Free Deadly Overtures: A Music Lover's Mystery by Sarah Fox

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