Except that some moral degenerate had chosen this particular time to drop his shit-bomb in the middle of my life. If Tony’s theory was correct, though, everything with the opera production was in jeopardy. I cursed and fumed as shower water flowed over my head and shoulders. If it turned out McCutcheon had been making my life a living hell, all bets were off. Odd, yes, but a murdering stalker? It was all so depressing, I could scarcely believe it.
From the back of my memory came my mother’s patient voice. “Marta, just realize that you at least have your health.” Back in my teens, I used to get absolutely furious when she’d say stuff like that to me. Typical of many kids that age, I thought I knew it all, had everything figured out. In my mind, she was a platitude-spouting fool.
It was Christmas break during my first year at McGill when my dad sat me down in our living room immediately after I arrived home. Without a preamble, he told me that Mom was really ill. In fact, it was cancer and it had been an ongoing battle for nearly a year. The outcome was no longer in doubt.
It felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. Mom hadn’t wanted me to know earlier because she thought I wouldn’t head off for school (she was right), and the thought of coming between me and my dreams was something she couldn’t bear.
Heart pounding, I went to her bedroom. She was asleep. I sat down on the opposite side of the bed and just stared, trying to come to grips with what I’d just been told. Her face had aged dramatically. I had last seen her at Thanksgiving, barely two months earlier, and she easily looked ten years older.
Maybe a half-hour later, Mom woke up. We stared at each other for at least a minute before she spoke.
“So your father told you?”
I nodded.
“I hope you don’t think less of me for not being able to tell you myself.”
“No. I understand. But I’ve been sitting here praying that I wake up from this bad dream.” I began to cry and Mom sat up to hold me. “What are we going to do?”
“Help make my passing easier.”
I began to say how I would quit school to be around and take care of her. “You know how hopeless Dad is around the house.”
“Having you quit school would make me exceptionally unhappy, dear. Your dad and I will do just fine, and we’ll make sure you can come home every weekend if you wish.”
“I will!” I told her, and I tried my hardest to carry through on that vow, but sometimes there were concerts or the odd gig that got in the way, and that made me feel dreadfully guilty.
Knowing I was soon going to lose my mother was a harrowing experience, but it forced me to do a lot of growing up. My sister and I also became much closer when she took time off from work to fly east to help out at the very end.
It came far too soon for all of us. I think my mom sort of gave up so her end wouldn’t be dragged out. Regardless, the end of my first year at McGill found me without a mother.
Standing in that hotel shower after a very difficult day, hearing my mother’s voice in my head gave me strength as well as comfort. The chips would have to fall as they would. All I could do was keep a tight grip on those things I could control. Lili’s concern be damned, I was right to call the bastard out.
I hoped.
Tony was on the phone when I came out of the bathroom. Our food had been delivered. While I ate my dinner — not really hungry, but knowing I needed something in my stomach — I listened to him talking to Shannon.
Tony finished the call and sat next to me. “I have to go out for awhile. Shannon and Dan are just down the street and rather than keep you up, I’ll go there. Will you be okay?”
“With those two gorillas in the other room? I should think so.” I gave Tony a tight smile, the best I could imagine under the circumstances. “Pretty weird day, huh? Do you think I was right, saying what I did at the news conference?”
He shrugged. “Bit late to worry about it. You spoke from the heart, and that’s one of the things I love about you. Mind you, I wouldn’t want to be your publicist.” At the door, he turned and smiled. “Don’t wait up. You’ve got a big day again tomorrow.”
“Even if you’ve managed to get my opera’s composer thrown into the hoosegow?”
“If it’s any comfort, Shannon thinks that’s unlikely.”
“And Dan?”
“He says the jury’s out. It is a long shot, but we at least have to take a look at McCutcheon, don’t you agree?”
“Do whatever you have to. I’ll be here when you get back and I wouldn’t take it amiss if you give me some cuddles when you come to bed, even if I’m fast asleep.”
He flashed that smile I loved. “How will you know if you’re fast asleep?”
“Believe me, I’ll know. And just before you go, could you see if there’s some white wine in the bar fridge in the living room? A glass would go down very nicely.”
“You got it, babe.”
Getting out the copious blocking notes I’d made that day, I sat down to do some memorizing before I got too sleepy.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Shannon was shaking her head vehemently. “Some of what you’re saying makes sense, but the sticking point in my mind is why would Andrew McCutcheon do this? What does he get out of it? If he is the bastard we’re after, his big opera project is dead in the water. Why risk that?”
Tony, Shannon, and an increasingly tired-looking Dan were the last patrons of Quinn’s that night.
Tony had been busy with his mobile, pulling up as much information from the Internet on Andrew McCutcheon as he could find.
“Shannon,” he said for the second time, “obviously, our man has a few screws loose. You can’t expect a person like that to make sense. As Lili pointed out to me earlier tonight, he may be reaching a crisis point. You’ve said the situation seems to be spinning out of his control. Maybe now he’s just responding to the situation, rather than controlling it. Maybe he didn’t plan for this to happen during the run of his new opera. Regardless, from what we know of this ghost we’ve been chasing and Andrew McCutcheon, they’re both arrogant pricks. Hiding out in plain sight would be just the thing that would appeal to him.”
Shannon picked up her still-empty glass, seemingly surprised it had nothing in it. Three doubles was way more than was good for her, and she knew enough not to order a fourth. She looked at her watch. Nearly midnight. She’d better give her boyfriend Michael a call soon if she wanted him to pick her up. Much later and it wouldn’t be fair to drag him out.
She sighed. “I guess this is at least worth a shot. So far we’ve come up with nothing else.”
“I agree,” Hudson added.
Tony puffed his cheeks, letting the air out slowly. “What about getting the cops to investigate him?”
“Tony, you’ve got to understand: the McCutcheon family is very powerful,” Shannon said. “Not just here in Toronto, but also in Ottawa. His grandfather was a cabinet minister for heaven’s sake, his dad runs one of the biggest law firms. Four people in the family are members of the Order of Canada. You don’t go running to the cops with even a moderately checked out story on people like this. We’re only going to get action from them if we have cold, hard facts linking Andrew McCutcheon directly to Marta’s stalker.”
“So how do we get those facts?”
“I’ll start checking out his itinerary first thing in the morning,” Dan said. “I’m still owed a few favours in Ottawa.”
Shannon nodded. “And I’ll start building a profile of his background.”
Tony raised his hand as if he was in school. “What should I do?”
“Your job is to stay close to Marta, strictly line of sight at all times if you can’t be standing right next to her. I don’t know what our boy might try, but I’ll bet your friend Lili is right: he’s going to try something. Our hired bruisers can take care of any rough stuff, but you have a good set of eyes and will be able to recognize if something isn’t right way quicker than any of us.”
“Any word out of Hon
g Kong yet?”
An ultra disgusted expression appeared on Shannon’s face. “Yeah, police got the records late this afternoon, but they’re not sharing as of yet.”
“Can you find out what they’ve got anyway?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. But I’d rather get it without calling in any favours. I have a feeling we’re going to be calling in favours a lot before we see an end to this thing.”
Dan said, “What we need to do is hit the ground running tomorrow. If we push hard, we can probably find out a fair bit about McCutcheon by day’s end. By all accounts he leads a pretty public life. We should also put a tail on him when he’s not front and centre at those rehearsals.”
“I’ll take care of that.”
Dan shook his head ruefully. “And here I always thought opera was pretty well the most boring thing on the planet.”
Michael Quinn reflected on the drive back to his place after picking up Shannon that he’d only seen her loaded one other time, and that was the night her divorce became final.
“Tough day?” he asked as they drove west on King Street.
“You didn’t see the news? It was all over it. The circus came to town outside the opera house’s stage door. Then Marta threw a giant effing monkey wrench into a press conference that had been arranged.”
“What did she do?”
“Basically, she called out this dude we’re chasing.”
“Called him out?”
“Yeah. Sort of ‘come and get me if you dare.’ Look, I understand the pressure she’s under. It must really suck to be her right now, but this is going to make matters worse.”
“Why?”
“Because if we’re reading this guy right, he’ll try to do just that.”
“So? Don’t you have her surrounded by bodyguards, and isn’t that new employee Hudson on the job?”
Turning a bit in her seat, Shannon had that look of forbearance Michael never appreciated.
“My dear man, the person we’re after is a fucking ghost. At every turn, he’s one step ahead of us. Now he’s killed someone so we know he’s really serious. I could surround Marta with a battalion of soldiers and he’d manage to get at her. He’s got me that spooked.”
“And no leads?”
“Only one so far. Marta’s husband thinks we should check out the composer of the opera.”
“You mean McCutcheon, that bloke we met at the arts gala two months ago?”
“The very same.”
Michael turned the Jag off King into Liberty Village where his loft was located. “Interesting theory. I’d put my money on it.”
“Why?”
“He had strange eyes.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
First thing the next morning, I looked out the window. Only four media vans. That was four too many, but a lot better than what had greeted us the past two days.
Tony was still asleep, having come home rather late, so I turned on the reading light on my side of the bed, opened my vocal part, and went over the first half of the third act, singing in my mind. This sequence involved a ballet dancer doing an artistic representation of what I was singing, which explained exactly how Naomi’s life went off the rails. It would be a tough slog for me (lots of high notes, trills, and volume), but I had dedicated a considerable amount of time learning it with Giuseppe in Rome, mainly because of some late changes by the composer.
The first time I’d heard about the concept of the third act, I had to stifle a roll of my eyes. Interpretive dancing is not my idea of something that belongs in the opera house. Later, I was sent a video clip of a run through of the choreography with piano, and I had to say I was impressed.
Then McCutcheon got in the act. He hadn’t been happy with the orchestration, so right in the middle of the orchestra’s first rehearsal of it, he threw a hairy fit and withdrew the ballet, then spent a week re-orchestrating it. Of course this played hell with the carefully worked-out schedule. That had required Tallevi to meet with Peter Grant, our main donor for the production, who had to okay the significant added expense of extra rehearsal time with the dancers and the orchestra.
This morning we’d be working on that particular section of the opera and we’d be on the main stage with the orchestra on hand (probably a cost-cutting measure). McCutcheon would be in the pit, so by the end of the rehearsal, I’d have a pretty good idea what he’d be like at the helm.
Needless to say, I was really looking forward to it — particularly so since the media circus seemed to have folded their tents and left town during the night. I was more than happy to be yesterday’s news.
“Tony,” I said softly as I kissed his cheek. “Wakey, wakey. The sun is up, the birdies are singing, and the press has pretty well gone home.”
He opened his eyes and smiled. “You’re in a good mood today. What caused it?”
“A better night’s sleep than I was expecting, an empty street outside, and just a feeling that today is going to be just fantastic. Now get up, you slugabed! I’m hungry and I’ve got to be ready to sing in a little over an hour.”
Later, we crossed the street and got to the stage door of the Four Seasons Centre with only three mics stuck in my kisser.
I smiled sweetly and said, “No comment. I’ve got a rehearsal and I’m focused on that.”
“You’re not worried about this madman stalking you?” a woman reporter asked.
How she could have such perfect hair this early in the morning was beyond me.
“I’m not worried. My security is more than adequate. Bye now!”
The stage door opened and I was safe inside with my husband and the same two bruisers who were on duty the day before. Just let this jerk try to get near me. Then it crossed my mind that I just might be seeing him in five minutes.
“What’s up with your theory about McCutcheon?” I whispered to Tony as we made our way to one of the rehearsal rooms so I could warm up.
“Don’t worry. It’s all in Shannon’s hands, and we both know she’s a pro.”
McCutcheon showed up late, which didn’t help things. The opera’s official “assistant conductor” was on the podium when he arrived, and that didn’t go over well, but what were we to do? Pay for all those musicians to sit around waiting?
A few of the bolder cast members came up to express sympathy for my situation. Everyone would have seen coverage of my press conference, as well as the Rome press conference, so they knew my predicament. I asked them all nicely to drop it because we were there to rehearse.
Even with our petulant composer present, everyone was relaxed and happy. The orchestra was in excellent form, and getting to actually hear instruments instead of the sterile playback of the composing software drove home even further what an incredible job McCutcheon had done.
One of the problems with writing contemporary music is the need most composers feel to do something unique and fresh. What they often come up with is total BS, in my opinion. Things are made difficult for the sake of making them difficult. Dodgy scoring abounds. The effect on an opera audience to this sort of music can be profound. Most opera goers are in love with the past and steeped in its music. They want to leave the theatre with melodies singing in their heads. With most contemporary works, that just won’t happen.
McCutcheon, though, had managed it. His musical vocabulary was definitely firmly in the present, but his melodies were oddly tuneful without sounding like “Verdi revisited.”
“Movie music,” said Granville Barker, who was singing the role of my character’s father. “McCutcheon’s written bloody movie music.”
We were sitting off to the side while the orchestra worked on something, sharing a cup hot broth he’d brought with him.
“I beg to differ, Granville, dear. Yes, some of the orchestration sounds a bit like Star Wars, but it’s the fact he’s backed off from stuffing his opera with harmonies that make your ears bleed that makes his vocal lines so singable. Tell me, when was the last time you sang something contemporary that con
tained anything like what an audience would call a ‘recognizable tune?’”
“And that’s precisely why I hate contemporary music!”
“Nonsense. What you hate is bad contemporary music. A lot of it is bad, but I believe this opera just might stand the test of time.”
I don’t think I convinced him, but then Granville has always been an old fuddy-duddy who believes the days of great opera ended when Puccini died in 1923.
It had been several days since I’d been able to sing full voice and it felt great to let it rip that morning. With the brass-heavy orchestration of this act, I did have to air it out in some of the dramatic parts. But our director Simon, Tallevi when he stopped in, and even McCutcheon in the pit were all smiling, so I knew I was doing the job.
What the rehearsal brought into sharp focus, though, was that I needed time on my own to hone my part to razor sharpness, to really live with it. I was too busy concentrating on getting the technical aspects correct to be able to relax and let the music happen. The pressure of creating what could turn out to be an iconic role demanded musical perfection, but it also needed soul and humanity. I wasn’t close to being able to do that yet, but with the amount of rehearsal time left, I found myself believing I could make that happen.
Frick and Frack were always around, comforting for me, and they were causing fewer raised eyebrows. Everyone had been told why they were there and my colleagues seemed to be taking it in stride, thank heavens.
Lunch was again sandwiches and water in a dressing room with Tony. If nothing else, the menu options would be excellent for my waistline. I was again beginning to suffer from cabin fever, though.
“So what’s up with Shannon’s investigation of McCutcheon?”
“It’s going fine.”
“Fine in what way, dear husband? Is she finding out anything?”
“I haven’t spoken to her today.”
“Oh, that is such a crock! You keep disappearing and reappearing. Where are you going and what are you doing?”
Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle Page 48