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

by Blechta, Rick

  She tried hard to put on a sympathetic expression. “I can believe it.”

  “Also probably Interpol needs to be brought in since this is cross-jurisdictional.” Dobbin ran a hand over his balding head and sighed. “The paperwork is going to be a nightmare.” Finally he got to the heart of the matter, and the potential sticking point. “How certain are you that the man you’re after might have killed this singer?”

  “Well, if you mean do we have any hard evidence, we don’t. But he did leave another rose right on her doorstep —”

  “Or had someone else do it.” Dobbin rested his arms on his desk and leaned closer to her. “Let me get this straight. You don’t know who this person is, you don’t know where he — or she — may live, you aren’t even sure if he or she is doing this directly or through an agent. What exactly do you know for sure, past the bugging of the apartment for which you at least have evidence? Shannon, you used to be a top-notch investigator. You know what they’re going to say upstairs. You’ve got to give me something solid.”

  Shannon blew out a lungful of air. “Les, I know it’s not a lot to go on. You haven’t met Marta, but you’ve met Tony. They’re reasonable, intelligent people. These things have happened to them. They’re paying me a lot of money to help them. She’s got one of my people over there with her now. He is experienced and he believes it is possible this stalker has killed someone. Do you really want me to come in here sometime soon and say, ‘You should have listened to me?’ I think we have someone here who’s about to leave the reservation, if he hasn’t already.

  “This person is smart, well-funded, and seems to be enjoying his little game of cat and mouse an awful lot. Today he even managed to slip a rose into this woman’s shopping bag for Christ’s sake, and she was only out for a brief time. He’s there, he’s active, and I definitely feel he’s ramping up to something. I don’t know what his endgame is, but I don’t think it will stop with one murder. Will you help?”

  Dobbin turned to his note-taking assistant. “Go downstairs and get us some coffee, will you? You still drink it black, Shannon?”

  After the door clicked shut, Dobbin leaned forward again. “All right, Shannon. I’m going to put my faith in you. You absolutely believe everything you’ve said to me? Because if you don’t, you’d better tell me now.”

  She nodded once.

  “Okay. When Mike gets back, you’re going to help us write this up. They’re going to want documentation up the yin-yang and I want your name to be front and centre on all of it.”

  When she started her car two hours later, Shannon was mentally exhausted, but more significantly, apprehensive.

  What if she was wrong about all of this?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dan camped out on my apartment’s sofa that night, and I slept the better for it.

  We made our breakfast early the next morning on cheese, toasted bread, and the remaining fruit I’d bought the previous day. I like to eat sparingly but frequently before I perform so I remain feeling light and my diaphragm “bouncy” while also not feeling hungry.

  Outwardly I may have appeared calm, but inside I was a complete wreck. The police wanted to see me right after the performance was over — something I’d have to try to forget about until the curtain fell (good luck on that).

  Dan took their call as per instructions from Shannon. Tony had already informed me late the night before what might be in the works. I felt like clamping my hands over my ears while Dan spoke.

  A few hours later I received a surprise second call: Lili. The surprise was not her phoning. It was the fact that she wished speak to Dan, not me.

  The call was brief and consisted at his end of a series of answers like “Ah-ha,” “yes, of course,” “I understand,” and one “I agree with you completely.”

  He hung up and I was sort of miffed that Lili hadn’t wanted to speak to me. When I asked what she’d said, his answer was slightly evasive, telling me she just wanted to let him know what we might expect from our adversary now that the police were directly involved.

  “And what sort of things are those?” I asked sweetly.

  “Technical stuff mostly. Basically she said I should stay close, that there could be a good chance to stop him because he might be getting nervous now.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  For a moment, I thought he might lie to me. “No, my guess is he was already well aware that with Shannon and me on the scene, the cops wouldn’t be far behind. Hasn’t seemed to cramp his style a bit, has it?”

  I looked at him closely for a moment, then decided with the stress of a performance in a few hours, it would do no good to think about anything beyond the job at hand. Other things would just take care of themselves in time.

  I’ve gotten good at shutting out the world on performance days. One has to. We performers are expected to be perfect. The real opera enthusiasts know their favourites as well as anyone, and are instantly aware if anything slips. Every musician appearing that night (and despite the jokes I used to make when I was a percussionist, I’m including singers in that list) would be trying their damnedest to not make a single mistake — or shall I say not make a single noticeable mistake.

  I would also be a horrible liar if I said that I wasn’t aware he would certainly be in the audience that night.

  A walk-through with our new Scarpia had been scheduled for eleven and my plan, enthusiastically taken up by Dan, was to remain at the opera house all day, warming up with one of the house répétiteurs mid-afternoon, followed by a quick cat nap on the day bed in my dressing room, a light meal, makeup and wardrobe, and by then it would be show time.

  Post performance would be showdown time: my visit to the cops.

  Edoardo Furci was a slender man with a natty beard, charming manner, and ready smile. He took direction gracefully, was enthusiastic, engaged, deferred to Javier or me at all times, and even made Giorgi grin, something not easy to do on a performance day when he was always tense and brittle. In short, Furci as a person was everything that De Vicenzo was not.

  Things were definitely weird backstage, hardly a big surprise. It really was disgusting to see many of the same people who’d been cursing our ex-baritone as recently as Tuesday evening now openly weeping over his death.

  The devil in me wondered what they’d say if I told them I was indirectly the cause of it.

  By one o’clock when rehearsal broke, I felt confident we wouldn’t embarrass ourselves, and if Furci’s voice was as good as advertised, we might even be special. I doubted he could bring the menacing weight that De Vicenzo naturally possessed, but he was also aware that the spotlight would be on him. Being a veteran of the opera wars, you could be certain he would bring his A-game.

  Javier, Furci, and Giorgi were going out to lunch, and even though I longed to join them, I thought it best to keep my distance. With the excuse I simply had to spend some time with my ghost writer, I begged off. At this point, having him keep his distance was definitely off the job description. We both knew the danger. No sense encouraging another late-night stumble on a stairway. While the rehearsal had been on and I’d been safely surrounded, Dan had gone out for food.

  We went back to my dressing room where he’d laid out the food. There were two selections of pasta, crusty bread, salad, and even a split of wine.

  “I thought this early in the day, you might be able to indulge a little.”

  Gratefully accepting a glass, I chattered on about the rehearsal, not noticing in the slightest that my guardian angel was rather distracted.

  That evening, I was already in the wings when Giorgi raised his arms and the orchestra began. Sweet Javier came up behind me with big hug as he moved forward to wait for his cue. Furci, still in his dressing room, probably struggling with an almighty case of nerves, poor man, was the only cast member not yet on hand.

  One thing I had noticed from the moment I entered the building that morning had been a nervous energy. The whole place buzzed like a hive, ever
yone on their toes. We were the big story in Rome that day, probably in most of Italy (take that La Scala!), and everyone knew it. Attendance was at the bursting point with the last bit of standing room gone hours before. Apparently, the curious who couldn’t get in were even roaming the piazza out front.

  One thing about show biz people is that when the spotlight is on, you just can’t help but give it your all. Worrisomely, after a short tribute to our fallen comrade by the GM of the opera, the orchestra sounded a little hyper in the overture — or was that Giorgi? Even though their sonic force could obliterate us on stage if they chose to, they knew their business and sounded as if they were on their game. A little circumspection would have made me feel more confident, though.

  People tend to pull together in a crisis, and we all hoped for an excellent night. I was out to prove that the success of our production was not due to the extreme menace — and to be truthful, artistry — that De Vicenzo brought to his role as one of the most memorable villains in all of opera. Javier as much as said the same to me. Since Tosca is very much a three-horse opera, it was in our hands: Edoardo, Javier, and me.

  And we pulled it off.

  The ovation at the curtain was thunderous. As I looked out at the auditorium when we three came out, hands triumphantly joined above our heads, standing in the very spot the principals had stood at the premier of this opera in this very theatre over a hundred years ago, I felt proud of what we’d accomplished.

  Javier and I (by prior arrangement) had playfully pushed Furci in front of us to indicate to the audience we felt the night was his. He had indeed risen to the occasion; his Scarpia had been excellent, although I hadn’t enjoyed dispatching him with my knife at the end of act 2 nearly as much as I had his predecessor.

  By the time Giorgi ascended from the pit to take his bows, everyone in the theatre was in a rare good mood, knowing they’d all been part of an exceptional night of opera.

  As is usual on most closing nights, everyone was heading out to dinner. I begged off by saying I had a 7:55 train to catch. I wonder what they would have said if I’d admitted I had to go to the police station.

  Dan had been keeping watch on my dressing room from a discreet spot, but unknown to me he’d also stuck a spy camera in there. Both of us were disappointed a bouquet hadn’t appeared and the video sent to his computer showed nothing out of the ordinary. We quizzed my dresser Lauretta, knowing it might have wound up in another dressing room, as had happened before.

  “I haven’t heard a thing about bouquets, signora.”

  “I’m in a bit of a rush, Lauretta, so if you could hurry, I would appreciate it a lot.”

  Dan left and she helped me off with my costume, and donning the light robe I use, we both worked at getting the long wig off and makeup removed.

  Almost at the end, there was a knock on the door.

  Furci was there and my heart nearly stopped when I saw the long box he was carrying.

  Our foe had done it again.

  But I was wrong.

  This time there was a difference.

  “Marta, dear,” Furci gushed in effusive Italian. “I am speechless. Thank you so much. I cannot say how grateful I am, not only for your wonderful singing and support this evening, but also for this token.”

  “The bouquet?” I asked, nearly stuttering in my confusion.

  “Of course! I must admit that it is a bit out of the ordinary, but the beauty, the presentation. I have never seen anything like it.”

  Even Lauretta was gawking a bit because she’d seen me (and my distress) when the exact same bouquet of roses had been found in my dressing room after a previous performance.

  “I … I’ve forgotten what I asked to be written on the card,” I said. “What does it say?”

  “It is in English,” he said, appearing a bit confused because we’d been speaking only Italian all day. “It says, ‘Please accept these roses and my best wishes for a superb performance.’ It is signed ‘Marta,’ but this is a man’s writing. The florist, perhaps? Still, it is a gesture most kind. Grazie mille!” He kissed me on both cheeks.

  It felt as if the whole world was going crazy. This was completely unexpected. What did it mean? We were entering uncharted waters. Had things changed as we all feared they might?

  Dan returned at that moment and sized things up in an instant. “May I see that, sir?”

  He took the box and laid it on the counter in front of the mirror. “My wife asked me to take a photo of this when I told her how lovely it was. She’s a nut for flowers.” His phone was out and snapping pictures before anyone knew what was happening. “And the card, may I see it, too?” He shot that from a few different angles. “You’re happy with what I did, Marta? It is satisfactory?”

  The change in Dan’s demeanor was astonishing. No one would believe for an instant that he was a spy along on this little joy ride to protect my posterior from evil forces. In fact, they might find it hard to believe he had a wife.

  As fast as he bustled in, Hudson was out the door again, then stuck his head back in. “Marta, remember our ride is waiting. Chop, chop!”

  Furci got the message, thanked me again, and left. Lauretta looked as if she had a thousand questions, but I just gave her the evil eye and she knew enough not to ask. We got my de-costuming completed in record time.

  As I gave her a handsome tip for all her help over the run, she leaned forward and whispered, “Someday you will tell me what this is all about, si?”

  I hadn’t really formed an idea what it might be like to be interviewed by the Roman police. I’ve never had anything to do with them, but knew they could be abrasive. None of that was in evidence that evening.

  First of all, the car was unmarked and the driver waited patiently while I did more than the usual few autographs at the stage door. Dan faded into the background but I knew he was keeping a close eye on everyone in the crowd, not just to those who approached me with programs and pens. It took close to fifteen minutes to get through them all. It was gratifying, if a little unnerving, knowing my stalker could come right up with his pen held out and I’d never know it.

  Eventually Dan bundled me into the car and we roared off, showing a little of the impatience of the driver who’d been sent to fetch me. He screeched his tires impressively at the first corner, and my impression was that, besides being late, we had a long way to go. But the distance was laughably short, a matter of three or four minutes and only because the maze of one-way streets forced us rather out of our way. I could have walked to our appointment in under five minutes. It was rather comical, but it did do one thing: I felt the coiled spring in my stomach relax a little.

  Someone on lookout duty at the door hustled us inside, into an elevator, and up to an office on the third floor.

  We were shown to two chairs set in front of a large antique desk, the kind up on four legs. As the factotum helped me remove my coat, I looked around. The office was elegantly appointed, with a beautiful carpet, soft colours, lots of photos, and bric-a-brac on a few tables. You would have supposed this to be the office of the manager of a large bank.

  The gentleman who came in a moment later was equally impressive: over sixty, tall, and handsome with a long face and large, expressive eyes. He didn’t look at all like a cop. If I hadn’t known better, I would have supposed him to be an actor, writer, or perhaps a musician. His English was impeccable.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me at the end of your long evening, Signora Hendriks. My name is Stefano Pucci and your file has landed on my desk. I understand you wish to aid us in our investigation of the death of Arturo De Vicenzo in the early hours of yesterday morning.”

  Dan had told me earlier that the best way to talk with these people is to “let them do all the talking.” Next to me, he sort of faded into the upholstery of his chair, but I knew he was memorizing everything he saw and heard.

  Pucci was very suave. He gave no rank. I had no idea what he did here, but he seemed very much in charge. He asked
if I would like an espresso or something else to drink. I didn’t think they would serve wine, even in Italian police stations, so I told him sparkling water was fine. I could also have used a sandwich but didn’t ask.

  After speaking softly into his phone, he opened the file on his desk. “Until we heard from your Toronto police, we had been ready to close this file. De Vicenzo had much to drink after his performance. It is reasonable that he stumbled and fell on those stairs. They are old and uneven, as well as long and steep.”

  The drinks arrived and the officer who brought them in took a seat behind Pucci then pulled out a pad and pen.

  “Now, tell me your story, signora.”

  I did that with as much clarity and succinctness as my tired brain would allow. The first part took over twenty minutes, and I watched Pucci turn pages on a sheaf of papers resting in the centre of his desk as if following what I was saying. When I got to the parts of my story that had taken place in Rome, his eyes came up, watching me narrowly and asking occasional questions. This took considerably longer. I wished I knew what was going on in his head.

  “And, as a matter of fact, something also happened just before we left the theatre tonight,” I said at the end.

  “And what was that?”

  “Another bouquet was delivered. Mr. Hudson,” I said, indicating Dan, “and I had discussed during the afternoon whether this man making my life a misery would give me another of his bouquets. He did, but this time it was given to Signor Furci. He brought it to my dressing room and it was undoubtedly the same as the ones I’ve received, but this time it was made out as if I had given it to my colleague.”

  “And where is this bouquet now?”

  Dan finally spoke up. “With Furci. We couldn’t very well ask him to hand it over. However, I did take a number of photos using my cell phone. I would like to offer them to you.”