Chapter 17

“You saw Donna Hilty defacing the other teams’ property?”

Chessie let out a dramatic sigh. “Yes. I mean, I didn’t realize it was her at first. I got bored at the dance master class and asked if I could go to the bathroom.”

Oy. The bathroom break trick was the oldest excuse in the book. Hell, I’d used it more than once in my time to get out of class. The beauty of the excuse was that even if the teacher believed the student was faking the need to pee, the request couldn’t be turned down. Not without a really good reason. What teacher wanted to be responsible for a bulging bladder? And even more problematic was that there was no way to set a time requirement on a bathroom break. Some things just couldn’t be rushed.

“I take it you didn’t go to the bathroom?”

“Well . . .” Chessie hesitated for a moment, clearly remembering the times she claimed she had to pee during Music in Motion rehearsals. “Not exactly. I mean, I was going to use the bathroom in the hallway by our staging room. The ones in the lobby can get really crowded.”

And hell was the perfect place to build a ski resort. However, as much as I wanted to call Chessie on her creative storytelling, there were bigger issues at work here.

When Chessie realized I wasn’t going to question her miraculous control over her kidneys, she gave a bright smile. “Anyway, I went through the doors into the hallway and was going to stop in our staging room really quick when I heard a noise from the room next to ours.”

“What kind of noise?”

“It sounded like fabric ripping, kind of like when I got my heel caught in my rehearsal skirt doing that backwards hitch kick during the run of the musical last week.”

I remembered. The sound of Chessie’s dress ripping echoed through the theater loud and clear. So did the sound of Chessie’s backside hitting the wooden floor.

“Anyway, I decided to find out what made the sound. The door to the room next to ours was closed, but I could hear more ripping coming from there. I thought about opening the door, but I figured whoever was inside had the door closed for a reason. So I went back to our staging room and waited for them to come out. When I heard the door open, I waited a minute and then peeked around the corner and saw the back of a woman walking in the other direction. There was something familiar about her so I snapped a picture with my cell as she went into the room two doors down. That’s when I decided to take a look in the room next to ours. I mean, it seemed pretty obvious that she was up to something. And that’s when I found the ruined costumes. I took a picture of those, too. Just in case.”

Just in case of what, I wasn’t sure. What I was sure of was that Chessie’s story had a lot of holes in it, which told me more had happened in that hallway than what she was saying. And the stubborn look in her eyes told me I wasn’t going to find out what that something was. Chessie must have been up to something, but at the moment I was less concerned about whatever that was. I wanted to see the photographs.

“Do you have your cell phone with you?” Do pigs like mud?

Chessie pulled out her cell, pushed buttons on the screen, and handed the phone to me.

“The woman in this photo is a brunette.” Which, other than her curvy backside, was the only thing I could tell about her.

“She was wearing a wig. I was able to get a profile shot of her coming out of the second room. It’s a little crooked because I had to stick the phone out of the door and snap the shot without looking, but you can tell it’s Donna Hilty. See.”

She handed the phone back to me. The photo was off center and a little fuzzy, but the face in the middle of all that brown hair was unmistakable. As far as evidence goes, the photograph was circumstantial. There was no law against wearing a wig or going into rooms that belonged to other teams. The date stamp and time of the photo was more damning. Not only was it the same period in which the sabotage took place; it was also the day that Donna claimed to have been called out of town due to a family emergency.

“Why didn’t you tell Mr. DeWeese or me about what you saw?”

Chessie flushed and my stomach sank.

“You told Donna that you saw her. That’s why she picked you to sing at the master class this morning.” I didn’t need to see Chessie’s nod to know that I had hit the mark. Scott mentioned Donna mostly selected her own students to perform. Scott had sounded surprised at Chessie’s power and polish. At the time, I’d taken his astonishment as a slight against my teaching abilities. I should have realized he was saying something more, but I didn’t know the guy well enough to understand the subtext. I did, however, know Chessie. She wasn’t the type to let Donna off the hook with just a master class solo.

“What else did you get Donna to promise you?”

Chessie sighed. “She promised to land me an audition with her manager and to let me rehearse and maybe sing with her backup singers for one of her concerts this summer.”

I shook my head. “The woman ruined the costumes for most of the teams competing against hers and you’re taking her word that she’ll keep her promise?”

“Of course not.” Chessie straightened her shoulders. “I insisted she call her manager in front of me and arrange the audition. After she left, I looked up his website, called the number listed, and confirmed the audition. I meet with him in two weeks. I also had my mother call him and confirm so that we didn’t make travel arrangements to New York City for nothing.”

Chessie might be a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. I found myself both horrified by her powers of manipulation and proud at the way she covered all her bases. Too bad I was going to throw a wrench into those plans.

“I’m going to need to borrow your phone.”

“What?” Chessie clutched the yellow-cased phone to her chest. “No. You can’t let anyone know that I told you about Donna and the costumes or she’ll cancel my audition.”

Chances were she’d cancel it anyway. Donna didn’t strike me as the type who liked to share. Especially not with a girl half her age.

“I have to let Christine McCann know about the photos. It’s the right thing to do.” It was also the one thing that would guarantee our team would be scored fairly tomorrow. I held out my hand and waited.

Chessie’s lip trembled as she put the cell in my hand.

“You never know,” I said. “Donna’s manager might still give you an audition. If not, that’s okay. You have college to get through. I’m betting a lot of opportunities will present themselves then. And you’ll be even better prepared to take advantage of them. Now, go tell Eric that you talked to me. He’s going to be really proud of you.”

Making your boyfriend happy wasn’t exactly the same as getting an audition with a big-time manager, but hey—sometimes you had to take what you could get. Chessie gave the phone in my hand a wistful gaze before hurrying off to find Eric.

For a minute, I just watched her go. I couldn’t help wondering whether if I’d had her desire to succeed at all cost, my career would have taken off years ago. If so, I would never have needed to move in with my aunt or take this teaching job.

As strange as it was to admit, I was glad I’d had this chance. No matter what happened in the future, I’d learned a lot from this job. I’d always thought that teaching was for those who couldn’t make it on the stage or got tired of the endless rounds of rejection and auditions.

I was wrong.

Teaching didn’t get applause, but it did bring a sense of deep satisfaction. No matter what happened in my career, I would know that I’d mattered to people like Chessie, Eric, and Megan. I’d made a difference. It wasn’t Broadway, but maybe Broadway and the Lyric weren’t the only important things out there for me. I still wanted to perform. Nothing could make me give up that dream. But maybe . . . just maybe . . . the dream could be expanded and changed so that I could do even more. Maybe not this, but something . . .

Well, before I could contemplate what I was going to do with my future, I needed to worry about the present. I texted Larry, asking for Christine’s phone number. A few minutes later, I was dialing.

“Christine McCann speaking.”

I let out a sigh of relief at the sound of Christine’s voice. Though Larry said he’d talked to her, part of me had still remained concerned. She was safe, and I now knew the identity of the person behind yesterday’s sabotage. Both made me feel better. There was still LuAnn’s death to worry about, but I’d think about that later. For now there was only one thing on my mind.

“It’s Paige Marshall. I know who sabotaged the costumes yesterday, and I even have proof.”

“That’s great news, although I admit I was about to call to say not to concern yourself with the favor I’d asked.”

Christine and I clearly had different definitions of the word “favor.”

“You see,” she continued, “I had a meeting with a new sponsor. He’s already signed papers of intent, which will be formalized after the competition closes this weekend. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

“Congratulations on the new sponsor. That’s great. And you didn’t waste my time.” Not really. “I feel a lot better knowing the identity of the person behind the instrument and costume damage. Now no one will have to worry about leaving their staging room unguarded for the competition. And I’m sure if you talk to Donna—”

“You think Donna Hilty was responsible?” Christine laughed. “I sincerely hope you haven’t repeated that accusation to anyone else, seeing as how Donna wasn’t even in town yesterday. She was called away on a family emergency.”

The laughter irked me. First she blackmailed me into investigating. Now she was laughing at my conclusions without giving me a chance to explain. I guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I sounded put out when I explained, “I know Donna claimed she went out of town. But she lied. And I have the picture of her coming out of one of the staging rooms yesterday to prove it.”

“You’re mistaken.” Christine’s voice cracked like a whip. “Donna’s a celebrity. Her career doesn’t depend on how her team ranks nationally, so she has no reason to impair the chances of the other teams. Besides, if she’d been in the performing arts center yesterday, someone would have recognized her and made me aware that she had returned.”

“Not if she was wearing a disguise.” I took a deep breath. “Look, I understand that Donna Hilty’s an important name in show business. You wouldn’t want to accuse her of wrongdoing without proof. But you wouldn’t want people to realize that you turned a blind eye when you were informed of Donna’s actions. So, why don’t we meet? Then you can see the photograph and decide for yourself.”

“Is that a threat, Ms. Marshall?”

Threat? “No, of course not.” Although, now that I thought about it, maybe it was. Turnabout, after all, was fair play. “I just want to make sure nothing else happens to ruin this experience for the students. They’ve worked hard to get to this point and shouldn’t have to look over their shoulders because they’re worried about what might happen next.”

Christine let out a loud sigh. “Fine. I have to meet some of the board members for dinner tonight. But just so you’re aware, I’ve known Donna Hilty for years. She would never stoop to the kind of behavior you’re accusing her of.”

Experience told me that rarely was anyone aware of what some people were truly capable of. I only had to look back to the murders of Greg Lucas and David Richard to know that.

Christine asked what hotel I was staying at and agreed to meet there at eight. I should be finished rehearsing with the students by then. If not, Christine would simply have to wait.

After hanging up, I slipped both my phone and Chessie’s into my purse and headed to my room. After the day I’d had, I needed a shower and a few minutes to think. Despite the mounds of poorly stacked instruments, my hotel room felt like an oasis of peace and tranquility. After rolling up my sleeves, I stacked the cases against the far side of the room and felt a spurt of pride that the chore took me only ten minutes. A little more practice and I’d be ready for a gig as a roadie.

Now that I had a clear path to the bathroom, I grabbed a change of clothing and a towel and headed for the shower. As the hot water eased the tension out of my shoulders, I thought through the events of the day.

As much as Donna Hilty irritated me, I, too, was astonished to learn she was the one behind the ruined costumes. Donna wasn’t a superstar, but she had a strong career. Why put that at risk in order to play Edward Scissorhands? The press would have a field day with the story. Hollywood stars got away with bad behavior on a daily basis, but country music fans tended to be less forgiving of their singers. Especially those whose stars hadn’t risen all the way to the very top. Why take the chance of being discovered? Did winning mean that much to her? And what about Scott Paris? Where did he fit into this whole thing? The miraculously repaired costuming and his close relationship with Donna suggested he was involved in some way. Maybe if I learned more about them, I’d be able to see how the pieces of this fit together.

Once my hair was dry and I had changed into a pair of jeans and a fitted black T-shirt, I headed to the hotel’s business center in search of the information I needed. It was time to surf the World Wide Web.

Or it would be when the curly-haired guy sitting in front of the computer finished printing his boarding pass, checking his e-mail, and logging in to his Facebook and Twitter accounts. When he logged on to eBay, I cleared my throat and shifted my position to remind him that I was waiting for my turn. The guy turned, looked at me, smiled, and placed a bid on an ugly brown glass lamp. When he finally pushed away from the desk, he had placed bids on six more items that ranged from collectable quilting plates to a state-of-the-art weed whacker. Did this guy know how to have a good time or what?

Once he was gone, I settled myself into the still-warm chair and let my fingers do the walking. First up—a search for all things related to Donna Hilty. A click onto her personal website and I was treated to a glamour shot of Donna with big makeup, even bigger hair, and a whole lot of white fringe. Her bio talked a lot about her family’s struggles to make ends meet and the way being discovered by her manager and landing her first recording contract helped lift them all out of poverty.

Following that uplifting story was a list of her accomplishments, including her Grammy nomination for best new artist and a host of other award nods and wins. Also documented were the release dates and titles of her ten solo albums as well as a number of live performances and the year that she took time away from her busy concert schedule to coach show choir. That was three years ago. According to the archived press release, Donna wanted to give back to the type of high school program that taught and nurtured her passion for music. Maybe she did, but after seeing her teach today, I wasn’t sure I bought the public explanation. She didn’t look like a teacher driven to push her students to improve. And she certainly didn’t have the connection with her kids that I saw from the other directors I’d met this season. It was easy to see the difference in the teachers who cared about their students and the ones who were just going through the motions. Which made me wonder—if Donna didn’t like teaching, why was she doing it? It wasn’t like she had my reasons and needed the money.

I thought I might have found the answer when I clicked on an article about Donna snubbing an autograph-seeking young girl on crutches. Donna pushed the pen and paper away hard enough to throw the girl off balance. Thanks to her father, the girl didn’t fall. But Donna’s popularity did. The story was picked up by several news outlets, and lots of blog posts were dedicated to encouraging a boycott of Donna’s concerts and albums. I wasn’t a huge country music fan, so the story had never made it onto my radar, but the furor must have been great enough to push Donna into canceling several of her appearances. Several weeks later, an article appeared announcing Donna’s acceptance of a teaching position at a local Nashville high school. The story included a photograph of Donna in dance clothes enthusiastically rehearsing with high school students. Many of whom were quoted as saying that working with Donna was one of the best experiences of their lives.

The angry articles about Donna’s diva disposition dissipated. Stories were written about her willingness to give up the money she would have made touring in order to help the next generation of singers. A new album was released to a smattering of acclaim, and Donna’s singing career was back on track. Hurray for the power of public relations.

So why ditch all that work repairing her public image to win a competition she wasn’t invested in? Scott said she was competitive, but no one could want to win that badly. Right? It didn’t make any sense.

Putting aside that question, I looked to make sure there wasn’t anyone waiting for computer time and then typed in my next search—Scott Paris. Eek. There were at least two dozen people named Scott Paris on Facebook. I added the name of the high school he taught at and searched again.

Ha! Found him. Scott didn’t maintain a website of his own, but he did have a page on the one run by the high school. Scott was in his eighth year of directing the choir program. He also worked on the musicals and had not only instituted the show choir program but had taken his team to this final competition in their first year. Go Scott.

Not only had Scott made his mark as an instructor, according to several websites; he was also an up-and-coming show choir music arranger. The rates he charged made me wonder whether I shouldn’t have paid better attention in music theory class. Four-part harmony. A couple of dance breaks. A key change at the end. How hard could that be? Clearly, it must be harder than I thought or more people would be doing it.

Most of the links were about the competitions his choir performed in. More often than not, his team won. I was about to give up after surfing through several pages of links when one of them caught my eye. It was a review of a small, dinner-theater production of Guys and Dolls from ten years ago. The critic didn’t like much about the show, but he did like Scott Paris’s delightfully rollicking rendition of “Nicely Nicely” and predicted big things for Scott’s performance career.

Well, either the critic’s crystal ball was broken or Scott had his fill of performing, because not long after that he hung up his character shoes and devoted himself full-time to teaching. At least, that was what it looked like from the articles in the archives of the school newspaper. Although, I’d known more than one teacher in my time who swore they gave up the dream of the bright lights of Broadway for the love of teaching, when in reality they still harbored the hope that someone would discover their talent and take them away from parent-teacher conferences and grading papers.

I clicked around the other links, looking for more information about the man. According to the write-ups, he grew up in the Atlanta area, attended the University of Memphis, and graduated with a double major in musical theater and music education. As far as I could tell, Scott had never been married. His work was his life, which showed in the number of accolades he received for his direction and mentoring of the students at his school. Despite his smarmy attitude, there didn’t appear to be a hint of impropriety attached to Scott’s dealings with his students.

I was struck by this fact for reasons that had nothing to do with my investigation. Devlyn wore pink and hid our relationship because he claimed it was the best way to avoid come-ons from overenthusiastic high school girls and potential misunderstandings. Past experience had made Devlyn overly cautious, which I understood. When he was first starting out, he’d seen a teacher brought down by a girl’s false claims of sexual impropriety. And, as he said more than once, a single man who spent lots of time around his students was a perfect target for overeager teenage fantasies and parental paranoia.

Scott was single. As far as I could tell, he was straight. Eight years into teaching he was well respected and sought after for show choir workshops and special master classes. And he wasn’t the only one I’d seen on the competition circuit who wasn’t married and had managed to avoid scandal. Devlyn was smart. He was attractive and talented and really good at making me feel as if I was doing something important by teaching jazz squares and triple turns to these kids. If it hadn’t been for him, I would never have survived a week at this job.

Closing my eyes, I could still picture Devlyn in the audience of the Merle Reskin Theatre during opening night of The Messiah. The minute the last notes were sung, I sought out his face in the audience and saw the pride and affection he felt for me. Aunt Millie was the first person on her feet applauding, but Devlyn was right behind her. Mike Kaiser had stayed seated even as the rest of the audience had given us a standing ovation. I thought Devlyn’s response was a sign of his support and that all of the stolen moments since then were leading to something more permanent. This week had shown me how wrong I had been. Devlyn wanted someone who fit into the world he had constructed for himself. Someone who would accept the limitations he placed on his life.

Someone who wasn’t me.

I brushed a tear off my cheek, pushed aside thoughts of Devlyn, and went back to the task at hand. Donna had mentioned that Scott had connections to the judges. If that was the case, I was hard-pressed to see what they could be. And since I didn’t have a list of the judges for this competition, I couldn’t look them up. So I did the only thing I could think of. I typed in the name of the person Donna claimed was trying to use Scott’s association with the judges—LuAnn Freeman of Memphis, Tennessee.

Wow. There was more than I expected.

Not only did several sites list her home address; there were photographs from both the street level and above views of her house. I wasn’t sure whether property values in Memphis were in any way comparable to those in Chicago, but it was clear LuAnn and her family weren’t hurting for cash. That house was huge. So was the acre or more of land it sat on, complete with flowering trees and an Olympic-sized pool.

More than a little creeped out at how stalkerish I felt looking at a dead woman’s house, I clicked on an article about a dispute with a local water company. I wasn’t surprised to see LuAnn was the one leading the complaint. The woman had had a forceful personality and hadn’t been scared to use it. However, I was surprised to see the article list her as a former social worker. LuAnn’s disposition seemed far more abrasive than the kindhearted type I typically associated with the job. The house wasn’t what I’d expect, either—unless social workers got paid better in Memphis than they did in Chicago. She must have won the lottery or she married someone with lots of cash. Regardless, according to what I read, LuAnn had decided to step away from social work eight years ago. Instead of kicking back and taking some time off to relax, LuAnn opted to fill her time volunteering for her children’s activities. LuAnn was listed as an assistant soccer coach, a troop leader, team mom for the traveling baseball squad, and the president of the show choir boosters. Her life made me tired just reading about it.

After several more clicks and no new information, I typed “Kelly Jensen” into the search window. The woman’s eavesdropping behavior outside our staging room and her less than favorable relationship with LuAnn made me curious. According to the competition’s website, Kelly had begun working with the organization just before Christine came on board. Her bio talked about her family’s long-standing passion and dedication to helping expand the influence of the arts in today’s youth. Yay for Kelly’s family. They sounded like people I’d love to meet.

I clicked on the next article and felt my heart drop. Unless I kicked the bucket, I wouldn’t be meeting Kelly’s family anytime soon. They were dead. According to the article dated almost six years ago, Kelly’s husband, daughter, granddaughter and close family friend were on their way to this very competition, which the Jensens had helped found, when they were hit by a truck whose driver had fallen asleep at the wheel. Kelly had planned on making the trip with them, but had come down with the flu and insisted her family enjoy the show without her.

Poor Kelly. That kind of loss had to be devastating. I admired Kelly’s ability not only to keep going, but to do so in a job that worked to continue the type of performance her family had been on their way to see. The woman had to have a spine stronger than steel.

Still bummed for Kelly, I typed in the last name on my list, and information on the head of the United States Show Choir competition filled the screen. I scanned the information on the monitor as one of the hotel patrons appeared in the business center doorway, waiting for his turn at the computer. Quickly, I read the highlights of Christine’s life. The first part had been high-powered. After graduating with her MBA, Christine went on to serve as head of marketing for not one but two different Fortune 500 companies. Then, suddenly, she left her seven-figures-a-year job to run this competition.

Huh. One had to wonder why. Did she have a long-buried passion for singing and dancing, or had something gone wrong in her corporate gig that made working with stage moms sound like a good idea? Too bad the guy behind me was doing a dance that signaled he either needed to pee or he was getting impatient. Whatever else I could learn from the Internet would have to wait until I could ask my questions when Christine and I met later tonight. Maybe the answers would help me understand why she was so reluctant to believe in Donna’s guilt or was less concerned about the students competing than in the cash that funded it.

When I got there, the ballroom smelled like a combination of tomato sauce, pepperoni, and chlorine. The attitude of the kids was upbeat as they scarfed slices of pizza and downed gallons of soda. Some of my team members’ parents had arrived early and were joining the festivities. I made the rounds, greeting parents. Once I was done asking about their trips and assuring them that the students didn’t appear emotionally scarred by the events of this week, I settled into a seat next to Aunt Millie and Aldo with a plate of pizza. Thank God Killer was taking a nap in Millie’s hotel room, which meant I could eat my dinner in peace.

Killer wasn’t the only one absent. Devlyn had opted to skip mealtime or find sustenance elsewhere. On the happy front, Chessie and Eric seemed to be back on good terms. They were seated next to each other, holding hands. The handholding made for awkward pizza eating, but it didn’t look as if either of them cared as they talked with Chessie’s parents. The only thing that made Chessie pout was when I said she couldn’t have her phone back until later tonight. But that frown was quickly turned into a smile when Eric complimented her willingness to sacrifice her needs for the good of the team. Score one for truth, justice, and a boyfriend who knew how to placate his girl.

All in all, everyone was having a good time. Strike that. There was one person sitting at the far end of one table with her eyes firmly fixed on the untouched food in front of her. An overly bright smile was plastered on Megan’s face, but I’d lay odds that there were tears in her eyes. After taking one last bite of pizza, I wiped my hands on my napkin and pushed back my chair. It was time to play teacher.

“Megan, can we talk?”

The stab of panic in her eyes made my heart hurt, but I kept my smile pleasantly neutral as she stood and followed me out of the large room and into the hall.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

“I’m great.” Megan smiled. “The vocal rest is helping.”

I could tell how much she wanted me to believe her, and I hated that I didn’t. “Sing the opening of the first song for me.”

Megan swallowed hard. “You want me to sing?” Her speaking voice sounded better than yesterday, but the deeper timbre and slight rasp in the sound told me that Megan had yet to recover fully.

I nodded and listened carefully as Megan sang the opening notes to our competition set. “That’s enough.” I sighed. “Claire will do the run-through after dinner, and as much as I hate to do this, I’m going to have her compete with the team in the preliminary round.”

“No. I’ll be okay by tomorrow. I promise.”

The trembling lip almost made me cave. “Yes, but if you sing tomorrow, it’s doubtful you’ll have a voice for the final competition on Friday.”

Overtaxing swollen vocal cords would only lead to additional problems.

“But we might not make it to the final round.” Tears bloomed in Megan’s eyes.

Ugh. No one ever told me that feeling like the Grinch who stole Christmas was part of a teacher’s job description. “I have to put the best performers on the floor tomorrow in order to make sure that we do. Keep resting your voice. By Friday you’ll be one of those performers. Okay?”

“Okay.” Megan’s voice cracked. Yep. By doing my job, I’d officially broken her heart.

More than anything, I wanted to take back my decision. After all, this wasn’t brain surgery. No one would die if tomorrow’s performance wasn’t perfect. But my job wasn’t simply to make these kids look good onstage. It was to make sure that those entering the world of performing beyond their high school walls would be prepared for what lay ahead. Megan was going to be a musical theater major. Megan wanted to make a career out of performing. She was ready to study and sweat and do whatever it took to succeed. But hard work was only one of the necessary ingredients in this business. Luck was another.

I gave Megan a hug. Over her shoulder, I spotted Devlyn walking down the hallway toward us. He was the one who taught me that I needed to be more to these kids than their friend. That I needed to teach them that sometimes a performer got lucky and the performance brought the house down.

As Devlyn glanced my way and then turned and walked through the ballroom doors, I though about the other times when—no matter how much you wanted to make something work—the show went on. And how you couldn’t help when it went on without you.