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

by Blechta, Rick

  “I, ah, almost fell down. There were a bunch of long-stemmed roses all over the floor backstage.”

  “Roses? How odd.”

  The dresser, still fussing with my fall, added, “Yes. They were talking about them just now. Apparently one of the chorus members proposed to another during the first intermission, and she turned him down. They had a raging quarrel in front of everyone and he stormed out. He must have thrown away the bouquet he’d brought. Beautiful pink roses.”

  “What?” was all I could manage to say.

  I hadn’t been able to see the colour well in the backstage gloom, and to be frank I didn’t even look all that closely. I just saw roses and freaked out. I felt like a complete fool.

  “I, ah, need a minute to myself, Sabrina.” She took the hint and scurried out. Picking up my mobile, I said to Dan, “Did you hear all that?”

  “Loud and clear. Guess it was all a false alarm.”

  “I’m such a dunce.”

  “Not at all. You’ve been under a lot of pressure. I probably would have done the same thing.”

  “I shouldn’t complain, but I’m mentally so far away from what I have to do…. I have to get myself pulled back together.”

  “Take a few deep breaths and then go out there and knock them dead.”

  “You sound just like Lili.”

  “God help me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The curtain came down and the audience roared. The stage manager gave me two thumbs up as I got myself off the floor after having expired a couple of minutes earlier.

  Ettore was beaming as he took my hand. I latched on to the evening’s Germont (Martin Smith from the UK) and we took the first of many curtain calls.

  Everyone in the cast was in a jubilant mood as we left the theatre. The producers had supplied water taxis to take us from La Fenice to the Danieli. Dan felt that was safe enough for me. He’d follow discretely behind in his own taxi.

  I was sitting in the back of one boat with François LaPierre, the director, on one side and Ettore Lagorio on the other, with everyone around us chattering about how splendidly it had all gone.

  Canalside, Carnevale was in full swing. With the final few days upon Venice, it was party central and we passed many laughing groups fully decked out in the traditional costumes: women as Columbina and men as Bauta, Pantalone, or Volto. We passed someone in a gondola dressed as the Medico della peste, the mysterious Plague Doctor, with a long black cloak, tri-corner hat, and the mask with the long beak and pince-nez glasses that always gave me the willies.

  Someone commented that we should have worn our costumes. “We would have fit right in.”

  I wanted to soak in my only night of freedom in Venice, and the weather had cooperated. February can be frightful, with high tides causing flooding throughout the city. The Venetians handle it with aplomb, donning rubber boots and putting out temporary elevated walkways through Piazza San Marco, but it’s still messy. The weather had been fine all week, and that night it felt almost warm. High in the sky above us, a full moon rode some scattered clouds.

  “It is so nice that you can come out with us this evening, Marta,” Ettore said as we passed the bridge over the canal next to the Doge’s Palace. “You have hidden yourself away all week.”

  “It’s this damned opera I’m premiering next month. I don’t know how I’m ever going to memorize my part. It’s long and it’s complicated, and fiendishly difficult.”

  “Are you sure it has nothing to do with the mysterious gentleman who is always somewhere around?”

  My heart almost stopped. “What gentleman?”

  LaPierre said that some of the cast and crew had seen me having breakfast with him in my hotel. He patted my arm. “Don’t worry. We do not make the judgment.”

  Not wanting to give rumours any oxygen, I told them, “That’s Dan. He’s a ghost writer who’s helping me with my memoirs. He’s been with me on this whole trip.”

  “But why have you not introduced him?”

  “He wants me to forget he’s there. He says it will give him more perspective on how I live my life. Don’t worry, he’s a good friend of my husband.”

  I could tell they weren’t really swallowing my story, but it was better than telling them exactly why Dan was with me.

  Trying to change the subject, I looked up the canal passing by. Leading from the palace to the building next door was a stone bridge, high up. It had tiny little chinks of windows that seemed out of place.

  “That’s the Bridge of Sighs, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Ettore answered. “I pity the poor bastards whose last sight of the outside world was through those windows as they were led off to prison.”

  “That’s the building to the right?”

  “Yes. Have you ever been in it?”

  “No. When I was here with Gerhard Fosch, he wanted me to see it when he was showing me the Doge’s Palace. I didn’t want to go. Small confined areas like those old cells make me very uncomfortable.” I took my two gentlemen’s arms. “Perhaps in a previous life, I was a desperate criminal who spent the last months of life in a cell like that.”

  “You, a desperate criminal? I will not believe it!”

  We were laughing again as we went ashore not far from the other side of the bridge and hustled off along the Riva toward the Hotel Danieli.

  It was well after two when the party broke up. I was several glasses of champagne to the plus side and feeling just wonderful for the first time in several weeks. Traviata had gone off very well, and I’d sung as well as I ever had. The false alarm with the roses backstage had faded from my memory, as had the horrible events in Rome. A good party and champagne will do that for you.

  I did have my wits about me enough to call Dan on my mobile as I descended the stairs to the Danieli’s famous lobby.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “In the bar. Care to join me? I still owe you a double.”

  “I’ve had quite enough, thank you.”

  “Ready to go, then?”

  I walked up behind Dan and took his phone out of his hand. “It seems stupid to talk on this thing when I’m standing right behind you. Some spy! You didn’t even notice.”

  “Of course I knew you were there. I was just trying to get you off balance.”

  “But what if I’d had a knife?”

  He smiled. “I could disarm you in a heartbeat.”

  I put my arm around his shoulder and gave him a big kiss on his cheek. “I’ll just bet you could.”

  “My, you have had a bit to drink.”

  “Just champagne.”

  “I’ve heard that one before,” he said with a grin before heaving himself to his feet.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Sparkling water.”

  But I could tell he’d had at least one drink. I looked at my watch, realizing Dan had been waiting for me for well over two hours.

  When I started to apologize, he put his hand over my mouth. “All part of the service. I’ve been enjoying sitting here watching all the revelers. Some of the costumes are truly amazing.”

  “It will go on around the clock between now and Tuesday. In the old days, they got up to all kinds of debauchery. Really quite shocking in such a Catholic city.”

  “The Church’s strictness is probably precisely why they got up to some hanky-panky. Let’s hit the road. We’ve got a plane to catch tomorrow.”

  The Riva was still quite crowded for so late.

  “Pretty please, Dan, can we walk back to the hotel? I’m not the slightest bit tired and the walk might sober me up a bit.”

  Dan was clearly not happy. It took a lot of convincing before he gave in.

  “There are tons of people around. Even if our friend decided to stay up this late, he’s not going to try anything in a crowd.”

  Dan decided to humour me, but insisted on walking right next to me and I was fine with that.

  The cafés around Piazza San Marco were still g
oing strong, filled with revelers. We stopped in the centre of it, listening to the old standards from competing orchestras echo off the buildings, all very atmospheric. Tonight was Venice at its timeless best. It could have easily been a hundred years ago.

  As we got to the far end of the square and passed through a short arcade, I told Dan, “It’s too bad we couldn’t have gotten away to wander around. It’s great fun to just follow the alleys and small piazzas to see where you wind up. Since Venice is all a group of islands, you can’t really get lost here. Eventually you’ll get to the other side, and then you just hop on one of the vaporetti that circle the city.”

  “I’ve definitely seen enough to want to come back. Now I get what everyone goes on about when Venice is mentioned.”

  “It’s best to come back here with somebody. Venice is much better with two.”

  “I don’t have anyone.”

  “May I ask why that is?”

  He shrugged. “Too busy and always on the move. There have been women along the way, but nothing that lasted. Guess I haven’t met the right one.”

  The party people weren’t so much in evidence around here, but there were still enough that I felt secure. I continued regaling Dan with things I knew about the city. Since I was a bit wobbly from the champagne I’d consumed, Dan took my arm as we walked. Passing a darkened storefront, I stumbled on an uneven cobble and nearly went down. Nimbly, he swung me around and we wound up face to face.

  “Steady there, Marta.” He laughed. “You’ve got enough trouble without twisting your ankle.”

  His expression was unreadable.

  “I’m fine, really. Just wasn’t watching where I was stepping.”

  “Too much champagne and a good performance, I expect.”

  I looked up into his face. “Thanks for catching me.”

  “All part of the service. Let’s shake a leg. It’s getting late.”

  We walked several minutes longer, finally entering a large square. I turned us left and we walked a bit further.

  “Whoops! This is the Grand Canal. We shouldn’t be here. We must have taken a wrong turn someplace.”

  It was the Academia Bridge. Back at the previous piazza, I should have had us turn right rather than left. I was pretty sure La Fenice and our little hotel were in that direction. When we got back to the piazza, the restaurants and cafés were all closing and the crowds were melting away. I felt sure I’d been here before. In the centre of it was a large statue of a large man. He seemed very familiar.

  “It’s this way,” I said with more certainty.

  We passed straight through, went down an alley, and then into a smaller piazza that was nearly deserted.

  Dan said, “Perhaps we should ask someone.”

  I giggled. “Was that a male I just heard, suggesting we ask for directions?”

  “We have no idea where we are and it’s getting late.”

  There were two people on the other side of the piazza. I called out in Italian, “Hey! Can you help us with some directions?”

  They looked back but kept on walking. We were now alone.

  “I’m almost certain we should go that way,” I said, pointing to a wide alley on our right.

  We walked along it, came to one of those arched bridges that are so Venetian, went up and over, and found ourselves in a smaller alley. It was completely empty and lit only by a light at the end.

  We hurried along it and came out in a small piazza with four exits. I picked the most likely one and we entered an even smaller alley. It came to an end suddenly at the edge of a canal.

  The alcohol had worn off and I was beginning to get nervous.

  “We should go back to the Grand Canal,” Dan said, putting his arm around me, “catch one of those vaporetto boats and return to San Marco. I’m sure we can find a water taxi there.”

  Turning around, we walked quickly back up the alley. We’d just about gotten to the end when Dan sort of went “Uhhh,” and slumped against me. Taken off balance and by surprise, I couldn’t hold him up and he slithered down my body to the cobblestones.

  Someone pushed me hard against the opposite wall of the alley, one hand on my stomach and the other holding my chin.

  “Do not cry out or I will break your neck,” he whispered in Italian. It reminded me of a hissing snake.

  He was hunched and wearing a black cloak. As he moved against the light from the square behind us, I saw with horror a tri-corner hat and a long beak where his face should have been. The Plague Doctor. My blood ran cold.

  “You should have listened to your friend Hudson and not gone to that party, Marta Hendriks.”

  “Who are you?” I asked through clenched teeth.

  “You know who I am. And you should not be trifling with me. Right now I could kill you. You know that, don’t you?”

  I managed a nod.

  “You think you did well tonight? What if I were to tell your husband that you were walking arm in arm with another man? What if he knew the way you were looking at this man? Eh? What if I told him you were in Hudson’s arms? Where would you be then?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  I realized the man was trembling as much as I was, but whether from nerves or emotion, I couldn’t tell.

  He stood up taller and moved his face toward my left ear. “I want your voice, your talent, your being. I want all of you. Know that I am always here, in your life, in your dreams. I am your nightmare. You cannot stop me, Marta. I will have you. Know that.”

  He released me and disappeared as quietly as he’d come. I would have loved to cry out, brought people running who might have grabbed him, unmasked him, so that I would have known who this foul creature was. But I was just too petrified by fear to do anything except sink to the ground.

  Next to me, Dan moved his head and moaned.

  Thank God he was still alive.

  Pulling myself together, I stumbled to the mouth of the alley, took a deep breath, and cried out for help. And believe me, when someone with my vocal capacity cries out, the entire city of Venice should hear it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The jangling of the phone by his elbow jolted Tony out of a very sound sleep. The Leafs were still on the TV, down five to two in the dying minutes of the third period, no closer to the Stanley Cup than they’d been since 1967. The last thing he remembered they’d scored two quick goals halfway through the first period. He must have been more zonked than he’d thought.

  The phone was now on its third ring. He picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Tony. It’s me. I was … I was …”

  “Marta? Where are you?”

  “In Venice. Where else would I be?”

  He wiped his hand over his face. “Sorry. I dozed off in front of the TV. I’m a bit groggy. What’s up?”

  It still hadn’t sunk in that his wife was near hysteria. He suddenly remembered that tonight was the broadcast. He was supposed to watch it on the Internet. Oh geez. Was he going to catch it now!

  “Tony. I saw him tonight. He was here. He spoke to me.”

  Finally he was awake enough to realize something was very wrong.

  “You saw him? Where? How? What did he say?”

  “It’s Dan. The bastard hit him or did something to him. I don’t know. I’m at a police station.”

  Marta was making little sense. She sounded at the breaking point.

  “Marta, love, take a deep breath. Start at the beginning. Tell me what’s happened.”

  It took a number of minutes to get the full story out of her in any intelligible form. To say the least, he was horrified as to how close it had been to something really bad happening.

  “And you say Dan’s in the hospital?”

  “When people finally came to my shouting, he was still unconscious. When the police arrived, they separated us. I only know that an ambulance boat came and took him away. They brought me to a police station and they’ve been questioning me ever since. I don’t know where Dan is or what’s happening
to him!”

  Tony wished he’d listened to his heart and gone along with Marta. He’d thought Dan had everything in hand, but obviously that was a very false hope.

  “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

  “No. He just spoke to me. Threatened me, really. I was sure he was going to kill me. Oh my God, it was so horrible.”

  “And you’re at a police station right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stay there. He can’t get at you when you’re with them.”

  “Believe me, I am not going anywhere. Oh Christ, I wish you were here, Tony!”

  “So do I. Can you put one of the officers on the line?”

  He could hear a muffled conversation, then a brisk voice asked in Italian, “Who is this?”

  “I am the husband of Marta Hendriks. I’m in Toronto. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  The inspector was puzzled about exactly what had happened. Tony told him quickly about the murder in Rome.

  “Contact Chief Inspector Stefano Pucci, or whatever his rank is,” he told the Venetian cop. “He knows far more about this than I do. But you must promise me that my wife will not be left alone. The person stalking her is very determined and very clever.”

  “I can assure we will look after Signora Hendriks.”

  “And what about the person accompanying her? Where is he and is he all right?”

  “Signore Hudson. He is at the hospital being examined.”

  “Can you find out how seriously he’s hurt?”

  “I will do my best. You have to understand that it is very late at night here.”

  “I understand. My wife is coming home this morning. Her flight leaves in,” he glanced at his watch, “five hours. I don’t think she should go back to her hotel, do you?”

  Tony could again hear a muffled conversation and then Marta came back on the line.

  “Tony? They say I can’t go back to the hotel to pick up my luggage.”

  “No, dear. Stay there until it’s time to go to the airport. Can you see if they will personally take you there?”

  More muffled talking.

  “They’ll do that. The inspector you first talked with is speaking with the Roman police right now.”