No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale

by Pope, Christine

  “So you were able to see half his face?”

  “Well, the lighting wasn’t that great, but—”

  “Anything would be helpful.”

  Meg stared off into the corner, as if concentrating on the faded urine-colored walls would help her to remember. “He had dark hair—really dark. It looked black in that lighting. Pale skin—but he could’ve been wearing makeup or something. And he was hot.”

  “Hot?”

  “Okay—good-looking. Really. I could tell he was older than Christine and me, but when someone looks like that, who cares?”

  “Anything more specific than that?” Ortiz felt a wave of irrational dislike for the unnamed man. Certainly no one—not even his wife Manuela—had ever referred to him as “hot.”

  “I don’t know—he had kind of a long nose, but in a good way. I couldn’t see what color his eyes were. And his mouth wasn’t real full or anything, but it had a nice shape.”

  Apparently once Meg had categorized someone as “hot” she didn’t spend a lot of time on specifics. “Approximate age?”

  “Maybe forty?” The rising inflection on the last syllable telegraphed her uncertainty. “Late thirties or early forties, possibly,” she amended.

  “So he was the same age as the man Christine thought she saw at school?”

  “I guess so. But I don’t think it’s the same guy.”

  She actually sounded certain of that fact. Ortiz leaned forward, tapping his pen on the desktop. “What makes you say that?”

  “Christine said the guy she saw at school was just medium height. I saw this Phantom guy stand up when he left, and he was pretty tall. Definitely over six feet. And Christine said the first guy had brown hair, but this guy’s was almost black. Besides, if she’d thought it was the same guy she would have told me.”

  Great. So now Christine had two stalkers after her?

  “This is the weird thing, though,” Meg continued. “I thought I’d ask around at work and see if anyone else had noticed him. The other wait staff hadn’t, really, because they were all swamped at their own stations. But then I talked to Jeff, one of the valets who was on duty that night, and he said he thought he remembered him—mostly because of what he was driving.”

  “Which was?”

  “A brand-new Mercedes S600. I guess it’s the top of the line. Jeff’s a car nut, so he knew all about it. He said it was worth about a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  Ortiz could not keep himself from letting out a low whistle. That was more than he’d paid for his first house.

  “Yeah,” Meg said. “We don’t get too many of those at L’Opéra, I guess. But then Jeff said the other interesting thing about it was that it had diplomatic plates.”

  Eyes narrowing, Ortiz asked, “Diplomatic plates?”

  “You know, whatever they put on cars that belong to ambassadors and stuff like that. Jeff said they were sweet because regular cops almost never pull over cars that have diplomatic plates on them—too much trouble.” Her dark eyes widened a bit, as if she suddenly realized to whom she was speaking. “Um, sorry, detective, but that’s what he said.”

  “It’s okay, Meg. I know the drill.” The unfortunate thing was, he really did. Most big-city cops had some kind of horror story about the sort of crap pulled by drivers of officially designated “foreign organization” vehicles. Technically they were supposed to abide by the rules of the road in whichever state they had residence, but officially the local police couldn’t do much about it if they decided to ignore those rules.

  He sighed. So Christine had two whack jobs after her, one possibly an extremely rich foreign national? “Did Christine happen to mention if this Phantom person had any kind of accent?”

  “I don’t think so. But we didn’t get much of a chance to talk that evening—the restaurant was crazy-busy.”

  “Naturally.” The information she’d given him had only deepened the mystery, unfortunately. Was there a connection, or was Meg only grasping at straws, trying desperately to find some sort of meaning in her friend’s disappearance? He set down his pen. “Well, Meg, thanks for the update. We’ll see if we can follow up on it. But without an actual license plate number it might be difficult to track down—even with a car as distinctive as the one you said this man was driving.”

  “Oh,” she said, her expression faltering a little. It was obvious that she’d hoped her information would be of more use.

  “I did want to ask you something, though,” he continued, and she perked up a bit. “Have you ever seen this before?” And he produced the ring he’d found in Christine’s bedroom and laid it on the desk before him.

  Meg picked up the little plastic envelope and looked at the ring inside for barely a second before replying, “That’s Christine’s grandmother’s ring.”

  “You’re positive?”

  She nodded. “I’ve seen Christine wear it a few times—mostly at special functions like recitals and stuff. She’d never wear it to work, of course. But I think I also saw her wear it on a chain around her neck sometimes.”

  “So she was careful with it?”

  Giving him a condescending look, Meg said, “Well, yeah. It’s not like Christine had lots of valuables. Most of her grandmother’s stuff got sold off when she died, so Christine didn’t have much left. She loved that ring, even if she didn’t wear it that often.” She frowned. “Where did you find it?”

  “On the floor of her bedroom.”

  “Christine would never have dropped it and left it there—” She broke off, giving Detective Ortiz a narrow look. “What do you think it means?”

  “I think,” he said, retrieving the ring in its little plastic envelope and tucking it back in his breast pocket, “that it may be the only piece of evidence I have to show that Christine didn’t just up and leave of her own accord. Nothing I could prove in a court of law, of course, but it’s enough that I’m not going to treat this as a simple missing-person case any more.”

  Clasping her hands together, Meg leaned forward. “What are you going to do?”

  I wish I knew, he thought, but said only, “Keep digging. Something’s bound to turn up.”

  He offered his hand to Meg and she took it.

  “Thanks, Detective Ortiz.”

  “No, thank you, Meg—I’ll keep in touch.”

  “You’d better,” she said, and went out, closing the office door behind her.

  For a few moments he just sat there, turning over pieces of information in his mind, examining them the way a jeweler would a somewhat flawed jewel under his loupe. It was looking more and more as if someone had gone to considerable trouble to make it seem as if Christine had left town on her own. All he needed to know now was how.

  And, more importantly, why.

  Chapter 19

  Several days went by before I had any chance at all to speak with Ennis alone. A series of storms descended upon us, and even though I now had relatively free run of the house, I still felt imprisoned, the gardens beyond my windows now veiled in drifting rain.

  Since the weather forced us inside, Erik and I spent a good deal of time in the music room, singing for one another one day, singing together the next. Music helped me take myself away—if I closed my eyes, I could try to imagine I was just in my master class, singing a duet with one of my fellow students. Of course, none of them had a voice to rival Erik’s, and if nothing else it was a joy to sing with him. His repertoire was vast and varied; one moment it could be an aria from Rigoletto, the next a Schubert lieder, followed by snippets of Rodgers and Hammerstein or even Cole Porter, if the mood struck him. In turn I sang for him Ach, ich fuhl's, es ist verschwunden, Pamina’s aria from Die Zauberflöte; selections from The Merry Widow; the delicate and lovely Pie Jesu from Lloyd Webber’s own Requiem. However, we were both careful to sing nothing from Phantom of the Opera. Why, I wasn’t entirely sure—possibly he thought it too emotionally charged a composition, given our present circumstances. Whatever the reason, I followed his
lead, although in the past I had loved to sing “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again,” given its resonances in my own life.

  Late one afternoon, as the day slipped into dusk, I approached the music room to hear Erik already inside, playing Debussy’s Clair de Lune. Not wanting to disturb him, I stood outside the door, letting the music wash over me, the rippling progression of notes flowing out and around me, reaching for its ineffable climax. Once again I felt the tears start to my eyes. How exquisitely beautiful his playing was, how effortless yet laden with emotion. I could have lingered there all evening, just listening to him, but I knew he was expecting me and so went in to him once the last chords had died away into silence.

  “How did you know that was one of my favorite pieces?” I asked.

  He closed the piano lid, then turned on the piano bench to face me. “I didn’t. But I’ve always been drawn to it, despite the critics who dismiss Debussy as a composer of fluff.”

  “Critics are angry, bitter people,” I said, smiling at him. “At least that’s what Dr. Green says. ‘Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach. And those who can’t teach end up as critics.’ I’m paraphrasing, but it was something along those lines.”

  “At least half the time I disagree with them, or they contradict one another anyway. I prefer to make my own decisions.” His green eyes glinted at me from behind the mask. “Would you like to hear something else?”

  “Some more Chopin,” I said. “I love to hear you play Chopin.” It was nothing more than the simple truth…and I was glad of the chance to say something to him that wasn’t a lie.

  And as I settled myself in a comfortable arm chair near the French doors, listening to him progress into the opening notes of the Prelude in D-flat Major, the “Raindrop Prelude,” I felt once again a wave of sadness at the circumstances that forced me to lie to him, to conceal my true motives. Every smile over the past few days, every laugh that he had elicited through a pithy or sarcastic comment—to me they were just another form of betrayal. The more time I spent with him, the more I could sense myself opening to him. It wasn’t fair that in many ways I felt more easy with him than with anyone else I had ever met. It wasn’t fair that even now, as I watched his dark head dip toward the piano keys in utmost concentration, I had the irrational urge to walk over to him and press my lips into his wavy, slightly overlong hair.

  It was growing harder and harder to distance myself from Erik. I had never been able to fully understand the mesmerizing influence of the original Phantom over his Christine, but now as I fought my own attraction to my captor, I began to sympathize with her plight. However, I couldn’t allow myself to give in to it—I couldn’t let him sweep me away into his dreamy world of music and luxury. I had to get out of here, and soon. If not, I feared I would be lost forever.

  The following morning I had quite a shock. For the past few days I’d been idly changing the stations on the radio in my room—even classical music had begun to pall, and the normality of the morning chatter on the local rock stations helped me feel a little more connected with the world. At that moment I was listening to the local news with half an ear before I went down to have breakfast in the little chamber where Erik and I had shared hamburgers together. He never ate breakfast with me—apparently he couldn’t bring himself to be up quite that early—but usually we had lunch and the evening meal together. Today, however, he had told me he would be tied up for most of the afternoon in a conference call with several of his lawyers and one of the executive officers of his trust. I knew that would afford me the perfect opportunity to finally approach Ennis without fear of discovery, unless Jerome were prowling about. He seemed to be underfoot most of the time, although since he was Erik’s personal assistant I had a feeling he would also be in attendance during the conference call.

  At any rate, I was just slipping on one of my shoes when I heard my name coming out of the radio’s speakers. I stiffened, the shoe dangling unheeded from my hand.

  “...apparently missing since Thanksgiving evening. Christine Daly is five foot five and weighs approximately 115 pounds, with curly brown hair and blue eyes. She was last seen wearing a red sweater and black slacks. She may be driving a faded blue ’93 Honda Civic with California license plate 3MWT516. Anyone with information regarding Miss Daly is urged to contact the Pasadena P.D. at area code 626-744-4241. And now for a look at our weather…”

  I managed to get the shoe on my foot and then stood up, staring at the radio. I had been in such isolation here I’d forgotten that of course Randall—and possibly Meg—would have gone to the police once they realized I was truly missing. Somehow, though, I doubted that they could have given the police enough information for them to begin to guess where I really was. While it was heartening to think that possibly the cavalry could be on its way, I couldn’t count on the police for help. I couldn’t count on anyone but myself.

  By this time I had gotten a little more used to the rhythms of the house. Erik usually didn’t emerge from his own chambers until one or two in the afternoon, and so I spent my mornings alone, idly playing on the magnificent Steinway, reading, or taking brief walks in the garden, although the weather had prevented that particular activity for the past few days. I knew that Erik employed two maids and a cook, none of whom lived on the property. Unfortunately, I couldn’t really talk to the maids, since my Spanish was limited at best. All of my foreign language units had been spent learning Italian, French, and German, the common languages of opera. The cook was French, and although I had enjoyed conversing with him and letting him burnish my pronunciations, I knew he was not a reliable resource, as he seemed interested mostly in flirting with me. No, it was Ennis to whom I would have to turn for assistance.

  The elderly butler was unobtrusive but omnipresent; he oversaw the maids while at the same time planning menus with Michel, going over Erik’s schedule with Jerome, and directing the small army of gardeners who kept the extensive grounds lush and tidy. During the time when Erik was occupied with his conference call, I guessed that Ennis would be first planning the evening meal with the cook and then probably occupied for a few hours with the maids and the gardeners. All the better. He would be done by the time the late afternoon local news came on, and I hoped that my disappearance would have crossed over from radio to television by that time. The local media seemed to be obsessed with missing persons, weather, and unexplained murders, and so I hoped that my own missing-person report would be close to the top of the local news. If I had that obvious proof to present to Ennis, then I knew he would have to believe me, no matter what Erik might have told him about my purported mental state.

  It was a very long, dull afternoon. I couldn’t concentrate on a book and so went downstairs to a cozy sitting room equipped with a huge LED screen and tried to amuse myself by flipping through the hundreds of channels. Nothing caught my interest for more than a few moments, but it was better than trying to get through a book when I knew I’d keep reading the same sentence over and over. I could feel the anxiety rising in me, the sourness in my chest and at the back of my throat.

  Should I really be doing this? I thought. And, more importantly, Can I do this? As much as I wanted to hate Erik for what he’d done to me, I found I couldn’t. There was so much about him that fascinated me, so much that grew perilously close to love. Perhaps once I was free I could finally sort out how I did feel about him.

  At last the shadows began to lengthen in the trees outside, and the dark rainy day began to deepen into dusk. I looked at the clock on the wall above the television: ten minutes to five. It was now or never.

  It took a bit of time for me to find Ennis. He wasn’t in the kitchen, nor in the music room, where I heard the maids laughing and chattering in Spanish. Finally I located him in the red dining room, where he was rubbing the silver with a polishing cloth before laying it carefully in our customary places at the dining table: Erik at the head, me to his left.

  I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, Ennis—”

  He
looked up from the spoon he was polishing. As always he wore an impeccable dark suit, not the tails I’d always seen butlers wear in films or on television.

  “How can I help you, Miss Daly?” He had the faintest trace of a British accent, as if he’d been here so long that all but the last vestiges of the original intonation had been erased.

  How can I help you, Miss Daly? That was the crux of it, after all. Could he help me? Would he?

  “I’m not sure how to say this—” I began, faltering a little before his kindly dark gaze.

  “As best you can,” he said. “What seems to be the problem?”

  The words came in a rush. “I know Erik told you that I’m Jerome’s niece and that I have some sort of a mental problem, but that’s just not true. He kidnapped me, brought me here because he thinks I’m the Christine to his Phantom.”

  One muscle in his jaw tightened, but other than that there was no reaction. When he spoke, his tone was kindly, but overly soothing, the sort of voice one would use on someone in hysterics. “Miss Daly, perhaps you are a little confused—”

  “I am not confused!” I snapped. “I know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me! Anyway, I have proof!”

  He set down the spoon and polishing cloth. “What kind of proof?”

  “Well, it’s—I hope it’s on TV. So you need to come with me and watch the news for a little bit.”

  Apparently too correct to cast aspersions on my sanity, he said, “If you wish it—”

  “I do. Come on—it’s about to start.”

  So he did follow me down the hall to the sitting room where I’d been watching television earlier. I picked up the remote and chose a local station at random; they all had five o’clock broadcasts. The lead story was the weather—the constant rainfall over the past few days was causing some hillsides to slip and creeks to overflow. People tended to be obsessive about rain in Southern California, probably because we usually had so little of it. After that came a piece on an officer-involved shooting in south Los Angeles, and then something about contaminated drinking water in certain sections of the San Fernando Valley. I caught Ennis watching me with a speculative look in his eyes. It was obvious he thought I was as mad as Erik had first portrayed me.