Murder for Choir (27 page)

“Ready for what?”

Millie stopped. “The Ockinickys’ benefit. Did you forget?”

“No.” Yes. Although Millie’s sparkly pink satin ensemble should have been a clue. “I didn’t realize we needed to get ready this early. The benefit isn’t until seven.”

“But you have to be there early to rehearse with the accompanist. Didn’t I tell you?”

“I don’t think so.” After the past few days, I wasn’t sure of anything.

Millie sighed and resumed stair-climbing. “I probably didn’t tell you on purpose. Marge Mitchell’s son is playing for you tonight. I tried to talk Gloria Ockinicky out of it, but she didn’t want to upset Marge. They’re cousins.”

Great.

Well, I was used to singing with less-than-gifted piano players. I used to think opera companies would employ the best accompanists because the music was often very challenging. I was wrong. A couple of years ago, after a string of bad audition experiences, I invested in some easy piano versions of my favorite opera arias and started carrying them with me to auditions—just in case. I figured if I could play them then the audition pianists could, too. My aunt’s expression told me I’d best bring those songs with me tonight.

While scarfing down French fries, I struggled into panty hose and slipped into one of my favorite recital dresses—a royal blue sheath with a halter top that hugged my torso and hips then fell in graceful waves to the floor. The front was pretty. The back, or lack of one, was sexy as hell. The only problem was I had to wear heels—high ones—or else the dress dragged on the floor. Slipping into my four-inch sparkly silver stilettos, I prayed that the shooter would take a break for the night. There was no way I’d outrun my great-aunt Edna let alone bullets in these. And while I had Aunt Millie’s gun, I didn’t think I could actually shoot someone. Millie might, but I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

Once Millie did her makeup and hair magic, she grinned. “Too bad the detective can’t see you looking like this. He’d have extra motivation to catch the killer.”

A part of me wished he could, too. If nothing else, he’d know exactly what he was missing. “Catching killers is his
job. I think that should be motivation enough. Besides, I think there’s a rule that police officers can’t date their witnesses.”

“Cops know how to bend those kinds of rules. I should know. Six or seven years ago I dated a cop. He knew exactly how to skirt the system so neither of us would get busted if we got caught without a license.”

“You got caught driving without your license and didn’t get a ticket?”

“I wasn’t driving. I was fishing. Mick was a wildlife and forestry cop. I used to call him Smokey Bear in bed. Trust me—he knew how to make a woman feel hot.”

I winced. Talk about too much information.

The Ockinickys lived one town over in an enormous white house complete with pillars, fountains, and two acres of perfectly groomed lawn, flowers, and trees. Gloria Ockinicky was nowhere to be found, so the caterers let us into the house, and Millie led me down a huge staircase into the living room.

High-top cocktail tables decorated with vases of sunflowers and votive candles were scattered throughout the room. Whatever furniture typically resided atop the shining parquet floor had been carted away. Everything except the white grand piano. The piano was beautiful. The pimply faced teenage boy seated behind it was not.

He looked up at us and scowled. “The party doesn’t start until seven.”

“I know,” I said before a frowning Millie could reply. Being nice to the accompanist was a must. “That’s why we’re here early. I’m Paige Marshall. You and I are tonight’s entertainment.”

“Jonathan Mitchell.” He shook my hand as his eyes ran up and down my body. The angry expression disappeared, replaced by a leer. “I didn’t know opera singers looked like you. The ones my aunt listens to are all fat.”

Generalizations like that really pissed me off. I wanted to give the kid a piece of my mind, but I satisfied myself with dropping my black binder of music on the piano with a thud. “Shall we rehearse?”

The kid was worse than bad. In fact, I doubted whether he could play chopsticks without making a mistake. After three failed attempts at the simplified introduction of “O mio babbino caro,” I asked if he’d be more comfortable reading through the music without an audience. He agreed and pointed Millie and me in the direction of the kitchen. The minute my feet hit the marble tile, I sent up a prayer to the music gods that the kid had a bad case of the nerves and would get better.

“What are you going to do?” Millie asked, dodging a tuxedo-shirt wearing woman balancing a tray of wineglasses.

The fabulous acoustics in the living room made Jonathan’s practicing ring loud and clear throughout the house. Even with the chatter of the caterers and the clinking of flatware, we could hear every painful note played on the piano.

“I’m going to sing.” That was my job no matter how terrible the piano playing. Taking a deep breath, I plastered a cheerful smile onto my face and marched back into the living room. My aunt didn’t follow. “How’s it going in here?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know.

Jonathan’s skin had taken on a slightly green color. He looked down at the keyboard as if it were going to bite him. “I might need a bit more time to practice.”

Years might help. We had thirty minutes.

“If you don’t feel comfortable playing, I can always sing a cappella.”

The kid’s shoulder’s drooped. “My mom said I had to play.”

Once the party was over, Mom and I were going to have a long chat. “Why?”

“She’s been bragging to her friends that I take piano lessons, and she wants to show off what I’ve learned.”

“How many lessons have you had?”

Jonathon’s pasty skin now took on a pinkish cast. He swallowed hard. “Five.”

I rolled my eyes. Mom was a nitwit. How could she possibly think five lessons qualified her kid for a beginner recital let alone playing at a benefit? Unless…“How many lessons does your mother think you’ve had?”

“Three years’ worth.” His freaked-out eyes met mine. “I hate piano. Dad told me I could quit, but we didn’t need to tell Mom. Mom’s a lawyer so she’s never home.”

I wanted to ask where Dad’s bright ideas were when Mom was getting Jonathan this gig. The caterers laid out the food, and the bartender was finishing setting up shop in the corner of the living room. This party was about to get started, and Jonathan looked ready to puke in the middle of the pâté.

That gave me an idea. “Go home, get into bed, and pretend to be sick. If your mother asks, I’ll say you have the stomach flu.”

“Really?” The kid jumped up from the piano and gave me a hug. “I totally owe you one.” Something told me it was no accident that his hand brushed my backside as he beat a hasty retreat.

Once Jonathan disappeared, I sat down at the piano and flipped through the music. For the most part, opera arias didn’t sound right without some sort of accompaniment.

“Where did Liberace go?” Aunt Millie appeared from the kitchen, munching on a wedge of cheese.

“He wasn’t feeling well.”

“Having no musical ability will do that to a person.” Millie polished off the cheese and grabbed a napkin off a high-top table. “Well, I’m glad you ditched the kid before his replacement arrives.”

“Replacement?”

“An old boyfriend of mine is going to swing by and play a few songs for you. Trust me, the man can tickle the ivories even better than he played me. And he was damn good at both.”

Huh. Maybe this guy was movie-star gorgeous. Then Millie might fixate on her own love life instead of mine. “Does your friend have a name?”

“Aldo Mangialardi.”

The man in question stood five feet five inches tall, wore a powder blue tux and a white ruffled shirt, and was definitely not movie-star gorgeous. With the tiny tufts of white hair springing out from behind his ears and a thick accent, he reminded me more of an Italian hobbit than a Hollywood leading man. He also arrived thirty minutes after the party officially started. Thank God it was after our hostess fainted. She passed out upon learning her original pianist had gone home, while the kid’s mother screamed at the catering staff for poisoning her talented son although no one else seemed to have a problem scarfing down the munchies. Millie and I secretly thought Gloria Ockinicky’s fainting was out of relief. The twenty-foot ceilings and hardwood floors made sound travel in this place.

Aldo grabbed my aunt’s hand and kissed it. The expression on his face was filled with adoration as she led him over to me. “This is my niece, Paige.”

“Beauty runs in-a your
family. The two of you could be sisters.” He kissed my hand and left a trail of spittle in his wake.

My aunt blushed and giggled. I looked for an unsuspecting soul to wipe my hand on. Thank goodness a waiter passed by with a puff pastry and spinach appetizer and a large stack of napkins. I availed myself of both.

An hour into the party, Aldo took a seat behind the piano and played a couple tremolos to get the crowd’s attention. Gloria Ockinicky walked across the room and stood next to the piano. Her black satin evening suit looked regal next to the white grand piano, and not a single ash blonde hair was out of place as she addressed the crowd. “Thank you all for coming tonight to support Education Through the Arts. Study after study finds that our youth excel in the areas of math, science, and English when they are also exposed to the visual and performing arts. Yet, year after year, the music, theater, and art programs are slashed from the public school curriculum. Your generous donations to Education Through the Arts will provide funding for these types of programs so that underprivileged youths throughout Chicago and the suburbs can work with teachers like Paige Marshall.”

I blinked at the sound of my name. Aunt Millie nudged me and beamed. Gloria waved me forward, and I walked through the crowd to stand next to her. “Paige is a wonderful example of how the arts can positively impact a life.” I tried not to fidget or look embarrassed as Gloria regaled the partygoers with my academic and performing résumé. She then added, “Our community is fortunate that Paige has decided to spread her love of the arts through teaching at a local high school. And we are even luckier to have her performing for us tonight.”

The crowd clapped for Gloria as she stepped away from the piano. Seconds later, Aldo started to play. There was no time to contemplate Gloria’s introduction or her cheerful and flattering categorization of my teaching job. I’d think about that later. Right now, it was time for me to do the one thing I knew how to do best—sing.

While Gloria had requested I sing opera arias, I decided to kick things off with a musical theater number. Upbeat, happy, and words in English were always a good idea.

The crowd tapped their toes along with “I Could Have Danced All Night” from
My Fair Lady
. Once that was over, the incredibly skilled Aldo played the opening of Bizet’s famous “Habanera” from
Carmen
. The crowd didn’t care that I was singing in French. They understood the sexy beat and the sultry music. I strutted around the room flirting with men then giving them Carmen’s patented kiss-off.

Before the event, Gloria gave me instructions to sing a few songs. As soon as the audience grew restless, I was supposed to stop. Only, Aldo and I had been performing Puccini, Mozart, and Romberg for a half hour and so far no one looked ready to bail. Flattering as that was, the whole point of this concert was to raise money. The necessary schmoozing couldn’t happen while I commanded the floor. As much fun as I was having, it was time to bring this show to a close.

The final notes to “Quando m’en vo” rang out in the hall, and the audience applauded. When they grew quiet again, I announced, “Thank you so much for being such a wonderful audience. While this is our last song of the night, your generous donations will ensure that music and the arts continue long into the future.”

I nodded to Aldo, and he began playing “Con te partiro”—“Time to Say Good-bye.” Appropriate, beautiful,
and one that always gets the crowd teary-eyed. In this case, I was hoping it would also get them to open their wallets.

The applause was loud and long. Both were a balm to my ego, which had suffered at my recent dry spell of performing gigs. Finding someone murdered and getting shot at had made my lack of casting seem trivial, but my confidence still appreciated the boost.

I signaled for Aldo to stand and take a bow, which he did with a flourish. The two of us then bowed together and declined when people asked us to do another tune. Millie came bursting out of the crowd, beaming. She wrapped her arms around me and whispered. “You were perfect. Gloria can’t stop smiling, and Marge is ready to claw my eyes out from jealousy.”

“Why would Marge claw your eyes out?”

“She thinks I helped usurp her son’s glory.”

“He was sick.” That was the official story, and I was sticking to it.

“Marge insinuated you might have poisoned him in order to have the stage to yourself. She also thought the police might want to look more closely at the dead body you found, just in case you did the same thing to him.”