Deadly Overtures: A Music Lover's Mystery (7 page)

I couldn’t hear any voices and wondered if the detectives had gone home. That was entirely possible since the stage was empty of life when I returned to the wings and peeked out at the unoccupied chairs and music stands. I stood still and listened for a moment, but could hear no telltale sounds of maintenance work going on. Crossing the stage, I passed through the wings on the opposite side and followed a corridor lined with dressing rooms, all of the doors currently shut tight.

At the end of the hallway I pushed through a door and stepped into the theater’s lobby. Still lit up, the lobby featured more red carpeting, ticket windows, a shuttered concession stand, washrooms, four cushioned benches, and two elegant, curving stairways that led up to the balcony and private boxes. The silence was as heavy in the lobby as it had been in the corridor and I decided to give up on my search. But as I turned to make my way back through the door, a clanking sound drew my attention. The door to the men’s washroom opened and Fred emerged, his toolbox in hand.

“Evening, Midori,” Fred said when he caught sight of me.

“Hi, Fred.”

The maintenance man had worked at the theater for many years and we’d been on a first-name basis for a long time.

“You’re here late tonight,” he commented.

“I am,” I agreed, as I left the door to approach him. “I was looking for you, actually.”

“Something need to be fixed?”

“No. I wanted to ask you about your tools.” Both our gazes shifted to the toolbox in his hand. “Did the police ever tell you if the blood on your hammer was Pavlina’s?”

“The dead woman?” He shook his head. “That was a real shame, losing her life so young. But no, the police haven’t told me anything. And I’m not sure I want to know. If my hammer was used to kill that poor young woman . . . Well, that makes me feel responsible for her death.”

“Even if it was the murder weapon, her death wasn’t your fault,” I tried to assure him. “If the killer didn’t use your hammer, he or she would have found something else to use.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Fred sighed heavily. “Still, it’s a terrible thing. Does everyone know that blood was found on my hammer?”

“No. I only know because I overheard you telling the police the other night. It doesn’t seem to be general knowledge.”

A hint of relief registered on Fred’s creased face. “That’s something, at least. I wouldn’t want people thinking I’d killed her.”

“I’m sure no one would think that.”

He didn’t seem entirely convinced. “Of course, people might still find out, and I’m just grateful the police haven’t hauled me off to jail.”

“Surely they don’t think you’re a suspect?” The idea seemed preposterous to me, but I’d known Fred for years whereas the police knew nothing about him.

“They sure asked me a lot of questions the other night. It’s their job to, of course, but I’m not sure my old ticker could handle time in the slammer.”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” I said quickly, hoping fervently that was the truth. “Maybe the blood wasn’t Pavlina’s. Even if it was, you weren’t the only one with access to your tools that night, were you?”

“No, I sure wasn’t.” Fred scratched his head, thinking back. “The police asked me this as well. I’d left my toolbox out in the hall while I went to my maintenance cupboard to fetch a mop. I’d fixed a leaky pipe in one of the men’s rooms, but there was water all over the floor. When I got back, I didn’t notice whether my hammer was there or not. It wasn’t until I went to put my tools away that I noticed the blood, but the toolbox was still out in the hall while I was mopping up the water. If someone was quiet about it, they could have taken my hammer and returned it without me being any the wiser.”

“Hopefully the killer left fingerprints behind,” I said. “That would help the investigation. If your hammer really was the murder weapon.”

“I sure hope it wasn’t, but my gut tells me it was. And there aren’t many times when my gut is wrong.”

I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Everything will turn out all right in the end.”

“I hope so.” He nodded at me. “I’d better get on. You have yourself a good night, Midori.”

“You too, Fred.”

He passed through the door leading to the corridor I’d followed to the lobby. I almost took the same route as him, but then decided to cross the lobby to get to the other side of the theater where the musicians’ lounge was located. I passed by the shuttered concession stand and reached a recessed door on the far side of the lobby. As I was about to push through it, a man’s voice caught my attention.

“It’s all taken care of,” the man said. “They don’t suspect a thing.”

An eerie chill ran up my spine and I remained frozen to the spot. Glancing over my shoulder toward the nearest curving staircase, I spotted Jeb Hartson in a suit and bolo tie, descending the stairs, lowering a cell phone from his ear.

With a sudden stab of fear cutting through me, I opened the door as silently and as quickly as I could. Then I slipped through it and fled down the hall toward the musicians’ lounge, hoping with all my might that Jeb had no clue I’d overheard him.

Chapter Seven

B
Y THE TIME
I returned to the musicians’ lounge, the door was locked, all other members of the orchestra now gone. Fortunately, I had my key in my pocket and was able to retrieve my belongings from my locker. While quickly shrugging into my coat and pulling on my gloves, I kept glancing toward the door. My nerves were worn thin like a well-used violin string, ready to snap under the smallest amount of pressure.

As soon as possible, I hitched my tote bag over my shoulder, grabbed my instrument case, and shut and locked my locker. I flipped off the lights as I left the room and locked the door behind me. Pausing outside the lounge, I glanced up and down the corridor. It was empty, thick silence ringing in my ears.

Not wanting to hang about any longer, I hurried to the stage door and left the theater for the chilly, dark night, my warm breath puffing out in small clouds in front of my face. While I was relieved that I hadn’t run into Jeb since I’d overheard him in the lobby, I couldn’t get away from the theater fast enough. It was usually a comforting place for me, but it was nothing of the sort at the moment. I couldn’t help thinking of Pavlina’s killer stalking the hallways, whether that killer was Jeb or someone else.

As I made my way down the short alley, I kept glancing this way and that, jumpier than a hyper kangaroo. When I reached the parking lot, my footsteps slowed. Voices danced through the cold night air, jumbled words I couldn’t decipher sounding at two different pitches. As I continued toward my MINI Cooper—one of only four cars left in the lot—I spotted Elena near her silver Mercedes-Benz, speaking with the same man I’d seen her with before the concert on the night of Pavlina’s death.

I strained my ears but still couldn’t make out their words, and I soon realized they were once again speaking Russian. But while I couldn’t understand their words, Elena’s body language required no translation. As I watched, she threw her hands up in the air and spat out several exasperated words. The man said something in return and she shook her head, cutting him off with a rapid stream of Russian.

Arriving at my car, I fumbled with my keys as I kept an eye on Elena and the mystery man. I managed to get the door unlocked and when I opened it, the movement caught Elena’s eye. Her head snapped in my direction and she glared at me from across the parking lot. Feigning disinterest, I stashed my violin behind the driver’s seat, tossed my tote bag over to the passenger’s side, and climbed in.

When I pulled the door shut my eyes went back to Elena, but she too had climbed into her car. The mystery man climbed in next to her and the engine roared to life, the headlights slicing through the night. Elena wasted no time reversing out of her parking spot and careening out of the lot. I followed in my MINI Cooper at a safer pace, and by the time I reached the main road, Elena’s vehicle had disappeared from sight.

I would have been lying if I said I had no interest in knowing who the man with Elena was. I was far too curious by nature not to wonder. But as I paused at a red light a minute later, other memories of the evening crept to the forefront of my mind, crowding out any lingering thoughts of Elena and the man who’d left with her.

Clanging the loudest for my attention was my memory of Jeb Hartson’s recent words. What was it that was all taken care of? What did nobody suspect? That he’d killed Pavlina?

If that was the case, who was he talking to? And why would he have wanted Pavlina dead?

If Pavlina had threatened to make their relationship public, it was entirely possible that such news could have negatively affected his reputation and career. It was unlikely that he’d ever be asked to judge another contest once it was widely known that he’d had an inappropriate relationship with one of the finalists in the young composers’ competition. Maybe his colleagues would have looked down on him as well, causing more damage to his career by reducing other future opportunities.

The problem with that scenario was that—as far as I could see—Pavlina herself had stood to lose plenty by making their relationship public. Revealing such information during the competition would likely have led to her disqualification, as I suspected would have happened if she’d lived long enough for Olivia to set that ball rolling. Even if she’d won the competition and had already made off with the prize money before revealing her relationship with Jeb, she likely would have been disgraced in the media, and people would have surmised that she’d won because she was sleeping with Jeb, rather than because of her talent. Whether or not that would have been true or fair, the perception could have darkened the prospects for her otherwise bright future.

It was entirely possible that there were facts still unknown to me that would paint a clearer picture of why Jeb would want Pavlina dead, but based on what I knew at the moment, it seemed far more likely that he would have wanted Olivia out of the way. She knew Jeb and Pavlina’s secret and whether or not she herself could have made the decision to disqualify Pavlina and boot Jeb from the judging panel, she certainly could have taken the first step toward that outcome by telling what she knew to those in charge.

Since Olivia had that power, I would have been convinced of Jeb’s guilt if she’d been the victim rather than Pavlina. As it was, a note of uncertainty jingled at the back of my head, making me wonder if the words I’d overheard held any real significance after all. If his statements were indicative of his guilt, the police needed to know what I’d overheard. But I could already imagine how completely disinterested Detective Van den Broek would be when he heard the brief tale of that moment in the lobby.

Still, even if the detective didn’t seem to appreciate anything I’d already told him, I wouldn’t feel right holding back what I’d overheard. Maybe it meant nothing, but maybe it was the vital clue that would put the police on the track of Pavlina’s killer.

With a heavy sigh, I decided to make a trip to the police station the next morning. Once again I wished Detective Salnikova was in charge of the murder investigation. Even if I had a tendency to exasperate her with what she probably viewed as nosiness, I knew she would at least listen to me. I wasn’t sure if I’d get the same consideration from Van den Broek. Nevertheless, I would pay the detective a visit in the morning and tell him what I’d heard.

I
TOSSED AND
turned that night, jumbled thoughts bouncing around in my head, thumping out an irregular beat against my skull. Even when I did manage to sleep, a confused muddle of dreams kept me from truly restful slumber. I awoke in the morning with a groan, pulling the blankets up over my head, wishing I could turn back the clock and give the night another try. Since that, unfortunately, wasn’t an option, I soon forced myself to push back the covers and leave the warmth of my bed.

Yawning, I stumbled my way to the bathroom and took a quick shower. By the time I’d toweled off and dressed I was as awake as I could be after the night I’d had. I made myself a quick breakfast of toast and strawberry jam and washed it down with a cup of green tea. Although I would have liked to lounge about reading a good book while enjoying another cup of tea, I remembered my decision from the night before and got bundled up in my coat, slouchy knitted hat, and gloves. Then I rode the elevator down to my building’s underground parking lot and set off in my car for the police station.

I had to circle the block before I could find a parking spot and when I finally did get my MINI Cooper tucked up next to the curb, I remained in the driver’s seat, reluctant to get out. While I couldn’t be completely sure of the reception I’d receive from Detective Van den Broek, I figured the odds were pretty good that he wouldn’t be enthralled by what I had to tell him. Then again, maybe I didn’t have to talk to Van den Broek. Maybe I could ask to speak with Detective Chowdhury instead. Whether he’d be any more interested in the information I had to share than his partner had been with my insights the other night, I didn’t know, but speaking with Chowdhury appealed to me more than another round with Van den Broek.

Finally leaving the warmth of my little car, I hurried along the street to the police station, the cold air stinging my cheeks. Inside the reception area, warmer air greeted me and I pulled my hat from my head. I immediately regretted the action, realizing that my hair was probably all staticky and sticking up in every direction. Feeling self-conscious, I ran my hand over my hair, trying to smooth it down as best I could as I approached the reception desk.

I asked the middle-aged woman behind the desk if I could speak with Detective Chowdhury and she requested that I wait a moment. As I did so, I wandered over to the posters adorning one of the walls, but barely noticed any of them except one. A missing person’s poster showing a teenage girl with hair the same length and color as Pavlina’s caught my attention, shifting my focus back in time to the terrible scene Mikayla and I had stumbled upon in the theater’s washroom.

For the briefest of moments it was as if a flag were waving at me from the back of my mind. But as soon as I tried to grasp on to what my brain was trying to tell me, the thought slipped away. Staring at the posters without really seeing them, I sifted through my memories, trying to find what it was that I’d almost remembered. I had a feeling it related in some way to Pavlina’s body, or the scene of the crime.

Had I seen something significant without realizing it at the time? But what?

I tugged on my left earlobe, picturing all the details I could recall from the moments following the discovery of Pavlina’s body. But the harder I tried to figure out what was nagging at me, the farther away it seemed to slither.

When the woman behind the reception desk called for my attention, I turned away from the posters, annoyed with myself, but deciding to forget about the matter for the time being. Whatever it was that I was missing, maybe it would come back to me later.

“Detective Chowdhury will be out in a moment,” the woman told me when I returned to the reception desk.

I thanked her and wandered over to the nearest chair. I’d barely had a chance to sit down before the door next to the reception desk opened and Detective Chowdhury stepped through it.

“Ms. Bishop?” His eyes settled on me, the only person in the waiting area.

I jumped up and hurried over to meet him. He offered his hand and I shook it. Then he ushered me through the doorway and into a hallway I’d been down several times before.

“I presume you’re here about the investigation into Ms. Nicolova’s death,” Chowdhury said as he led me to an open area at the end of the hall where several detectives worked away at their desks.

My eyes quickly scanned the room, but I saw no sign of Detective Salnikova’s familiar face. “Yes,” I said as Chowdhury offered me a seat by his desk.

“You’ve remembered something since you spoke to Detective Van den Broek the other night?”

I settled into the offered seat, resting my purse, hat, and gloves on my lap. “No, but I overheard something after I spoke to him. It might not be important, but it sounded suspicious to me and I thought you should know about it.”

Detective Chowdhury dug around in one of his desk drawers and produced a pen seconds later. As he flipped through the pages of his notebook, a shadow fell over me. Chowdhury and I both looked up at the same time. Detective Van den Broek loomed over us, appearing even taller than his six and a half feet from my low vantage point.

“Ms. Bishop, isn’t it?” he said, peering down at me from his great height.

“That’s right,” I confirmed.

He pulled out the chair that was tucked under the neighboring desk and sat down. It seemed I’d be talking to both detectives.

“Ms. Bishop has something to tell us regarding the murder investigation,” Chowdhury said, bringing his partner up to speed.

Van den Broek fixed his eyes on me.

Determined not to shrink beneath his gaze, I sat up straight and focused on Detective Chowdhury, clearing my throat before speaking. “As I said, I’m not sure if it’s significant, but last night after the rehearsal I overheard Jeb Hartson talking on his cell phone. He said something was all taken care of and nobody suspected a thing. He didn’t know I’d overheard him and I’m pretty sure he thought he was alone, since most of the orchestra had already left the theater.”

Even though I remained facing Detective Chowdhury, I could still feel Van den Broek’s intimidating gaze boring into me. I clasped my hands in my lap to prevent myself from fidgeting and cleared my throat again. “Anyways, it sounded suspicious to me so I thought you should know.”

“Did he say anything else?” Chowdhury asked.

“Not that I heard.”

The detective wrote something in his notebook before flipping it shut and setting down his pen. “All right. Thank you, Ms. Bishop. We appreciate you coming in to share this with us.”

“You’re welcome,” I said as I stood up.

“Ms. Bishop,” Van den Broek said as he got to his feet. “You seem to overhear quite a few conversations.”

I met his dark blue eyes straight on. “What are you implying?”

“I simply hope you aren’t wasting police time.”

Heat flared in my cheeks as the full implication of his words hit me. “You think I made this up?”

It was Detective Chowdhury’s turn to stand up. “Nobody’s saying that.”

“Really?” I knew that was exactly what Van den Broek was saying. A fire of anger and indignation flared to life inside of me, heating my next words. “The community at the Abrams Center is a small one. I overhear things accidentally all the time. Most of it is of no importance, and maybe this information isn’t either, but I thought it was my duty to share it with you. If you’d rather not know what goes on at the theater when you’re not around, just say so and I won’t bother you again.”

“We do appreciate the information you shared,” Chowdhury hurried to assure me, but I barely heard him.

Van den Broek’s impassive expression hadn’t changed and I was ready to storm out of the police station. I’d even spun around, prepared to leave without another word, when a familiar voice stopped me before I’d taken a single step.