Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle

by Blechta, Rick

  It certainly was. But it also gave me some insight as to why I’d often see a quizzical smile on my husband’s face whenever I would sing around the farm house.

  “Do you have any idea why he was using another name when he met me?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember the date you last saw Jean-Claude or heard from him?”

  Madame Lachance hesitated again. I knew the last date for which I had a receipt. It was three weeks before the accident, and I was in Dallas then. He’d bought her a big box of very expensive chocolates in Pointe Claire on Montreal’s West Island. Probably, he’d pulled off the highway when he realized he didn’t have anything for her (he completely forgot my birthday once).

  Finally, she said, “I do not remember.”

  “And you didn’t hear from him after that?”

  She stuck her chin up indignantly. “How could I? You yourself told me that he was dead.”

  Bitten. An expert probably wouldn’t have made that mistake.

  I felt suddenly weary. This sort of mental exertion after a long day of teaching preceded by a long drive from Ottawa was taking its toll. I could think of only one more question. By morning, I’d probably have thought of fifty more.

  “Was he any different on that last visit? Did he say anything you think I should know?”

  Again her eyes shifted away, and she answered, “No.”

  The old woman would have to ask God’s forgiveness for lying when she said her prayers that night.

  I’d barely gotten my bum onto the car seat when Lainey erupted. “Just what the hell is going on?”

  My shoulders slumped. I probably should have leveled with Lainey from the start and told her about the two incidents in Paris. I just hadn’t wanted her to think I was a complete flake.

  So I decided to lay it all out and not pull any punches. It took a good fifteen minutes. From the corner of my eye, I saw the curtains of Madame Lachance’s front window flick at least twice. She knew we were still out there.

  Lainey’s only response at the end of my soliloquy was a low whistle. “So you think you actually saw him in Paris?”

  I sighed and rested my forehead on the steering wheel, although I felt like pounding it. “I honestly don’t know, but the thought that I might have is driving me crazy!”

  “I can imagine it would.” She patted my shoulder “Do you think the old lady was lying right at the end of our conversation?”

  I twisted my mouth to the side, unable to avoid sarcasm. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

  Lainey thought for a moment. “My grandmother died two years ago. My dad had to file a final tax return for her. How did your husband’s estate get resolved?

  Preparing to turn the car key, I just stopped, amazed that I’d missed that angle. “It, um, never got done.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I was in no shape to do anything. My brother searched the old farmhouse and found no will, but that wasn’t unexpected, knowing my husband. What did he have to leave me anyway? Basically, just a beat-up pickup truck, tools, and some clothes. Anyway, I just ignored it all at the time, figuring it could be dealt with when his income tax forms arrived. Of course, they never did, because he wouldn’t have filed any returns. I guess I just forgot about it.”

  “If you hadn’t, you would have known immediately that something was up.”

  I started the engine and pulled out. At the far end of the block, another car also pulled out.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “Well,” Lainey began, “there’s this guy I’ve been seeing....”

  “So you said. And?”

  “Well, he’s a journalist and an author. His area of expertise is Quebec biker gangs. His books are actually quite good, but pretty gruesome.”

  “So that’s why you asked that odd question.”

  Lainey nodded. “From what Sébastien tells me, it isn’t all that easy to become a full member of a biker gang. It suits them to have hangers on. They can be made to do a lot of the dirty work in order to ‘prove themselves.’” By that time, we were stopped for a light on Rue Notre Dame and it was beginning to rain in earnest. Lainey put her hand on my right forearm. “Did you ever get the feeling that your husband was frightened or worried? From what that old woman said, it sure sounds like he might have been into some heavy shit.”

  I thought back again over our time together, seeing if anything more had been jogged loose by the visit with my, well, grandmother-in-law.

  Marc had just seemed to want to keep to himself, be his own man. He said all the right things to deflect any questions I might ask. He said he had no friends, no family, liked his solitude, and that I was all he needed. But then, he’d always been a glib rogue. He could easily have been hiding something. What other reason would he have had to change his identity?

  “Lainey, to be frank, I’m open to anything. Sure, he could have been laying low. He had nothing to do with my career. I couldn’t have gotten him into an opera house or party or concert with a gun held to his head.”

  I smiled at a memory of once threatening to do just that, even going so far as to pull the old shotgun out of the living room closet in the log home. Smiling broadly, Marc stood there, hands up in surrender, big grin on his face, deadly handsome.

  “Go on, ma chère, shoot me. I will not go to that awful party. What would I say? I know nothing about the world you live in.”

  “Isn’t it enough that you would be there with me?”

  “Quite frankly, no.” He kept smiling. “So I guess you will just have to shoot me.”

  Lainey pulled at my arm. “Marta, you’ve zoned out. The light changed about five seconds ago.”

  Amazingly, the car behind me hadn’t honked, a first for Montreal.

  “Lain, do you think you could arrange for me to speak to Sébastien?”

  “Sure. When do you want to do it?”

  I glanced at my left wrist. “It’s just past ten. Tonight?”

  She grinned. “I thought you were completely done in.”

  “I believe in striking while the iron is hot.”

  “Well, you’re in luck because he’s a real night owl. Let me see if I can run him down,” she added, pulling out her cellphone.

  Chapter Eight

  Sébastien Bouchard’s apartment in Old Montreal was huge, one of those downtown lofts with hardwood floors, ten-foot ceilings, exposed pipes, and enough windows to warm any voyeur’s heart. It also contained almost no furniture. Book writing must be very lucrative. His place gave me the impression he’d just moved out of a much smaller apartment.

  The man himself was tall, slender, dark, and while he wasn’t particularly handsome, there was a certain magnetism in his presence. You at once got the feeling of a strong personality and inquiring mind lurking behind his very pretty eyes. In short, he was the sort of man to whom Lainey had always been attracted.

  He greeted her with a peck to each cheek, followed by a quick kiss to her mouth. Though it was brief, it clearly showed the fire between them burned strongly.

  I hoped it would work out for my friend. She perennially picked the wrong men for long-term happiness.

  After planting quick air kisses on each side of my face, he stepped back and looked into my eyes.

  “Bienvenue,” he said. “Elaine parle de vous souvent.”

  “It’s very good of you to see me this late,” I answered in English. I was too tired to carry on this conversation in French.

  Without missing a beat, Sébastien switched to English. “I usually stay up very late,” he answered with a sideways glance at Lainey. Her hand snaked into his, and I got the feeling someone would be getting lucky as soon as I’d concluded my business and split.

  At the far end of the room, they sat down on a leather sofa, and I took a matching chair across from them. A glass-topped coffee table over a nondescript rug and an ugly chrome floor-lamp completed the decor surrounding us. Other than two enormous book cases farther down one wall and
a small desk, that was it for the living area, even though there was enough floor space to rehearse a good-sized orchestra. Style at Home magazine would not be calling anytime soon.

  “So tell me what it is that you want. Lainey was very mysterious over the phone.”

  Certainly, I wasn’t about to tell a journalist, regardless of his relationship with my friend, any more of my business than I needed to, and as we’d parked the car on the street below, I’d still been madly considering how to accomplish that. My recent experience in Paris showed me just how wrong things could go when the fifth estate is involved. On the elevator ride up, I made Lainey promise not to tell Sébastien anything about my situation past what I told him myself. I hoped I could trust her.

  Since I was on record as being married to someone named Marc Tremblay, I felt I was on pretty safe ground if I used his real name — unless Sébastien started digging. But that was a risk I would have to take. “Does the name Jean-Claude Lachance mean anything to you? Have you ever run across it during your research?”

  Sébastien considered for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Is he a member of a biker gang?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Why?”

  Oh dear, I was hoping he’d hold off with a question like that until I’d had more time to gather my wits.

  “He’s a person I met, and we may do some business together,” I said, amazed at how quickly the lie had come into my brain and how smoothly it slipped off my tongue. “There’s something about him I don’t really trust. You know, one of those feelings you get sometimes.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  Sébastien shrugged again. If he suspected I wasn’t telling the truth, he didn’t show it. Reaching down next to him, he pulled up a black computer bag and put it on the table. “Let me see if the database I keep has any record of him. There are too many players in this game for me to keep track of them only in my brain.”

  He explained that his files were heavily encrypted, so it would take some time for them to open. Lainey slipped off and returned shortly carrying a bottle of red wine and three glasses. We sat in silence while she was gone.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’re up. Now what was that name again?”

  He typed it in and waited, frowning. Then typed again, then again, finally shaking his head. “There is no one here by that name, and I believe my list is pretty complete.”

  “Maybe he’s not a member anymore?” Lainey suggested.

  “Once you are a part of these organizations, it is not so easy to leave — but we will look in an older database. Maybe his name will turn up.”

  While we again waited, Sébastien opened and poured the wine. I couldn’t see the label, but from the taste I could tell it was expensive. Gerhard had taught me enough about wine to know that you don’t get those sorts of nuanced flavours from plonk.

  Soon, this new file was ready for work and Sébastien again typed a few words.

  “Ah, here it is. Your friend is listed as being an associate of the Rock Machine.”

  “What does ‘associate’ mean?”

  “He was not an inducted member, but was hanging around with them. Do you know what this means?”

  I nodded. “How old is your information?”

  “I created my new database five years ago. If I did not carry this Jean-Claude into the new one, it means that he was no longer active in Quebec.”

  “What if he’d gone somewhere else, like ... British Columbia?”

  “If I had information that he had moved on elsewhere, I would have kept him on my new database. Now you must understand that I do not know everything. I certainly do not claim to have a record on every known biker in Canada. Your friend might well have gone west. Perhaps you have information about him out there? Do you know precisely where he was?”

  “In the Vancouver area, I believe. Would there be any way you could find out about that?”

  Sébastien looked at me closely again. He had these amazingly blue eyes and his face had a shrewd little squint to it. I got the feeling that I’d aroused his interest more than might have been wise. Certainly, an opera singer asking questions about a person involved with bikers would make any journalist’s antennae twitch. “I will tell you what, Marta Hendriks, I will call a colleague who works at the Vancouver Sun and see if he knows anything. It may take a day or two. Will you be in Montreal long?”

  “No. I teach again tomorrow and I’ll be heading back to Toronto the morning after that.”

  “I may have word by then.”

  “That would be great.” We exchanged cellphone numbers, and I prepared to get moving. Lainey walked me to the door as Sébastien left the room with the empty wine glasses. I retrieved my coat from the hall closet.

  “You’re quite the little liar,” she said as she handed me my scarf.

  I could feel myself blushing. “He caught me completely off guard. It just sprang into my head.”

  “So what do you think?” she asked. “Did you get what you wanted?”

  “Not really. Hopefully, Sébastien’s contact in B.C. will know something.”

  “He’s pretty modest. His books sell really well, especially in Quebec, and he has a lot of sources of information. If anyone can find out what you want, it will be him.”

  She had the door open and I walked through, then turned and stopped. “Just make sure you stop off at home tomorrow and change your clothes. It doesn’t look good to show up at work wearing the same thing two days in a row.”

  Lainey stuck her tongue out at me as she shut the door.

  The next day was more of the same and all the students they’d chosen for me to work with were really quite excellent. Consequently, I’d been enjoying myself more than I expected. The day finished off with me bringing everyone up on stage to go through some breathing exercises that Gerhard had taught me. Julie had again been in the audience, but once again slipped out as I was demonstrating how to traverse the passaggio, going up and getting softer at the same time, always a very tricky thing for singers.

  As I was walking out of the recital hall with the head of the opera department, I asked about my teacher.

  She sighed. “Julie is very ill. I’m sure you noticed how frail she is.”

  “Cancer?” I asked with a catch in my throat.

  The answer was a nod. “She does not like anyone to talk about it.”

  “I must go see her!”

  “No, I don’t think she would like that. It was enough, I think, for her to see you doing so well these past two days. They were marvellous sessions. You’re quite good, you know. Some people are natural teachers. Julie was very proud of you, and so touched by how much you praised her teaching.”

  “I meant every word.”

  “That was obvious. I would suggest that you keep in touch with your old teacher by phone.”

  “How long does she have?”

  “She will not say, if she even bothered to ask. She has only two students at present, but she struggles in gamely one day a week to work with them. She is an inspiration to us all.”

  I could only nod in agreement.

  On my way out, I stuck my head in Lainey’s office. Her secretary said she was busy with some people in her office, but would not be long. While waiting, I was struck by how much I owed McGill. I’d had four very good years here. It also seemed odd to be once again sitting in this particular office, only this time, on the other side of the door was not some crusty old man who’d always managed to make me uncomfortable, but one of my two best friends from my years in this building. Life sure takes some funny twists.

  The door opened and two people exited. I recognized one of them immediately.

  Victoria Morgan has been described numerous times as the “musician’s violinist.” I’ll bet every classical musician has at least one of her CDs. Her premiere of the lost Beethoven concerto was the best-selling classical music recording of all time.


  Lainey was saying, “So I will send you the proposed dates, and if you can let me know immediately how they fit in with your schedule, I would really appreciate it.” Then she saw me. “Oh Marta, you’re here. Great. Tory, this is my good friend —”

  “Marta and I have met, what is it, two other times?” the redheaded violinist interrupted. She stuck out her hand. “How you doing?”

  “Very well, Tory, and you?”

  “Oh, the usual. Seems as if I’ve finally succumbed to the requests to do more teaching. Ms. Martin here drives a hard bargain.” She indicated the man standing just behind her. “Where are my manners? This is my husband Rocky Lukesh. He’s on the faculty here.”

  A light bulb went on in my head. It would certainly be a feather in the school’s cap to have someone of Tory’s stature listed among its staff, even if it wasn’t full time. Some really great students would be lining up around the block for a chance to study with her.

  I shook hands with the man I’d heard was an excellent teacher and player, but he seemed older and more careworn than I would have expected, given his age. For that matter, the violin goddess’s eyes seemed to reflect deep exhaustion. Even with all the fame and money, her personal life had been fraught with difficulty — not the least of which was being accused of murder in Austria seven years earlier.

  As they exited, I considered where I was going with my problem. Maybe it would be better to just let the whole thing drop. It was clear now that I’d been lied to, regardless of whatever reason, good or bad, there might have been. And if Marc was still alive, what then? Could I take someone like that back? Did I want someone like that back?

  Lainey snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Hello, earth calling Marta. Come in, please.” As my eyes slipped back into focus, she laughed. “Zoned out again, girlfriend? Hope you don’t make a habit of doing that during performances.”

  My friend had a concert she had to attend at the school that evening, followed by a reception for invited alumni, so she wasn’t available. Chloe also had a Montreal Symphony performance, coupled with a sick child at home, so she was out. As I walked back to the hotel, I decided that not being able to have a Chicks with Sticks reunion at our favourite restaurant on Avenue Parc might not be such a bad thing. It had been a long two days of teaching. I could use a nice, relaxing evening.