Dead Ringer (9 page)

“But it could take them forever.” I slumped even deeper into the beanbag chair. “And in the meantime, I have to keep looking at the faces of ­people I know and wondering if they killed Jeremy. Not to mention, I have to keep things on hold with Hans.”

Although JT had started strumming the opening to one of his compositions, he stopped mid-­phrase. “Does he really mean so much to you?”

I tugged on my left ear. “I don't know. I mean, I don't know him that well yet, but . . . I really liked where things were going.”

JT let out a breath. He didn't look happy.

“I know you don't approve,” I said.

He shook his head before I could say more. “It's not that. I just wish you'd leave the investigating to the police. I don't want you getting yourself into trouble.”

“I won't.”

There was doubt in his eyes, but also concern.

I pushed myself up from the beanbag chair and stood behind JT, putting my arms around his neck and giving him an affectionate squeeze. “Don't worry.”

I felt him relax and one corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Kind of hard not to when you're determined to play Nancy Drew.”

I pressed my cheek against his and gave him another squeeze before letting go. “I could always use a sidekick, you know.”

Finnegan sat in front of me and let out an enthusiastic bark.

“Looks like I've got competition for that position,” JT said, ruffling the fur on Finn's head.

“You can both be sidekicks.” I knelt down to give Finnegan a hug.

“And what does that entail?”

“For starters, going with me to talk to Jeremy's landlady.” The thought had only just occurred to me, but I figured it was a good idea.

“His landlady?”

“She might know something.”

“When are you going?”

“As soon as I'm done teaching today.”

“Then you're on your own.” JT stood up and hung his guitar on a hook on the wall. “My studio's booked all evening.”

“So much for my sidekicks.”

“Maybe another time.” The smile on JT's face faded and he regarded me with a serious expression. “Be careful, Dori, okay? Don't go stirring up a hornets' nest.”

“I'm not planning on it,” I said. “All I'm going to do is ask a few questions.”

“Questions can be dangerous when asked of the wrong person,” he warned.

I waved off his concerns as I headed for the stairs. “I'll be fine, JT. I promise.”

As I jogged up to the main floor, JT said from below, “Make sure that's a promise you keep.”

 

Chapter 9

T
EACHING MY STUDENTS
that afternoon gave me more time to relax and focus on something other than the dozens of unanswered questions bouncing around in my head. I enjoyed teaching, helping my students improve and learn new pieces of music. It was satisfying work—­most of the time—­and I was glad for the few hours of normalcy before I launched myself back into my investigation.

I wasn't able to completely forget about Jeremy's death or Hans's issues with the police as I worked with my students, but I was at least able to tuck those thoughts away from the forefront of my mind. That, however, changed as soon as I finished teaching and checked my phone.

I'd received a text message from Hans less than half an hour earlier.

I miss you,
the message read.

Although the text brought all of my doubts and questions back to the surface, it also brought a warm, fuzzy feeling to the center of my chest and a smile to my face. It was nice to know that he was thinking of me.

I miss you too,
I wrote back.

I packed up my violin and tidied my studio, all the while hoping to hear more from Hans, but no more messages came through.

I was disappointed. If he missed me, why didn't he want to schedule another date? If he asked me out again, responding would be awkward, considering the promise I'd made to JT. But at the same time, it would be nice to know that he wanted to spend more time with me.

Maybe he was simply too busy to text me back and would ask me out again before too long. For now, I'd have to settle for him missing me, even if he didn't miss me enough to be desperate to see me.

Giving up on receiving any more messages, I used my phone to look up how many ­people with the surname Landolfi lived in Vancouver. I crossed my fingers that it wasn't too many. I smiled when only two results came up, especially since one address was for a unit in an apartment building. Since Jeremy had lived in Mrs. Landolfi's basement, the other listing had to be the one I wanted.

Gathering up my purse, I decided to leave my violin at the studio so I didn't have to carry it around with me or waste time by stopping off at my apartment. JT had already disappeared into his basement studio along with some ­people who had arrived an hour earlier, so I headed straight out of the house without disturbing him.

After two short bus rides and a few minutes of walking, I stopped before a house of pale blue stucco with a carefully tended front garden and rhododendrons in full bloom. I followed the cement pathway to the front steps and climbed up to the small porch. I hesitated, not knowing the type of reception I would receive, but then I pushed the doorbell before I could worry about it any further.

After four or five seconds I heard footsteps approaching and then a shadow flickered across one of the sidelights. The lock clicked and the door opened. A tiny woman with gray hair stood in the doorway. She was probably in her early eighties and wore a lavender cardigan over a flower print dress. Her cornflower blue eyes were sharp but kind, and focused on me with mild curiosity.

“Yes, dear?”

“Mrs. Landolfi?”

“Yes.”

Her expression turned expectant and I rushed to explain my presence.

“I knew Jeremy Ralston. He lived in your basement, didn't he?”

Mrs. Landolfi's eyes clouded with sadness and she put a hand over her heart. “Yes, that's right. Such a dreadful thing, him getting killed like that.” She shook her head. “A real shame.”

“Yes, it was awful.” I paused for a second before continuing. “Would it be all right if I talked to you about Jeremy for a few minutes?”

“Of course.” She stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

“Thank you.” I stepped into the foyer and she closed the door behind me.

“Come on back to the kitchen.” Mrs. Landolfi led the way down a hallway to a white and yellow kitchen that probably hadn't been renovated in several decades. She gestured to the table and chairs by a window that looked out over the back garden, as carefully tended as the front one. “Sit yourself down, dear. Would you like a cup of tea? Or perhaps some lemonade?”

I pulled out a chair. “Lemonade would be lovely, thank you.”

I sat down as Mrs. Landolfi removed a jug of lemonade from the refrigerator and two tall glasses from one of the kitchen cupboards. She filled the glasses and returned the jug to the fridge.

“So you were friends with young Jeremy, were you?” She joined me at the table.

“Thank you,” I said as she placed one of the lemonade-­filled glasses in front of me. “I'm a musician. We played together in the same orchestras from time to time over the years.”

Mrs. Landolfi didn't seem to notice my lack of a direct answer to the friendship question. She shook her head sadly. “He was such a talented young man. He was about to be hired by a professional orchestra. Now he won't have that chance.”

I took a sip of tart lemonade, homemade by the taste of it, to cover my surprise. Had Jeremy really believed he could bully Hans into giving him a permanent place in the orchestra? He must have been delusional.

“Things had been difficult for him. It would have been nice if he had a chance to improve his circumstances,” Mrs. Landolfi continued.

“Difficult?” I asked with interest.

Jeremy's landlady took a sip of her own lemonade. “Well, he went through a bit of a rough patch. Money was tight, and he was late paying his rent a few times.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, quite recently. This month was the first one of the year that he paid on time. Of course, I didn't worry about that too much on my behalf. He promised he would pay, and he always did eventually. Such a good, honest boy.”

I wasn't sure I agreed with her description of Jeremy, particularly considering the fact that he'd cheated on Shelley, but I was far more interested in everything else she'd said. How could Jeremy have afforded to pay for an engagement ring and a trip to Hawaii if he didn't even have the money to pay his rent? Or had he foolishly spent several months' worth of rent on the ring?

I wanted to growl in frustration. With every person I talked to, I only ended up more confused.

“Did Jeremy have any recent troubles aside from money problems?” I asked, fishing for a clue that would point to a murder suspect.

“I don't believe so,” Mrs. Landolfi replied. “He loved his music and he was seeing a lovely young lady.” Her eyes grew damp.

“Shelley,” I said with a nod, hoping she didn't mean Clover.

“That's right. Poor girl. It must have been such a shock to her.” Mrs. Landolfi dabbed at her eyes with a paper napkin. “The police asked me similar questions, but I'm afraid I have no idea who would have wanted to harm Jeremy. It must have been a random attack by someone quite deranged.”

The more I learned about Jeremy, the more I doubted the random killing theory. Anyone who lied and cheated was bound to make some enemies along the way. But I didn't see any point in interfering with her rather rosy view of his character.

“It's all very hard to understand,” I said. That much was the truth.

Mrs. Landolfi nodded and dabbed at her eyes once more. “His sister arrived from Halifax yesterday, but the police won't allow her to clear out his things yet. It will be hard to find another tenant as good as Jeremy. It was so nice to have a fellow musician around.”

I perked up at her last words. “You're a musician too?”

“Oh, back in the day. Flute and piano. I stopped playing years ago because of my arthritis. My grandchildren have my instruments now, but it was nice to talk music with Jeremy now and then.” The elderly woman got up from the table. “I'll show you some pictures.”

“Of Jeremy?” I asked with surprise.

“No, no. My grandchildren.”

I stifled a groan as Mrs. Landolfi shuffled off to another room. I liked the woman, but what was I in for now? It was already getting dark outside, and my stomach was clamoring for some dinner. I wasn't keen on spending hours oohing and aahing over photos of ­people I'd never met, but when Mrs. Landolfi returned with a photo album tucked under one arm, I tried my best to look interested. Maybe the woman was lonely. If that was the case, it was the least I could do to give her some of my time.

She set the album on the table in front of me and sat down. As she flipped through the pages one by one, pointing to the pictures and relating a story for each one, I made all the appropriate sounds and comments. I learned that Jeremy's landlady had four grandchildren—­Amy, Kristie, Jordan, and Lily—­all very sweet, apparently. They all played piano and Kristie also played the flute. Jordan and Amy excelled at soccer, and little Lily—­scowling in almost every picture—­was a darling six-­year-­old angel.

I fought back several yawns and didn't allow my eyes to stray to the clock above the kitchen sink, no matter how many times they wanted to. I wondered if Mrs. Landolfi was hard of hearing, because she didn't seem to notice that my stomach was rumbling like a giant beast ready to burst out of its dark cave and devour an entire village of screaming ­people.

After what felt like hours, Mrs. Landolfi flipped to the last page of the album and finished her narrative. I smiled with relief.

“Thank you for showing me your photos, Mrs. Landolfi. You have a beautiful family.”

“Oh, thank you for listening, dear. I hope I didn't bore you.”

“Not at all,” I lied, pushing back my chair. “But I should be on my way now.”

“Yes, yes, of course. It was lovely of you to stop by to talk about dear Jeremy.”

We both stood up, but a thud from somewhere below the kitchen made me pause. The thud was followed by the tinkling of breaking glass. I glanced at Mrs. Landolfi, but she apparently hadn't heard a thing. Maybe she really was hard of hearing.

“Ah, Mrs. Landolfi? Is anyone supposed to be down in the basement?”

The elderly woman placed our two empty glasses in the kitchen sink. “No. Why do you ask?”

I strained to hear more sounds but all was quiet. “I'm not positive, but I think you could have an intruder.”

Mrs. Landolfi's blue eyes widened. “Oh my. Goodness me. Should we call the police?”

I thought I detected another muffled thud from somewhere in the basement. I fished my cell phone out of my purse. “I think that would be a good idea.” I eyed the door to the basement. “And maybe we should go out on the front porch.” I didn't like the idea of a criminal deciding to join us in the kitchen.

“Yes, yes. Good idea.” Mrs. Landolfi fingered the collar of her sweater as we made our way quietly to the front of the house.

I dialed 911 as I eased open the front door, trying to make as little noise as possible. We stood on the small porch in a pool of yellow light from the sconce by the door and I related my suspicion about an intruder to the dispatcher. I rattled off Mrs. Landolfi's address and explained that the last occupant of the basement suite had recently been murdered.

As the dispatcher instructed me to remain outside, I thought I heard something from around the corner of the house. With my phone still to my ear, I tiptoed down the front steps and along the narrow concrete path that led to the side gate.

“I think the intruder might be leaving,” I hissed into my phone.

“Do not attempt to approach or intercept the suspect!” the dispatcher ordered.

“I won't,” I whispered, not bothering to mention that I'd left the front porch to investigate. I didn't plan to confront the burglar—­I knew that would be stupid—­but I wanted to know if I was right, if there really was an intruder.

I leaned over the wooden gate and peered into the darkness. I could barely make out a stairwell and the side door to the house. A dark shadow moved in the stairwell and I froze, my heart fluttering in my throat like a trapped moth.

My free hand gripped the top of the gate. It rattled, and the shadow leapt out of the stairwell. It was a person. I had no doubt about that now. The burglar faced me for a split second, and then whipped around and sprinted away through the backyard.

“He's getting away!”

The dispatcher ordered me to stay put, and I retreated back to the front yard, my legs shaking. Moments later a police cruiser pulled up to the curb and I ran to meet the two officers who climbed out of it, informing the dispatcher of their arrival as I went.

“Someone just came out of the basement through the side door and took off through the back,” I said, pointing toward the gate.

“We'll need you to remain here, ma'am,” one of the officers told me as a second police cruiser arrived on the scene.

I rejoined Mrs. Landolfi on the front porch while two of the four police officers, their flashlights casting beams of light around the yard, proceeded through the side gate. The other two officers entered the house through the front door to take a look around.

I hugged myself and rubbed my arms, feeling the chill of the night air now that the immediate excitement had worn off. “How are you doing, Mrs. Landolfi?”

“It's rather frightening, having an intruder,” she said. “And you, poor thing, standing out here in the night without a sweater.”

“Don't worry about me.” I peered through the open front door but saw no one. “Hopefully you'll be able to go inside and sit down soon.”

“I think I'd like to call my son.” Mrs. Landolfi fingered the collar of her sweater again.

“Does he live in Vancouver?”

“Oh, yes. He's a professor at UBC.”

I held my cell phone out to her. “You can use my phone to call him.”

“Thank you, dear. But I wouldn't have any idea how to use one of those newfangled contraptions.”

I smiled. “That's okay. If you know his number, I can dial it for you.”

“I'm afraid I haven't memorized a phone number in decades,” Mrs. Landolfi confessed. “I have his number written in my address book, and he programmed it into my telephone.”