“I might need you to let me into the building.”
“The side door is actually open—because of the rehearsal. I’ll find Guy and let him know you’re on your way.”
When I pull into the parking lot a few minutes later, I spot Guy standing in the side entrance, dressed in jeans and a blue-and-white-striped dress shirt, his face pinched in worry. He’s looking in the opposite direction from which I’ve come, expecting me to be driving from home, and I’m out of the car and nearly at the entrance by the time he notices me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks in a rush.
“Something horrible happened. Not to me, to someone else.”
I step quickly inside. Before I can blurt out the news, two crew members trudge by, rolling a piece of stage scenery on a trolley. In the far distance, I hear the muted refrains of an aria.
“Let’s go to your office, okay?” I say.
Guy ushers me down the long cinder block hallway to the suite where his office is located. Miranda’s in the anteroom, thumbing through a stack of papers on her desk. She’s dressed in jeans—because it’s Saturday, I guess—and her ginger-colored hair is tied uncharacteristically in a ponytail. Though she’s in her forties and the mother of two college-aged kids, she’s got a youthful air and, according to Guy, is eager to meet a new man. She says a polite hello but then returns to her work, shrewd enough to know this is not the time for chitchat.
“What is it?” Guy asks after shutting the door to the inner office.
“The chef, Eve? She’s been murdered. Someone killed her at that kitchen of hers.”
He stares at me blankly, as if his mind is struggling to decode my words, the same way I couldn’t grasp the horror show I’d stumbled on this morning.
“Good God,” he says finally. “How did you hear this?”
I shake my head, and for the first time all morning tears spring to my eyes.
“I saw it,” I say, my voice choking. I tell him—about the phone call, the shell-shocked baguette girl standing in the kitchen, and the grisly scene inside the office.
Guy grips the side of his desk, steadying himself. “Jesus . . . You called 9–1–1, I take it?”
“The girl, Sara, already had. I wanted to call you, but we couldn’t talk to anyone until the cops quizzed us. The police are still there. And there’s press now, too.”
“This is crazy, totally crazy,” he says, looking off. Finally he glances back and seems to finally take me in. “What about you? Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. It was just so awful to see. I guess I’m still reeling from it.”
“Had it just happened? God, Bryn, you might have been in danger.”
“No, the blood was dried. It looked as if she’d been killed hours before. Maybe last night . . . Guy, there’s something we need to consider.” My voice starts to choke again. “Her death might be related to the stolen money.”
“What do you mean?”
“If Eve was planning to reimburse us—and it sounded that way—she probably busted one of the waiters. Even if she didn’t extract a confession and decided to pay us back out of her own pocket, the gig was up. What if the thief confronted her last night and ended up killing her?”
“For a hundred and sixty dollars? That seems hard to fathom. I mean—”
“But let’s say he was an addict and stole the money for drugs. It could mean he’s unhinged. And violent.”
He pinches his lips together so tightly, the edges turn white.
“This isn’t good,” he says. “If it comes out that her death is related to the opera company, that’s going bite me in the ass big-time.”
“But it’s not as if we’re responsible. Reporting the theft to Eve was the right thing to do.”
“Donors hate anything controversial, whether you’re at fault or not. I suggest we wait and see how this plays out. If the cops catch the killer immediately and the situation is clearly unrelated to us, there’s no reason to loop them in about the money. But if no one’s apprehended, we’ll have to raise the issue, and then I’m gonna have to initiate major damage control.”
“But, Guy, I already mentioned the theft.” I can’t believe he’s suggested I keep a key detail under wraps from the cops. “I didn’t bring up the box of matches, but I told them about the missing cash, that it was the reason I’d gone to Pure Kitchen this morning.”
“But why in the world open that can of worms?”
“Why wouldn’t I? It might be connected to her death. And I had to explain why I’d shown up twice in two days.”
There’s a flash of exasperation on his face—just like in the dining room the other night—but quickly his expressions softens and he lets out a ragged breath.
“Of course, of course,” he says. “That was the right thing to do. I’ve just been totally thrown by this.”