Master of the Opera

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “Okay, Daddy. What time is my flight?”

  He paused. “No arguing?”

  “No—I understand that you’re worried about me. Is this about the murder at the opera house?”

  “Of course it’s about the murder, Christy, dammit!”

  In high school she used to tell her friends that she grew up thinking her name was Christydammit, like those cartoons with the dog thinking his name was Baddog. By the time she finished college, she’d stopped making the joke. It had stopped being funny.

  “I apologize that I didn’t call you, but the detectives were most insistent that we not speak to anyone about the investigation.”

  “Well, it’s my damn opera house, isn’t it? They damn well spoke to me.”

  It’s my opera house. I know everything that goes on in it. The memory of the phantom’s velvet voice seemed so at odds with her father’s Type A shouting.

  “You’re right. I should have thought of that. I still have so much to learn.”

  “Yes, well . . .” He sounded pleased by that. Point for her. “Your flight is at ten, so you’d better hustle. I’ll arrange for a driver to pick you up at JFK.”

  “Ah. I won’t have time to tell the opera-house staff in person then. That’s kind of a relief—they’d all been saying I’d bail before the week was out.”

  “What? What are you saying?”

  “Oh, you know.” She waved a hand in the air, acting out the role. “The usual remarks about me being a spoiled little rich girl. They had a betting pool going that I wouldn’t be able to take real work.”

  “That’s absurd. Who said that?”

  Careful—don’t get anyone in trouble. “Oh, everyone, really. It’s too bad they’ll think they were right and I ran at the first sign of trouble. I hope it doesn’t reflect badly on you.”

  “Hmm.” The clink again. Not a glass but a china coffee cup. Her father wasn’t the type to use a ceramic mug or—God forbid—a paper cup from the coffee shop.

  Christy held her breath, making herself stop there. Don’t lay it on too thick.

  “What do the cops say? Are you in danger now? They seemed to think we could go on with the season.”

  “Oh, yes. With the exception of where they found—” so weird to say it “—the body, we’re open. Something about it being a dump site and not the murder scene. They expect to clear it soon.” The cops would have told her father that, but it was good to show him she was paying attention.

  “A Davis never runs from hard work.”

  “So you always say, Daddy.”

  “Don’t think I don’t know you’re playing me on this.”

  Too thick. Dammit. “I want to make you proud. I want to do a good job and I don’t want to screw up my first opportunity and have people in the business saying Christine Davis is a daddy’s girl who can’t take any knocks.”

  It was a risk, laying her cards on the table. It might push him over the edge. She waited, winding the phone cord around her finger. At last he chuckled, a bare breath of a laugh, and she relaxed.

  “Look who’s growing up. Fine. Stay there, if you’re determined. But you be careful. Keep that cell phone on. And call your mother, would you? I don’t need that harpy shrieking in my ear. You explain why I’m letting her precious baby daughter be bait for psychopaths.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Don’t you just ‘yes, Daddy’ me, either.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she answered around a smile. He harrumphed, but she knew it was to cover a laugh.

  Only later did she realize he’d never mentioned the Sanclaros and asking them to look out for her.

  * * *

  She ended up leaving her mom a voice mail, seeing as it was the middle of the night in New Zealand. How her mom had even heard the news while doing her story on the rebuilding of Christchurch, Christy had no idea. Probably her mom hadn’t called her dad at all and that had been just another guilt point. Her mom didn’t enjoy talking to her ex-husband any more than he wanted to hear from her.

  But Christy wasn’t going to risk her probation on a technicality. She called as she said she would.

  It gave her a little pang to hear her mom’s voice, if only on the recorded outgoing message. They’d seen each other at Christy’s graduation only a couple of weeks before, but things had been such a whirl, they’d barely spent time together. What would her mom make of all these happenings?

  She wouldn’t approve of her dating Roman, most likely. Christy snorted to herself, waiting at the light to turn onto St. Francis. She had never liked Domingo Sanclaro and often made pointed remarks about the kind of man who brought his son on all his business trips, but never his wife and daughter. She’d also thought Roman was spoiled and insufferable. Of course, she’d only met him when he was a teenager and not as the man he’d become, so she’d still see him that way.

  No, she wouldn’t approve at all.

  Christy drove up the hill, the city street transforming into a divided highway. If she kept going, she’d end up in Taos, where a really great guy had invited her to be. Still, taking the exit at Tesuque and heading up Opera House Drive felt good—it meant she was doing her job.

  The new security measures meant she’d be unlikely to encounter the phantom again, regardless. Man or ghost, he couldn’t evade the cameras being installed on every level. Until then, Charlie mandated that no one be alone. Christy had gained an assistant for her inventory.

  The hapless soul—a lanky teen from UNM apprenticing for the summer—lolled against her locked office door. He gave her a one-handed wave, the other buried in the drooping pocket of his baggy jeans.

  “Hiya. I’m Matt. Your new slave. What do I do?”

  “Aren’t you Carla’s apprentice?”

  He shrugged and grinned, standing out of her way so she could unlock the door. “Was. The Valkyrie Bitch had to give me up so you’d have help—and a constant escort.”

  “I wouldn’t let her hear you call her that.” Christy bumped her shoulder on the stubborn door to get it to release, but it resisted.

  “Allow me.” Matt slammed the heel of his hand on the door above her head. It flung open to show the tiny space. “Not much in here worth locking up.”

  More like locking out, but never mind explaining that.

  “So is Carla mad?”

  He snorted. “How can you tell the difference? Near as I can see, she’s always on the rampage.”

  “Still—I bet working with her is a lot more interesting than what you’ll be doing with me.”

  “It’s all good.” He grinned again, with an easy expression that lit up his somewhat homely face. “I get course credit no matter how I spend my days. Bonus for me if I don’t get yelled at.”

  “Okay, then.” She handed him the Big Notebook of Doom. “This is your new best friend. Let’s get to work.”

  The time passed more quickly with company. Matt turned out to be an organized soul, with a keen interest in the contents of every box he pried open. He suggested tagging each database entry with additional keywords, so they could cross-reference by opera and composer as well as item type and location. This was after she told him about her futile search for the magic flute—until Carla mentioned the all-Mozart storerooms.

  He snickered at the story, sharing her indignation over such a terrible sorting system, until the thought hit him and he pointed at her in shock.

  “Wait—whoa! You were down there that night? Where they found Tara’s body?”

  “Yeah.” She busied herself with typing in a description of a fake sword. “Creepy.”

  “So . . . did you see anything?”

  She shook her head, not looking at him. “Nope. Whatever went down, it happened after I found the flute and left.”

  “Carla was really surprised you found it.”

  “Really?” She looked up and found him buckling on a scabbard. “How do you know?”

  “That morning, right before Danny came running in, all scared and pukey—not that I wouldn
’t have been scared and pukey, too—I got in before Carla did. So I saw it there on her desk and knew you must have found it. She’d been ranting about how the theater ghost always stole it and seemed to be enjoying that you were on a wild-goose chase. She’d already ordered another one, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah. She’s got it in for you. Dunno why.”

  “So . . . she mentioned the theater ghost?”

  “Oh, sure. They all do. Didn’t they try to get you with him?” Matt wiggled spooky fingers in the air. “How he haunts the lower levels, searching for his lost love. They say that when the opera house is really quiet, you can hear him singing.”

  “Have you heard him?”

  “Nah.” But Matt wasn’t grinning now. “You?”

  “Maybe.” The word was dry in her mouth.

  “Spooky.”

  “It was.”

  “Some of the guys—they think he’s the one who did in poor ol’ Tara.”

  “How could a ghost do that?”

  He shrugged and gave his attention to unbuckling the scabbard. “Who else could have done it?”

  “Maybe that guy she was seeing—the one everyone thought she ran off with.”

  “Could be. That was before I started working.” He handed her the scabbard and gave her a theatrical salute. “But don’t worry, fair Christy, I shall guard you with my life!”

  She couldn’t help but wish he’d phrased it another way.

  3

  The day passed without event and Charlie sent everyone home at 3:30, telling them to enjoy the gorgeous May afternoon and relax over the weekend.

  Roman wasn’t picking her up until seven, so Christy decided to follow Charlie’s advice and spend a bit of time looking at the galleries on Canyon Road. She tried texting Hally to see if she wanted to meet up, but she didn’t answer. Probably in her studio, getting some work in before her happy hour shift started.

  See, Dad? Not everyone picks up their phones immediately every damn time.

  Tourists were thick on the sidewalks, spilling over into the narrow streets, clearly arriving for the weekend and the Friday night gallery walk. Christy ended up ducking into a narrow little shop to avoid a group of at least twenty Japanese tourists, blocking the way while they took photos of the historic buildings.

  Eyes adjusting to the dim interior, she wandered around the low-ceilinged space, peering at the shadowy paintings on the walls. The authentic adobe held a bit of mountain coolness yet, and a woodstove crackled with a somber red gleam. Or maybe it wasn’t the temperature giving her the chills.

  A painting of a bear, one paw cupped, caught her eye. The painter had rendered it realistically, but a shadow of a spiritual skeleton hovered beyond it—reminiscent of the bear etched on the stone still hidden away in her hotel bedside table. That was enough to give her the shivers, but when she moved to the right it became a man, sharp-cheekboned and muscled, with familiar ice-blue eyes. She gasped, and someone behind her wheezed out a laugh.

  She whirled, half expecting it to be him. No, a bent woman leaning on a wooden staff looked up at her, her neck twisting to fix Christy with her obsidian eyes.

  “That one always takes folks by surprise, it does.”

  “Who is it?”

  The shopkeeper cocked her head at it. “Depends, I suppose. He has many names in many cultures. My people call him a name that means Ruler of the People, or Master of the People, more or less. Our legends say he lives under the mountains around here. An artist from my pueblo painted that—she has the sight, as did her granny. Makes for nice pictures.” She cackled and shuffled back behind her desk, behind a high counter. “You should buy this. He likes you.”

  Ah, not so much a spooky encounter as a sales pitch. Christy shook her head. “I can’t. I’m just a poor apprentice. Maybe one day.”

  The woman sat up straighter. “You work up at the opera, then?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Nobody else calls their workers by such fancy names. I saw what happened to that poor girl up there.” The woman sighed mightily and fumbled with a teacup. “Not the first time. Won’t be the last,” she muttered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Eh, don’t mind an old woman. Sometimes I mix up my dreams with the real world. And the movies. Oooh—that Bruce Willis. He’s still something, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, I guess. He’s kind of old, but—”

  “So am I! Yes, indeed. So am I!” The woman dissolved into a fit of cackling laughter, slapping the desk so her tea spilled. She paid no attention to it.

  “What did you mean, ‘wasn’t the first time’?”

  The shopkeeper heaved herself to her feet, leaning heavily on the staff, and fixed that flat black stare on her again. “Tell me, little bird—have you seen him?”

  “Who?”

  The woman nodded sharply at the painting. “I think you have. I knew he liked you.”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  The woman shrugged. “No. But you will.” She snickered, thoroughly enjoying herself. “When he comes for you, remember that it’s an honor to be taken by him.”

  “I don’t want to be taken.” An odd choice of words. It sounded strangely sexual.

  The woman nodded knowingly. “Oh, you will. You will want it. Here. Let me give you something.” She hobbled back to her desk. Under her long skirt, decorated lavishly with silver beads, her foot turned out to the side, clubbed and useless. After several minutes of muttering and rummaging, during which Christy seriously considered escaping, she exclaimed happily and held out a chain with something dangling from it. “Come take this—don’t make a crippled old woman come to you.”

  Careful not to touch the woman’s fingers—though Christy couldn’t have said why she didn’t want to—she took the necklace. A pendant hung from the delicate silver chain, a spiral with a turquoise chip set in it. Every other stall in the Indian Market had twenty of the same thing. That’d teach her to fall for the witchy routine and expect some amazing magic token.

  “Thank you. How much?” She supposed she owed the woman a sale.

  “Not a thing. It’s a gift—don’t sully it with your money. And don’t think I can’t read your face like a trashy newspaper. This necklace is special. Wear it all the time.”

  “Why all the time?”

  “Protection, little bird. You’ll need it.”

  * * *

  After that strange encounter, Christy lost interest in wandering the galleries. The silver pendant felt warm against her skin and her thoughts flitted about like the little bird the shopkeeper had called her.

  It’s an honor to be taken by him.

  What a load of Indian maiden bullcrap. As if she’d be some sort of innocent sacrifice for the bear god under the mountain. She hated to inform everyone, but she hadn’t been a virgin for at least five years. Really, who was anymore?

  She stopped by Del Charro to see Hally, but the place was mobbed, people spilling out of the doors. The redhead gave her a flustered wave and disappeared around the corner with a loaded tray of margaritas. No barstools open, either.

  Instead, she picked up the latest copy of the New Mexican and headed back to her hotel to circle rental possibilities. Better to think about getting an apartment than all the strange goings-on. It turned out to be a good thing she had, because Roman sent her a text that they were going somewhere special and to dress up, which meant ironing her silk dress.

  When he arrived, exactly at seven, Christy was ready in her amethyst silk sheath, which did dynamite things for her otherwise nondescript blue-gray eyes. He stood on her doorstep, movie-star handsome in his black suit—with a bouquet of red roses. She must have flinched a little, because a look of concern dimmed his wide, white smile.

  “Allergic? Afraid of thorns? Hate the cliché?”

  She laughed and took the bouquet, letting him in. “No. I was . . . just surprised. They’re very beautiful—thank you.” In her heels she matched hi
s height, so she leaned in and gave him a kiss.

  “Mmm. That’s what I’ve been missing.” He snatched the bouquet from between them and tossed it on the bed. “Give me some more of my sweet girl.”

  His elegant hands roamed her back, warm through the thin silk, and he pressed her close, kissing her lightly and then deepening it. He tasted of whiskey and maybe a hint of Cuban cigar, a surprisingly intoxicating combination. She toyed with the dark hair that brushed the collar of his black shirt, sinking into the kiss.

  This felt right and real. He smelled of expensive aftershave, and when he cupped the back of her neck, tilting her head so he could trail hot kisses along her throat, the zing went right through her. Oh, yes.

  “You taste delicious,” he murmured against her skin. “I could eat you up, sweet girl.”

  She smiled lazily into his warm brown eyes, feeling languid and more than a little turned on. “We could stay here and order in.”

  “Tempting. Very, very tempting.” He kissed her again, lingering over it. “But I want to do this right. I’m taking you to a special place—I think you’ll love it.”

  He drove them out of town, up through the canyon, refusing to spill the surprise. She’d put her bet on Bishop’s Lodge, which everyone said was great, but they went on past it. When he turned in at a road she didn’t recognize, she saw the sign for the Rancho Encantado resort. Very nice indeed.

  Roman sent the valet off with the car—after letting her out himself—and escorted her into the glass-fronted dining room. The obsequious maître d’ led them to a table on the patio, with a perfect view of the amazing horizon and incipient sunset.

  “Perfect, yes?” He winked at her, holding her chair, while the maître d’ stood back discreetly. “And the moon will be up before long, so we can enjoy both.”

  “Gorgeous.” She rubbed her hands over her bare arms. The bubble coat had stayed in the hotel room yet again, safely out of sight. “I just hope I don’t get cold!”

  He smiled and flicked a signal at the maître d’. “Now would I let my sweet girl catch a chill? Never. I want tonight to be perfect.” The man returned with a box wrapped in gold paper with an elaborate bow, setting it before her and vanishing.