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

by Blechta, Rick

  “No,” I said firmly. “I’m not sure I want to do that.”

  This obviously surprised him. “Why not?”

  “It’s very complicated.”

  “Obviously.” He thought for a moment. “Okay, I’m done work at seven. Why don’t you go to my apartment and wait for me there?”

  “I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

  “Nonsense.” He reached into his pocket and came out with a set of keys. “My building is on Merton south of Davisville east of Yonge. You can catch the subway right from here, and it’s a five-minute walk from the Davisville station.”

  I shook my head. “No, thank you. I’ll take a cab.”

  He looked at me again, then nodded, reaching for his wallet.

  I put my hand on his arm. “No.”

  It looked like he was going to protest, but then he just nodded. “Okay. Here are the keys and I’ll write out the address. When I get there, you’ll have to buzz me in. Expect me around 7:40.”

  Tony insisted on taking me out to the street and seeing me safely into a cab. By this time, the traffic was crawling on Yonge Street, but I told the driver to stay on it. I wanted to be around as many people as possible at all times. It may have been paranoid of me, but I remembered Lainey’s description of Sébastien happily going off with the two cops. That wasn’t going to happen to this girl if I could help it.

  Tony’s apartment was a pleasant surprise: spartan but with thoughtfully chosen furniture. What looked like an original oil hung on one wall, and a baby grand was tucked into a corner near the window. It was also tidy and clean, something I couldn’t claim for my own place most of the time.

  I was greeted at the door by a rather plump grey-and-white cat, who tried repeatedly to lead me into the kitchen, where I’d presumably be shown where his food dish was.

  The view from the living-room window was very nice — if a little depressing under the present circumstances: it overlooked Mount Pleasant Cemetery. In the spring, I’d probably think it quite cheery. I thought of the walk I’d taken just a few days before. If Tony had been standing where I was now, he could have seen me set out as I crossed the old railroad bridge over Yonge. Perhaps he had been.

  On the way north in the cab, I’d tried Lainey’s cellphone, but hadn’t been able to reach her. Becoming more concerned, I called her office at McGill and got her secretary.

  “Ms. Martin is conferencing with the dean at the moment. May I take a message?”

  I gritted my teeth at the use of the word “conferencing,” and said, “Could you tell her that Marta Hendriks urgently needs to speak to her? She should call my cell. Would you like me to spell my name for you?”

  “Oh no, Ms. Hendriks. I know who you are and I will pass this on as soon as Ms. Martin is free. Thank you for calling and have a great day.”

  “Yeah, some ‘great day’ I’m having,” I told the cat who was busily rubbing against my legs. “At least Lainey’s safe.”

  Tony called at three to make sure I’d gotten there okay. “There’s red wine in the cabinet to the left of the sink or white wine in the fridge as well as plenty of food. Feel free to help yourself.”

  “Tony,” I began, then hesitated. “I’m sorry to be such a pain. I just didn’t know where else to turn.”

  “Well, I don’t mind in the least that you turned to me. We’ll talk this all over tonight and figure out what to do next. Everything will be okay.”

  I hung up knowing full well that he was being overly optimistic.

  I pushed back my plate, picking up my wine glass. “That was really spectacular,” I told Tony looking through the candles separating us. “I’d never even heard of spaghetti alla carbonara before.”

  Tony had shown up at the apartment not even an hour earlier. In less than forty-five minutes, he’d whipped up a fantastic meal and had it on the table.

  “I know you’re probably getting tired of hearing this, but it’s Nonna’s recipe and my favourite. I called it bacon and egg spaghetti when I was a kid.”

  “But that wasn’t bacon you used.”

  “No. It’s called guanciale and it’s made from hog jowls. It’s very hard to find around here. I was just lucky Nonna gave me some a few weeks ago, otherwise you would have been stuck with plain old bacon and that’s nowhere near as good.”

  On top of all the other stuff, the guy knows how to cook, I thought. “And the salad dressing?”

  Nodding sheepishly, he picked up his glass and we clinked again. “Nonna’s recipe, I’m afraid.”

  “Tony,” I said, looking at my wobbily reflection in the wine glass, “your parents weren’t at the birthday party on Sunday, and nobody made a single reference to them. Why is that?”

  “They’re both dead. My mother died in childbirth, and that’s how Nonna wound up in Toronto. She was a widow by that time and came over to help bring me up. I was a very late baby. My parents had long since given up on having a family when I came along. My dad? Well, he died nearly six years ago now.”

  We picked up our plates and took them to the kitchen.

  “Would you like a bit of fruit for dessert? I bought some very nice pears the other day.”

  “Sure. That would be nice.”

  We sat together on the sofa, windows to our backs and Tony’s TV, stereo, and book shelves in front of us. I’d taken a look at them while waiting around and found he was well-read, both in English and Italian. As expected, the CDs were mostly opera, but there had been a few rock and roll surprises.

  Tony brought out two Anjou pears, pulling out a pocket knife to cut them up and handing me pieces on its point. I was grateful for the respite, since I had no idea how much to tell him about my troubles.

  All too soon, the fruit was gone.

  Tony sat back. “Now, tell me what’s going on. I can’t deny I’m very curious.”

  “How much of my personal history do you know?”

  “Beyond the little you’ve told me? Well, some people at the opera have talked about you, and I, of course, listened, especially after I met you.”

  “And?”

  “You were the protege of Gerhard Fosch, and yes, I’ve heard the stories about him, so I can imagine that you were very close, shall we say. After his death, you seemed to concentrate only on your career, then out of the blue you married a French-Canadian handyman. I haven’t been able to find anyone who ever met the guy. After he died in a fire, you withdrew from singing for two years.”

  “I should hire you to write bios for me. That was pretty succinct.”

  Tony and I looked at the wall in front of us, the blank glass of his big-screen TV seeming to hold our eyes as our thoughts drifted for several minutes.

  “Marta?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I was just thinking that both our pasts are more than a little operatic, wouldn’t you say?”

  I smiled. That’s not the way I would have thought of it, but Tony did have a point. “What else has been going on in that devious brain of yours?”

  “Does this break-in have anything to do with your past, your husband perhaps?”

  My stomach immediately knotted. “Is it that obvious?”

  “No. I just pay attention to not only what people say, but also to their choice of words and what may lie behind those choices. Will you let me help you?”

  I made one of my snap decisions. It was about time I got the views of a completely disinterested third party, well, partially disinterested.

  Telling my long story yet again took nearly an hour. I seemed to be getting much better at it, or maybe it was just that I felt so comfortable with Tony. For the first time, though, I told the complete story.

  “Okay,” he said when I finished, “since you came to me for help, I assume you’re willing to hear what I have to say. Correct?”

  I nodded.

  “Then, it seems clear to me you shouldn’t go back to your apartment. Certainly, someone has been watching you. And your friend in Montreal?”

  “I spoke to he
r at six. She’s fine, nothing to report, although who knows if someone hasn’t been looking through her things, too? I assume we’re dealing with pros here. I suggested that she goes to stay with her parents or friends.”

  “Do you think it would do any good to go to the Mounties with your concerns?”

  “Who do I trust there?” I shook my head. “No, the Mounties are out.”

  “The Toronto police, then.”

  “What, for my apartment?”

  “For everything.”

  “No. Let me put it to you this way: this rogue Mountie is staying ahead of everyone. You don’t think the Montreal police aren’t seriously looking for him? They have to suspect something. According to what Lainey told me, there haven’t been any arrests there yet, nor for the reporter out in Vancouver. Would that give you a lot of confidence if you were in my shoes?”

  “Frankly, no.”

  “Okay, then what do I do? How do I get myself out of this mess?”

  Tony got up, disappeared for a moment, and came back with a bottle of cognac and two snifters. “This was a special gift from one of my uncles.”

  “Smells marvellous,” I said as I swirled the amber liquid in the snifter he handed me.

  We clinked glasses and I took an appreciative sip. I’d never had better, except for one time when Gerhard opened a bottle worth three thousand dollars.

  Tony stretched out his legs on the glass-topped coffee table and I did the same.

  “Here’s what I think, Marta. The first thing is you need to go to Paris and try to find out if your husband really is alive. You won’t have any peace until you do. You also can’t tell the police about him, because it would probably put him in grave danger.”

  “So you do believe I saw him, that I wasn’t having hallucinations?”

  “If you had told me you keep seeing him wherever you go, then I would have said you need help. But to see him twice and only in Paris, then I have to believe it was real.”

  “Lili Doubek told me the same thing today. Anything else?”

  “Yes. I think you should talk to the Toronto police, if for no other reason than you have to report what happened so you can claim the damage on your insurance. I also think that you should not tell them anything more than ‘someone broke into my apartment.’ Let them come to their own conclusions if they will.”

  I wanted to think about his advice a bit, and Tony, perhaps sensing that, got up, went to the stereo, and put on some music. It was Beethoven’s Concert Romance in F# minor, the piece Victoria Morgan had suffered so much for in bringing it to the world. It’s a work that’s profoundly sad at the beginning and it perfectly mirrored my mood.

  He left the volume down low and came back to sit next to me, sipping his cognac as he waited.

  Finally, I nodded. “I’ll do what you say. I think it’s good advice.”

  “So we’ll go to Paris?”

  “No, Tony, dear. I’ll go to Paris. Your only part in this is giving me shelter from the storm tonight. It can’t go any further.”

  “But it could be dangerous! What if the people who tossed your apartment are still after you?”

  “They probably are, but leaving Canada is going to make it very hard for anyone to follow me. They keep track of who goes in and out of the country very closely now, even Mounties.”

  “How are you going to find your husband, then? Paris is a very big place, and what if he isn’t even living in Paris? The search could take months.”

  “I think I have a good idea how I might find him,” I said. “It may not work out, but I won’t know until I try. And that’s where you can help me.”

  “By doing what?”

  “I’m pretty sure my nice little computer got stolen this morning. I noticed you have one in the spare bedroom. Could we use it?”

  “Sure,” he answered and got up to retrieve it.

  It was an embarrassing moment when his desktop came up because it was a photo of me singing Mimi in Bohème at the Dortmund Opernhaus.

  “Nice photo,” I commented dryly.

  “Well, um, yeah.”

  As soon as the computer was completely started, he opened a browser window. “I’m assuming you want to look for something.”

  “Yes. I want to find a place in Paris that sells Harley Davidson parts.”

  “Motorcycles? Why that?”

  “Because of the package my husband was carrying the first time I saw him. It was wrapped in brown paper, but I’m pretty sure it was a motorcycle tail pipe assembly.”

  “So you’re going to have to search all the places around Paris that sell motorcycle parts?”

  “No, only Harleys. Trust me, Marc wouldn’t ...” I sighed heavily. “Jean-Claude wouldn’t be interested in any other brand.”

  The computer thought about it for a second, then a results screen flashed up. The list seemed longer than I would have expected, but there were three places reasonably near the Sully-Morland Métro station.

  “Those are where I’ll search first. If I’m right, somebody is going to have information on my husband.”

  “You can’t very well go in there and demand they tell you. After all, you don’t even know what name he’s going under.”

  “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

  Tony went to each of the sites and printed out information on the companies, although his printer was located in another room, and there were no wires between the computer and it. The wonders of modern electronics.

  Stretching and yawning widely, Tony said, “I have to be at the shop early tomorrow. We’re doing inventory and I have some things to get ready.”

  His comment was so transparent, I just burst out laughing. He blushed charmingly.

  “Why don’t you just say what’s on your mind, big boy?”

  “I didn’t want to be crude or pushy. I’m perfectly willing to let you have the sofa.”

  “Oh, that’s generous of you.” I was struggling to maintain a serious expression. “I’m the guest you invited here. I should be offered the bed.”

  “Well, you can’t have it unless you want to share it with me, because that’s where I’m sleeping.”

  Grabbing his head, I pulled him close, kissing him hard. “Now that’s a good way to let this lady know where your interests lie.”

  Tony’s face had a bemused expression. “Why should I beat around the bush?”

  “Exactly. And why should I play hard to get?”

  The next fifteen minutes were spent having quite a wild make-out session on the leather sofa. It was amazing how Tony’s kisses just melted my insides.

  Our clothes were already half off when he said, “Hell with this! We have a perfectly good bed that’s not being used.”

  With that, he swept me up, then in the bedroom, he swept me away. Our lovemaking that night was far superior to the first time. No more “opening-night jitters” to mar what we did to each other.

  By the time I was finally drifting off to sleep, I remember thinking that it hadn’t been such a bad day after all.

  The next morning, I woke up at five, and after an hour of trying to get back to sleep, I realized that it was no good. For better or worse, that was it for me as far as sleep went. Quietly slipping out of bed, I went into the living room.

  I’d been pointlessly staring out the window for nearly half an hour when Tony appeared in the doorway.

  “And how are you this morning?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  Mount Pleasant Cemetery lay spread out before me, a beautiful spot with trees, shrubs, and grass during the good weather. But even then, you knew it was the home of cold, grey stones that marked the passing of thousands of lives. Now with life shutting down in preparation for the hard fact of winter, its desolation was palpable. Given my present situation, it was infinitely depressing.

  Tony came in and stood behind me, but fortunately didn’t touch me. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  “I feel as if my life has turned into a bloody opera.
” I answered without turning around.

  He wasn’t having any of my glum mood. I could see his teasing grin dimly reflected in the glass of the window in front of me. “What opera?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Quite frankly, no.”

  I turned, and must have had quite a scowl on my face, because Tony stepped back. “Try Traviata on for size.”

  “Traviata? How do you fit yourself as Violetta into your situation?”

  “That’s what I’ve been standing at this bloody window thinking about since I got up.” I turned around. “You’ve heard the poetic translation of the opera’s title in English, haven’t you?”

  He nodded. “The Fallen One. How do you figure that relates to you?”

  “Maybe it is me. I fell for this guy I knew nothing about. I’ve been wondering if I missed clues that were there, things that might have caused me to step back. Or maybe my husband is The Fallen One. Heaven knows, that fits him well enough.” I looked into Tony’s eyes. “Thing is, I just don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Where this is all leading.”

  “Sounds like you could use a good hug, for starters.”

  Tony wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, something I didn’t know I needed until he did it.

  “When I woke up and found you gone, I was worried that you regretted what happened last night,” he told me after a quiet minute or two.

  I squeezed him a little harder. “No, that was really wonderful, a bit unexpected, but really wonderful.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  We kissed, not one full of passion like we’d shared the previous evening, but one expressing our growing closeness.

  “I could use a cup of coffee,” I said a few moments after our lips parted. “I’m never much good in the morning until I’ve had my coffee.”

  “I’ll make a note of that.”

  Again that teasing note to his voice. I began to relax.

  “Espresso, cappuccino, or plain old drip coffee?”

  “Whatever you’re making is fine.”

  “I’m making whatever you want.”