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

by Blechta, Rick

  I had a bit of a hike to get to where I could catch a bus, but on such a fine day, that was no hardship at all. Walking briskly along several back streets, I felt good that I was finally doing something about my problems instead of waiting around for them to do something to me.

  Getting on an eastbound bus when I reached Rue de Tolbiac, I took a seat and went over things in my head.

  I’d first visited Paris on a school band trip when I was seventeen. That had been an eye-opener to kids from a small city like Ottawa. We were a pretty unruly bunch. Our teacher and the chaperones spent the majority of their time trying to corral us. One night, six of us, more on a dare than anything, snuck out to the infamous Moulin Rouge, where we saw the very sexy stage show and drank champagne. Everyone piled out of the cab back at the hotel pretty smashed, only to find the band director waiting for us in the lobby, his expression positively Vesuvian. He confined us to our rooms thereafter and said if we stepped out of line even one inch, we’d be immediately put on a plane back home. When the word of what we’d done got around, we were elevated to hero status, not only in the band but in the whole school. It was one of those childhood memories that both delights and shocks you when you get old enough to realize just what might have happened.

  Being in Paris as little more than a tourist for the first time in years, I naturally thought of those youthful high-spirits. The parallels to what I was doing now were not lost on me, either.

  When the bus passed over a rail line, I knew we were getting close. I had what I wanted to say pretty-well worked out, but rehearsal is always a lot different than the performance. If I ever thought I was a competent actress, today was the day to prove it.

  I know nothing about motorcycles except that they’re dangerous and noisy. When Marc had gone on and on and on about how he wanted to one day build his own special motorcycle, and pulled out all his magazines and brochures, I had to struggle to keep my eyes from glazing over. Sure, I felt I should share my husband’s interests, but I also wanted him to stay alive and healthy. The only cold water I actually threw on the project was when I told him he would never catch me riding on the back of it. He just laughed and said he had ways of persuading me.

  The motorcycle shop was nicely laid out, clean and actually looked quite swish. The places Marc had dragged me into were dumps by comparison.

  “How may I help Madame this afternoon?” inquired the tall grey-haired man behind the circular counter in the centre of the shop.

  I walked toward him trying to appear indecisive and unsure of myself — not much of a stretch, considering how much of a long shot this whole exercise could prove to be.

  “I ... I am not sure,” I began in the broadest Quebec accent I could manage. “It is my husband’s birthday in a few weeks and I want to give him something special.”

  “Madame wishes to buy a motorcycle?”

  “No, no.” I tried to appear genuinely horrified.

  Some of his shopkeeper’s patience seemed to ooze away. “Then what does Madame wish?”

  I leaned forward as if to tell him a secret. “Well, you see, my husband does not know that I know about the motorcycle he is building in the garage of our neighbour. We moved here about two years ago and he —”

  “What are you trying to tell me?” The expression on the shopkeeper’s face seemed to add, “you stupid cow.”

  “My husband knows that I do not approve of his dream of having one of your fine machines, so that is why he is building it in secret, but I have decided that if he wants it that badly, then he should have it and not hide things from me.”

  “And?”

  “I would like to buy a part for it and give it to him on his birthday. It will be a very big surprise for him.”

  “But how can you buy a part if you do not even know what he is building? This is a foolish thing you ask!”

  Reaching into my purse, I pulled out two photos I’d brought with me. Both showed Marc and me in happier times. In one we were sitting on a sawhorse in the shell of the new house. It was a good shot of him, smiling and looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The other was on the occasion of our first anniversary, when we’d gone out with some neighbours to a restaurant in Perth. In this, Marc was more solemn and I remembered that just before the camera had flashed, he’d kissed me and told me that I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. I hadn’t been able to look at that photo until this trip.

  “This is my husband, although he now has a small beard,” I said sliding the photos across the counter. “Perhaps he has bought some of his parts here?”

  “You do not even know if he shops here?” the shopkeeper asked incredulously.

  I decided to appear a bit put out. The man certainly deserved it.

  “I have already told you, my husband is building his damned motorcycle in secret.”

  My use of the Quebec term maudit for “damned” seemed to set the man back on his heels a bit, and he actually studied the photos carefully for a few moments.

  “No. I have not seen this man. I am afraid Madame is wasting her time here.” As I dejectedly slid the photos back into my purse, he added in a kinder voice, “Perhaps you would like to buy an accessory for him?”

  “It has to be a part so that he knows I am in support of him. Thank you for your time.”

  Once I was out the door and around the corner, I drew myself up to my full height again, stretching the kinks out of my back. This acting gig was hard.

  Back on the bus, I was surprised I didn’t feel depressed or even downhearted. I had just successfully fooled that snot of a shopkeeper, and I felt ready for the real test, which would hopefully come the next morning.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The sun had pretty well set by the time I got back to my romantic little apartment. I’d stopped in at a couple of shops I passed on the way home, picking up one of those small roasted chickens the French call coquelets, salad fixings, a half a baguette, and a bottle of red wine. It’s probably against the law in France to drink red wine with chicken, but I really didn’t give a fig. Wine is so good and so cheap in this country, I was going to indulge myself.

  After eating, I poured a third glass and watched a little bit of television on the small set. Nothing particularly caught my interest, so I tapped off a quick email to Tony, telling him about striking out on my first try, then sent another to Alex, asking what was up for some pending European bookings that had been offered since my triumph at the Paris Opera.

  I’d been twiddling my thumbs, lost in thought as the computer shut down. For some reason I felt completely wired, totally unprepared to go to bed. From the corner of one of my bags I could see Chloe’s percussion music peeking out.

  “Why not?” I asked no one in particular.

  With my stick bag unrolled on the table, a practice pad in front of me on top of some magazines to get it to the right height, I happily practised rudiments and some of the music for the next hour, at which point my hands gave out. Not bad. I might actually avoid making a fool of myself at the concert.

  After a quick shower, I felt more ready for bed. Checking my email, Alex had added two more opera bookings for two years on and one for the following year. Covent Garden was eager to discuss appearing in the premiere of a new opera. I was sort of disappointed to find that Tony hadn’t answered my earlier email.

  I switched off the computer again, then the overhead light after I got into bed. Lying on my back in the darkened room, I reviewed what I wanted to do the next morning. For some reason, I could not fall asleep. The clock told me it was just after midnight.

  Since it was a fine night, I could still hear the frequent clicking of people’s heels as they walked along the street below, either going to or coming from one of a number of restaurants and bars to be found at the top of the hill. When I’d passed by there on the way to catch the bus earlier in the day, I also spotted a bank of pay phones.

  “Why not?” I said, throwing back the covers.

  T
he area was alive with people, mostly young, taking advantage of what was an abnormally warm evening for so late in the year. One restaurant even had a couple of its glass doors slid back, and nobody seemed to mind. I went into a café, bought a phone card, and walked to the booths, which were located in a slightly quieter side street a block away from all the action.

  I thought I’d check in with Lainey, see how she was doing, and find out if there was any news on the investigation of Sébastien’s murder.

  Her cellphone rang four times and then was answered by someone unexpected, Chloe, who sounded extremely odd.

  “Having a girls night out, are we?” I asked playfully.

  “Martha?” she practically shrieked. “Thank the Lord. Where the hell are you?”

  “In Paris. I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d —”

  “Paris? How the hell did you find out what’s happened?”

  It began to sink that something was very wrong. “Where’s Lainey?”

  “Oh Christ, Marta, they just took her to the hospital!”

  I felt as if someone had hit me hard in the stomach. “You’d better tell me what’s happened,” I said a lot more calmly than I felt.

  “Some guys broke into her apartment and beat her up.”

  “What do you mean? When? How?”

  “Just before I arrived here, apparently. She’d asked me to drop over to discuss our Chicks with Sticks gig. I was a bit late and there were three police cars out front. I didn’t think much of it, went into the lobby and on up to her apartment. About a second after stepping out of the elevator, I realized the cops were at Lainey’s. I ran down the hall right into the arms of a cop, who asked me, not very politely, where the hell I thought I was going. ‘That’s my friend’s apartment,’ I shrieked at him. ‘What’s going on?’”

  Chloe was normally a person who kept her emotions in check quite well. To hear her so beside herself was just shocking. “What did the cop tell you?”

  “The brute just glared at me. ‘You know the woman who lives here?’ he asked. ‘Yes! Is she all right? Let me see her!’ He motioned another cop over and told him, ‘The boss will want to talk to this one. Take over for me.’”

  I felt physically ill by then. “Did you see Lainey?” I asked.

  “Only as she was being wheeled out on a stretcher.”

  “What did they do to her?”

  “Pounded her around pretty good. I could only see her face and it looked awfully banged up.”

  “Any other injuries?”

  “I don’t know!” Chloe wailed.

  “Can you find out?”

  “I’m going to the hospital as soon as I get off the phone with you.”

  “Do you know anything about what happened?”

  “The cop in charge told me that two students who live in the next apartment heard noises like someone breaking things. They went to investigate and found the door not quite shut, so they entered. Two big guys had Lainey backed up into a corner. She was holding a lamp and taking swings at them with it. When the intruders realized they weren’t alone, they decided they’d better split. Those brave boys didn’t back off, though. One was knocked down pretty hard.”

  “And Lainey? Did you speak to her?”

  “Only for a moment as they waited for the elevator. She told me I had to get in touch with you.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “To tell you to be very careful.”

  That had been viscerally driven home by this phone conversation.

  Chloe, who seemed to be thinking more clearly now, asked, “What are you doing in Paris? I thought you were going from London to Dallas.”

  I dropped my voice, even though there was no one within earshot. I couldn’t help it. “Look, Chloe, you don’t know where I am. You haven’t spoken to me. Is that clear? I don’t care who asks you. Don’t say anything about where I am.”

  “Marta, what the hell is going on? Are you in some kind of trouble? Is that why Lainey got beat up?”

  “Chloe,” I said patiently, “these are probably the guys who killed Sébastien Bouchard. Tell the cops that, but don’t say where you got the information.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Just do it!”

  “Okay, but can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Not now, but I will. I promise. When you speak to Lainey, tell her I said to tell the cops everything she knows.”

  I stopped at one of the bars for a double of cognac to steady my nerves. After that, I scurried back to my apartment refuge and made sure the door was securely locked.

  Normally, I sleep very well. When I finally took off my clothes and got back into bed around two, I tossed and turned and generally was completely miserable, as anyone might well imagine. I kept reminding myself that I needed to be well rested for the next day, but my brain just wouldn’t listen. Sometime after 3:30 a.m., I finally got deeply enough asleep to begin dreaming. That wasn’t any better.

  In the first part of the dream, I found myself in the middle of a burning building. The heat was incredible and I thought my hair would catch fire. Wrapping a towel around my head, I stumbled through the flames and smoke, and I wasn’t looking for my husband. He’d gotten out, and I couldn’t believe he’d left me behind. I kept calling for help but heard no response.

  I looked down at my hands and they’d started to char. With the usual disconnect you get in dreams, the burns didn’t hurt, but I knew that I was probably close to death. Eventually, I spotted a door in a far corner. Whether it might be a closet or the way to salvation, I was going through it. As I began to run, I noticed that the shoes had burned right off my feet. I didn’t stop.

  The door was smoking as I crashed through it. On the other side it was night and heavy rain was falling. As it hit my body, steam sprang up, making everything hazy and indistinct. I heard voices around me. “My God, do you see what’s happened to her?” “That is absolutely disgusting!” A child began whimpering. “Make her go away mommy. She scares me!”

  Stumbling on, I saw a puddle and looked down. As if in daylight, I could see my reflection perfectly and my stomach heaved. Except for a few shreds, my clothes had all burned away. Underneath my body was completely charred, my skin cracking and showing red underneath.

  I soon found myself in a winding deserted street, like many you find in old Paris neighborhoods. Still night, there was now no one around to see me in my misery. I walked by a restaurant and was surprised to see my husband inside at the small bar near the back, laughing and talking with a man who was obviously the proprietor. I knew he was waiting for me.

  Desperate for help because I knew the pain from my burns would soon hit me with crippling force, I lifted my hand to tap on the window when there was a bright flash from inside the restaurant and glass, bricks, and mortar flew out toward me. I knew we were all dead.

  My eyes flew open. I was lying on my side, the early morning sun hitting my face as it bounced off an apartment window across the street and snuck by the carelessly closed curtain. Touching my face with my hand, the skin felt cool, smooth, and whole, and I began breathing again.

  I sat up and pushed back the tangled mess of my hair. It was soaked, as were the pillow and the sheets. Looking at the bedside clock, I saw it was just after seven, so I got up and filled the coffee maker. I’d told my host that I’d be over for breakfast at 8:30 a.m., which gave me plenty of time to clean the sweat from my body and steam the crud from my brain.

  When I came out of the bath alcove, coffee was ready. Still wrapped in a bath towel, I sat at the small table, sipping gingerly and thinking about what had happened to my friend back in Montreal.

  I couldn’t stop now. They’d keep coming until they got what they wanted. First Sébastien, then my apartment, now Lainey. Had she surprised them or had they been waiting for her? Thank the Lord for those two brave students who came to her rescue, or quite likely she would now be dead.

  If the bad guys knew what I was up to, they’d be over here
in a flash, since it was obvious this all centred around Jean-Claude. It always had. There must be something more to this than his testifying at a trial, something I didn’t know yet. But what?

  I just prayed that I’d been right all along and he was indeed still alive. Now, I had to find him.

  I chose a pair of jeans, runners, and a black turtleneck sweater for the day, threw on a bit of makeup and forced myself to make the short walk over to the main house for breakfast. All I wanted to do was crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head.

  Unfortunately, the only other guest that day recog-nized me right off the bat, and I could not shut him up.

  He was an elderly Brit who often came to Paris to see opera. He went on and on about how horrible the new Bastille opera house is and actually told me I should enjoy the Palais Garnier so much more. I hated to respond that I’d never yet sung at the Bastille, and if he thought the Palais Garnier was so wonderful, he should see the backstage area. His eyebrows shot up when I told him it hadn’t been that long ago that there weren’t any toilets near the dressing rooms, and during evening performances, one had to leave the theatre to use the facilities in a nearby restaurant.

  “I am on holiday and looking forward to having some time to myself for a few days,” I told the old coot as I autographed a piece of paper for him. “Let’s make my presence here our little secret. Okay?”

  He tapped his index finger against the side of his nose. “Mum’s the word,” he chortled. “Our little secret!”

  I hoped he’d remember. He didn’t seem like the sort who could keep his mouth shut if he had anything even mildly interesting to share.

  The car I boarded on the Métro at Place d’Italie was jammed, and like a good Canadian, I moved well away from the doors. People continued piling on, and by the time the train pulled out, I was squashed in on all sides. Just before we got to the Bastille, someone groped me. It was all very subtle but also very definite. Pressed in the way I was, I couldn’t turn, but I shook myself and gave a little yip. Surrounded as I was by males, I had no idea which one I should punch out, even if I’d had the room to get in a good swing.