Master of the Opera

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it.” Roman leaned back in his chair, his eyes sparkling in anticipation.

  She unwrapped the box while a group of waiters appeared to set up a champagne bucket and pour glasses for them. Inside the delicate tissue paper lay a short white jacket made of butter-soft leather. “Oh, Roman—you didn’t need to do this.”

  “I wanted to.” He stood and took it from her, holding it so she could shrug into the satin-lined sleeves. “I saw it in Taos and thought of you.”

  It fit like a dream and she suddenly felt sophisticated, with the high, straight collar framing her throat. It reminded her of the dress he’d brought her to wear to the prom—grown-up and sexy. Roman lifted his champagne glass. “To the most beautiful girl in the room.”

  She clinked her glass against his and settled in to enjoy the romantic sunset.

  * * *

  The weekend passed in a whirl. She stayed out late with Roman on Friday, moving to the inside courtyard and the gel fire bed for after-dinner drinks while they talked about old times and caught up on what they’d been doing. For only being in his late twenties, Roman had traveled extensively, and he told her stories about all the places he’d visited. He was plainly shocked that she’d never been overseas, but he didn’t know Carlton Davis. The man had no time for vacations. And though Christy’s mom had become an international journalist after the divorce, her dad always found a reason why Christy shouldn’t go along. Usually to ensure a good future for her.

  After drinks they went dancing, and Roman finally dropped her off at her hotel at 2 a.m. She’d invited him in, but he’d settled for a very long kiss at the door, leaving her full of dreamy heat and a promise to call her soon.

  Thus she woke up later than she’d planned for her apartment-hunting expedition, barely making it to her first appointment. By the end of the day, she had several choices to run past Hally, who’d promised to give her a final vetting.

  They spent Sunday revisiting them and hitting the shops Hally pronounced the very best for deals. Sure enough, Christy returned to her hotel room Sunday evening with several new outfits she thought Roman would like. She also had a signed rental agreement for an apartment she could move into the following weekend, once the landlord cleaned the kiva fireplace and de-moused the place—both on Hally’s advice.

  She talked to her mom. No surprise there, but she wasn’t nearly as concerned about the murder as Christy’s dad had implied. Once she’d established her daughter was fine and in no danger—Christy might have stretched that part a bit—Laura Moon let the topic go and instead asked how Christy liked the new job.

  “I like it.” Christy paced the length of her little hotel room. “This one woman seems to have it in for me.”

  Her mom laughed, her generous, amused-by-life laugh. “There’s always gotta be at least one.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Fact of life, It’s not whether someone will give you shit at a new job—it’s which person will it be.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Heh.” Her mom shrugged verbally. “You do the job to the best of your ability. That’s what you’re there for. Is she someone you answer to?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Then make her look good. She’s only a real problem for you if she gets in the way of you doing a good job. Make sense?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Try it out for a few days and call me. Some people are all about the battle. If you don’t fight back, they lose interest.”

  “Okay. I will.” She heard a shout in the background, and her mom yelled something back in another language. “Do you have to go?”

  “I have a couple more minutes to dispense motherly advice.” Her mom’s smile came through the phone clearly. “What else? Men? Clothes? Picking out a couch for the new apartment? Ask me anything.”

  “Are you—when you go to dangerous places for your stories, are you ever scared?”

  “Often,” her mom replied promptly. “Sometimes more than others. But fear is a tool. Our early warning system—only a fool doesn’t listen to that.”

  “But you go anyway.”

  “Not always. Not if the alarm bells are really going off. But yeah—going anyway is part of my job. Getting the story so terrible events will be revealed. That’s important to me.”

  “So how do you know? When it’s big alarm bells or just . . . being paranoid.”

  Her mom sighed. “This is where being a mother is the hardest. I’m guessing you’re asking because of the murder, and you want to know how much is being hyped up by all the gossip and what is legitimate concern for your safety.”

  “Pretty much.” Oh, and a ghost that’s taking a strange and possibly obsessive interest in me. Never mind that part.

  “The mother in me wants to tell you to stay home safe, but I lived that life and it nearly killed me.” Her mother’s voice reflected the exhaustion and depression of her married years. Unlike her ex-husband, she was careful never to criticize Christy’s father, except in oblique references. “So my best advice is this: Listen to your instincts. Trust your gut. Trust yourself.”

  “Okay.” She paused, feeling like she should be honest. “I ran into Roman Sanclaro.”

  Her mother’s end of the line went icy.

  “We went out to dinner a couple of times.”

  The connection crackled.

  “Mom?”

  “I don’t like him. You know that.”

  “I think he might be different now. He’s more mature.”

  Her mother heaved a weary sigh. “I’d tell you to stay away from him, but I know you won’t. So just . . . be careful, okay? Don’t take everything he tells you at face value.”

  Christy laughed. “So trust myself but don’t trust anyone else?”

  “Yes.”

  And the connection was lost.

  4

  Monday flew by without a pause.

  Over the weekend, the cops had cleared the lower level for staff access again. Rumors ran thick and fast, but nothing else of note had happened. And nobody had any new news—just endless rehashes of the details everyone already knew.

  With Matt’s efficient help, Christy triumphantly checked off cataloging an entire storeroom. It was a little strange to see the blinking red eyes of the video cameras now installed in every room and at most major hallway intersections. Whether due to those or the partner method, nothing strange happened all day.

  Christy felt herself relaxing.

  This she could do. Even Carla’s “emergency” request for a particular set of curtains seemed to be a challenge instead of a crisis. Make her look good. Matt scored the find on those—right before five o’clock, too—and insisted on doing a touchdown dance.

  Still laughing at his wild interpretation of an appropriate victory dance, Christy unlocked her office door and dumped the BNoD on her desk. A few more weeks and the thing would be history. She and Matt should make a little bonfire of it.

  She pulled open her drawer and jumped back a foot. Snakebit! her aunt Isadore would have said.

  Another rose. Crimson and in lush, full bloom.

  Another note.

  Meet Me Tonight.

  With no thought of preserving this one, she crumpled it in her fist, a little panicked noise escaping her.

  “Pretty flower.” Carla leaned in the doorway, her arms folded. “Got yourself a boyfriend, huh?”

  “I don’t know.” Christy waved her hand, trying to look breezy. “Secret admirer, I guess. You know how it is.”

  “No. I don’t, actually. That stuff only happens to the cheerleaders and prom queens.”

  The sharp edges of the vellum note pricked her palm. “Well, I’ve never been either.”

  “The concept still applies.” With a close-lipped smile, Carla shrugged up from her leaning position. “Good job finding those curtains—or was that all Matt?”

  “Matt definitely gets the prize for that one.” A good manager always
gives credit where it’s due. But the praise, faint as it might be, showed that her mom’s technique was working.

  “And the flute—who helped you with that?” Carla’s gaze dropped to the rose and she picked it up, spinning it in her fingers and inhaling the wine-dark scent that already pervaded the little office. Her eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses were hard as marbles.

  “N-no one.” Dammit, she never stuttered. Christy shrugged, put her hands in her pockets, and tucked the note deep inside. “Just got lucky in the Mozart room.”

  Jeez, that sounded bad.

  “I’ll bet you did. Find anything else interesting?”

  Strange question. “Like what?”

  “Call it curiosity.” Carla shrugged and held out the rose. Christy took it, not really wanting to touch it again, but she couldn’t very well tell Carla to toss it on the desk. “Have a wonderful evening.”

  Christy clenched her fists in her pockets, the note digging into her palm, while she glared at Carla’s departing swagger. That woman couldn’t possibly know anything. How could she? And how had the phantom gotten into her locked office?

  She checked the door to the adjoining room—also locked.

  It’s my opera house.

  Well, she sure as hell wasn’t his. No way was she meeting him. Tossing the rose in the trash and taking her things, she turned off the light and locked the door.

  And left without a backward glance.

  If she walked at a faster clip than usual, that could be blamed on being excited to be going home for the day. And it wasn’t possible to feel eyes following her as she walked down the hallway and out the door. It felt weird having those video cameras everywhere. Who wouldn’t get paranoid?

  Her rubber soles didn’t click on the concrete floors the way her heels had that first day, but each step seemed to blare an alarm. Resisting the urge to run, she rounded the last corner and hit the exit bar on the doors with a bang, emerging into the balmy evening with shredding relief.

  The dirt and gravel under her tires spit and hissed on the underside of her car when she backed out with a bit too much spin, and again when she peeled out, passing through the gate.

  And nearly ran down Carla.

  The tall blonde stood in the middle of the road leading out of the lot, hand up flat like a traffic cop. Of course Christy braked. She barely entertained the notion of running her over. Nice people didn’t think that way.

  Carla came around to the driver’s side, pantomiming for Christy to roll down her window. “Can you come back in for a few minutes? I need some help moving a few things.” She leaned down, peering at Christy’s things on the passenger seat. “Did you forget your posy?”

  It took Christy a few seconds to process that the old-fashioned–sounding word meant the rose. “I wanted to keep it at the office—more cheerful.”

  “It will die without water.”

  Christy stared at the woman, her eyes hidden by the glare on her glasses from the lowering sun. “I guess that’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

  “Your deal.” Carla straightened and knocked a fist on the hood. “Come help me. It’ll only take a few minutes, and everyone else is gone.”

  Christy flexed her hands on the steering wheel, so close to telling Carla to go screw herself. Which wouldn’t be following her mother’s advice—nor would it mesh with the story she’d given her father about her desire to prove herself to the staff. Above, the soaring roof of the opera house glowed white and gold against the deep blue sky. A shadow fluttered in one corner, and disappeared again. Her heart clutched.

  Meet Me Tonight.

  But she couldn’t tell Carla she was afraid. She parked her car again and turned off the ignition with a deep, sinking sensation. Carla actually smiled at her, and they walked back in together. That was important; they’d be together. And there were the cameras. In another few minutes, she’d be in her car and gone again.

  She followed Carla to the prop shop, where two freshly painted totem poles stood waiting next to a handcart. “You can dump your things there.” Carla indicated a tall workbench with her chin. “I can move these with the dolly, but I need you to help me maneuver it on there. I’m glad I caught you—two-person job, and the glazers get in two hours before I usually do. They’ll have a fit if these aren’t in place and ready to go. I really didn’t want to get up at four a.m., you know?”

  Christy hesitantly smiled back at the unusually relaxed and chatty Carla. Another point for Mom on how to get along at the new job. Together they wrestled the totem pole onto the flat ledge of the handcart, and Christy steadied it while Carla tilted the cart back, letting the statue settle into its cradle.

  “Perfect! I’ll go drop this and be right back for the other.”

  “I’ll come with you—”

  “No need! I can scoot it off easily enough and be back in two minutes.” With that, Carla was already in the big freight elevator, the doors grinding closed.

  Christy was a heartbeat from running after her, like a timid kindergartner chasing after her big sister. Two minutes. No big deal. The elevator cables clattered, then were silent.

  She surveyed the empty prop shop, the off-duty stillness of the opera house settling like a heavy cloak. Shadows deepened in the corners, taking on the darkness of the unlit hallway. A grating sound, like metal against glass, scraped across her nerves. She turned in a slow circle, looking for the source.

  Nothing.

  She decided to text Roman to pass the time. He had meetings, he’d said, but maybe they could meet for a drink in between or something.

  But her bag was gone.

  She spun in a slow circle, her heart climbing through her ribcage like a tarantula. The workbench stood empty. Carla hadn’t returned. The blank eye of the video camera over the door returned her stare, the red light off.

  The sound again. A sparkle of light as a prism fell, spinning in slow motion until it crashed and shattered on the concrete. Her eyes flew up.

  Above her, on one of the high shelves, an enormous crystal chandelier teetered, then plummeted.

  Her thoughts flashed, a flock of birds changing direction with a thunderbolt clap of wings.

  A shadow appeared, seizing her in iron arms, lifting her.

  “Christine.”

  Like a curtain closing across her mind, she lost consciousness.

  5

  Candlelight, golden and gentle, greeted her when she woke.

  She shifted, the glide of warm velvet under her cheek, the brush of a soft fur blanket covering her. So peaceful and cozy. Her lashes looked like black lace against the warm light. Sighing, she snuggled in, drowsy and peaceful.

  What the hell?

  With a bolt of panic, she sat up, the throw falling away, and tried to absorb her surroundings.

  It was something out of a dream.

  She sat on an antique chaise, sort of a carved wooden fainting couch, covered in emerald velvet with throw pillows in satin jewel tones. The fur blanket felt real, soft as chinchilla, in a dazzling light pearly gray, nearly a luminescent silver. The rest of the room held similar furniture, an eclectic assortment of Victorian-style lines and fabrics, breathtakingly elegant. Plush Oriental carpets easily worth tens of thousands of dollars covered the floor, one bordering another in a stained-glass pattern of color.

  On every surface, white pillar candles glowed, their flames straight and true in the draftless cavern. For a cave it was, rough rock walls a disconcerting backdrop for the lovely pieces. As if she were some sort of exotic animal, displayed in a zoo habitat created by some well-meaning but misguided keeper—who couldn’t disguise the impression that the abandoned lion’s den of rocks and crags had been hastily converted just for her.

  Little doubt who her captor might be. Or that Tara’s fate might yet be in store for her.

  The stark terror she’d felt in the prop shop had chilled now, coating her insides with a fine frost. Her mind felt crystal clear, sharp and incisive. Some part of her recognized this a
s an adrenaline high. This was the state that allowed mothers to lift cars off their children or soldiers to continue fighting with fatal injuries.

  Fight or flight.

  If escape wasn’t an option, she would fight. Laura Moon’s daughter wouldn’t go down without one.

  Resolved, she explored the room. Most of the furniture sat at least an arm’s length from the cave walls, which allowed her to walk behind the credenzas, desks, and settees, even the tall bookshelves. Though the candles didn’t provide much penetrating light, her investigations showed no doors, no tunnels, not even a mouse hole.

  She circumnavigated the room twice. Then a third time, just to be sure. The only egress appeared to be the chimney. The fireplace seemed to have been dug out of the wall, large enough to stand in and deeply inset. Behind a gleaming brass screen, logs burned with fierce heat, any smoke whisked up the chimney. No telling how high it might be.

  “Christine.”

  She’d been ready for this, so she didn’t startle. Instead, she reached for the fireplace poker and slowly turned to face her captor.

  He’d apparently dressed for the occasion, the black cloak swept back to frame his broad shoulders, clothed in a billowing white shirt with poet’s sleeves, a waistcoat of swirling gold brocade fitted to his narrow waist. The black half mask obscured his face but not his ice-blue eyes or his sleekly groomed white-blond hair.

  In his gloved hands, he carried a tray with a crystal carafe and a plate of some sort of food. His gaze touched on the poker and moved back up to her eyes, his sharp-edged lips curving. “Does the fire need stirring?”

  “You think I won’t use it, but I will.” Her voice sounded even and confident. “You’re not raping me without losing some important soft bits, mark my words.” She eyed his crotch significantly, which was maybe a mistake because the tight fit of his black trousers left little to the imagination.

  “I won’t be raping you at all. I told you before, I have no wish to frighten you.”

  “Breaking news—kidnapping and imprisoning someone is frightening to them.”