End Me a Tenor by Joelle Charbonneau Page B

somewhere inside.
    “Bill?” Still no answer. If the guy was in bed, he slept like the dead. I headed for the hallway at the back of the living room, calling Bill’s name, and stopped cold in the doorway. My stomach rolled, and my knees went weak. I sucked in air and felt a scream build inside me.
    Swinging on a rope from the kitchen’s ceiling fan was Bill. I had been wrong. He wasn’t sleeping like the dead. He was dead.

 

Chapter 7

    My brain screamed at me to jump into action. To cut Bill down and get him help. But my feet wouldn’t move—and even if they would, I could see Bill was beyond assistance. His face was pale. His head hung to one side. His body was still.
    Hands shaking, I found Detective Frewen’s number in my call log and hit send. I had to swallow twice before I could speak and even then I barely recognized the thin, terrified sound. The minute I identified myself, Detective Frewen sighed. “I appreciate your interest in this investigation, Ms. Marshall, but I’m not at liberty to discuss any details.”
    “Bill Walters is dead.” Once the words started, they flew out of my mouth. I gave the detective the address, assured him I hadn’t and wouldn’t touch anything, and promised to go outside and wait for his arrival—all while feeling like I was being watched by Bill’s lifeless eyes. I needed to get out of here. After the sadistic Secret Santa gift and seeing Bill hung from the ceiling, I was about to completely lose it.
    Wait . . .
    A part of my brain that had shut down after seeing Bill’s lifeless body turned back on. Could the similarity between that gift and Bill’s death be a coincidence? If so, it was a pretty big coincidence, and while coincidences were possible, this didn’t feel like one. That meant a pissed-off Chessie hadn’t given me the gift—the killer had. A killer who warned me I might be next.
    Shit.
    The room swam in front of my eyes, and I hung onto the doorjamb for support. Finding a dead body was bad. Learning the person who killed that person might want to kill you, too, was even worse.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a piece of paper with black writing scrawled on it on the kitchen table. A suicide note? I took two steps toward the scarred wooden table and squinted to read: I never meant for anyone else to take the blame. David Richard deserved to die, and so do I.
    Next to the paper was a mostly empty bottle of wine and a bottle opener. But no wineglass. Huh.
    Trying my best to ignore Bill’s corpse, I peered over the counter into the sink. No dirty dishes. No dishwasher, either. Did I think that Bill wrote his confession, downed most of a bottle of wine, and washed and put away his glass before taking his own life? No way in hell.
    Taking several deep breaths, I scanned the kitchen one more time before heading back to the front stoop to wait for the cavalry. My nose was frozen by the time Detective Frewen pulled up in a black SUV. He instructed me to stay where I was and went inside. A few minutes later he was back and barking into his phone for assistance. When he hung up he glanced at me. “You look cold.”
    You think? Red, runny nose. Arms wrapped around myself, shivering. No wonder he was a detective.
    He crooked a finger toward the street. “We can sit in my car while I get your statement.”
    The SUV had heated seats, which had my butt thawing long before the rest of me. But even warm and toasty, my hands continued to shake. Detective Frewen shifted to look at me. “Tell me again why you came to see Bill Walters this morning?”
    I took a deep breath and weighed what I should say. Telling everything meant risking my career—a career I’d worked hard to get off the ground. But a man had died. As far as I was concerned, my would-be career paled in comparison. So I spilled. I told Detective Frewen about Bill’s mention of Magdalena’s secret medical condition. My concern that the information would impact the investigation. My hope that