany Alphonse at a music retreat a few years ago.”

“What kind of connection?”

“Tiffany’s death was ruled an accident, but I’m wondering if it was actually murder.”

“And if it was?” Hans asked. “What does that have to do with Pavlina’s and Ethan’s deaths?”

“I’m not entirely sure yet,” I admitted. “Maybe Tiffany’s killer felt threatened by Pavlina and Ethan and decided to get them out of the way.”

“But you said the death at the music retreat happened years ago. If Pavlina and Ethan knew something that made Tiffany’s killer feel threatened, why wait until now to get rid of them?”

“I don’t know, but it’s something I can’t dismiss yet.” I recalled Harold’s appearance in the office doorway. “Did Harold find you? He was looking for you a few minutes ago.”

“I just talked to him.” Hans stepped around me so he could reach the stairway. “You’d better go get ready. It’s almost time to head for the stage.”

I put a hand on his arm to stop him from ascending the stairs. “How much do you know about Harold?”

“Professionally or otherwise?”

“Otherwise.”

Hans thought for a moment. “Not much. He’s a wealthy man, only in part because of his successful career. He married into money.”

“Have you heard of any rumors about him over the years? Any hint of behavior that might not be aboveboard?”

“No.” Hans looked at me more closely. “Do you suspect him of murder? Because I don’t see how he could possibly be the killer. He was sitting in the audience when Pavlina was killed.”

“True,” I conceded. “And I’m not sure what I suspect him of, if anything.”

“Make sure you don’t go around making any accusations without evidence to back them up,” he said. “None of the judges would take kindly to having their reputations tarnished.”

“I have no intention of making public accusations against anyone without evidence,” I said, slightly miffed that he’d thought I might.

He seemed oblivious to my reaction. “Good. I’ll see you later.”

I shot a glare at his retreating back as he disappeared up the stairway, but then I pushed him out of my thoughts. The concert was set to start soon and I had something I wanted to do before taking my place on the stage.

When I hurried into the musicians’ lounge seconds later, a buzz of conversation and activity greeted me. Most of the orchestra had arrived in my absence, and several clusters of musicians were chatting with each other while other individuals warmed up on their instruments. Spotting Dongmei in the crowd, I made my way to her side and drew her into a relatively private—if not quiet—corner of the room.

“How are you doing?” I asked, although I could tell by the worried expression on her face that she was nervous.

“Okay,” she replied, “but my heart is going about a thousand miles a minute.”

“You’ll be fine,” I assured her. “No matter what the results are.”

She drew in a deep breath and nodded. “Of course I want to win, but however things turn out, I’ll be glad when I know. Waiting to hear the results is the hardest part.”

I could imagine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Olivia enter the musicians’ lounge. Knowing she would likely direct Sherwin and Dongmei to take their places in the audience at any moment, I hurried to address the questions weighing on my mind.

“Dongmei, when Tiffany Alphonse died at the retreat in Banff, were there any rumors going around about her death?”

Her forehead furrowed. “What kind of rumors?”

“She was drunk when she died, but I read in a news article that no one admitted to drinking with her that night or seeing her drunk. Surely someone must have, though. Don’t you think?”

“It was a bit odd,” Dongmei said, “especially considering that her closest friends were at the retreat. But both of them swore they weren’t with Tiffany that night, and I’m pretty sure they had people to back them up on that.” She thought for a moment. “There was a rumor, but I don’t know that it was anything more than that.”

“What rumor?” I pressed.

Dongmei looked uncomfortable. “I don’t like to gossip about someone who’s dead . . .”

“I understand that, but this could be important. It could have something to do with the recent murders.”