The Angel Singers by Dorien Grey

routine,” he began. “Did I have any idea who might have killed him or why? Did he have any enemies among the chorus members? Had he given any indication that something was wrong? Did he seem nervous or worried? That sort of thing.
    “I told them I had no idea as to who his killer might be, that within the chorus bickering, arguments, and rivalries are a way of life. I did not think it necessary to go too deeply into that issue since, while I know a number of the members disliked Grant intensely, there was no point in detailing every grievance against him. And I simply cannot believe that any of them could have led to murder. If I did I certainly would not have hesitated to say so, but I could see no value in pointing fingers left and right. I have an obligation to protect the chorus as much as I can.”
    “I understand,” I said. “And what did you think of him?”
    He raised an eyebrow and sat back in his chair, his hands grasping the front of the arms. “The truth? I thought he was an arrogant opportunist who would not hesitate to set his own mother on fire if he needed to warm his hands.”
    “That must have been awkward for you, him being Crandall Booth’s nephew and all,” I said, to get his reaction.
    He gave a quick bark of laughter. “Oh, my, Dick! You are a card. I can see why Jonathan is so enamored of you. Crandall wasn’t fooling anybody, and I have no idea why he even felt it necessary to try. But he has enough money, and the power to go with it, that if he said the moon was made of green cheese no one would contradict him.”
    “I gather you and he are not the best of friends.”
    He looked at me with a wry smile. “I think that would be a fair, if understated, assessment.”
    “Any particular reason for the lack of rapport?”
    “Crandall, as you know, is the chorus’ chief financial backer—not, I am sure, out of his love of music. He is the type of man who would buy an original copy of a work by Mozart just to say he had it, even though he wouldn’t recognize it if you played it for him. He uses his money as a means to control.
    “When I was approached by the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus, which is directed by a friend of mine, to bring our group to Chicago for a joint concert, I took the idea to the board, and immediately, Crandall offered to finance the trip.”
    “Wow,” I said, “that was certainly generous of him. I remember how excited Jonathan was when he found out about it.”
    “Indeed, it was, and regardless of his motives, I truly am grateful for everything he has done for the chorus. I believe he was instrumental in our getting Atheneum Hall for the concert—the editor of the Journal is a friend of his, and he has even arranged to have the concert covered by the paper’s entertainment editor. I only wish his motives were more altruistic.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning that I’m sure he intended the event to be a showcase for Grant. He very unsubtly suggested, when he mentioned that the Journal would be covering the concert, that it would be a good idea to give Grant a solo. I pointed out to him that this is, after all, a chorus, not a showcase for any one singer, and that the only number that has any significant solo component is ‘I Am What I Am,’ that I felt it was best sung by a bass and that Jim Bowers had the part.
    “That might have silenced him, but it certainly didn’t silence Grant—especially after Jim’s accident. I might have had to give in to him despite my personal antipathy for Grant, who admittedly had a very good voice. But his death ruled that out, and I’m confident Jim will be well enough by the time of the concert to be able to perform.”
    I found it hard to imagine that he couldn’t see the four-lane highway between Point A and Point B and realize, as Jonathan had suggested, that Grant was very probably responsible for Jim’s accident.
    “I’ve been curious as to exactly what the relationship was between Grant and Crandall… Well, let me