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

by Blechta, Rick

  Once back in my room, I took a quick shower, raided the mini-bar for a split of white wine, and sat in the room’s one chair, feet up on the bed.

  The previous evening, I’d been too exhausted to consider anything but sleep, but now I let my mind spin for a bit, trying to come to grips with everything I’d learned in the past three days. That look in Tory Morgan’s eyes came to mind, too.

  What did I want to do? Would Sébastien be able to shed any further light on the issue?

  As I was deep in my reverie, the phone ringing didn’t register right away. “Hello?”

  “Am I speaking with Marta Hendriks?”

  I didn’t recognize the voice. “Yes. And you are?”

  “My name is Inspector Parker, Ron Parker, and I am with the RCMP organized crime task force. Would it be possible to speak personally with you?”

  Even though I’ve never been guilty of anything beyond jaywalking, I suddenly felt nervous and defensive with a cop wanting to talk to me.

  “What does this pertain to?” I asked, even though I felt certain I knew what he’d answer.

  “Your dead husband, Marc Tremblay, or would you prefer that I refer to him as Jean-Claude Lachance?”

  I’d had enough sense to agree to meet this man in the lobby of the hotel. He showed me his credentials discreetly, suggesting a quiet corner of the hotel’s lounge for our little chat.

  Parker appeared to be somewhere around fifty, slightly taller than me and sporting close-cropped greying hair that just screamed “cop,” at least to my inexperienced eyes. He had on a light-grey suit and was obviously still very fit.

  “Thank you for finding the time to speak with me. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Sure. A glass of white wine, please.”

  He immediately signalled a waitress and gave her the order: wine for me and sparkling water for him.

  “What is this all about, Inspector?”

  He grinned. “You don’t waste any time.”

  I cocked an eyebrow, not buying into the friendly routine. Yes, I was nervous about this, but I’d decided in the elevator on the way down that I wouldn’t be intimidated. The fact that I’d been messing around with my knotty problem for not even three full days and the Mounties were already knocking on my door made it clear that I’d been poking a stick into a hornet’s nest. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken even two words to a cop, and now I was being interviewed by one.

  Parker kept me hanging until the waitress returned with our order. My heart was hammering the entire time and my hand was slick with sweat as I picked up the wine glass, but I refrained from wiping it off.

  “How much do you know of your husband’s past?” Parker began.

  Between sips of wine to help calm my nerves, I told him all I’d known about Marc, well, up until the past three days. For whatever reason: loyalty, fear, or just orneriness, I decided to reserve the new information.

  I’d been seemingly talking about this endlessly the past few days, but it felt ultra weird to do it as part of a grilling by a police officer, even in the civilized setting of a hotel cocktail lounge.

  After finishing my little soliloquy, I added, “Look, my husband was killed over two years ago. If you had questions about him, why wait until now?”

  Why did the look Parker suddenly flashed remind me of a shark about to attack?

  “If you don’t want to beat around the bush, Ms. Hendriks, then I won’t, either. When the accident happened, it was deemed that you weren’t of interest to us since you seemed to know nothing of your husband’s past, so we left you alone — mostly because of who you are. Now, all of a sudden, you’re asking questions. Why? It seems we may have misjudged your involvement in this situation.”

  That sounded ominous. “What ‘situation?’”

  “Ms. Hendriks, if you please, I will ask the questions. This is an informal discussion at present, and I’m sure you would like to keep it that way.”

  He leaned back to give his threat time to sink in. “Even if Jean-Claude really kept you in the dark about his past, I’m assuming that the old woman told you his real name yesterday evening.”

  “How do you know I visited her? Have you been following me?”

  Parker waggled his index finger warningly. “Ms. Hendriks ...”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “We have had certain acquaintances of Lachance’s under surveillance for the past two years.”

  I held up my hand as if I was in school. “Inspector Parker, may I ask a question?”

  A smile flickered across his face. “Certainly.”

  “Just what did, um, Jean-Claude do? Obviously, it’s pretty serious if the RCMP is involved.” When Parker appeared to be hesitating, I added, “Look, I think I have a right to know. I was married to him and anything he did could very well have an impact on me.”

  “Let me give you the background to this story first. To cut to the chase, Jean-Claude was an RCMP informant. We recruited him in Quebec and he supplied us with some very important information that allowed us to arrest several of the kingpins of the Rock Machine about six years ago. Quebec was too hot to hold him, so he was put in our witness protection program and shipped out to British Columbia.”

  “I’m finding this all a bit hard to swallow. He was a secret agent?”

  “That’s a little dramatic. His job was basically to just hang around and keep his ears open. When there was something to pass on, he contacted us and one of our people would reel him in for a debriefing. We often work numerous people like this in the course of an investigation. Jean-Claude was more useful than most because he was one of those sorts that people naturally trust. You should know about that better than most.”

  It all made sense, except for one thing. “So why did he change his name and come back east to Ontario, then go through all kinds of subterfuge to visit his grandmother?”

  Parker had a ready answer. “We had him in our witness protection program, then something spooked him about a year in and he jumped ship. You seem to have met him about six months after that.”

  The waitress came over with another glass of wine, although I hadn’t seen Parker order it. “But at the beginning of this discussion you told me you’d been watching and waiting. If you knew where Marc ... I mean Jean-Claude was, why didn’t you just make contact with him again?”

  “I can’t talk about that.”

  “Is that the cop equivalent of saying ‘because?’”

  Parker shrugged. “Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, are you in contact with Jean-Claude?”

  Luckily, I hadn’t started to swallow, or I would have sprayed wine everywhere. I still sputtered a mouthful of wine into the glass. “What?”

  “Ah, sorry. I should have waited to ask you that.”

  People were looking at me again. “You should apologize. What the hell are you talking about anyway? My husband is dead.”

  The Mountie appeared unfazed. “Is he?”

  “That is ridiculous!” I started to get up.

  All around us, people had turned their heads, curious as to what was going on.

  Parker kept his voice low, but loaded with authority. “Please sit, Ms. Hendriks. There is more to say.”

  I did as he ordered. “You’re not expecting me to believe that he didn’t die in that fire, are you?”

  “That fire was awfully convenient, don’t you think? We’d finally discovered where Jean-Claude was hiding and were about to pick him up when he’s killed and his body pretty-well cremated. Now you suddenly appear at the scene again, then start asking questions.”

  “You were watching my farm?”

  I was horrified. How could they do something like that? It had probably been some sort of electronic surveillance. I couldn’t see them having someone hiding in the trees 24/7.

  “Why did you start asking questions about your dead husband after you’d done nothing for two years? What were you looking for at your farm? Did he l
eave something there and ask you to pick it up for him? Why did you go there?”

  Parker’s demeanor had changed. Now, despite the surroundings of a Montreal hotel cocktail lounge, I certainly felt as if I was in a backroom somewhere, being accused of a crime.

  At that point, I had a choice. I could have told him all about Paris. I probably should have told him. He was a cop, after all.

  But I chose to keep my mouth shut and spent the next ten minutes doing some more lying.

  Chapter Nine

  I unlocked the door to my condo and peeled off my coat, leaving it and my suitcase on the floor of the entryway. After a stop at the sideboard, where I kept some Scotch in my dad’s old cut-glass decanter, I walked over to the sofa, dropped my sorry bum down, and removed my shoes. My feet ached but not nearly as much as my brain. It had been quite a trip east.

  My voicemail had a dozen messages, most of them useless telemarketing. Alex had called wanting to talk to me about a couple more bookings. Both Lainey and Chloe left messages saying how great it had been to see me and how we should get together more often. We always said that and then never did anything about it.

  The way things had been going, I wouldn’t have been surprised to have found a voicemail from Marc asking if there had been any messages for him.

  My meeting with the Mountie had ended shortly after I’d decided not to tell him that I might have seen Marc while I’d been in Paris. A good part of the train trip between Montreal and Toronto had been spent contemplating just that.

  Now that I knew Marc —

  No. I had to get this part straight in my mind before I did anything else. The man’s name was Jean-Claude Lachance. Marc Tremblay never existed — except in my memory.

  I’d been lied to left, right, and centre, played for a complete fool. Pretty well everything I knew about my husband had been a fabrication. Now it appeared that he might not even be dead. So basically, I’d fallen to pieces, then spent two years picking them up and restarting my stalled career, when what I should have been doing was finding him and kicking his ass.

  Picking up the phone, I dialled Lili and fortunately found her unoccupied.

  “Marta!” she said. “Are you back in Toronto?”

  “Got in about a half hour ago. Do you have any time to get together today? I need to talk to you.”

  “Business or pleasure?” she asked, using the shorthand we’d developed since she’d added the mantle of therapist and confessor to being my vocal coach.

  “Mostly business.”

  I could hear her flipping pages. “Not today. I’ve got several coachings and then I’m accompanying at the Royal Conservatory this evening. Is tomorrow at one-thirty suitable?”

  “Anytime tomorrow is good for me. Could we work a coaching session in, too? I feel like I need a good workout and Alex is still saying there’s a chance I might get Pamina in Salzburg next summer. I’d like to get that out now and dust it off. There aren’t going to be too many more years when I can do that role convincingly.”

  “You will talk first and sing after.”

  “Not a problem. I’m going to be out and about during the morning, but I promise to be there on time.”

  The next morning was damn cold. October hadn’t even concluded and already winter’s icy breath was sending pedestrians scurrying for cover. It looked like it might be a very long winter.

  However, crisp autumn days always give me an extra charge of energy, so I bundled up tightly and crossed Front Street to the St. Lawrence Market, where I enjoyed a big breakfast at Paddington’s Pump, my favourite place for such things. It may be a wee bit dark and on the run-down side, but they know what they’re doing in the kitchen. Throwing concerns about my weight temporarily to the wind, I ordered the Full Monty and revelled in it. There’s little in this world more comforting than a good, solid breakfast. Once stoked and feeling ready for the world, I hailed a cab by means of my loudest whistle and headed for the Eaton Centre.

  Today, Marta Hendriks was entering the twenty-first century. I was ready to buy a computer.

  A young, very enthusiastic woman met me at the door of one of those chi-chi computer boutiques.

  “And what can we do for you today?” she chirped.

  I’d barely gotten a word out of my mouth when a tall man walked over.

  “I’ll take it from here, Jessie,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Tony Lusardi, the assistant manager, and I’d like to say what a pleasure it is to have you in our store, Ms. Hendriks.”

  “You know who I am?” I can walk around most cities for a month without anyone recognizing me.

  “I’ve sung with you several times.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He smiled — and I swallowed hard. I would have remembered that smile if I’d seen it before.

  “I’m in the COC chorus. First time was that ‘gangster’ production of Rigoletto six years ago.”

  That had been fun to do. The setting had been transplanted from sixteenth-century Mantua to Chicago during Prohibition with really great success, and the entire cast enjoyed themselves mightily as we’d camped it up to the hilt, requiring the director and conductor to rein us in on more than one occasion.

  I looked closely at him, noting his broad shoulders and athletic build. I still did not recognize him. I’m pretty focused during a production, so I seldom even notice the chorus, let alone look at them. That’s not a nice thing to admit, but it’s the truth. And that was probably for the best if there were guys among them who looked like this man.

  Lusardi appeared to be around my age and handsome in the Italian sort of way: slender build, large dark eyes, and wavy black hair. There was something aristocratic about his bearing, too, that made me immediately think of Gerhard, but his easy manner was a good foil for that, putting me at ease immediately.

  I lied. “Oh yes, now I place you. I didn’t recognize you without your scar.” A lot of the cast in that production had scars.

  It worked and he laughed happily. “Perhaps I should wear one permanently?”

  Leaning forward conspiratorially, I told him, “I think people might talk. There are very few scarred computer store assistant managers.”

  As he led me over to a counter with tall chairs at the back of the store, I hoisted myself up, glad that I had slipped on jeans that morning. We sat with our knees almost touching.

  “Now what can we do for you today, Ms. Hendriks?” he asked.

  “Please call me Marta. After all, we’ve worked closely together so many times.”

  He laughed again. “Then you must call me Tony.”

  I had no idea buying a computer could be so fraught with decisions. He asked me dozens of questions about how I wanted to use it before making any sort of recommendation, and surprisingly, it wasn’t the most expensive machine in the store, but a modest little laptop that was quite elegant in its titanium case.

  After deciding on the machine, he suggested some software, which he had installed. Then he ran me through setting it up and basic operations. By the time we had that completed, Tony had spent well over an hour and a half with me. But I had a computer I could turn on and off with confidence, even if I didn’t understand most of the other things he’d told me.

  Marvelling at a satellite photo of Toronto that he was showing me, I said, “I thought you needed to have an Internet-thingy provider to look at websites.”

  “We have Wi-Fi in this store.”

  “Huh?”

  He was off on another explanation, and if he thought I was a complete Neanderthal for my lack of knowledge, he didn’t let on.

  “I am totally at sea on all of this, Tony, and will never remember what you’ve been telling me.”

  He looked at his watch. “I can take an early lunch. Why don’t we pick out a good reference book that will help you and I can explain things more fully while we eat. Are you game?”

  “Only if I pay. I’ve already taken up far too much of your time.”

  He began slipping all t
he computer’s pieces back into their plastic sleeves and everything went into the box. Then he again flashed that killer smile. “All right, but I also want to talk about singing. It’s what I love best, and to have lunch with my favourite soprano and not talk about singing would truly be a sin.”

  I looked down at his bare left ring finger. The man was definitely flirting with me.

  When I popped out of the cab at Lili’s address in Cabbagetown, she was standing on her doorstep saying goodbye to a colleague, a baritone whose career had stalled a few years ago. I thought her eyes would bug out of her head when she saw what I was carrying.

  I shook hands with Brian, and as we chatted for a moment, Lili’s eyes didn’t leave the computer box.

  “So I see you’ve bought a new computer?” he asked at the end of the conversation.

  “You know how it is; they get old and slow and you eventually realize you need something with a bit more under the hood.”

  “How fast is it?”

  “Three-point-five gigahertz, I believe.”

  At this point Lili’s jaw dropped open and it was very difficult not to laugh.

  The door had barely closed when Lili erupted, pointing at the box I was holding. “Explain this!”

  “Explain what?” I asked innocently.

  “You have been telling me on many occasions that you would never get one of those ‘awful machines.’ I believe that is what you called them.”

  “Infernal machines,” I corrected, and then gave her a hug and kiss on both cheeks as I also produced the box containing the scarf I’d bought her in Paris. “Relax. I had no clue what I was saying on your doorstep. That was just bafflegab I remembered from the sales pitch this morning. Got your goat, though, didn’t it?”

  We settled in her ‘parlour’ with cups of coffee while I told her about my morning excursion first.