Dead Ringer Read online

  Dedication

  To my parents and my sisters.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  THE CACOPHONY THAT hit my ears was as familiar as a favorite song. I stood at the top of a set of stairs inside an old church, a faint musty smell tickling at my nose. The still air pressed in around me, a little too warm to be comfortable, but the discordant sounds drew me onward.

  The wooden stairs creaked beneath my feet as I made my way down into the church’s basement. It wasn’t hard to figure out where to go next. All I had to do was follow the clamorous sound of multiple instruments playing out of sync.

  With my violin case in one hand and a bag slung over my shoulder, I entered a small gymnasium. The sound of warring instruments came from the stage at one end of the room. Chairs and music stands had been set out in concentric semicircles, and several of the chairs were already occupied. Some of the ­people present chatted with one another, but most were busy tuning their instruments or warming up by playing snippets from various pieces.

  Three violinists and a violist plucked and bowed while two clarinets and a French horn ran through different melodies. They were almost—­but not quite—­drowned out by the tuba player, who was by far making the biggest racket of all.

  The clashing notes and melodies didn’t bother me in the least. As a violinist in a professional orchestra, this was one of the soundtracks of my life.

  My stand partner, Mikayla Deinhardt, waved to me from her seat. I waved back and headed for the open door on the far side of the stage. As I had suspected, it led the way up to the wings.

  Carrying her violin and bow, Mikayla threaded her way through the chairs and music stands, the tight curls of her hair bouncing and bobbing around her face. She met me just off stage.

  “Hey, Midori.” She nodded down a dimly lit corridor. “We all stashed our stuff down the hall.”

  She led the way, the high heels of her black boots tapping the scuffed wooden floor, the sound audible even amidst the noise coming from the stage.

  She opened a door and we passed into a large room with folding chairs and tables scattered around. More members of the orchestra milled about inside, chatting and unpacking instruments. I claimed an empty spot on one of the tables and set down my violin case.

  “It’s not much, but it’ll do,” Mikayla said, her gaze sweeping over the mismatched furniture and water-­stained walls.

  “As long as we’ve got a place to rehearse.” I dumped my bag on the table next to my violin case.

  “As long as we’re not stuck here for long, is more like it.” Jeremy Ralston, cellist and general annoyance, came over to join us.

  Mikayla rolled her dark eyes while her face was still angled away from him. I shared her sentiment but managed to stifle a groan.

  “How many professional orchestras do you know that rehearse in a dingy church basement? It’s bad enough that the youth orchestra I help out with plays here on a regular basis.” Jeremy stood between Mikayla and me, his lanky frame looming at least a head taller than either of us.

  “What’s the big deal?” I snapped open the clasps on my violin case and removed my bow.

  “The acoustics are crap, for starters,” Jeremy said, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I’m pretty sure this place is older than sin itself.”

  This time it was my eyes that rolled, and I didn’t care if Jeremy noticed.

  “It’s only for a ­couple of weeks,” Mikayla reminded him. “Once the renovations are finished, we’ll be back at the Abrams Center, where you and your grandiose needs will be appeased.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Yes,” I said with a sardonic smile as I tightened my bow and rubbed some rosin on it, “we should thank God, since the church provided us with rehearsal space.”

  Jeremy snorted and stalked off to the corner where he’d left his cello.

  “What a prima donna,” Mikayla said once he was out of earshot.

  “No kidding.” I tossed the rosin back into my instrument case. “And notice how it’s the ringer who’s complaining, instead of us regular members?”

  “Oh, I noticed.” Mikayla’s words referred to Jeremy but her eyes lit on Dave Cyders, one of the bassoonists, as he entered the room. She checked her reflection in a dusty mirror on the wall, fluffing up her curls and using one finger to wipe at an imagined imperfection on her flawless brown skin. Her eyes going straight back to Dave, she said, “I’ll see you on stage.”

  Even though I’d been all but forgotten in the space of a few seconds, I couldn’t help but smile. If Mikayla had set her sights on Dave, he didn’t stand much chance of resisting. Mikayla always got what she wanted. Not that he would want to resist. Mikayla was beautiful and vivacious, and never short on male attention.

  I set down my bow long enough to twist my long black hair up on the back of my head and fasten it in place with a hair clip. That done, I gathered up my violin and bow in one hand and grabbed my folder of music with the other. Leaving Mikayla deep in conversation with Dave—­a conversation that involved much eyelash fluttering and tinkling laughter on Mikayla’s part—­I headed out into the hallway.

  My intention was to head out onto the stage, but the sound of angry voices made me pause. Two men were arguing somewhere not too far off. I walked quietly along the dim corridor, farther away from the stage, and stopped just before a corner. The voices were closer now, their words discernible.

  “You don’t want to take long to make it happen. Trust me.”

  Somehow I wasn’t surprised when I identified Jeremy Ralston’s voice. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Congeniality. I was, however, surprised when I heard the second voice.

  “Are you seriously trying to threaten me?”

  The Danish accent was unmistakable. Jeremy was arguing with our maestro, Hans Clausen.

  “What do you think?”

  I stepped around the corner before the maestro could respond. An ancient floorboard creaked beneath my feet, and both men turned sharply at the sound.

  “Everything okay?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light. It wasn’t easy. The tension in the corridor was almost smothering.

  Without acknowledging that I’d spoken, Jeremy stormed past me, not bothering to apologize when he bumped my shoulder on his way by. I was sorely tempted to say something biting, but the intensity of the glower on his face stopped me. He was a jerk, but I had no desire to provoke him into violence. And from his furious expression, I didn’t think it would take much to do so.

  I watched him disappear toward the stage before I turned back to Hans, both curious and concerned. “What was that all about?”

  The maestro ran a hand through his blond hair, leaving it disheveled. “Nothing to worry about.”

  I moved a ­couple of steps closer to him. “Are you sure? He seemed awfully angry.”

&
nbsp; The maestro attempted a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “He has an unpleasant personality. He’s not the first of his kind I’ve had to deal with.”

  “At least he’s only with us temporarily,” I said. “As soon as Janice recovers from her injury, Jeremy will be gone, and you won’t have to hire him again if you don’t want to.”

  “Yes, that’s true. We won’t have to deal with him much longer.”

  Despite his words, his expression remained troubled, his ice blue eyes clouded by some emotion I couldn’t quite identify. But before I could question him further, he smiled—­a real smile this time—­and brushed his thumb along my cheekbone. My heart skipped a beat and I forgot all about Jeremy Ralston.

  “You look beautiful.” He moved closer until our faces were only inches apart.

  “You say that every time you see me,” I said, surprised that I could speak normally. My body had gone so floaty and tingly that I hadn’t expected my tongue to work.

  “That’s because you look beautiful every time I see you.”

  He brushed his lips against mine, and my music folder slipped from my right hand. It dropped to the floor with a thump. I almost dropped my violin and bow as well but tightened my grip on them just in time to prevent disaster.

  “Are you sure we should be doing this?” I whispered when his lips broke contact with mine.

  “We’re alone, aren’t we?” His mouth never moved more than an inch from mine. “No one will see us.”

  Even if I had wanted to argue—­which I didn’t—­I wouldn’t have had the chance. His lips met mine again and all coherent thoughts went out of my brain like birds flying through an open window. I snaked my free hand up between us and around the back of his neck, my fingers curling around a handful of his hair. My mercury was seriously on the rise when he pulled back, leaving me wanting more.

  He grinned at me. “As much as I prefer this type of rehearsing, we should probably get on stage.” He brushed his thumb along my cheek once more and, still grinning, left me standing there in the corridor.

  Somewhat breathless and struggling to get my mind back in working order, I patted my hair to make sure it was still held in place by its clip. Satisfied that it was, I retrieved my music folder and followed after the maestro.

  IT WAS A tight fit to get the entire orchestra on the stage but I was determined not to grumble about it, mostly because I didn’t want to be a complainer like Jeremy. I also knew full well that the alternative to the church basement was a long commute downtown through rush-­hour traffic—­a commute that would have wreaked havoc on both my schedule and my sanity.

  The orchestra had voted on the options before temporarily having to give up our regular rehearsal space at the Abrams Center for the Performing Arts. While the Abrams Center was our home base, we’d had to vacate the building for a ­couple of weeks while it underwent renovations. About a third of the orchestra had voted to move our rehearsals to a swanky theater downtown, but the rest of us had preferred to stick to the same general part of the city so we didn’t have to reschedule our other jobs.

  Even though the basement auditorium wasn’t exactly the ideal place for a professional orchestra to rehearse, it would do for the time being, whether or not a certain cellist agreed. So I got cozy in my seat next to Mikayla and tuned my violin.

  As I made a final adjustment to my E-­string, Mikayla leaned toward me and said over the noise of tuning instruments, “Dinner. Friday night.”

  Since her gaze was aimed across the stage at Dave the bassoonist, I knew she wasn’t referring to a girls’ night out with me.

  “That’s great,” I said with a smile.

  “I’m betting it will be.”

  Mikayla set out the sheet music for Brahms’s Double Concerto in A Minor and started to play, adding to the clashing sounds of different snippets of music coming from the various instruments around the stage. Although I was happy for my friend, I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from asking her if she was sure it was a good idea to date a fellow orchestra member.

  I’d heard enough horror stories over the years to know that mixing work and romance often ended in disaster, but Mikayla was two years my senior and plenty old enough to make her own decisions. Besides, who was I to talk? I’d just locked lips with the maestro, and not for the first time. When it came to workplace romantic liaisons, I was pretty much going for the jackpot.

  Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to strike up a relationship with the maestro, but I knew that wouldn’t stop me. Our connection was too electric, too exciting to ignore. Still, I knew we would need to be careful. If anyone found out about our relationship, even while it was in such an early stage, things could get uncomfortable for both of us.

  I didn’t think anyone connected to the orchestra was likely to find out, though, at least as long as we didn’t make a habit of kissing backstage during rehearsals. So far, we’d managed to maintain the appearance of a strictly professional relationship whenever in anyone else’s presence. All we had to do was keep that up. And not get caught kissing backstage.

  The act of pretending that there was nothing between us continued as Hans took up his position at the front of the orchestra and tapped his baton on his music stand to get everyone’s attention. He made no special eye contact with me, gave no indication that he noticed me at all, and I expected nothing else.

  After making a few preliminary announcements, Hans started the rehearsal. We worked our way through the first movement of the Double Concerto, the cello and violin soloists providing the highlights. Next we moved onto the second movement, my favorite of the three. I loved the rich dignity of the andante movement. It had a way of filling me with a sense of peace, reminding me of quiet, happy evenings spent outdoors in pleasant weather.

  Our concertmaster, Elena Vasilyeva, and cellist Johnson Lau wove the solo parts together with a seamless beauty that never got old for me. Even though we stopped and started as part of the usual rehearsal process, the movement didn’t fail to exert its calming effect on me.

  After about an hour of rehearsing, the maestro set down his baton. “Take a ten minute break and then we’ll move on to the Symphony No. 2.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the stage area filled with the sound of scraping chairs, shuffling feet, and chatter. I couldn’t say I was surprised when Mikayla made a beeline for Dave Cyders. I didn’t have the same luxury, and didn’t even cast a glance in Hans’s direction as I made my way offstage and toward the back room where I had stored my belongings.

  Setting my violin and bow in my instrument case for safekeeping, I removed a bottle of water from my bag and took a long drink. I exchanged a few words with a ­couple of my fellow second violinists and then headed off in search of a washroom. I made my way back up to the main floor of the church, certain I’d seen a ladies’ room on my way down to the auditorium when I’d first arrived.

  I was right. At the top of the stairs and halfway down another creaking corridor, I found the women’s washroom. Both of the two stalls were already occupied, so I checked my hair in the mirror while I waited. As I tucked a few flyaway strands behind my right ear, I heard a muffled thump from somewhere out in the corridor.

  Curious, I left the washroom and peered up and down the hallway. There was no one in sight. There was, however, another thud, followed by the sound of hurried, retreating footsteps.

  I might not have Spidey senses, but I definitely had an inkling that something was amiss.

  Ignoring my less-­than-­urgent need to return to the washroom in favor of satisfying my curiosity, I tiptoed along the hallway, away from the stairway that led down to the basement.

  I reached the end of the corridor where it joined the narthex. I knew from entering the church earlier that there was a staircase right around the corner, leading to the upper level. Pausing for a second, I listened for any further sounds, but all was qui
et. Eerily so.

  Goose bumps formed on my arms, and my heart thudded like a drum beaten on by an overzealous percussionist. I drew in a deep breath and moved around the corner.

  I was met by a pair of feet. The feet were, unsurprisingly, attached to legs, and the legs were attached to a body. Jeremy Ralston’s body, to be precise. He was sprawled on his stomach on the worn red carpet of the staircase, his feet near the bottom, his head higher up. He wasn’t moving.

  “Jeremy?”

  He didn’t so much as twitch when I said his name.

  Gripping the railing for support, I took two tentative steps up the stairs. That was far enough to allow me to get a good look at his face.

  Never the most attractive man to begin with, Jeremy now qualified as hideous. His face was splotchy, mottled with red, and his eyes were open a fraction of an inch.

  I barely took the time to register the angry red marks on his throat before I hastily backed down the stairs.

  Jeremy was dead.

  Murdered.

  Chapter 2

  “HELP!”

  I spun in a frantic circle, not sure which way to turn. I reached to the pocket of my pants for my cell phone, but I’d left it in my bag.

  Find someone!

  I was about to retreat to the washroom or, if that proved empty, to the basement, when a blond-­haired woman appeared at the top of the stairs, a pink cashmere cardigan buttoned haphazardly over her white blouse.

  “Oh, dear!” She paused on the landing, five steps above Jeremy’s head. “Has there been an accident?”

  I swallowed, finding it hard to breathe evenly. “I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”