Master of the Opera

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes. The daylight world searches for you.”

  Shit. She really hoped her father wouldn’t find out. All at once she felt thirteen again, getting caught after sneaking back into the house. Her father had accused her of staging the rebellion to make him let her live with her mother and showed her how very badly her plan had gone wrong.

  “Have I been gone that long?” It hadn’t felt very long. She didn’t have her phone, so she couldn’t check the time. “Where are my things?”

  “Where you left them.”

  “No—you moved them.” She remembered now. The strange sounds, the chandelier falling while she stood petrified below. What had really happened?

  “I must go.” He still held her hand and now drew her closer. “Give me a kiss.”

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Call me Master.” He whispered it, like a secret, like a promise, and followed it with a searing kiss that chased the confusion and questions from her reeling mind.

  He set her on her feet and she became aware she’d been clinging to him. A gloved thumb rubbed over her lip.

  “Close your eyes for a moment.”

  Rather than risk another discussion about the blindfold, she did. A sound like sandpaper and a whiff of dusty air. Then he pulled her by the hand a few steps and let her look again.

  She stood on the very lowest level, outside the sealed door she’d seen on her first day. Feeling an odd sense of déjà vu, she traced the image carved into the door. The collar and whip that had instantly captured her attention.

  “I don’t understand all of this,” she whispered.

  Her voice echoed back. She was alone in the empty hallway.

  7

  The martial thump of boots on metal jerked her from her daze.

  She hurried down the murky hall to the central spiral staircase and peered up through the grate. The levels were lit up to three above where she stood. Voices created quite a din, with shouts, doors banging, and dogs barking. They’d brought out search dogs?

  Creeping as noiselessly as possible, she skulked up one flight of steps on all fours, keeping her profile low. She made it to the next level up without setting off shouts of alarm and decided not to risk another. Being that far down would help with her story that she hadn’t heard anyone.

  Unfortunately she needed more of a story than that.

  Why would she have come to this level—without her keys, dammit—and stayed down here when Carla needed her help? Could she fake temporary amnesia? The chandelier fell and she hit her head, can’t remember what happened but miraculously sustained no injury. And somehow wandered off.

  Had the chandelier really fallen? Or had she only imagined it teetering above her, one of its crystal pendants spinning through the air like a snowflake, then soundlessly shattering on the floor?

  If it hadn’t really fallen, then she’d sound insane.

  If none of this had really happened, she had to consider that possibility.

  Think. Think. Think.

  She slid along the wall, trying doorknobs as she went, underneath the video cameras, out of range of their unblinking black eyes. No little red lights gleamed in the dark, however, so perhaps whatever happened to the one in the prop shop affected these, too. If that had happened.

  It all whispered of mental imbalance, a thought that made her nerves cringe, the sensation of fingernails scraping sandpaper. The very worst part of being treated for mental illness was the way you learned not to trust yourself. Every thought could be a fraud, a decoy leading you away from reality and into the ever-shifting realm where everyone looked at you with sideways concern and believed nothing you said.

  You were never crazy. Stop that.

  Every explanation for her behavior led back to that place, though. Christy didn’t think she could bear to go through that again. The careful sympathy and casual dismissal. Worse—she began to wonder if she had dreamed it all up. That colorful carousel of a room and a masked man who intrigued and lured her.

  Lights flared from the stairwell and the sounds of stomping boots came clattering down. A dog barked with excitement, his furry shape lunging down the tight spiral. He’d caught her scent and soon would be upon her. The game was up. She stepped out into the middle of the dark corridor and walked back the way she’d come, shading her eyes when the lights flashed on.

  The German shepherd came leaping at her, full of doggy joy. She’d once read about how search dogs in major disasters became depressed, finding dead body after dead body. Their handlers would have to hide themselves in the rubble so the dogs could find a living person to restore their hope. She knelt down and scratched under her collar, letting the dog lick her face.

  This, at least, was real.

  “Christine Davis?” A man in uniform approached. She nodded, and he spoke into a radio. Better reception than her cell, she noted with some irony. Perhaps she should suggest them to Charlie. “Do you need medical attention?”

  “No—I’m fine. I, um—” Moment of truth. What excuse will you use? “I’m afraid I got lost and, well, I fell asleep. All the noise woke me.” Ah, yes. The too-stupid-to-live defense. Never underestimate the power of seeming to be an idiot. Far better than crazy.

  “Well, let’s get you out of here. You worried a lot of people.”

  “I’m sorry.” She tried to sound meek and sorrowful. If her hair were long still, she would have twisted a lock around her finger.

  “Never mind that. Though Detective Sanchez will want to talk to you.”

  Upstairs, the prop shop had been taped off and crime-scene types were closing up their equipment cases. No need to check for evidence now. Detective Sanchez met them outside the door, arms folded, suspicious eyes looking her up and down as she repeated her story. He didn’t buy it for a moment, that much was clear.

  As she spoke, she desperately wanted to see past him, to crane her neck to peer around the corner, to see the chandelier. Would it be perched high on the shelf, covered in dust? Or would it be a jumble of broken crystal on the floor?

  Her heart pounded with the need to know, her neck tense from restraining the urge to push him aside so she could see for herself what was real.

  “So, even though Ms. Donovan expressly told you to wait for her return, you decided not to?” At Christy’s frown, he clarified, “Carla Donovan, your boss.”

  As much as she wanted to say that Carla wasn’t her boss—and who knew her last name was the same as Charlie’s?—she bit her tongue on that and concentrated on being silly. Surely they would have mentioned the chandelier?

  “I was worried about her. She was gone a long time, so I went looking for her.”

  The detective checked his notes. “Ms. Donovan says she returned in five to seven minutes.”

  “Oh.” Christy turned big eyes up at him, pleading. “It seemed longer. And with all the scary stuff going on, I . . .”

  “Your story doesn’t hold water, frankly.” Detective Sanchez kept his hard gaze on her. “If you were frightened, why would you go down to the same level where a murder victim’s body was found?”

  “I—” It was a good question. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Sanchez sighed. “Is that the only thing you were afraid of, Christy? Did something else happen?”

  Did the chandelier fall or not? She wanted to shriek the question. She clamped down on it, keeping her voice even. “Like what?”

  “I understand you’re seeing Roman Sanclaro.”

  It took her a moment to adjust her thoughts. Roman? “Um, yes. He’s an old family friend. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “He’s waiting for you outside. He’s been quite concerned about you. Is there anything you need to tell me?”

  She no longer had to fake being confused and a little dumb. She had no idea what he meant. Sanchez drew her aside, farther away from the prop shop doorway. “Did Roman Sanclaro hurt or threaten you?”

  “What? No.” Her thoughts lost some o
f the fog and she focused on him. “Is he a suspect in the murder?”

  His face stayed impassive. “The investigation is ongoing. Do you have information to share with me?”

  “Ah . . . no. No! I’ve known Roman practically my whole life. He would never hurt anyone.” Her voice shook, everything catching up with her.

  Sanchez’s gaze flicked away and, despite his professional poker face, she could practically read his thoughts. They all said that kind of thing, the families—even the wives and girlfriends—of serial killers. She sounded just like those poor people on TV, bewildered, unable to believe the evidence before their eyes.

  “I know you have my card already—here’s another,” Sanchez was saying. “Call me anytime you want to talk.”

  Christy nodded, folding his card and sliding it into her jeans pocket. His intelligent gaze held both a plea and a warning.

  “Even if you feel afraid for no reason, I want to hear about it.”

  That was a laugh. He had no idea the things that currently frightened her. “Could I ask a favor?”

  Sanchez raised an expectant eyebrow.

  “I’m really sorry I caused so much trouble, but could you not call the owner of the theater about this?”

  “Carlton Davis? Typically I wouldn’t, unless there had been an actual crime.” Christy breathed a sigh of relief, which the detective didn’t miss. “I’m aware he’s your father, Ms. Davis, so let me give you a word to the wise. Honesty is always the best policy.”

  With a little salute, Detective Sanchez pulled down the tape and went into the prop room, asking someone to release Christy’s belongings to her.

  With trepidation, she followed him. All of her desperation to see had fled, and now she almost couldn’t bear to look. Like the girl she’d been, she wanted to cover her eyes and peek through her fingers.

  There were her things, sitting on the workbench where she’d left them. Up above, the chandelier rested, regal under its thick coating of dust and cobwebs. Underneath, the concrete floor was bare and clean.

  But in the corner, catching her eye, a shard of crystal glittered.

  ACT 3

  Phantom Serenade

  1

  Roman met her outside, pushing past the patrol officers who had clearly been keeping him back.

  “Christy! I was so afraid that . . .” He stopped himself and wrapped his arms hard around her, holding her tight and rocking. It felt oddly jarring after the ghost’s—the Master’s—powerful but gentle embrace. “Where were you?”

  “Well, see, I—”

  “Never mind. All that matters is that you’re safe.” Roman drew himself up and slung a protective arm around her waist. “Come on, sweet girl. Let me take you home. You can tell me all about it in the car.”

  “I can drive myself, my car is—”

  “I won’t hear of it. You’re pale and you’ve clearly had a bad scare. Let me take care of you.”

  His insistence frightened her a little. The intensity of his eyes and the strength of his grip on her arm. Sanchez’s vague warnings echoed in her head, pissing her off. What business did he have, making her doubt her old friend?

  “Okay.” She smiled at him. “Thank you.” And then he considerately turned off his usual blasting techno music and they rode in the car in blissful quiet.

  Though it made the uneasiness stir again, she also didn’t argue when Roman brought her back to his place instead of her hotel room. Taking care of her seemed to make Roman happy, and it helped to be around him, a real human being she’d known nearly forever. And she did know him, despite Sanchez’s oily hints. Besides, she owed Roman for coming to her rescue yet again.

  Especially because now, along with everything else, she felt guilty.

  She imagined little green wisps of guilt-smoke wafting out of her ears, seeping from her pores as if she’d eaten too much garlic and wasn’t fit for romantic company. Roman had accepted her story at face value, sympathetic that she’d felt rattled at being left alone and had gone seeking Carla. If he’d too easily believed that she’d be dumb enough to get lost and then take a nap in the bowels of the opera house, that was her own fault for taking the bimbo defense. Playing dumb works until you get tired of everyone thinking you’re a waste of air, her father had reminded her the one or two times she’d tried that tactic with him.

  One did not want Carlton Davis thinking you were a waste of air.

  Roman’s place turned out to be a small mansion up Hyde Park Road. He excused it as modest—not like his folks’ place—but it clung to the hillside, a jeweled spider, multileveled with balconies and an infinity pool. All the brightly lit windows looked out over Santa Fe valley. The sunset views, no doubt, would be spectacular.

  Christy stood in one of those windows, admiring the view, feeling more grounded all the time. The events of the night faded more with every passing moment. She could almost believe her own story—that she’d fallen asleep and dreamed it all.

  “Not how I imagined you seeing my house for the first time,” Roman called from the open-area kitchen, where he was getting her a glass of wine. She became abruptly conscious of her grubbiness. Somehow she always felt underdressed around him. It wasn’t the money—she’d been around enough rich people to know plenty of them bought their clothes at Target.

  She smiled over her shoulder. “It’s okay. I appreciate you giving me shelter.”

  “I asked Gloria to start a bath for you in the guest suite.” Roman handed her a half glass of white wine. “I’m sure you’ll feel better after you’ve cleaned up.”

  The wine tasted amazing, a soothing sweep through her bloodstream. It would have been really nice to have more than the child-sized portion he’d given her. She cast a rueful glance at her dusty sweatshirt. “I’d just have to put these back on—not much point.”

  “I may have bought a few things I thought would look nice on you.” He smiled broadly when she protested. “Now, now—no complaints. I love to give you gifts. You might as well get used to it. The guest suite is down that way. Gloria is waiting for you. She has a robe you can put on, too.”

  “Am I, um, staying the night?”

  “I think that’s best—what your father would want me to do. You’re safe here with me, Christy, I want you to know that. I respect you as a woman. Don’t worry that I’ll take advantage. I want to do this right. In fact, we’re having a family party this weekend. I’d like you to come out to the Compound, see my father again and finally meet my mother and sister. They’ve been asking to see you. I told them we’ve been going out as more than friends.”

  Whoa. Really too much to process all at once. Guilt, guilt, guilt. The little guilt fairies pranced around in her head.

  “Roman?”

  “What is it, sweet girl?”

  “Do you consider us to be . . . exclusive?”

  He smiled at her over the rim of his much more generous glass of wine. “Don’t give a moment’s worry to that. I would never cheat on you. It goes against everything I believe in, our families’ honor, my church. You can trust in me, Christy. Always.”

  He was such a great guy.

  She didn’t know what Sanchez’s beef with him was, but she, at least, could show she believed in him. So, while she really would have rather holed up in her hotel room to think about all that had happened, instead she obediently trotted down to the guest wing level, to make Roman happy and to let poor Gloria go to bed.

  Roman’s housekeeper turned out to be a matronly Hispanic woman who clucked sympathetically over Christy’s frightening adventure in the half English/half Spanish patois many New Mexicans seemed to use. Which meant she didn’t understand most of what the woman said to her. But that was okay.

  Besides, the tub was fabulous.

  Big enough for five people, sunken into the floor, and set into a niche of bay windows that hung over the valley, it more than made up for time served with only a small shower stall.

  She sank into the steaming water, scented with something rem
iniscent of orange blossoms. Too sweet, but well intentioned. Gloria bustled off with Christy’s clothes, presumably to wash them, leaving her with a fluffy white robe.

  “Captive again,” she muttered to herself. But then decided she didn’t mean it. Roman was only being kind. And the protective thing was because he cared for her. After all, he’d been the one to call the cops when he’d come looking for her and found her car still there, Carla gone, and the place locked up.

  Christy swished her shoulders in the water, scooting down to get the heat up around the tight base of her neck. Apparently Carla thought Christy had taken off, and the woman had left without noticing her car was still there.

  Gloria came bustling back in to see if she needed anything. When Christy asked for more wine, Gloria nodded with a Buddha smile—and brought her herbal tea and a burrito wrapped in a napkin, so she could hold it.

  Suddenly ravenous, having totally forgotten that she’d never eaten dinner, she devoured the burrito, which turned out to be perfectly complemented by the soothing tea. Ferociously sleepy, she forced herself to climb out of the luxurious tub and pulled on the robe. The connecting guest room sported more windows and a California king bed that had been turned down for her.

  Her bag sat on the dresser and she checked her phone. Nothing from her father, thankfully. Charlie had left her a voice mail telling her to take a sick day to rest up. He sounded carefully neutral. Hopefully he wasn’t angry at her causing so much trouble. She didn’t mind the reprieve from getting up early, however.

  The phone was down to the last 20 percent of battery, but her charger was back at the hotel. Nothing to be done. Weary, she sat on the edge of the bed. Roman had left a note on her pillow, wishing her good night and sweet dreams. He’d see her in the morning.

  Sliding naked between the million thread count sheets, she killed the bedside lamp and gazed at the warm lights of the city in the valley. The moon, the same amber-orange color as the discreet downward-facing lights, lowered herself in serene splendor toward the horizon. Christy toyed with the silver spiral pendant, sliding it back and forth on the chain, remembering the smile in the Master’s voice at seeing it, those chiseled lips curving beneath the inscrutable black mask.