DIVA

by Susan Fleet

  “You crazy? No way I be telling a cop you was in on that robbery. They put you in jail, you won’t be playing your saxophone no more.”

  “You don’t someone else might. You don’t think AK be keeping quiet about it, do you? Be serious. Every guy hangs out here knows it was him.”

  She blinked back tears, felt a sick-ache blossom in her stomach. “I go back to that foster home, they bust me for running off, and that trespassing charge. Besides, I can’t sing over there. Can’t meet you someplace so’s we can make music together. And make love.”

  “AK finds you here, he’ll shut you up, make sure you don’t talk.”

  “I’ll live on the street then. Lots of sistas do it.”

  Antoine’s eyes got shiny and wet, looked like he might cry. “No. It’s too dangerous. I’ll ask my uncle if you can stay at his house.”

  A warm glow swept over her. Big risk for her lover-man, telling his uncle about her. “Tell your uncle, he pick up the phone, call your Daddy in Houston and that be the end of that.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m okay here. You know me, quiet as a mouse ‘cept when I sing.”

  Antoine held her tight and whispered, “I love you, Chantelle.”

  “I love you too, Antoine, love you with all my heart.”

  He rolled away from her and sat up. “What’s that?”

  “What? I don’t hear nothin.” But then she did, a scratchy sound, metal against metal. Her heart jolted, beating fast and crazy like a bug at a light bulb. “Somebody messin' with the lock.”

  With frantic haste, they put on their clothes as footsteps sounded, then AK’s deep distinctive voice. “Where y’at, Chantelle? I know you in here.”

  Her heart exploded in a spasm of fear, her body shaking like a tree in a hurricane. Antoine wrapped his arms around her. It didn’t stop her trembling.

  AK barged into the room with a big flashlight. Smiled his evil smile to show off his gold tooth. “Time you and me had a talk, Chantelle.”

  “What we need to talk for?” Hating the tremor in her voice.

  “Let her be, AK,” Antoine said. “I did what you wanted.”

  “Where you at when the cop showed up, girl? You ‘sposed to warn us, anybody comes.”

  “How’d she know he’s a cop?” Antoine said. “Wasn’t wearing a uniform.”

  “Neither was the one came here Monday looking for her.” Smiling his evil smile. “Had a mighty fine picture of you, axed me and my boys if we seen you lately. How come?”

  “I don’t know, AK. Honest.” Heart racing, hands wet with sweat.

  “Why he looking for you, this cop? How come he knows you?”

  Tears blurred her eyes and sweat prickled her temples.

  “I-I-I don’t know, AK, I swear.”

  Antoine said, “Maybe the Houston cops asked him to look for her.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “My moms in Houston, don’t know where I’m at.”

  AK ran his tongue over his gold tooth and smiled. “You get yo’self some nooky tonight, Antoine? Maybe I get me some, too. AK-Forty-Seven runs Iberville, gets to fuck any pussy he wants, Chantelle included.”

  “Don’t even think about it.” Antoine grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door. “C’mon, Chantelle, we best be going.”

  She was so scared she was afraid she would wet her pants.

  AK glared at them. At the last second, he stepped aside to let them pass.

  “Either one a you talk to the cops, you dead.”

  CHAPTER 7

  London Friday, 20 October

  Applause thundered through the Royal Festival Hall, rolling waves of sound like a jet plane racing down the runway. He leaped to his feet, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of Belinda’s breasts. His beloved was winded after her demanding encore. A brilliant stroke.

  The Brits loved Gershwin, and her spectacular variations on “I’ve Got Rhythm” had won her another standing ovation. The first, after her stunning performance of the Khachaturian, had lasted three minutes. She’d graciously asked the orchestra to rise, but the players had refused, joining the audience in applause. The Diva in all her glory.

  She bowed deeply and coppery waves of hair fell over her face.

  Dazzled by her beauty, he feasted on the pale flesh revealed by her low-cut royal-blue gown. Imagined those silky tresses caressing his naked body. His erection was an insatiable beast in his groin, hot and ready for his beloved. He glanced at the man beside him. White hair and a walrus mustache, lips parted in a broad smile. A glittery necklace adorned his wife’s wrinkled neck. Rich Brits, able to afford seats in the fifth row. No scrimping for them, unlike the sacrifices he’d made.

  The recently refurbished hall—2800 plush new seats and gleaming new walls of polished elm and walnut—had marvelous acoustics, allowing him to bask in Belinda’s rich sultry sound, though at times the brasses had intruded, shrill sounds that offended his ears.

  A roar from the sell-out crowd drew his attention to three little girls in white frocks tossing rose petals onto the stage at Belinda’s feet. Gazing out at the audience, Belinda raised a hand to her lips. And blew him a kiss!

  His heart almost stopped. Some primal instinct had told her he was here, her most loyal fan! Soon they would meet. Soon he would be with her. Soon there’d be no need to go into debt as he traveled to her concerts in the United States and around the world.

  With a final wave, she gathered the skirt of her gown and swept offstage. The rhythmic clapping began, a European ritual, the sold-out crowd applauding in rhythm. But The Diva wouldn’t be back. Nothing could top that encore. His beloved would greet her most important fans at a gala reception at the Royal Trafalgar Hotel.

  He edged down the row toward the aisle. This afternoon he had met the man he’d contacted on the Internet. He had expected a seedy type with furtive eyes, but the man was just the opposite, a dapper well-dressed older man who resembled John LeCarre. After collecting his fee, the man gave him his documents. The name on his new credentials was not his own. He doubted Belinda would remember meeting him all those years ago but she might remember his sister.

  Slowed by the mob of people in the aisle, he recalled the glorious day he’d driven Rachel to a concert and saw the gorgeous girl with the coppery hair playing principal flute. After begging and pleading—she always made him beg—his sister had introduced them after the concert. Then, the ultimate insult. Even now his cheeks burned with embarrassment. A quick hello, a smile of dismissal, and The Diva had begun talking to another musician.

  Enraged by the memory, he plunged into the Royal Festival Hall lobby.

  This time he would not allow her to dismiss him.

  This time she would pay attention or pay the price.

  _____

  She closed her dressing room door and sank onto the plush satin chair facing the makeup table. Solitude at last. For twenty minutes she had endured the obligatory meet-and-greet that required her to smile and be gracious, suffering the attentions of wealthy old men whose predatory eyes roved over her body while their stodgy bejeweled wives feigned smiles and made inane comments. Complimenting her dress of all things! How insulting.

  But now she was alone. Her mantra had worked its magic. Before going onstage she had chanted it twice. Never give in to fear. Act successful and you will be successful. Believe in yourself and you cannot fail.

  Now she could celebrate. She pumped her fist in the air. A perfect performance! Five minutes ago Guy St. Cyr had murmured those very words in her ear. She would never forget how his muscular body had pressed against hers the last time they made love seven years ago. Or the painful aftermath.

  A flood of embarrassment crept up her neck at the memory.

  “Wouldn’t it be great if we were married?” she’d said. “We’d be a team.”

  “But I’m already married, luv. Abigail and I have a life together, and two children. You don’t need me. You’ll have scads of suitors. You don’t have to marry them. Enjoy them and focus on your career. Married lo
vers are best. They’ve got their own wives.”

  And Guy still had his. Now he was headed home with Abigail, an Englishwoman with a long nose and a stingy mouth.

  She would return to her hotel room and an empty bed.

  She studied her reflection in the mirror outlined with blazing lights above the makeup table. Guy was right. Plenty of men had been eager to woo a beautiful young flutist. She’d sampled a few—none of them married—and stayed emotionally aloof. Until Ramon.

  She slammed her palms on the table. Forget Ramon. Focus on your career. If tonight’s performance didn’t warrant a recording contract, nothing did.

  She slipped off the spaghetti-straps of her gown and plucked baby wipes from a container. Wiped her underarms and freshened her deodorant. Her mascara and eye shadow looked fine. She dabbed lip-gloss on her lips, wiped her fingers on a tissue and tried to relax.

  Impossible. Horrible memories intruded. The car in the parking lot. The voicemail message from a man who knew her secrets. The notes Jake had thrown away. The final frightening message: Soon we’ll be together.

  And now Jake was hinting that he might leave her. Tears flooded her eyes. Jake was her rock, the one person she could depend on. The one person she could confide in. She couldn’t bear it if he deserted her.

  A tap sounded on the door. “Belinda? It’s Jake. Are you ready?”

  She gathered herself. Rose from the chair. Pasted on a smile.

  When she opened the door, Jake swooped inside and hugged her, giving off a faint odor of sweat that his aftershave and deodorant failed to mask. Jake had worked hard tonight, too.

  “You were incredible, Bee. A fantastic performance. Your best ever!”

  Yes, but did it get me a recording contract?

  “What did the orchestra manager say?”

  “I haven’t talked to him yet. Come on. A limo’s waiting to take us to the Royal Trafalgar. Wait till you see the Rooftop Lounge. It’s fabulous.”

  ______

  Lurking in the corner of the Rooftop Lounge, he stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. He had talked his way in easily enough, flashing his concert program, just another distinguished gentleman in his rented tuxedo, black bow tie and white dress shirt.

  The view outside the window was spectacular. Glittery lights on the Houses of Parliament. A spotlit statue of Lord Nelson on his horse in Trafalgar Square. But not half as stunning as his beloved. He turned and watched her greet her admirers. A half hour ago she had swept into the lounge like a goddess, accompanied by a tall bearded man in a tux.

  Jacob Ziegler. His rival. Fury boiled into his throat.

  Now Ziegler was deep in conversation with two white-haired older men, three bigwigs, chatting and sipping champagne.

  His gaze returned to his beloved, positioned near a table with silver platters of hot and cold hors d’œuvres. The moment she arrived a swarm of sycophants had surrounded her. Now the crowd had dwindled to one couple, a young man and woman in their twenties. He started toward them, but a scrawny woman in a low-cut red gown stepped in front of him, blocking his path. He wanted to put his hands around her bony neck and throttle her.

  “Great performance, hmmm?” she said, smiling at him with garish scarlet-painted lips.

  When he didn’t answer, the bitch snatched a shrimp canapé from a roving waiter’s tray and headed for the bar. That allowed him to sidle up to Belinda, chatting now with the young couple, Brits, judging by their accents.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” the woman said, eyes wide with admiration. “That’s the most difficult piece in the flute repertoire.”

  “No mystery there,” he said, stepping closer. “Ms. Scully is the best flutist on the planet.”

  They all turned to look at him, Belinda included, gazing at him with her incredible sapphire-blue eyes. He extended his hand to his beloved. “Barry Silverman. I’ve been a huge fan for years. Your performance was marvelous.”

  She smiled and shook his hand. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  His erection, stoked by the silken feel of her hand against his palm, pulsed with desire. It almost made him forget his lines. Almost.

  “Nonsense. You deserved both of those standing ovations.”

  To his great relief, the young couple turned and left.

  “Thank you so much.” She withdrew her hand and looked over his shoulder as though she was seeking others who might be more important. Didn’t she understand that he was the most important person in her life?

  Maintaining his smile, he said, “How do you like London? Have you been here before?”

  Her eyes met his. “Yes. Guy St. Cyr lives here. I studied with him.”

  He locked eyes with her so she couldn’t look away. “Marvelous city. I’ve been here two years working a security detail for a British industrialist. A nice chap, but he doesn’t care for music.”

  “That’s too bad. Some people don’t know what they’re missing.”

  “Quite right. I gave notice last week so I can get back to New Orleans.”

  “New Orleans is lovely,” she said, glancing around the room as though she was looking for someone. “I played a concert there recently.”

  Yes you did, three weeks ago. I watched you from my seat in the fourth row.

  “I operate a security agency there. If you ever need a security expert, I’ve got extensive experience. That’s why the Brit hired me to drive him around.” His fingers curled around the fake business card.

  She gave him a polite smile. “Thanks, but I love driving.”

  Loved driving? He could change that. He pressed the business card into her hand. “Take my card, Ms. Scully. You never know when you might need a driver to keep you safe. My rates are quite reasonable.”

  Her smile disappeared and her sapphire-blue eyes grew distant. “I’m sure they are, Mr. . . . ?”

  His cheeks flamed with embarrassment. She couldn’t even remember his name. He mustered a smile. “Barry Silverman.”

  She turned and smiled at an older man who was approaching them, one of the white-haired bigwigs.

  Anger boiled into his gut. How could she ignore him this way?

  “I’m flying home tomorrow,” he said. “What about you?”

  “I’m not leaving till Sunday. We’re going to Ronny Scott’s tomorrow night. The jazz club.”

  We’re going. Belinda and loverboy Ziegler.

  “I loved your encore. Were those your own variations?”

  “Yes.” She gazed at him, unsmiling.

  The bigwig was almost upon them. His heart plinked his ribs, a xylophone clang of anxiety. “Would you like me to drive you home from the airport? Cabs are in short supply sometimes.”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Silverman. Now if you’d excuse me—”

  “You know,” he blurted, “this has been the most exciting night of my life. Meeting you, I mean. I’ve been a fan of yours for years. I own every one of your CDs.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Silverman,” she said, and walked away.

  A tsunami of rage erupted inside him. Another kiss-off.

  After all his planning and preparation, not to mention his financial sacrifice, The Diva had dismissed him as if he were a flea. This he could not allow. No more friendly persuasions.

  This called for action.

  CHAPTER 8

  Monday, 23 October

  Stifling a yawn, she veered off the I-10 onto the long City Park exit road that ran alongside Metairie Cemetery. She couldn’t wait to get home and fall into bed. The concert had exceeded her wildest expectations. Rave reviews in London’s three biggest newspapers and a fabulous recording contract from the orchestra. But the trip home had been exhausting.

  Their seven-hour flight from London had landed at JFK at four. After a mediocre meal in the food court, she and Jake boarded their flight to New Orleans. She’d tried to sleep, but a cranky infant two rows behind them had cried non-stop until they had landed at eleven-fifteen.

  She stopped at
a traffic light at the intersection of City Park Avenue and glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten past midnight. In five minutes she’d be home. She yawned, willing the light to change. This intersection was spooky at night, a cavernous underpass with massive concrete columns that supported the eight-lane Interstate overhead, and City Park Avenue was deserted. Not a single car passed through the intersection.

  Headlights flashed in her rearview mirror.

  The idiot had his high beams on. How rude.

  Mercifully, the light changed. She turned left onto City Park Avenue, slowed for the next light to turn green and accelerated out of the dark underpass. The SUV followed, its headlights a blinding glare in the rearview of her Infiniti coupe as she drove along City Park Avenue, surrounded by cemeteries on both sides. New Orleans lay below sea level, so residents buried their loved ones above ground in crypts and mausoleums.

  Cities of the Dead. A shiver danced down her spine.

  Anxious to get home, she accelerated.

  Behind her, the SUV matched her speed, an ominous presence. Blinded by the lights in her rearview, she glanced at her wing mirror. There were no cars behind the SUV. Why was it tailgating her?

  A whisper of fear plinked her mind.

  Delgado Community College appeared on her left. She rolled down the window, and hot humid air hit her face. In the daytime, students would be clustered outside the buildings or walking to their cars in the parking lot. Now the lot was empty, the buildings dark.

  The SUV drew closer.

  She hit the gas and her Infinity coupe spurted forward.

  So did the SUV.

  Her palms grew sweaty on the wheel and her neck corded with tension. To her left was the familiar sight of City Park where she went for her early morning runs, a sunny cheerful space with lush green grass and duck ponds, birds chirping from live oak trees and people walking their dogs.

  Now it was pitch dark. She accelerated to fifty.

  The SUV matched her speed.

  She looked to her right. No help there, nothing but darkened homes, no porch lights, not even a car parked outside.