Murder a Cappella,: A Sweet Adelines Mystery, #1

By James R. Callan and Diane Bailey

In San Antonio, the Sweet Adelines International Barbershop competition starts out with a bang. Actually, two bangs as two women of a quartet singing on an outdoor stage in front of the Alamop are shot and killed. Tina, a member of the Fort Worth police department, is there, singing with the Fort Worth Flair chorus. The members of the ill-fated quartet are also members of the Flair. Tina sees two of her friends from the Flair gunned down and she vows to find the killer. Fortunately she knows the detective assigned to the case and convinces him she will be a big help since she is in the Sweet Adelines and can find more information than an outside police detective. The San Antonio police have no suspects, no leads, and the detective agrees to keep Tina in the loop if she supplies him helpful information.

 

The decision is made that the Flair will continue in the week-long competition. Tina is on the costume committee for the Flair.  So she has to deal with rehersals and costumes problems. She sifts through the sequined costumes and whispered gossip, desperately trying to find clues. But when another member of the Flair is murdered, it becomes clear that the killer has more on his mind than a song, and Tina may be the next victim.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pennant Publishing
• Release date: Jul 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201160289

James R. Callan

After a successful career in mathematics and computer science, receiving grants from the National Science Foundation and NASA, and being listed in Who’s Who in Computer Science and Two Thousand Notable Americans, James R. Callan turned to his first love—writing.  He has had four non-fiction books published.  He now concentrates on his favorite genre, mystery/suspense/thriller. His fourteenth book releases in February, 2021. In addition, he speaks at conferences and gives workshops on various writing topics such as character development, dialog, audiobooks, plotting, and the mystery/suspense/thriller genre. He and his wife split their time between homes in northeast Texas and Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. They have four grown children and six grandchildren.

Book preview

Murder a Cappella

A Sweet Adelines Mystery

James R. Callan

and

Diane Bailey

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MURDER A CAPPELLA

By James R. Callan and Diane Bailey

This is a work of fiction. Characters are from the imagination of the authors, and any resemblance to persons alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book, nor any part of this book, may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without specific written permission in advance from the authors.  However, brief quotations may be used in reviews or articles which refer to this book.

For additional information, please contact the authors through their websites:

www.jamesrcallan.com

www.diane-bailey.com

Murder a Cappella

Copyright by James R. Callan and Diane Bailey  ©2015

Produced and printed in the United States of America.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 1

The Dead Sing No More .

The protester rotated his black-inked sign. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down the sides of his face. Eighty very humid degrees had coaxed the jackets off most people crowded onto the Alamo plaza, but this guy sported a black blazer buttoned up the front.

I squinted at his words, as if that would unravel their meaning. Which dead? Why here? Suddenly, the man swiveled, almost as if he sensed my scrutiny. His expression sent a chill down my back that did nothing to cool me off. I looked away.

Creep.

If the guy wanted to preach to the choir he’d picked the wrong one. People chattered in small groups and watched the stage, ignoring him. He might as well have been dressed up as Davy Crockett trying to sell mattresses. Whatever. I would not let him ruin my afternoon.

A breeze brought the crisp smell of eucalyptus, and I plucked at the neckline of my t-shirt to allow the air to sweep the damp off my skin. I peered over Angela’s shoulder at the program. Who’s coming on now?

Looks like— Angela slid her finger down the list of women’s barbershop quartets scheduled to sing. Rhythm Rhapsody.

Are they any good?

Well, they’re good enough to be competing this week. They’re solid on the technical stuff. Angela shrugged. "Although I have seen more entertaining quartets in my lifetime."

I would expect so, I said. "Given the length of your lifetime. She swatted me with her program and then pointed to the protester’s sign. Well, duh. There’s a news flash. You think he’s talking about the Alamo’s dead?"

I guess. Probably one of those overly zealous, Texas-patriot types.

Why should he care if we sing?

I gestured at the quartet onstage. "Well, let’s be fair. That is ‘Down by the Old Mill Stream.’"

I said if we sing, Tina, not what. Anyway, he should be protesting their outfits.

Not exactly a Rhapsody in Blue. I grimaced at the quartet’s bright blue pantsuits. They dripped in folds of fabric, making the singers look like oversized crayons melting in the sun. Why hasn’t anybody clued them in?

Because this is the first time anyone’s seen them. I heard they were getting new costumes, but this is their big debut. Angela tucked the program in her purse and pretended to shield her eyes from the hideous sight. This is why we always ask for help when we need it. Costume Catastrophe, Exhibit A.

I stole another glance at the protester, whose gaze still seemed focused in my direction. He hoisted the sign higher, his jacket bunching across his burly frame just as a gust of wind flapped the poster board. I flinched, as if he menaced me in particular. Behind him the gray stones of the Alamo fortress stood solid and unperturbed.

After Rhythm Rhapsody finished, Regal Tones entered.

Go Regal Tones! I yelled. Two of the quartet’s members, Rebecca Fleer and Lynne Watson, also belonged to our chorus, the Flair of Fort Worth.

Lynne led the quartet onstage in a brisk quartet walk, her arms swinging and her smile bright enough to stare down a searchlight.

Bum-bum-bum-bum.... Bum-bum-bum-bum. The quartet launched into Mr. Sandman. Rebecca, the lead, and Lynne, the bass, guided the rest of the quartet in perfect synchronization. On each Bum-bum-bum-bum, one woman tilted her body in a little half bow, creating the impression of giant player-piano keys as each bobbed in her black and white tuxedo.

I marveled at the Regal Tones’ skill. With nothing to trap and resonate sound an outdoor venue challenged a cappella voices to remain clear and on pitch. And this place teemed with ambient noise:  bubbles of conversation, shrieks of children playing, the grumble of traffic.

A branch snapped behind me just as Rebecca bummed.

The white ruffle of her tuxedo shirt disappeared as she bowed, and I could see the clip that held her hair. I lifted my hand as if to push her back into position. Too low, Rebecca. You’re late.

Bum bum bum bum.

Lynne leaned into her move. Another branch cracked, piercing the smooth wall of sound. I glanced around, but saw nothing.

And still Rebecca bowed lower. Why didn’t she straighten? Come on. Then Lynne.... No, no...too low....

Her arm swung like a puppet’s. The cuff of her sleeve fluttered. Stand up. I wanted to scream the words. My muscles strained, as if I could will the women up. Instead, Rebecca’s lead note wavered, deflating into a guttural, animal noise that echoed over the mike.

She fell to her knees, then flat on her stomach, the thud of her fall bouncing onto the plaza.

I gasped, and Angela grabbed my hand. Her fingernails cut into my palm.

Then Lynne crumpled too, half on top of Rebecca.

A few stray notes escaped the two remaining singers as they hesitated, then stopped.

Everything stopped.

Then Lynne’s body rolled on its side, and my stomach twisted. Blood streamed down the front of her white tuxedo shirt.

Chapter 2

E verybody get down ! I yelled as I pushed Angela to the cement and dropped beside her.

Confusion morphed into a strange quiet as people pressed to the ground. I lifted my head to look over the sea of bodies. Those shots had come fast—bang, bang—a mere two seconds apart. And ten or twelve seconds had passed since then.

Had the shooter finished? Where was he? I glanced toward the protester. I couldn’t see him, but his poster lay face up on the pavement. The Dead Sing No More.

Angela grabbed my arm, her face white. Tina....

I shook her off to grope in my purse for my cell phone and dialed 911. Around me people scattered, spilling away from the stage like roaches running for darkness. I jumped up and held out my hand to Angela. Quick, get up. I need you.

Angela scrambled to her feet. What—?

I waved her silent as the 911 operator answered. What is your emergency?

Shots fired at the Alamo plaza. Two victims down. My voice caught in my throat. Shooter’s location unknown. I fumbled in my purse for my digital camera as I listened. Tina Overton. I’m going to help the victims.

It had been years since I’d worked a crime scene, but training kicked in like a double shot of espresso. I flipped the phone shut and held out the camera to Angela. Take pictures, I ordered. Crowd shots. Anybody you can get.

What? Angela stared at the camera, but made no move to take it. Listen to me. I grabbed her hand and pressed the camera into it.

There’s no time. Take pictures. Faces.

Her mouth trembled, but I felt something stretch between us, a thin filament of trust. Angela shook herself and straightened. She turned on the camera. Okay.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Police officer, I yelled. Coming through. I lifted my badge over my head and pushed against the flow of the crowd. A man crashed into me, grunting from the impact, but he didn’t stop. Neither did I, until I reached the stage and the sight of Lynne and Rebecca stopped me cold.

Blood pooled under their bodies. Its rusty smell on top of the chemical fruitiness of hair spray made me gag. Peggy, one of the other two quartet members, stood unmoving, her toe seemingly stuck on the tape that marked her position. Lisa, the fourth member, knelt between the victims, one hand on each. A red stain crept onto the cuff of her tuxedo blouse.

A security guard stood a few feet away, his gaze darting from side to side like a frightened bird’s. His hand rested on his gun, but he hadn’t pulled it.

Another man stepped onto the makeshift platform and knelt by Rebecca. I’m a doctor. He laid his fingers on her neck, shook his head, and moved to Lynne.

I flashed my badge at the rent-a-cop and gestured toward Peggy and Lisa. Get these two women out of here. Stay with them. Make sure they’re safe until the police arrive.

The doctor stood up slowly. Dead? I asked.

He nodded.

I allowed myself to stare at the bodies. Lynne and Rebecca. Only minutes ago they had been alive: breathing, singing, filled with the excitement of the coming week. Now they were dead.

My friends.

Week after week, we had learned the same songs, complained about our sore feet, laid odds on our chances at International. And we’d rehearsed and rehearsed some more—to come here, to San Antonio.

I pushed those memories from my mind. Until the police arrived, someone had to be in charge. I couldn’t think of Lynne and Rebecca as dead friends. I had to think of them as corpses. As evidence.

♬

Six police cars whined to a stop, and officers poured out. One team herded the few stragglers to a respectable distance. Another unrolled yellow police tape and wrapped it around the stage where the bodies lay.

Ma’am, you need to step back. The officer kept one hand on his gun and took my arm with the other.

I flashed my badge. Tina Overton. Fort Worth PD.

Right. He didn’t bother to look at my identification, though he backed away, waving toward the cleared zone. This is an official crime scene, under the jurisdiction of the San Antonio Police Department. We appreciate your assistance, but we’ll take it from here.

My eyes narrowed. You’re throwing me out?

We’ll let you know if you can be of further assistance.

I’d worked as a street cop for twelve years before moving into public outreach five years ago. I had the skills, and I wanted to use them. Besides, I couldn’t imagine the San Antonio police not welcoming any assistance, local or not.

I’m an eyewitness to these shootings. I kept my tone level. I know both of these women. And I’m a cop. And you’re telling me I have no business being here? I peered at his nametag. Interesting technique, Officer Chandler. I suppose you have a suspect already in custody. I’ll just tell my friend over there we won’t need those pictures after all.

Now he focused on me, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. What pictures?

The ones I had her take of the crowd. I’m sure you know a public murder like this can be difficult to piece together. You never know what a face in the crowd might tell you. But, clearly, I overstepped my bounds.

I stalked off. I had no intention of walking away from the situation but I wasn’t going to waste my time with Officer Chandler. I needed to find the detective in charge.

Hang on— He called after me.

Chandler!

I looked over my shoulder to see another officer beckon. Chandler’s gaze bounced between us before he scowled and joined the other man.

A minute later, Angela approached slowly, as if afraid to come too close, and stress lines pulled at the corners of her mouth. She flinched as she glanced at the bodies, now quarantined behind the crime tape. I led her to one of the chairs set up only a few feet away from the stage. She sank her elbows into her knees and buried her head in her hands.

I touched her shoulder. Are you okay?

She nodded, but didn’t look up. I will be, she said in a muffled voice.

I’m sorry I roped you into that. And I was sorry. Angela wasn’t a cop. She wasn’t trained to be dispassionate in the face of something horrific. It’s just that, if we were going to have any pictures, it had to be right then. Do you forgive me for deputizing you?

No. She looked up with a lopsided smile. You owe me.

Her spunk had kicked back in. Good girl. Deal, I said. So, tell me about the pictures. Did you get anything?

I don’t know. I took as many as I could. But people were just running.... Do you know what’s going on?

Not yet. I’m going to wait around a little bit and see what I can find out. You go on back to the hotel. I’ll be there soon.

I watched as she crossed the plaza, now empty except for the litter of food wrappers, water bottles, and abandoned jackets, the detritus of panic. Part of me wanted to follow her. But as much as I would have liked to walk away, I couldn’t. Lynne and Rebecca had become my family. All of Sweet Adelines had. A family complete with pushy aunts and clingy cousins and doting mothers. And delightful sisters, like Angela.

Two women murdered. What if Angela had been one of them? I bit my lip. What if I had?

Across the street workers peeked out of shop windows, watching. A mixed-up rainbow of San Antonio t-shirts fluttered on the outdoor racks, but no tourists lingered. The shootings had cleared the entire block.

I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. Thoughts popped up like the numbers on an old-fashioned cash register. First and foremost: Who had killed Rebecca and Lynne? And then another, repeating itself: Why?

That one stopped me. Why?

And then, the most chilling: Was someone else next?

I glanced at Peggy and Lisa standing outside the yellow crime tape, amputated from their quartet. What would happen to them? To the Flair?

Color whirled on the plaza, blue uniforms and yellow tape, the sun mixing its reddish glow with the flashing police lights. A blue Dodge pulled into the Alamo’s circular drive-through, a police scanner on the dashboard. The voice of a dispatcher crackled through the window as the car stopped. Two doors slammed, bang, bang. Like the gunshots, one, two. I shivered.

A thick Hispanic man stepped from the passenger side. He wore street clothes instead of a uniform. Deputy Chief? Maybe even Chief. Given the fact of a double murder, endangering innocent people, in a popular tourist area, on the grounds of an historic site, on the eve of a convention expected to draw thousands of people—yeah, I could see the Chief showing up.

From the driver’s seat emerged a tall man, thin enough to be called gangly. He also wore civilian clothes, a pair of blue chinos and a white polo shirt, neatly tucked in. His brown hair grayed at the temples, but was still full.

He didn’t look in my direction, but he didn’t have to. I already knew his face.

Chapter 3

Maybe I didn’t have a lot of friends in high places, but this one would do. Pete Donaldson was not only a friend, he was also a detective, which certainly outranked Officer Chandler. I smiled to myself. I knew Pete from his days with the Fort Worth Police Department, before he’d moved to San Antonio three years ago, and I appreciated his competence: he was smart, fair, thorough, and circumspect. Not a hotshot, just a professional sleuth with the public good at heart. He didn’t jump to conclusions, and he wasn’t too full of himself to welcome information from whatever source, even if it came from a cop outside her stomping grounds.

Pete turned to gesture at the buildings across the street and pivoted to point at the bodies. His gaze swept past me, then darted back.

Tina? His forehead wrinkled.

Hi, Pete.

What are you doing here?

I.... Did he mean here-Alamo or here-San Antonio? I was here when the shootings happened. I just got into town yesterday.

You witnessed the murders? His eyebrows tented over his nose, a look that forced my attention toward his boyish cowlick.

I did.

Pete stepped off the stage and came close enough to drop his hand onto my shoulder. Are you okay? You look.... His words trailed off, but I could imagine the end.

I’m fine, physically. Just shaken up. I knew them, Lynne and Rebecca. They were in my chorus.

You’re with the Sweet Adelines. I’m sorry. He paused and rubbed the back of his neck. Is there anything I can do?

I smiled wanly. Find out what happened, I guess. Is this your case?

It is. I— He stopped as a dark blue van screeched to the curb. It carried the logo of a TV station, with a satellite dish perched like a halo on the roof. The sliding side door opened before the van had even stopped, and a cameraman jumped out.

Jeez, they’re here already. Pete waved at an officer and jerked his thumb at the TV van, a clear signal to keep them back. Police tape surrounded the scene, but the press rarely considered that a deterrent.

Will you—the police—be giving a statement?

Pete set his mouth in a thin line. I guess we won’t have much choice. A woman climbed out the passenger side of the van. Her plum-colored suit, tailored to accentuate her curves, identified her as the on-air reporter.

I reached toward him and spoke quickly. Pete, listen, maybe I can help you. I didn’t give him time to answer. You’ve got two victims who were Sweet Adelines, and thousands more are coming in the next couple of days. They’re going to panic if they don’t get some information. Why don’t you let me be your go-between for the Sweet Adelines?

Hold on. Pete raised a hand. I don’t want to involve you in this. This is our problem.

"But it’s mine, too. Those women were in my chorus. I knew them. I want to help."

As I spoke, I realized I didn’t even care what answer Pete gave. I was involved. I would be involved. Whether the San Antonio police wanted me or not.

We’ve got a public information officer—

"I’m a public information officer. And I’m a Sweet Adeline. Please, let me talk to my chorus, at least. Let me give them something. I’m not going to get in your way, but I can help you."

What do you have in mind?

I can be a liaison. I adopted my best I-know-what-I’m-doing voice  "I’m a cop. You can tell me what’s going on and trust me not to screw it up. I can tell them what’s going on, and they’ll believe it because I’m one of them."

Pete’s gray eyes swept from me to the TV van. He was probably doing what I would in his place: trying to sort out what had happened versus what might still happen. Do you think these murders have anything to do with Sweet Adelines?

I swallowed. I hope not, but, honestly, I have no idea.

He glanced over at the reporter, who spoke earnestly into the camera, the bloody stage forming her backdrop. All right. Looks like we’ll have our hands full with the press. Last thing I need is thousands of panicked tourists. He flipped open his notebook. Give me your number, and I’ll keep you in the loop. And if you hear anything, you’ll let me know?

Absolutely. I jotted down my cell phone number.

Okay, first things first. What do you remember?

I replayed the scene in my head, coaxing details to the surface. He’d phrased his question well, probing for hidden information, instead of asking what I’d seen. Clues and hints came in all sensory forms, not just the visual. Right now what struck me most were the sounds.

There were two shots, I’d say two seconds apart. I don’t think they were close range.

Why not? Pete’s pencil scratched on the pad.

Well, for one thing, where would a gunman hide in the crowd? And, two, they just didn’t seem loud enough. And there was something about them, not an echo, exactly, but... a reverberation, I guess. It just gave me the impression that the sound had traveled, at least for a little distance.

From across the street? Pete surveyed the towers of buildings across from the Alamo.

Maybe.

My gaze followed his, then shifted back to the Alamo. I stepped up onto the stage, which was no more than a foot and a half high. The front row of the audience had been only ten feet from the stage during the performances, so the shooter couldn’t have gotten a clear shot from within the crowd, even if he could have passed unnoticed. I held up a hand in a crude measurement, visualizing the scenario. He would have had to be high enough for the bullets to clear the crowd and still strike his victims at a point less than six feet above the ground. So the shots must have come from a considerable distance. And height.

Yes. Across the street. I was confident in my answer now. Unless he was ten feet tall, he needed to be on one of those buildings.

Great. Pete flipped to a clean page in his notebook. Only a few hundred potential spots.

There’s one other thing. I don’t know whether it’s relevant, but there was a protester. A guy holding a sign that said, ‘Dead men don’t sing,’ or something like that. I figured he was some Alamo fanatic. Someone who didn’t want us desecrating sacred ground or whatever.

We’ve got a few of those in this city. Pete gave a wry laugh. Do you remember what he looked like?

"Dark hair. Mustache and beard, but well-trimmed. Not scraggly. Pretty clean-cut. Average