by Janet Pywell
Janet Pywell
Golden Icon
Culture Crime Series - The Prequel
First published by Richmond Heights Publishing in 2013
Copyright © Janet Pywell, 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Janet Pywell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Janet Pywell has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
Cover design by Estuary English
Cover photography copyright © 2017 Shutterstock Images
First edition
ISBN: 978-0-9926686-0-0
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
For Mum and Dad
With all my love
Foreword
GOLDEN ICON - the prequel to the Culture Crime Series.
Facing One Final Shot…
Josephine Lavelle, a once famous opera singer who became an international outcast has one last opportunity to resurrect her career. She was born to sing Puccini’s Tosca and is determined to earn the right to perform again on the world’s most prestigious and celebrated stages.
But her fight for the future she craves is derailed when her ex-husband embroils her in a cynical blackmail plot. She is forced to take possession of a solid gold icon, part of a secret hoard of art treasure stolen by the Nazis, that dangerous men are prepared to kill for.
As well as determining the fate of the Golden Icon, Josephine must come to terms with her past, and fight for her own life.
If only her choices were simple…
This exciting international crime thriller takes the reader from Lake Como (Italy), to Dublin (Ireland) and to Munich (Germany).
You will be hooked in the secrets of this surprising protagonist. This is the prequel to the international thrillers in the Mikky dos Santos Culture Crime Series.
Acknowledgement
Thanks to Veronica for her generous support and understanding. Over the years she has been an amazing friend and business partner. She has been with me on this journey and countless other adventures - may there be many, many more…
Writing can be a solitary experience and just the smallest encouragement goes a long, long way. Sometimes the first step is the most important so, thanks to Fontaine McClurg who started me off.
My thanks also go to numerous people who gave me their valuable time and in particular to Soprano, Kay Lynch and Mezzo-Soprano Jennifer Borghi who shared with me details of their operatic experiences. Any errors or mistakes are purely down to me and my enthusiastic exuberance.
Grateful thanks to editors and fellow writers who helped shape early editions: Lorraine Iatrides, Mike McGlade, Martin Cromie, Sheila McWade, Sheila Llewllyn, and Craig Gibson. Finally, many thanks to Irish author Joe McCoubrey who has given me his time, advice and generosity of spirit to help produce my debut novel.
For more information visit:
website: www.janetpywell.com
blog: janetpywellauthor.wordpress.com
1
Chapter 1
Art, in its mysterious way, blends the contrasting beauties together - Recondita Armonia, Tosca
Swarms of summer tourists admiring cheap clothes, fresh vegetables, colourful fruits and ripe cheeses fill the market place. I hurry past them, up stone steps and along the harbour wall where fishing boats bob gently on the lake. A man with two small children is standing on the slipway feeding bread to ducks, overhead a gull squarks and clouds gather forming dark shadows across the water.
At the church of Santa Anna di Comaso, I twist the iron handle and tug open the door. A faint tang of incense hangs in the air and dust motes dance in the light streaming in through the stained glass windows. The cool interior is refreshing after the midday heat of the July sun and I pull my shawl across my shoulders. My footsteps click down the centre aisle in rhythm with the mantra revolving in my head. I am Tosca. I will be Tosca. I am Tosca.
I place wild flowers that I picked from the hills at the Madonna’s marble feet, cross myself and close my eyes.
‘Josephine?’
I turn quickly.
‘Ciao, Padre Paolo,’ I smile.
He is wearing trainers and brown cotton trousers. There is a nick in his cheek where he cut his face shaving.
‘Glorietta told me the audition is on Monday.’ His brown eyes are placed close together. His nose is small and his mouth wide and generous.
‘Glorietta Bareldo?’
‘Yes, she was practicing here yesterday.’
‘But the idea to rehearse in the church had been mine…..’
The door bangs closed and we turn at the sound of quick footsteps. Cesare Serratore is striding toward us; his long, dark curls trail over his angular shoulders like a lion’s mane. He is taller than my six foot frame and skinny. He is the most renowned operatic voice coach in Italy and we’ve worked together for years. He’s only recently been training Glorietta.
We hug and air kiss.
‘You practised here… with her?’ I ask in greeting.
He knows she is my rival and ten years younger than me and, since my fall from grace, much more popular.
‘It’s one of my favourite Puccini operas.’ Padre Pablo stands between us. ‘It will be difficult for the theatre to choose between two talented sopranos for the lead part. Just this morning Cardinal Rosso was on the telephone asking if it would be possible to get tickets. He read in the Corriere Della Sera that it will be televised.’ His voice has a melodious note to it as if he is singing the Mass in Latin.
Cesare replies, ‘It will be the first production in the new Teatro Il Domo and it is not only the Italian people who are excited, it is creating a stir around the whole world.’ He delves into his bag and rustles music scores. ‘They say that the President may even be there on the opening night.’
I am staring at him but he ignores my gaze as deftly as he has avoided my question.
My mobile rings from the depths of my handbag.
‘Not more flowers.’ Padre Paolo shakes his head. ‘The tourists bring them in here all the time and it makes the church look a mess. I think I may have to lock the church. I caught a boy stealing candles last week and Cardinal Rosso is concerned about the amount of artefacts being stolen. He is worried about the paintings.’ He raises his eyes to the ceiling in mock prayer to protect his church.
I look at the unknown number.
‘They are like the purple ones that grow in the hills behind your apartment, no Josephine?’ Cesare’s eyes twinkle and his mouth twitches in a smile.
‘Hello?’ I say into the phone.
Pad
re Paolo gathers my hydrangeas, walks up the steps to the altar and through the door of the vestry. The wild flowers are crushed in his hands.
‘Josie?’ I recognise the soft Irish accent. Only my ex-husband ever called me by that name. The last time I had spoken to him, six years ago, I had been at the height of my international career.
‘It’s Seán. Can you hear me alright, Josie?’
Why is he phoning me?
‘Josie, are you there?’
I press the phone closer to my ear and turn away. ‘Yes, Seán. I can hear you.’
‘Josie, I’ve got some very sad news. The Da died this morning.’
‘Oh, no.’ I sink slowly onto the nearest pew. The wood is cool against the back of my thighs and I lean forward resting my elbows on my knees.
‘Are you there?’
There is a deep groove in the wood and I trace its outline. My stomach is knotted.
‘Yes.’
‘He loved you, Josie…’ he pauses.
‘I’m sorry about Michael,’ I say. ‘He was a lovely man.’
‘He was Josie. He was the best.’
‘Thanks for letting me know. I’ll say my prayers for him. I’ll be in touch, Seán.’ I want to hang up. I have to practice with Cesare. I need to think about Michael.
‘No, Josie, no, don’t go. I want you to sing at his funeral. It was his wish Josie, one of his last ones. It was all he talked about at the end. He listened to your CDs every day, Josie. You meant a lot to him. He loved you more than he loved me. I want you here.’
‘Seán, I’m rehearsing. This is the first time I’ve been called for an audition in four years,’ I whisper. ‘You know what happened to my career. I’m rehearsing for Tosca. And it’s in the new Teatro Il Domo.’
‘That’s okay. Sing Tosca at the funeral. The Da loved it. He always said you were the best Tosca. The only Tosca. Sing whatever you want. I don’t care. I just want you here.’
Seán hadn’t changed. He had always wanted me to do everything for him with no concern for my needs. He wanted me to do things on impulse but that’s not in my character. I have to think things through but this didn’t need thinking about.
‘It’s impossible.’
‘The funeral’s on Friday.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Look, I’m going to tell you something,’ Seán says into my ear, ‘I found your letter–’
‘I’m about to begin a lesson–’
‘You know the letter. It’s the letter you wrote to Michael when you were married to me.’
‘Letter?’
‘The Da kept it. I found it in his house. He kept it beside his bed with your CD’s. You must have really excited him speaking like that–’
‘I don’t know what–’
‘Well, let me remind you. I’ve got five pages of your lovely handwriting here telling him just how much you love him, and how he excites you, and what turns you on, but it’s not just that, is it Josie? You were still married to me at the time.’
I gasp. My mind is whirling. I remember writing only one letter to Michael after I went to sing in the Liceu in Barcelona. I can’t believe he has kept it all these years. I place my forehead in my hand.
‘Wasn’t I the stupid one,’ he continues. ‘Here’s me thinking I’d married a shy girl from Kansas, and when I read your letter, it turns out you’re more like a porn star than an opera singer. For all these years, I thought that the Da just wanted to help you, and that he financed your career because you were married to me,’ he laughs bitterly. ‘And I thought he was just being a kind old man when he sent you a birthday card each year.’
I trace the unfamiliar pattern of the groove in the pew and it reminds me of the indented lifeline etched on my own palm.
‘Seán, it was thirty years ago–’
‘The funeral is in Monkstown. It’s in the church we got married. Two o’clock.’ Just for a minute I am confused thinking he’s talking about his second wedding to Barbara, but he is speaking about our wedding. ‘Be there!’
‘Seán…’
‘Josie, I’m not asking. I’m telling. I know about your sordid little secret. I have proof. I have your pathetic little letter. The press’ll be very interested in what I have to say. They will love it. And all your fans will be interested to read about your seedy, sexy fetishes. You remember Karl Blakey don’t you?’
‘K-Karl?’ I stammer. The mention of his name sends a shiver through me. Karl had been the journalist who revealed my cocaine addiction and had printed the story that reverberated throughout the opera world and damaged my reputation and brought my career crashing to the ground.
‘I-I thought Karl was in London.’
‘I asked him to come to Dublin. I wanted to track you down. He knew where you were. He knows there’s more that you’re hiding, and now I have this letter well - he will be very interested.’
I rub my temple. Karl Blakey knows where I am. My head is spinning. My throat is dry.
Seán’s voice is a low growl. ‘I want you singing here on Friday. It’s what the Da wanted. It wouldn’t look good now, you getting the part of Tosca, and then the press finding this letter, would it? Imagine all that bad publicity for the new theatre. The investors and backers wouldn’t like that, would they?’
‘You can’t do this Seán. It would destroy me. I’ve worked so hard to make this comeback. It would ruin me forever–’
‘See you in church.’
‘Seán…’ I plead, but he rings off.
I close my eyes and Cesare reminds me he is waiting with a gentle cough.
When I stand my knees are shaking.
‘Strict instructions from Padre Paolo.’ Cesare waves his arm. ‘No Tosca and certainly no Don Giovanni. Only sacred music is allowed.’ Curls flop over his face and he brushes them from his eyes. He looks so unassuming it is hard to believe he is the most sought after opera coach in Italy.
‘Bene, I think we will start with Bellini’s Casta diva.' He sits at the piano.
It takes me a while to regain my composure. I struggle with the first few notes. My tone seems deeper than usual. I hope I do not have a summer chill, so easy to catch with the heat of the sun, the storms over the lake, and the air conditioning.
I focus on my invisible audience that stare back from the pews. I breathe deeply and glance around at the familiar paintings. My eyes rest on my favourite, one with a grey and gold embossed frame. Jesus has been pulled from the cross and is lying on the ground bleeding. The disciples are gathered at his feet and the Madonna’s imploring eyes are cast toward the heavens.
I try not to think of Michael but when my eyes close I imagine him dead. I brush my eye with the tip of my finger. He was the only man I ever truly loved.
I sing through a few arias and I focus on the drama and the emotion. I concentrate hard, blocking out my past life, thinking only of Tosca.
When I begin the first notes of Ave Maria, I turn to the illuminated statue and sing to the Virgin. I am lost in my rendition but as I focus on her I am reminded of Glorietta’s china blue, doll like eyes, and I stumble over my words. Inside my heart I’m thinking of Michael. He should be alive and laughing as I remember him.
‘Josephine, what is wrong? You are distracted today?’ Cesare’s face creases into a frown. ‘Perhaps this is too much pressure for you?’
‘Pressure?’
‘It’s been a long time since you sang–’
‘I can still do it.’ My voice is too loud. I see our role reversal reflected in his eyes. His success. My failure. ‘The role is mine. I am Tosca.’
‘I know,’ he replies. ‘But I worry for you. I feel…’
‘I don’t want your sympathy. I want the lead part. I will be Tosca again.’
‘Well then, you must practice. This is your last opportunity, Josephine. It will not happen again.’
I tear my gaze from Cesare’s pitying eyes. Scattered on the floor at the Madonna’s feet are dried petals from the confiscated purple hydrang
ea.
‘I must light a candle,’ I whisper, ‘for Michael.’
‘Bene,’ he sighs. ‘Let’s begin again. This time no distractions.’
Raffaelle is incensed.
‘You’re going to Dublin?’ His bushy black moustache frames his O-shaped mouth. ‘Are you completely insane?’
We are in the bedroom of my apartment, I am packing a bag and trying to block out his anger.
‘All I’ve heard is Tosca this, and Tosca that.’ He paces between the bed and the large window with views of Lake Como waving his arms. ‘You have hardly eaten or slept with worry, and now you are leaving, just like that?’ He snaps his fingers.
His hair is greying at the temples and his face is etched with fine laughter lines around his dark eyes.
We have been lovers since I arrived here, three years ago, when I agreed to sit for a portrait, but at this moment he is like a stranger and he is shouting at me.
‘You have worked hard. You have practised and you have rehearsed. You tell me that this is your final opportunity but now you are giving it all away. You are sacrificing everything for your ex-husband? Are you still in love with him?’
I shake my head. ‘That doesn’t even dignify an answer.’
‘Then tell me, why?’ He grabs my wrist, pulling my hand from my folded clothing. His artist fingers are paint-stained and there is an odour of stale tobacco from his breath.
I stare into his blazing brown eyes but I know I can’t tell him. I cannot tell him the truth. It is my secret and mine alone. My burden. My responsibility. My shame. I think of the letter I wrote as a twenty-two year old woman in love with her sixty year old father-in-law. How could I have been so naive?
He interprets my silence as stubbornness.
‘You are impossible,’ he hisses. ‘And, to think, I thought you had changed. I thought you were a warm and kind woman, and not the cold hearted and egoistical diva the press wrote about. How wrong I was.’