“Thank you. I’m fine, though.” The quiet stretched on a little too long. “I just wanted to tell you that I don’t think you killed Paolo,” I blurted.
“Thank you, Anne. I appreciate your faith in me. Unfortunately, the police don’t agree.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, they can’t confirm my alibi. I went back to my office after the mic check with Walter. Nobody saw me go in there and I didn’t even have a good reason for doing it. I couldn’t find my baton, so I ran in there to look for it.”
“Why would you need your baton for a mic check?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I just realized I didn’t know where it was and it was bothering me. I think that’s why the police think I’m guilty, because my story doesn’t make sense.”
“It does for people who know you,” I said. Fred was a brilliant conductor, but he had always been a bit scatterbrained. “Neto and I are going to figure out who actually killed Paolo.”
Fred’s face split into a grin at my use of his friend’s nickname. “And how are you two getting on?” he asked.
“Good,” I said, trying and failing to keep back my grin.
He smiled smugly. “I’m glad. He’s a great guy, Anne. I’m happy you decided to do the duet with him.”
“Me too.”
A large bell rang out loudly next to me and I jumped in my seat. I turned to a clock shaped like a little house with a snow-covered roof and red and white striped shutters. A sign above the little door readSanta’s Workshop. The door opened and six little elves strode out, each holding a brightly-wrapped present. They all bowed in turn as the clock chimed six times, and when it was finished they went back into their little house.
“I’d better be going,” I said, standing.
Fred walked me to the door. “Thank you for coming,” he said, throat bobbing. “And for believing in my innocence. It means a lot.”
“Don’t worry, Fred. We’ll find the killer and clear your name.”
Chapter 8
Rosingsparkwaspackedwhen I arrived, and the smells of over a hundred different people crashed down on me as soon as I opened the door. I closed the garage door quietly behind me and tried to sneak to the stairs that would lead to my bedroom, but as usual, my mother missed nothing.
“Anne, dear, is that you?” She rounded the corner and looked me up and down.
I paused at the foot of the stairs. The heat from the bright chandelier above me beat down on my dark hair like the sun at noon.
“I thought I remembered telling you I’d invited guests over tonight.” My mother’s voice was deceptively pleasant.
“You did, Mamá. But I didn’t want to cut my time short withAbuelo.”
She pursed her lips and raked her disapproving gaze over my wide-leg jeans and the sweater that revealed a few centimeters of stomach when I moved. “A de Bourgh should never be seen lookingthatcasual. I’ll see you back downstairs in ten minutes.”
That was one of her favorite weapons in her verbal arsenal. She wouldn’t ask me for what she wanted or even tell me what I should do, she just stated her desired outcome as if it were already fact.
“Mamá, I have to practice.”
She shook her head disapprovingly. “If your grandfather is going to monopolize the time you need to spend practicing, then I’d better have a word with him.”
I dropped my shoulders, admitting defeat. “No, it’s fine. I’ve got time to mingle with the guests tonight.” I trudged upstairs to change into slacks and a blouse. When I gave myself a cursory glance in the mirror, I was pleasantly surprised that I didn’t look as weary as I felt.
My phone lit up with Neto’s name across the screen and all tiredness was forgotten.
I spent four minutes in the penalty box, during which I was supposed to be thinking about the game.
Oh? And what were you thinking about instead?
My heart picked up its pace as three dots trailed across the text bubble.
