Dead Ringer by Sarah Fox Page A

gave me more time to relax and focus on something other than the dozens of unanswered questions bouncing around in my head. I enjoyed teaching, helping my students improve and learn new pieces of music. It was satisfying work—­most of the time—­and I was glad for the few hours of normalcy before I launched myself back into my investigation.
    I wasn’t able to completely forget about Jeremy’s death or Hans’s issues with the police as I worked with my students, but I was at least able to tuck those thoughts away from the forefront of my mind. That, however, changed as soon as I finished teaching and checked my phone.
    I’d received a text message from Hans less than half an hour earlier.
    I miss you, the message read.
    Although the text brought all of my doubts and questions back to the surface, it also brought a warm, fuzzy feeling to the center of my chest and a smile to my face. It was nice to know that he was thinking of me.
    I miss you too, I wrote back.
    I packed up my violin and tidied my studio, all the while hoping to hear more from Hans, but no more messages came through.
    I was disappointed. If he missed me, why didn’t he want to schedule another date? If he asked me out again, responding would be awkward, considering the promise I’d made to JT. But at the same time, it would be nice to know that he wanted to spend more time with me.
    Maybe he was simply too busy to text me back and would ask me out again before too long. For now, I’d have to settle for him missing me, even if he didn’t miss me enough to be desperate to see me.
    Giving up on receiving any more messages, I used my phone to look up how many ­people with the surname Landolfi lived in Vancouver. I crossed my fingers that it wasn’t too many. I smiled when only two results came up, especially since one address was for a unit in an apartment building. Since Jeremy had lived in Mrs. Landolfi’s basement, the other listing had to be the one I wanted.
    Gathering up my purse, I decided to leave my violin at the studio so I didn’t have to carry it around with me or waste time by stopping off at my apartment. JT had already disappeared into his basement studio along with some ­people who had arrived an hour earlier, so I headed straight out of the house without disturbing him.
    After two short bus rides and a few minutes of walking, I stopped before a house of pale blue stucco with a carefully tended front garden and rhododendrons in full bloom. I followed the cement pathway to the front steps and climbed up to the small porch. I hesitated, not knowing the type of reception I would receive, but then I pushed the doorbell before I could worry about it any further.
    After four or five seconds I heard footsteps approaching and then a shadow flickered across one of the sidelights. The lock clicked and the door opened. A tiny woman with gray hair stood in the doorway. She was probably in her early eighties and wore a lavender cardigan over a flower print dress. Her cornflower blue eyes were sharp but kind, and focused on me with mild curiosity.
    â€œYes, dear?”
    â€œMrs. Landolfi?”
    â€œYes.”
    Her expression turned expectant and I rushed to explain my presence.
    â€œI knew Jeremy Ralston. He lived in your basement, didn’t he?”
    Mrs. Landolfi’s eyes clouded with sadness and she put a hand over her heart. “Yes, that’s right. Such a dreadful thing, him getting killed like that.” She shook her head. “A real shame.”
    â€œYes, it was awful.” I paused for a second before continuing. “Would it be all right if I talked to you about Jeremy for a few minutes?”
    â€œOf course.” She stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come on in.”
    â€œThank you.” I stepped into the foyer and she closed the door behind me.
    â€œCome on back to the kitchen.” Mrs. Landolfi led the way down a hallway to a white and