“You are a crazy woman!” Dubois stiffened and abruptly sat back in his chair, as if trying to put more distance between us. “I should not have come,” he added as he began to get up.
I leaned across the table and put my hand on his arm. “Please stay. I am not a nutcase. Believe me, I’m as shaken up about what I suspect as you seem to be. It is pretty unbelievable. Let me tell you why I believe it’s possible.”
The story I told wasn’t untrue in any way; I just left a lot of material out. First of all, I didn’t want Dubois to know what I did for a living. I felt safe on that score because I didn’t believe people who built custom-made choppers would follow the goings on of the opera world.
I told him I’d hooked up with Jean-Claude in eastern Ontario but that he hadn’t told me about his past. Then there had been the fire and his death. Eventually I returned to the farm and ran across some information that made me curious. Dubois never asked where I actually live nor what I did for work.
“I found some papers when I was cleaning our old farmhouse to get it ready to sell. That led me to Montreal and an old woman who turned out to be Jean-Claude’s grand-mère.”
“You must have been very shocked,” Dubois said.
“More like angry. I couldn’t believe that he would shut off family like that. Now I know the reason.”
“I would have done anything for my little brother. He was always hanging around at the shop, helping me. That is where he met bikers. I did work for them. They made me nervous, and I knew where the money they paid me had likely come from, but there it is. My business was small and I needed all the orders I could get. Now I am more picky about who I will do work for.”
I continued telling my story, about going to see Sébastien, about the interview with Inspector Parker, the murders and how quickly after my visit they’d happened, and then what the two Mounties in Toronto had said. I kept Lainey and the email on her computer completely out of the story.
At the end, Dubois nodded his head. “It makes sense. So why did you want to see me?”
“First, I don’t want to feel I’m alone in this. If something were to happen to me, I want to know there’s someone else who cares about what has happened. Second, is there anything more you can tell me? I’m going to find this person who has ruined so many lives. I want to see him punished.”
“So you think this rogue cop murdered your husband and my brother?”
I shook my head. “No. I believe he set them up. Why should he kill them? The people they were going to testify against would have been perfectly willing to do that. But the two journalists, I’m not so sure about. Those murders had to be done by two separate people or groups of people. I doubt they could murder someone in B.C., hop a plane and do another in Montreal, all in the space of seven hours.”
I looked across the table at this unlikely man whom I was asking for help. He returned my gaze, each of us sizing up the other.
“Did your husband cut a deal with the Crown?”
“Did your brother?”
“Yes. I do know that. He was involved in some bad things but just at the edges. The little fish always get caught first, then the Crown starts applying the pressure, turning the screws. They know the ones to pick and my little brother was the right one. They had him scared shitless. All of a sudden, they whisked him away. The family only got a note that he was going into the witness protection program, not where he was going to be or why this was being done. It nearly destroyed my parents. Danny was always the little angel of the family.”
“Sounds a lot like my Jean-Claude. Why do people go bad?”
“It is because they wish to be ‘big shots,’ be something that they are not.”
I didn’t think that was true about my husband. Sure he was impetuous, hot-headed and prone to not thinking things through, but not confident? No. But it was best to keep Dubois talking.
“Did you ever hear directly from your brother again?”
“There was a card at Christmas. It was mailed from RCMP headquarters in Ottawa. He said he was okay, hoped to be able to see us soon and that was about it. The day before his death, though, I received a call at my shop from B.C. I wasn’t in and the caller didn’t leave a message, but my phone keeps the numbers. I believe it was Danny. Maybe he knew he was in trouble.”
That was enlightening. Possibly it was Danny Dubois and not Jean-Claude who’d gotten wind of danger first. When Danny was killed, Jean-Claude would have known he was next.
“Do you remember where the call was from?”
“I looked it up about a week later. New Hazelton, a little place in the middle of nowhere.”
It was getting late and I had a plane to catch, so I had to cut off the conversation. The whole time we’d been talking, Chloe had been constantly scanning the store, her cellphone ready in her hand, so I felt confident I wasn’t in any danger.
I promised to keep Dubois up to date with anything I found out, but if I got any names, I didn’t think that I would tell him. He seemed like the sort who would do something stupid to avenge his brother, and his parents or anyone else near and dear to him didn’t deserve more pain.
The cab to Pierre Trudeau Airport made it with bare seconds to spare. It had been an incredibly scary ride, but I’d been the one to promise an extra twenty-five dollars to the cabbie if he got me there on time. Chloe had come with me and her face was noticeably pale as I handed her forty bucks.
“This is for the ride back downtown,” I told her.
“No thank you! I’m taking the airport bus back downtown.”
Outside the cab, she stood on tiptoes as we hugged. “I can’t thank you enough for your help tonight,” I told her.
She grinned. “It was certainly a different way to spend an evening, pretty nerve-wracking, though — and I don’t mean the cab ride.”
“I’ll keep in touch a lot better, I promise.”
“Me too. Look for a package of music from me in the next week. I’ll get you some possible dates and we’ll set up rehearsals. Plan on being here a week. You’re staying at my place. Okay?”
“The sooner you can get me dates, the better. At this point, if I get a gig, I’ll have to take it. Money is tight and you know what it’s like finding work after you’ve been on the shelf for awhile.”
She nodded and we hugged again.
On the flight back to Toronto, I thought harder than I had in weeks and began to see what must be done.
But how could it be safely accomplished?
I felt sixteen again, getting ready for my first real date. It had been so long ago now I couldn’t remember any details other than the boy’s name: Ronald. Attending Tony’s grandmother’s eightieth birthday party certainly counted as a major date.
Going through the depths of the walk-in closet in my bedroom felt like exploring a deep, dark cave. Coming out repeatedly with armfuls of unfamiliar skirts, dresses, and blouses, I laid everything out on the bed, searching for the perfect outfit for an Italian birthday. It became abundantly clear that I’d once had a serious clothes-buying problem.
Eventually, I settled on a simple midnight-blue dress. A colourful silk scarf and simple gold jewelry added just the right balance of personality and elegance. A shower and work on my hair and makeup took another hour, but I still found myself ready well before five. Pacing around the condo, looking for something to take my mind off my out-of-control nerves, I felt ready to scream.
Even though the cleaning lady had been in at the beginning of the week, all I could see was dust and grime and mess. First came the bedroom, where all the clothes on the bed got chucked back into the closet. Mañana.
Next came the bathroom vanity. Where the heck had all these cosmetics and hair care products come from? Opening up a drawer, I swept everything inside.
I was on my way to the broom closet in the kitchen for the vacuum so I could give the living room and bedroom carpets a once over, when I stopped.
“What the hell are you thinking, woman?” I said out
loud.
Was my subconscious trying to tell me something? Why had I also bought croissants and fruit salad earlier in the day?
I plopped down on the sofa to think. Sure, Tony was a nice guy and all, but asking him up after the party, with the possibility of staying the night, was that really a good idea?
I still wasn’t sure when Sam rang from the lobby at two minutes past five. “That same man is here for you again. Would you be wanting me to send him up?”
“No. Tell him I’m on my way down,” I said, grabbing my coat, gloves, purse, and a small birthday present.
Some things are better dealt with on the impulse of the moment.
Chapter Fifteen
Tony hadn’t been kidding when he said the party was being held in a workshop. Uncle Giuseppe was in the business of making and refurbishing moulds for plaster work, and judging by the workshop’s size, business must be very, very good.
A whole battalion of Lusardis (Tony included) had spent the entire day clearing the main part of the floor, sweeping and washing it, then decorating. It was now filled with a long string of tables covered by an assortment of linen tablecloths, and the nicest place settings of several families had been brought out along with the best silver. Garlands of fake grape leaves threaded with fairy lights hung overhead and there were flowers and plants everywhere. It was the most charming re-creation of an outdoor taverna that you could imagine.
As Tony led me in, the buzz of conversation died, as if each person had been suddenly doused with a bucket of cold water. Every head swivelled in our direction. This was an opera-loving family, so they certainly knew who I was. I heard the chirp of a young one, asking, “Why is everybody staring at that lady?”
First up was the birthday girl, still wearing an apron from supervising in the makeshift kitchen set up in what looked like the shipping room. She was very short (probably not even five feet) with pulled-back white hair and had on the traditional black dress. Her one nod to the occasion was the inclusion of lavish necklace in addition to a large gold crucifix on a fine chain. Her eyes blazed with intelligence. The matriarch of the Lusardi clan was formidable indeed, I suspected, and not just in the kitchen.
“Marta,” Tony said, leading me up to her, “this is my nonna, Benedetta Lusardi. Nonna, this is my guest for the evening, Marta Hendriks.”
People were crowding into the doorway to see the presentation of the prodigal soprano. I decided to give them what they wanted.
“I am so pleased to be able to join you in celebration of your birthday,” I said to her in Italian.
Her eyes moved from me to Tony, then back again before she stepped forward to shake my hand. “Thank you very much for your good wishes. It is our great pleasure to have you with us this evening.”
Back in the main room, I was introduced to everyone there. Though nobody said more to me than “Pleased to meet you” as Tony led me around the room, it was obvious I was the topic of conversation among the adults.
When we finally got to our seats (near the middle of the table, thank the Lord), I leaned over to Tony and said softly, “Maybe I shouldn’t have come. This is supposed to be your nonna’s night. Everyone is staring at me.”
He just smiled. “That is because you are una donna bella.”
I could only blush.
I estimated that nearly sixty people sat down to eat. The food just kept coming out of the kitchen. First were platters piled high with all kinds of homemade antipasti. Then bowls of pasta, each with a different sauce and all fresh. Then there were more platters with fish and meats accompanied by grilled vegetables.
I wanted to taste everything, and realized pretty early on that even eating just one bite of each thing, I wouldn’t make it through without exploding. After making it unscathed through just a few nibbles of the antipasti, the first thing that tested my resolve was a ravioli stuffed with ground walnuts and Gorgonzola cheese, covered by a rosé sauce of great fragrance and delicacy. I could have happily eaten a whole plateful.
“This is absolutely incredible,” I told Tony around forkfuls. “You were not exaggerating the tiniest amount.”
His face glowed. “My nonna is the best cook ever.”
“I agree completely.”
During the fish course while I was enjoying a tiny piece of grilled sole with a delicate lemon, white wine, and caper sauce, Tony’s cousin Frank, who was sitting on my left, turned to me. “I think the old lady likes you. She’s looked your way several times during the meal.”
“That’s just because my face was in the paper the other day.”
He shook his head. “It’s not that. We’ve had many visiting opera singers at various meals. Actually, I’m surprised that Tallevi from the opera isn’t here tonight. He seldom misses one of Nonna Lusardi’s meals. And don’t forget Papa Biagio was a noted amateur baritone back in the old country — or hasn’t Tony bragged to you about that yet?”
Tony noticed the dig and the two of them went at it behind my head in a good natured way. Across the table, the aunt and the cousin from the opera chorus had been chatting with us about singing. It was all very friendly, more like colleagues talking together (which it was, I suppose), and I began to relax a bit and not feel as if I were a centrepiece on the table.
Wine flowed throughout the meal, all of it Italian, of course, but none of it commonplace. When I questioned cousin Lina about it, she laughed. “Didn’t Tony tell you? If you’re a Lusardi, you’re either a singer or in the food or wine business. Let’s see, any pasta that Nonna and her helpers didn’t make themselves came from my mama’s shop. Uncle Antonio owns a butcher shop. The wine got here courtesy of Frank, who’s next to you. His father began importing wine in the —”
“Hush child!” the aunt (Annetta?) said. “You’ll make the poor woman’s eyes roll up in her head.”
Tony and Frank had finished ragging on each other by this point, and the conversation turned to everyone’s memories of the birthday girl. All around us, family members chipped in with stories, and it became obvious this extraordinary woman was the glue holding her huge family together.
As the tables were cleared by the kids, toasts began, some in Italian, some in English, a few in both. Even the little ones stood to salute the family favourite.
I seemed to be one of the only non-family members present, and I realized to my horror that everyone was expected to say something.
When my turn came, I stood, looked down the table at Signora Lusardi, took a deep breath and began to sing “Happy Birthday.” What else could I do? I hardly knew the woman. I could have toasted her with some generally appropriate words, but I hoped this might be more appreciated.
Little did I count on the Lusardi family. Before I’d even gotten through the first phrase, people had begun to join me — in three-part harmony! More and more people stood until the room was ringing with sound. By the time we got to the end (with Tony conducting the climactic notes), everyone was on their feet, singing their hearts out. Benedetta Lusardi stood to acknowledge the applause with a raised glass. Everyone filled their glasses, and the entertainment portion of the evening was off and running.
A violin was produced along with an accordion, and over in the corner, someone took a sheet off an old upright piano.
Naturally, we segued into “Libiamo ne’ lieti calici” from Traviata. Everyone was grinning and enjoying themselves, even the young ones, who were either trying to sing along or just jumping up and down, cheering. Nonna was sitting in her seat smiling broadly and keeping time with one finger of her right hand. In the other she held her wine glass, which swayed to the three-four beat. For me, it was my first time singing this famous chorus with a glass filled with actual wine.
When we got to Violetta’s and Alfredo’s solos, everyone around the table looked to Tony and me. He grabbed my hand and we both took the solos. I was in my element, but I could tell from Tony’s grip that he was pretty nervous.
He had a pleasant voice, not huge enough to be a soloist in a
big house, but it was nice, round, and he had very good pitch and musicality. We meshed well.
After that, there must have been a solid hour of singing. The three musicians seemed to know every chorus and many arias in the Italian opera repertoire. There were solos, duets, trios, and several ensemble numbers. I eventually did two more solos: “Un bel di” from Madama Butterfly and Gilda’s “Caro nome” from Rigoletto. Tony responded with “La donna è mobile” and from the laughter and good-natured ribbing from cousin Frank, I got the feeling it was his “party piece.” He sang it with real gusto to great applause and cheers at the end. Frank filled Tony’s wine glass and mine and we clinked them, holding them up in salute as we looked to the end of the table.
Now, I have pretty good ears, and even though it was in rapid fire Italian, I could have sworn Signora Lusardi turned to the people at her end of the table and said, “Who would have thought our little Antonio could have caught such a bright, shiny fish?”
There was laughter all around us, and Tony looked at his grandmother with fond exasperation and scarlet ears.
The singing eventually petered out and dessert was served. I managed to let it all pass by until the Neapolitan cheesecake, redolent of lemon and fresh pineapple, stopped in front of me. I allowed Tony to cut me a very slender piece. Next came espresso accompanied by little deep-fried crispy things dusted with sugar. Grappa was passed around, and I wasn’t going to take any, but then Tony poured me some.
“Are you trying to get me swizzled?” I laughed. “I’ve had at least four glasses of wine!”
He handed me less than an ounce. “When you’ve finished your espresso, knock it back in one shot. Your stomach will feel a lot better later.”
“Yes, but what about my poor head in the morning?”
Around us, the singing started up again and I sat back smiling. This was what making music was really all about.
Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle Page 17