End Me a Tenor by Joelle Charbonneau Page A

gifts into one another’s bags to keep identities hidden. I couldn’t help feeling a warm glow at being included in the fun.
    Getting in the car, I put the package on the seat and revved the engine. While waiting for the heater to kick in, I picked up the box and turned it over in my hands, looking for clues to my Secret Santa’s identity. No card. Just snowman paper and a bright green bow.
    I smiled as I ripped the shiny wrapping, flipped open the lid, and dug through the tissue paper. My smile disappeared. Sitting in the box was a Santa ornament with a noose around its neck. Underneath Santa was a note.
If you’re not careful, you’ll be next.

    Okay, I knew I should be freaked. I mean, someone hung Santa. But I was pretty certain who had to be behind this. When I first took the job, Chessie had used threatening notes in her campaign to get me to quit. Obviously, she hadn’t learned her lesson.
    Neither had I. The warm glow of acceptance I’d felt finding the gift was replaced by icy rejection. No matter how much I tried to succeed at this job, the kids were always going to consider me an outsider. Watching them improve and grow, writing them recommendation letters, and talking about their college dreams hadn’t changed a thing. Chessie might be behind this, but she wasn’t the type to wage battles against popular opinion. Maybe the stress of everything was unhinging me, but, to me, hangman Santa sent a message loud and clear—my team wanted to win and they still thought I wasn’t good enough to help them reach their goal.
    My chest tightened. Unexpected tears made my throat ache as I fought to keep them from falling. I wasn’t going to cry over a couple of spoiled teenage kids. Hell, I didn’t even want this job. If things worked out and the Messiah went on as planned, I wouldn’t need it. I could quit and make everyone happy.
    Brushing aside an idiotic tear, I pulled out my phone and dialed Bill again. Voice mail. Damn. Time for plan B. I fished an Evanston Police Department card out of my purse and punched in Detective Frewen’s phone number.
    If he didn’t sound happy to be answering a call at eight o’clock in the morning, he sounded less thrilled when I asked, “Did you make an arrest in David Richard’s murder?”
    “No arrests have been made.” Phew. “But we currently have a person of interest in custody.”
    Crap. I asked for a name, but the detective wasn’t in the mood to share. Before I could consider telling him what I knew about Magdalena’s medical condition, Detective Frewen thanked me for my cooperation and disconnected.
    Double crap. Now what?
    Digging through my bag, I came up with the Messiah contact sheet, which listed Bill’s phone number and home address. If Bill was sleeping in, he might not know Magdalena had been taken into custody. He could call her manager and have him give the police the information about her zinc allergy. Bill wouldn’t get sued, and the cops would have to think twice about their suspect. Problem solved.
    Bill lived in a redbrick bungalow a couple blocks from the Northwestern University campus. I parallel parked my car and tried his phone one more time. Still no answer. Rehearsing my arguments for Bill to get involved in clearing Magdalena’s name, I locked the car, marched up the sidewalk, and rang the bell.
    No answer, but I could see a light on inside. Time to knock. I banged on the heavy wooden door and was surprised to feel the door shift and open a crack.
    “Bill?” I yelled.
    Okay, this was getting spooky. Pushing the door open the rest of the way, I peered into what had to be a living room. Worn brown couch. Scarred wooden coffee table. On the table was an open binder, two empty coffee cups, and a dish with a crumb-filled muffin wrapper. Bill’s winter jacket hung on a coat tree just inside the door. Bill wouldn’t go outside in this weather without that coat. Not unless he wanted a spectacular case of frostbite. That meant he had to be