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

by Blechta, Rick

  Shannon looked frazzled, her hair in a not-very-tidy ponytail. “Well, everyone, it’s been a busy day. Here’s where we stand.” She looked at me. “The police have been doing some digging on the person who had their receiving gear in that vacant condo. They’ve found another resident on the floor who saw a man come out of the apartment late one night. They rode the elevator down together. This resident has provided a limited description and they’re going to put the resident together with an Identi-kit technician and see —”

  Tony interrupted. “What’s an Identi-kit?”

  “Software for assembling a portrait of our suspect based on what the person who saw him remembers. Let’s all hope our person has a very good memory.”

  Since Shannon was stopped, I asked, “And when is this going to take place?”

  “Tomorrow, I very much hope. As for Hong Kong, the Toronto police say the information is en route. Why the Chinese can’t send a simple email is beyond me.”

  I asked the question I most needed an answer to. “Are all those reporters still outside?”

  The COC promo person nodded her head. “If anything, there are more.”

  As I looked around the room I saw concern on everyone’s face, except lurking under Tallevi’s was the hint of excitement. All this attention was huge for his opera company. Our run of shows would not only be a sell-out, but it would probably be scalpers’ heaven — and that doesn’t happen often for an opera.

  “So I guess I’ll have to say something.”

  Shannon nodded. “That would be appropriate.”

  The PR woman said, “We’ve worked up a little script between us and someone your manager hired.” She handed me a sheet of paper. “If this meets with your approval, I can go out and we’ll invite the press into one of our larger rooms where you can make the statement. Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  While the press was herded into the room, I looked at the statement they wanted me to read. I don’t know what they thought the purpose of it was, but it was incredibly fatuous. The situation came across sounding way more mild than what it actually was. My adversary had invaded my life in the most blatant and heartless manner. It was as if he was trying to cripple me in every possible way. I could not trust my privacy, the people I met. He’d killed someone. He’d assaulted me. I couldn’t even live in my own apartment. I was afraid, constantly afraid.

  To stop these spiraling inner thoughts, I took a deep breath. Facing the media horde that had been camped out all day and say what needed to be said, I needed to have utter control of myself.

  Tallevi stuck his head in the door about fifteen minutes later. “Okay, my dear, are you ready?”

  I looked at Tony, sitting quietly next to me. He gave my hand a squeeze then pulled me to my feet. “I will stand just behind you, my darling.”

  Shannon and Dan had disappeared several minutes earlier.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, and tried hard to smile.

  Why did it feel like I was walking to my own execution?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Wow! That news conference sure was an eye opener,” Dan Hudson said to his boss as they sat down on stools at the bar at Quinn’s Irish Steakhouse, down the street from Marta’s hotel. “I spent the last two weeks with her, and I had zero idea Marta had been bottling up that kind of anger.”

  Shannon sighed heavily. “You’ve got that right. If our mystery man had popped out of the media crowd, I believe she would have gone out and personally throttled him. I really need a drink,” she added, signalling the bartender. He came over. “A scotch on the rocks. Make it a double.”

  Dan said, “Bring me a Guinness. Thanks.”

  While they waited, Marta’s face came up on one of the bar’s TV screens. Shannon immediately asked the bartender to turn the sound up.

  “I’m here today to address reports that have appeared in the press,” Marta began, reading from the prepared script. “I know there are many questions about what you’ve heard and I would like to give my side of the story in order to quell the rumours and innuendo presently circulating.”

  She stopped, looked down, looked out at the media throng in front of her, flashes still going off like a lightning storm gone mad, then Marta slowly and deliberately crumpled up the paper.

  Shannon took a sip of her drink. “I wonder what was going through her brain.”

  On the TV, Marta remained silent a few more seconds before she began speaking again. “My life has been invaded by a human being whose capacity for evil is breathtaking. At first, I thought it was lovely, a mysterious admirer, perhaps painfully shy, who would leave me beautiful bouquets of roses. This poor excuse of a man is anything but shy. All the while he was worming his way into the most private parts of my life. Two weeks ago, I discovered nearly every square foot of my apartment here in Toronto was bugged for sound and video. My every footstep has been dogged since. I’m afraid to be alone, constantly looking over my shoulder. He seems to be everywhere — and nowhere.

  “A week ago, while I was performing in Rome, I had a minor disagreement with one of the other members of the cast, Arturo De Vicenzo. It was the sort of thing that goes on in productions all the time, all over the world. This monster took it upon himself to wreak his vengeance on Arturo for some warped reason of his own. I had no involvement in what happened other than to have set the tragedy in motion by disagreeing with a colleague.

  “In Venice, two days ago, this man attacked a bodyguard I had hired and accosted me, threatening my life and frightening me out of my wits. The police in three cities are working their hardest to find this madman and bring him to justice. I pledge my utmost to help in this effort.”

  Again Marta paused. The room in the Tanenbaum Centre was silent except for the continued clacking of camera shutters. She took a drink of water. Then slowly her expression hardened. The camera that had shot the clip they were watching must have been right in front of Marta because she looked directly into it.

  “I am telling you, the bastard who murdered Arturo by pushing him down a flight of stairs, who tried to frighten me in Venice, who has invaded my life…. you will not win. I don’t know what your game is. I have no idea who you are, nor do I care. You will be caught and you will be punished, and when I see you I will spit in your face. I am not afraid of you. I will not run and hide, since this is what you seem to want. My participation in the premiere of this opera, and every other appearance I have booked, is assured. I will be here and you will be rotting in jail — and I hope it’s for the rest of your unnatural life!”

  With that she turned on her heel and disappeared through the doorway behind her.

  Wendy, Tallevi’s beleaguered PR person, jumped behind the microphone practically screaming, “No questions! I’m very sorry but at this time Madame Hendriks will not be taking questions!”

  Obviously, she’d promised the press precisely that. Pushing a piece of loose hair off her forehead, she took questions, mostly around how the Canadian Opera Company was trying to protect their star. She blustered her way through it admirably, saying nothing really — as good PR people should.

  Shannon and Dan looked at each other, still amazed by what they’d already witnessed live less than an hour earlier. They’d been standing at the side of the room. Their purpose had been trying to spot someone who should not have been there, someone who might stand out for some reason. Undercover members of the Toronto police were present as well, attempting to do the same thing. They all knew it was a long shot, but still, it had to be tried.

  Shannon swallowed the remainder of her drink and immediately signalled the barkeep for a refill. Normally she wasn’t a big drinker, but tonight she needed it.

  She’d told Tony and Marta to stay in their suite, but whether Marta would take that advice considering the mood she was in, Shannon couldn’t know. As additional insurance, she’d called Lili, given her a heads-up, and asked if she’d come down to talk directly t
o her friend.

  “I was planning to do that anyway. I need to find out much from Marta,” the Czech woman had said in her heavily accented English. “What you have just told me makes it even more urgent that I speak with her. I will leave at once.”

  “We’ve done all we can for the night, I suppose,” Dan told his boss. “Do you think it would be best if I stayed with our guards tonight?”

  Shannon laughed. “Dan, even with that fedora on, it’s pretty darn obvious you have a honking big bandage on your head, and several times today you’ve had a rather glazed expression on your face.” She patted his arm as her fresh drink appeared. “Go home and rest. Tomorrow will be another day in the meat grinder. Tony put a very interesting bug in my ear, and I think I’m going to follow up on it. And who knows? Perhaps we’ll finally get that info from the Hong Kong police to brighten our morning.”

  Dan smiled for a moment, then his face got serious again. “You do realize what she’s done, don’t you?”

  Shannon nodded. “Yeah. She’s called him out. I don’t think that was the smartest thing to do.”

  “And I’ve got the lump on my head to back that statement up.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After my emotional outburst at the press conference (where had all that fire and brimstone come from?), it hadn’t surprised me that Lili wasn’t far behind. It had taken her several minutes to convince the desk clerks to even consider calling upstairs to find out if this short, very properly dressed foreign woman was who she told them she was. Her mood was considerably darkened by this encounter, as well as the one at the door to our suite when the two security guards wouldn’t let her in.

  I responded to their knock on our bedroom door and found Lili with a huge frown on her face sitting on the living room sofa. Her cloth overcoat and hat were still on. Her gloves and a cane were on the coffee table.

  “Lili!” I called out. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”

  A frown etched her tired face as she looked up. “I came right over after speaking with the O’Brien woman. She told me what you have said to the press.”

  Oh boy, I should have expected something like this.

  “It just came out. They gave me a release to read that said nothing. This man is destroying my life! I had to say something.”

  My friend and confessor shook her head. From the corner of my eye, I saw Tony herding the two burly guards into their room and motion toward ours. No sense sharing the grief that was likely to come. Having an empty room in between seemed a good idea.

  Tony and I sat on the bed and gave Lili the chair by the desk. She was moving more comfortably but she still looked drawn and older.

  “How’s your ankle?” I asked.

  “It is still very sore. This new walking boot they gave me is lighter and so it is easier to move around, but I hate feeling like a cripple.”

  Tony spoke up. “Can we order up anything, Lili? Coffee? Something to eat?”

  “No. I came to speak to your wife.” She turned and fastened her laser-beam stare on me. “You did something very foolish today, Marta.”

  “I know that.”

  “No! He is more dangerous than you think. He crossed a line in Rome. He has killed. I am sure you’ve heard the saying that ‘the first murder is the most difficult.’ Well, I believe that may be the case here. Never having examined this man, I cannot say if he is psychotic or merely a sociopath. But without any doubt I can tell you this: he is very, very dangerous.”

  A knot formed in my stomach. What I’d said at that press conference had come from deep inside me — and it was the truth, the way I really felt. I wanted my life back. However, I could see now that what I’d said might not have been the wisest course of action.

  “You challenged him, Marta dear. The psychopathology of this type of person demands of him that he must respond. We know he is very resourceful. I am sure he will attack. It is the where and how that we don’t know. That is a worry.”

  Tony said, “I’ve spent the day doing a lot of thinking. Lili, do you believe we might know this man? I mean, he seems to know everything about Marta and he certainly also knows a lot about me. Would this sort of person hide right out in plain sight? McCutcheon, for example?”

  I chimed in. “Dan Hudson and I have discussed the same thing.”

  Other than some meetings the previous fall to discuss the thrust of the production of The Passage of Time, I hadn’t had all that much of a chance to be around the opera’s composer. We’d shared several emails, as he’d sent me the final version of my part and then a revised final part, followed by another, and another. This wasn’t hard to understand in light of the fact that he was an odd duck — brilliant, but definitely odd. During the rehearsal, the bass singing the role of my character’s father had joked we’d probably get revisions brought to our dressing rooms as the orchestra was playing the overture. He probably wasn’t far off.

  But to think this man had been dogging my footsteps for over two years was really pushing it — until I began to listen to what Tony had to say on the subject.

  “I looked him up on my phone during the rehearsal. His family is loaded. Grandfather was a cabinet minister, his uncles and father own one of the most successful Bay Street law firms. If he never earned a cent from composing, he could cry himself to sleep on a mattress stuffed with money. He’s also not your stay-at-home-locked-in-a-room-writing-music-all-day sort of composer. He’s all over the world, always at the high-profile events. He tweets. He uses Facebook. He is totally plugged in. He knows computers, software, and hardware. I’m telling you, he could be our guy.”

  I was definitely seriously considering Tony’s theory, but Lili obviously was having doubts.

  “Much too obvious,” she practically snorted. “Our adversary enjoys playing his game from the shadows. Marta knows well enough what Andrew McCutcheon looks like. Do you think he could have fooled her over and over backstage in different opera houses?”

  “But he could have been disguised and —”

  Lili swatted away his argument with her hand. “Oh pish! Your wife is not stupid or unaware.”

  I had to stick up for Tony. “Lili, to be honest, I am unaware. It’s dark. There isn’t time to even notice backstage crews, much less study their faces during performances — and that’s when the flowers are always delivered. And who says he didn’t pay someone to plant all those bouquets? Tony’s theory is worth looking into.”

  Our friend backed down, but she didn’t look at all like we’d changed her mind.

  The rest of the time she was with us, she only asked about my encounter in the Venetian alley. The horrifying event was so implanted in my psyche that I could recite everything verbatim. Lili even took out her pocket recorder to tape the interview.

  “So what do you think?” I asked.

  Lili shook her head slowly. “I do not like it at all. How much do you know about the psychopathology of serial killers?”

  “You’re not suggesting we’re dealing with one of those?” I asked, genuinely shocked.

  “No, not really, but I think the same thing might be at work here. Many serial killers start by attacking people, usually women, and usually ones who fit a certain profile. Every few months, the steam builds up and they must feed the monster inside them. Then that isn’t enough. They kill. Their psychosis follows the same arc. As time goes on, the speed of their breakdown increases and they need to kill more often. I am getting the feeling that it is the same with your stalker. He began to attack you by ruining his roses. You are failing him in some way.”

  “This is all about bad singing?”

  “No. He is fixated on you for some reason.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “At first his notice was about praise. Now it is about the things you are doing that displease and anger him. It changed when you started to fight back.”

  Tony said, “You mean bringing in Shannon, going to the police? Stuff like that?”

  “Exactly. You di
spleased him and upset his plans — whatever they may be.” Here I got another laser beam glare. “And today you have challenged him openly. Our man is clever, perhaps even a genius, and this makes him very, very dangerous.”

  “You could be describing Andrew McCutcheon. We have to follow this lead up, even if it does prove to be wrong.”

  Lili shrugged. “Do what you must. But I have to warn you, my friends, to be exceptionally careful. If I had to predict, I would say his next attack will be more violent. And it might not be directed toward you, Marta, but someone close to you.”

  “That could include you, Lili!”

  “I know.”

  Immediately after Lili left, I grabbed the opportunity to take a shower. Tony was going to order burgers and salad from room service.

  The hot water felt wonderful as I stood under it, washing away the day’s outer (and inner) crud.

  Considered only by what had gone on at rehearsal, today would have been an excellent day and a great start to the three weeks of rehearsals between now and the premiere of The Passage of Time. For the first time I felt I was getting a handle on creating this role. What I brought to the stage on opening night at the start of our ten-performance run would define the role for everyone following me. It was an exceptional opportunity many singers never get.

  The more I worked on McCutcheon’s artistic creation, the more impressed I was. Everyone else involved seemed to feel the same. It was something unique and really, really special. Here was a contemporary opera that just might have legs. Already there was buzz in the opera world and several companies were nosing around thinking of renting the COC’s production, according to Tallevi. That was significant. Most operas composed in the last fifty years have been “one and done,” meaning they didn’t get remounted very often.

  It was really exciting to be a part of something like this. The intense, three-week rehearsal period where I could immerse myself in the creation of something new was my idea of musical heaven.