Lili put her cup down and looked at me. “But you have not said why you suddenly decided to buy a computer.”
Outside her window, a few golden leaves drifted down from the maple by the curb.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
To Lili’s credit, she sat there listening without comment while I told the story of my trip east yet again, but began with the second time I saw Jean-Claude outside the opera house, something I hadn’t passed on to her at the time since I thought I understood what was going on. She didn’t look happy when I got to the part where I began asking myself, What if my husband didn’t die? What if I’m not seeing things?
“So when I got back to Canada, I decided to go out to the farm and poke around a bit, see what I could see.” I pulled out the pile of receipts which I’d stuffed into my portfolio, along with my music. “I found this in his truck.”
Lili looked at them carefully. “I don’t understand the importance of these.”
“They’re all for shops in Montreal; they’re all for times I was out of the country; and he never said anything about having been in Montreal — ever.”
“And you were just in that city.”
“Yes. You’ll notice this receipt has a phone number on the back.”
“You’ve spoken to someone, haven’t you?”
“I know Narissa has spoken to you.”
Lili didn’t deny it.
So I told her what had happened in Montreal. The only other time Lili responded (a raised eyebrow) was when I dropped my little bombshell that the RCMP had come calling.
“So basically, my maybe-not-so-dead husband lied to me from start to finish.”
Lili sat for several moments in contemplation, staring steadily out the window.
Finally she looked over at me. “What are you feeling right now, Marta?”
Knowing that question would be coming, I had a ready answer. “It seems to change from moment to moment. Sometimes I feel great anger that I went through all that agony, and maybe there wasn’t a good reason for it. I feel betrayed. I feel foolish. I feel very unsure of myself. I’ve wept a few times and I’ve cursed, too.”
“And what are you thinking right now, right at this moment?”
“I’m wondering whether my husband really is dead.”
“Would you be happy or sad if that were the case?”
Good question. Really good question. “I honestly don’t know.” I looked up at her. “What do you think?”
Having her question turned around seemed to fluster Lili. I had never before in our therapeutic relationship challenged her in this way. “I think that it is the time to stay focused on your career.”
“You mean, just let the whole thing drop?”
She curtly nodded once.
I was shocked. “Would you do something like that?”
“It makes no difference what I would do. You gave me your answer a moment ago when you said you didn’t know how you’d feel if he was alive. My best advice is to move on. That part of your life is closed now. Marta, you have to believe that no good will come of this. To go down this road will only lead you to more heartache.”
I pounded the arms of the chair. “But if it were you, wouldn’t you want to know?”
Lili only looked at me, her expression unreadable.
Not able to sit still, I got to my feet and walked to the window, thumbs in the front pockets of my jeans because I felt like smashing some of the carefully laid out bric-a-brac filling Lili’s parlour. I wasn’t really mad at her, just incredibly frustrated by the whole situation.
“If it was not your husband in that fire, whose remains did they find and how did they come to be there? Have you thought of that?”
I nodded. “Of course!”
“Then you should have told that policeman who spoke to you everything you know. It is your duty.”
“Is it? Lili, with all due respect, it’s not my duty. My husband may well have done nothing wrong, other than to run away from their protection. Maybe someone was sent to kill him. That’s his business, not mine. That Mountie, Parker, never even intimated that Jean-Claude had done anything illegal. He wasn’t even clear about why they wanted to find him!”
“You seem to have stepped into a rat’s nest.”
“Hornet’s nest,” I corrected absentmindedly.
Lili stood and gave me a large hug, the top of her head barely coming up to my chin. “You are still fragile, my dear friend. Please don’t do anything rash or foolish. Step back and be thinking hard about it. I know that you will do what you will do,” Lili said, holding me at arm’s length. “You always have. But come, no more of this! It is time to go into the next room and see what sort of shape your voice is in.”
By the time I got home, there were a half dozen more phone messages waiting. After putting the computer box down on the coffee table, I looked at it, frowning. One thing the charming Mr. Lusardi had failed to mention in his sales pitch was that computers were darn complicated. Sure, everything appeared easy in the store with a pro running it. But me? I still hadn’t figured out how to do more than program a few phone numbers into my cellphone, and I’d had it for five years now.
One of the calls was from management, Alex’s assistant to be exact, telling me that he’d finally nailed down that booking in Salzburg for the festival. Oh boy! I’d once again be able to sing Mozart’s sublime music, and the tenor singing Tamino was “The Next Hot Thing” in the opera world. It wouldn’t hurt my profile to share a stage with someone like that.
“We’ve also had a request from Opera Canada for an in-depth interview,” Natalie’s voice said. “When you give us the thumbs up, we’ll arrange everything. They also want to send a photographer. Call ASAP. Bye-ee.”
I liked that. When I gave them the thumbs up, not if. After the disastrous interview in Paris, I’d told Alex I wanted full approval on any interviews. I guess they assumed I was still desperate enough that I wouldn’t turn any down. Happily, though, the folks at Opera Canada weren’t inclined to play hardball.
The other phone call I’d been waiting for, but it was made from a different location than expected.
“Bonjour, Marta! C’est Sébastien. I am calling from Elaine’s office at the university. I have heard from my colleague in Vancouver. It appears that there is more to your story than you knew. We need to speak. I will try you again tonight. Until then, do not talk to anyone about this. A bientôt!”
Hmm. What could he mean by that last comment? I hadn’t told him about the Mountie, and my sneaking suspicion was that Sébastien wouldn’t like that.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to initiate myself into the computer world and navigate its mysteries. Thanks to the book Tony suggested, I had success, but it was limited. After calling the Internet service provider he’d suggested, I was unhappy to find out that it would take several days for me to get connected. I assumed these things were instantaneous. I was in no mood to wait around before embarking on my search for the whereabouts of my formerly dead husband.
Out of frustration, I called back the computer store. “Hello, I bought a laptop from you this morning. Is Mr. Lusardi still there by any chance?”
“Just a moment. I’ll find out if he’s available.”
A minute later, I heard, “Tony Lusardi.”
“Hi, um, Tony. It’s Marta.”
“Having trouble already?” he chuckled, then sort of swallowed it as the implication of what he was saying sank in. “I mean, what can I do for you?”
Fortunately, I chose to ignore his inference. “It appears I can’t get connected to the Internet for at least a week.”
“Actually, that’s pretty quick. If you need to be online sooner, you can just take your laptop to any place that has Wi-Fi. Most coffee shops have it, for instance.”
“Frankly, that’s not what I would prefer.”
“Oh, I get it. Right. Well, you could try poaching on your neighbors.”
“What?�
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“If any of the people in your building have a wireless connection, they’re broadcasting if it’s turned on. If they haven’t set up their network to require a password — and many don’t — you can log on to it.”
“Is that legal?”
“Well, strictly speaking, it’s a bit of a grey area. Is there a neighbor you could ask?”
“Like a lot of people in this fine city, I don’t really know any of my neighbors other than to say hello in the elevator.”
“Then you’re stuck with going out to a coffee shop or something.”
What the hell, I thought. They probably wouldn’t send me to jail. “So tell me, how does one poach?”
Within five minutes, my co-conspirator had helped me find six people’s networks and taught me how to connect to any of them.
“How can I thank you?” I asked.
“Have dinner with me tomorrow.”
The phone’s ring at my right elbow startled me out of a pretty heavy doze.
I had made no headway in my search for information on my husband, and the only break I’d taken was to order some sushi for dinner, after which I apparently nodded off on the sofa with the computer on my lap.
Gathering my sleep-startled wits, I waited for a moment before picking up the receiver. “Yes?”
“Marta? It’s Lainey.”
“Lainey?” It sank into my head that she sounded upset. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Sébastien. He’s been hauled in by the police for questioning.”
That fully woke me up! “Does it have anything to do with what we were talking about?”
“They wouldn’t say. We were relaxing before going out to dinner when they knocked on the door, asked him to accompany them downtown, and off they went as soon as he got dressed. Sébastien didn’t seem too concerned, but it’s certainly knocked me for a loop. I thought they only asked people to come downtown in movies.”
“Geez.”
Lainey’s voice went up a notch. “That’s all you can say? What have you gotten us into?”
“First off, you don’t know it’s my problem that he’s been hauled in about. Second, I would imagine, considering his subject matter, that Sébastien has been in a lot tighter spots than being hauled in by the cops. You should be asking me what I’ve gotten myself into. A few days ago, I believed my husband was a dead handyman.”
She was silent for a moment. “You’re right. I’m just a little freaked, that’s all. It’s pretty awful when the police come bursting into your bedroom.”
“They didn’t!”
“Not exactly, but it was certainly pretty obvious what we’d been up to when Sébastien answered the door, tying up his bathrobe, at 8:15 in the evening.”
“Oops. Well, I apologize in advance if any of this turns out to be my fault.”
“You’d better watch your butt too, girlfriend. They could be coming after you next!”
The next morning, I got up early and took a taxi to the gym. I couldn’t make it to the end of my usual routine. Those weeks off had certainly taken their toll. I trudged back to the condo, thoroughly bummed out.
The rest of the morning and early afternoon was spent organizing my professional life for the next few weeks using my new computer, an exercise that turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable as I got more comfortable with it.
Sadly, I wouldn’t be singing in any more operas until January in Chicago (Bohème) — unless someone broke a leg or something, but there was also another, Norma, for later in the spring season in Helsinki. Next summer, I was doing Pamina in Austria, of course, but other than that, there were pretty slim pickings for the next year.
Interspersed were a number of concert performances: two Messiahs in Canada and one in the States, Beethoven’s 9th in Hungary, and shortly, a Carmina Burana in London (the conductor had the hots for me and had hung on through my “withdrawal” from performing).
Yup, pretty slim pickings. Looked like for the next eighteen months, I’d have to rely on those nerve-wracking, last-minute calls for help, something that happens all too often in the opera world. I began feeling like a musical vulture, living off the misfortune of others.
I had mixed feelings about my date with Tony for that evening. First of all, I hadn’t been on a date for ten years at the very least. Since Gerhard died, I’d had a brief fling during an extended stay in London nearly eight years ago now, then there had been my marriage, and after that, of course, nothing.
Going into the bedroom, I took my clothes off and assessed myself frankly in the mirror. The weight had pretty well stayed off, but I looked a bit “soft” — and not in a good way. My face was in good shape with only a few wrinkles around the eyes, and I had the best hairdressers, so that wasn’t a concern. My rapidly approaching forties, though, were beginning to put out telltale signs. I needed to redouble my efforts at the gym!
After a good, long soak in the tub, careful application of makeup, and basically tossing my closet for something casual yet nice to wear, I was pacing in the living room. Finally, Sam buzzed from downstairs that I had a gentleman waiting for me.
Tony, true to his Italian roots, had a hot car, in this case a black Corvette on which he obviously lavished a lot of attention.
“I cannot believe that I’m taking you out to dinner,” he said as he helped me into the low-slung car. “You look absolutely stunning, by the way.”
Said by anyone else, I would have rolled my eyes, but Tony was just, I don’t know, so damn sincere.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You told me at lunch yesterday that you adore Italian food. Well, outside of my nonna, who is the best cook ever, I’m taking you to what everyone agrees is the best Italian restaurant in the Toronto area.”
“Even your nonna?” I teased.
“Yes, even her,” he nodded seriously, but then smiled.
He had some opera on softly in the background, and I recognized Nabucco immediately. It didn’t hit me for a full five minutes that it was a recording of the opera on which I’d sung the role of Anna, because we had been chattering away about the Canadian Opera Company’s fall season.
When he realized why I’d fallen silent, Tony said, “I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.”
“Not at all. It’s really very sweet of you. I haven’t heard it before.”
“You don’t listen to your own recordings?”
“Not this one. It was recorded just before my husband ... was killed.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he said, reaching forward. “I’ll turn it off.”
I stopped him with my hand. “No, please. I’m enjoying it.” After a few moments, I went on. “A lot of things fell into the cracks around then. I haven’t even opened the carton of them that the record company sent.”
“That’s a shame. You’re really very good in it.”
I couldn’t tell if he was pulling my leg or not. Mr. Lusardi was turning out to be a very interesting man.
“Why Nabucco tonight?” I asked. “It’s got more than its share of blood and guts.”
Tony sighed. “I’m in an odd mood this evening. I have a cousin in Italy who’s a journalist. His beat is the Mafia, and we all know it’s dangerous. Anyway, there were two Canadian journalists found murdered today, and it sort of brought it all home to the family.”
I’m certain my heart stopped for several beats. Please let it not be what I think it is! I screamed inside my head.
Stopped at a light, Tony glanced over at me. “Are you all right?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Where did this happen?”
“That’s the odd thing. One was in Vancouver and the other in Montreal. The only thing linking them is that both of them wrote about biker gangs.”
Chapter Ten
Needless to say, dinner was no longer on the agenda for that evening.
Embarrassingly, I began to cry, knowing in my gut that it couldn’t have been two other journalists who’d been killed.
To
ny, who naturally didn’t understand what the heck was going on, pulled over and asked the usual stupid question these situations demand: “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not all right! Please, just take me home.”
“May I ask what’s going on? Do you know either of these people? Can I do something?”
“No!” I said, answering his first question only. “Please, no more questions.”
“All right,” he said, “I’ll take you home.”
I nodded, turned my head to face the car window and stayed that way until he got me back to my building.
“We’re here,” he said tentatively.
Finally turning back, I rallied enough to say, “I’m so sorry the evening turned out this way.”
“And I’m sorry you’re so upset. Will you be all right?”
“Yes. Good night, Tony. Thank you for being understanding.”
With that, I bolted from the car and ran for the elevator. I just wanted to get upstairs, get away from people and try to pull myself together.
Don’t ask about the rest of the night. It was dreadful.
What a difference a day makes, I thought ironically as I wiped steam off the bathroom mirror after my shower the next morning. Twenty-four hours ago, I’d stood here thinking I had the world by its tail.
I don’t know when I’ve ever looked worse. After my husband had supposedly died might have been the bottom of the barrel, but it had never crossed my mind at the time to bother looking in the mirror. Why stare at a car crash?
It had been nearly impossible to sleep. The best I’d managed had been a fitful doze as dawn began to lighten the sky. Lainey didn’t answer her home phone or her cell. Chloe had no idea where she was or what was going on.
During the night, I’d been through it all as I ceaselessly combed the news networks on TV for information, alternately blaming myself for not just walking away. But I’d had to know — mostly for my own self-esteem — what had been going on. When Sébastien had offered his help, I’d gladly jumped at it. I vacillated almost minute-to-minute over whether to shoulder the blame or lay it aside. Sébastien might have only agreed to help because he smelled a story. Who knows? Given enough information, he might have turned the story I’d told him into a series of articles or a book. How would I have felt then?
Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle Page 11