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of Jeremy I wasn’t familiar with.
    Ray stared hard at the top of his pop can and then took a long drink.
    â€œRay?” I prompted, when it became clear he didn’t intend to answer my question.
    â€œNah. I barely knew the guy.” The oboe player’s eyes wandered the room, focusing on anything but me. “Did the cops search his place?”
    His question threw me off for a second. “I don’t know,” I said after a short pause, “but they probably did. Why do you want to know?”
    He shrugged. “No reason.”
    He was trying to act nonchalant, but his eyes were now shiftier than ever, and I thought I detected a few beads of perspiration on his forehead. I didn’t know much about the pale, balding oboe player other than the fact that he’d been in the orchestra since before I’d joined. I couldn’t recall ever seeing him with Jeremy, but the way he was acting now made me wonder if there was more of a connection between the two of them than he’d admitted to.
    â€œDid either of you see Jeremy during the break in our last rehearsal?” I asked, focusing most of my attention on Ray, watching for his reaction to my question.
    The perspiration at his hairline was more noticeable now, and he still wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Nope. I went outside for a smoke.” He got to his feet, the can of pop in hand. “Which is where I’m going right now.”
    He left the room without another word.
    â€œHe’s an odd one,” Clover said when Ray was gone. “It’s probably the drugs.”
    â€œDrugs?”
    â€œThat guy smokes pot more than I drink coffee. And that’s saying something.”
    That explained the odor of marijuana I’d detected.
    â€œAnd I don’t remember seeing Jeremy during the break,” Clover added, her eyes not meeting mine. “The police asked us these questions on the night of the murder. How come you’re asking them all over again?”
    â€œI’m just trying to make sense of things in my head,” I said, in no way willing to reveal that I was actually trying to clear the name of our conductor. “I guess it’s my way of dealing with what happened.”
    Clover tucked her short dark hair behind her ear and dug through her messenger bag. A moment later she came up with a Snickers bar. “I hope the police catch the killer.”
    I did too, but anxiety about a murderer being on the loose—­possibly even in our midst—­gave me even more incentive to do some investigating of my own.
    Another bass player arrived and struck up a conversation with Clover, so I collected my wallet and cell phone and headed out of the room. As I stepped out the door, I nearly collided with Elena Vasilyeva, the PGP’s concertmaster.
    â€œOops. Sorry,” I said as I stepped aside.
    Elena looked down her nose at me. “You’re the one who found the ringer’s body.” Her accented words held a hint of distaste, as if I were somehow tainted by the unpleasant experience of finding Jeremy.
    â€œYes.”
    She tossed her thick blond hair over her shoulder and placed her hands on her hips. “This is all so inconvenient.”
    â€œUm . . . Jeremy dying was inconvenient?” I wasn’t sure if that was what she meant.
    She threw her hands up in the air. “All of it! The other evening was a complete circus, with the police running around. We lost an entire hour of rehearsal time.”
    Was she seriously more concerned with the loss of rehearsal time than the loss of life? I’d always found Elena to be snooty, but that was downright cold.
    â€œSomebody did die,” I reminded her. “I think that’s a bit more important than an hour of rehearsal time.”
    She glared at me. “Maybe for you. But I don’t want to be embarrassed at the next concert when somebody messes up because they don’t know their part.”
    I knew