by David Linzee
“Except Peter Lombardo,” Peter said aloud. “Oh, crap.”
Shucking the headphones, he got up and went down the hall to the file room. There were filing cabinets full of old papers and reports, which people tended to neglect as the office went more and more digital. There might be some good stuff about Patel and Ransome Chase in there.
Chapter 32
Congreve stared at her as she approached his desk across his vast office. In the bathroom mirror she had seen that she had developed an impressive black eye, swollen and empurpled. She didn’t wait for him to ask. “I tripped and fell. Don’t worry, makeup will cover it tonight.”
He came around the desk, waving her to sit on the sofa and taking a seat beside her. He brushed back a lock of silver hair and smiled. This was better than the reception she’d expected. “How are you bearing up, Renata? I’m sorry I’ve had no chance to talk to you since this nightmare began.”
“Oh, I’m all right. About that interview I gave yesterday. I know you told me not to talk to reporters—”
“Don’t worry about it. No one would expect you to say anything else.”
Meaning no one was going to take her seriously either. “I went to see Don yesterday.”
“Ah, poor Don,” said Congreve. “And how is he?”
Renata shook her head, which she immediately regretted. Pain ricocheted between her ears. As soon as she was done wincing she said, “Sorry, but I don’t understand your concern. Yesterday you as good as sacked him.”
“I was talking to the media. There was nothing else I could say. Renata, we have to ask people for money every day. And if the first thing they think about is Don and Helen Stromberg-Brand …. The local media are taking a very negative attitude. Did you see the Post this morning?”
“No.”
“The headline of Bill McClellan’s column is, ‘Don Giovanni?’ ”
“Oh. Yes, that is unfortunate. Could have been worse, I suppose. I mean if Bert Stromberg-Brand had told the reporters that Don swept Helen off to Chicago and seduced her to make her give the money.”
Congreve’s sympathetic expression abruptly hardened. His noble brow furrowed and his dewlaps drooped. “Did Don tell you that?”
“No. I was there yesterday when Bert made his threat.”
“Oh. That’s right. I forgot.”
He continued to gaze at her, but he wasn’t seeing her. Behind the eyes the brain was busy. Talking to Congreve at such moments was as useless as tapping the keys of a computer that was displaying the little hourglass on its screen. So Renata just waited.
He got up, went to his desk and picked up the telephone. “Mike, could you come over? Yes, now.” This wasn’t too ominous; Mike Joyce was her favorite person at SLO. Unlike most heads of production, he took understudying as seriously as she did, and had arranged extra sessions with the repetiteur and stage manager for her to rehearse Carmen, a very long part. He’d even paid her overtime.
Congreve returned to the sofa. “You’ll visit Don today?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him we wish him well. That we still see him as one of us. We’ll do everything to help … behind the scenes.”
“I’ll tell him.” She hoped it would comfort Don more than it did her.
Mike ambled in and gave her a smile as he sank into a chair facing them. He was a tall, loose-limbed, fit-looking African American in his forties whose gift was for looking well-rested and unhurried when in fact he was neither. As production head he had ultimate responsibility for the countless details involved in putting the operas on stage. With the world premiere of Catch-22 and the gimmicky production of Carmen, this was an especially nerve-wracking season for him.
“Mike,” Congreve said, “I think we should let Renata out of her contract.”
She jumped. “What?”
He turned to her. “With all the strain you’re under, you don’t want to be bothered with an opera.”
Renata said nothing. The thought that Carmen would go on at 7:30 tonight and she would not be there appalled her.
“You can find somebody else to play Frasquita, can’t you, Mike?”
“Mercédès.”
“Right, Mercédès. How about it, Mike?”
Mike was watching Renata. His gaze shifted to his boss. “Iris knows the role.”
“Well then.”
“The problem is, Renata’s also understudying Carmen.”
“Problem? But Amy’s fine.”
“I just got off the phone with her. I’m taking her to our ear nose and throat guy.”
Congreve had another of his little-hourglass moments. He was probably wondering whom he could blame if the star bowed out and—disaster of disasters—Renata sang the lead. Renata was thinking about the possibility too, with very different emotions.
“My God. What’s wrong with her?”
“Sinuses. Her head feels like a cinderblock, she says.”
“Well, the doc can give her something, can’t he? I mean, what are we keeping him on retainer for?”
“I would feel more comfortable if we had Renata on hand, Phil.”
Everyone at SLO was familiar with the production head’s understated style. Even Congreve recognized that he was stating a non-negotiable demand and backed down. He rose to return to his desk. “Okay. Keep me informed.”
Renata followed Mike across the corridor into his office. He shut the door and said, “Amy’s fine. Sorry.”
“Oh!” Renata sagged against the door. What a bizarre creature I am, she thought. My brother in jail. Myself battered and bruised from a criminal assault. Half an hour ago I could barely drag myself out of bed. And yet my blood was singing in my veins at the thought that I might play Carmen tonight.
“I wasn’t exactly lying,” Mike went on. “Amy is complaining, and I am taking her to the ENT. But he will convince her that she can sing tonight. There’s nothing wrong with her except it’s her first time singing in St. Louis and she has the jitters.”
Renata nodded. Mike had years of experience at diva-wrangling, and knew whereof he spoke. Opera singers’ careers depended on the state of their mucous membranes. They were notorious hypochondriacs. St. Louis, being downwind of the Wheat Belt, had an evil reputation. Even singers who had never suffered from allergies imagined that they would lose their voices.
“I’m sorry, Renata. I hate to disappoint you. But it was the only way I could think of to head off Phil. I hope I did the right thing?”
“Oh God, yes. Thank you, Mike. If I didn’t know I’d be singing Mercédès tonight, I’d fall apart. But why is he trying to get rid of me? What good will it do?”
“Phil finds it soothing to fire people. And he’s nervous as hell right now. We all are. You have to understand, we’ve sold every seat in the house tonight, and that still only pays one-third of our expenses. The rest we have to beg for. I like Don, I feel bad about what’s happened to him, but he’s put us in a very difficult position.”
She sighed heavily. That was the most temperate statement she was going to hear about her brother from an SLO employee today.
Mike patted her shoulder. “We have to make this look good or Phil will get suspicious. Go over to wardrobe and tell them I said to measure you for Amy’s costumes, just in case. And keep your cellphone in hand, like you’re expecting an important call from me.”
“Oh! I’ve, uh, lost my phone.”
He went to his desk, opened a lower drawer, and handed her a cellphone. A sensitive man, he read her face and smiled sadly. “I wish it could be you singing Carmen tonight.”
She shrugged. “I sang her my last year at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama. I was twenty-three. I thought it was going to be the first of many times. But that was it.”
“So far,” said Mike as he hugged her.
Crossing the Emerson Electric Picnic Lawn, she entered the Jane B. Pritchard Theatre. As she was descending the steps to the costume room, a voice called out, “Hi, Renata.” It was Ray, the irascible super.
“Oh, good morning.”
“That’s some shiner. What happened?”
“I fell. It’s nothing. What are you doing here so early?”
Ray rolled his eyes and indicated his T-shirt. “The Commie had a last minute inspiration.”
This was his nickname for Bernhard von Schussnigg, who had been born in what was then East Germany. During rehearsals Ray had grumbled frequently and a bit too audibly about the director’s lefty ideas. Renata had him turn around so she could appraise his costume change. The crowd scenes in Carmen made for a full evening for the supers, and Ray was playing a soldier in Act I, a barfly in Act II, a smuggler in Act III, and a bullfight spectator in Act IV. The T-shirt was obviously for the smuggler, who in von Schussnigg’s production had become an illegal immigrant. It had “Home of the Brave, Land of the Free” on the back and an American flag on the front.
“Brilliant,” she said. “You can’t top von Schussnigg for subtlety.”
“What brings you here this morning?”
“Costumes. Just in case Amy can’t go on tonight, they’re seeing how many feet they’ll have to lower her hemlines to fit me.”
Ray’s eyes widened. “You mean you might play Carmen tonight?”
“Not a chance. It’s just a precaution.”
“Too bad. I’d like to see you as Carmen.”
“Thank you, Ray. I’m afraid the audience would not agree with you.” She turned to go.
“What’s that at the back of your head?”
In the ER last night, they had shaved a small area to staple her wound. “I told you, I fell.”
“You fell on your face and on the back of your head?”
“Long story. Really, I’ll be fine tonight.”
But Ray caught her arm and stepped in front of her. “You’re not being honest with me, Renata.”
His grip was almost painfully strong. The look in his eyes made her heart lurch. During the weeks of rehearsal, she had discovered that he had a short fuse, but she had no idea what had set him off this time.
“Easy, Ray,” she said. “Only divas and directors are allowed temperament.”
It was a line she had used on him a few times in rehearsal, and as always it had a calming effect. He let go of her arm and backed off a step. “Okay, it’s none of my business. But I hate to see you taking stupid chances for your brother. And that’s what you were doing, wasn’t it?”
“Well … yes. That’s a fair description.”
“What did you find out?”
“Nothing helpful.”
“You know, Renata? I think you better start getting used to the idea that your brother is guilty.”
“No. The news reports make it sound a good deal worse than it is. And there are some things that haven’t made the news.”
“Like what?”
She told him about the man Luis Reyes had seen on Helen’s street, the man who was not walking his dog.
“You told the police about this man? What did they say?”
“They weren’t impressed. They said he was just a man walking down the street. But people don’t walk down residential streets in Clayton at that time of night unless they’re walking their dogs.”
“He didn’t have a dog so he must be the killer?” Ray was shaking his head. “The newspaper said the police can prove your brother was in the house with her.”
“Yes. But she was alive and well when he left.”
“So he says. But how long was it between the time your brother left and the gardener and her husband arrived?”
“I don’t know,” said Renata, thinking it was odd that he had given the matter so much thought.
“Well, we’re talking about a pretty narrow window of opportunity for this other guy who just happened to want Dr. Stromberg-Brand dead, to just happen to come along. And he was real lucky that she was alone in the house, and that your brother took the blame for him.”
“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds far-fetched.”
“How else could you put it, Renata? That’s what you’re saying happened.”
She took a deep breath. “Please, Ray. I’m on my way to see my brother in jail, to try to cheer him up. This is not what I want to listen to right now.”
“Maybe it’s what you ought to listen to. Before you get hurt any worse.”
Chapter 33
In the front office of Ezylon, at Amygdala, Jayson was sitting at the reception desk, leaning back so far in his chair that the front legs were off the ground. He was talking on the telephone, discussing restaurants with his luncheon companion. At length. In the waiting area, under the huge picture of Helen Stromberg-Brand and Keith Bryson in her lab, Shane was pacing, turning his head from time to time to scowl at Jayson, who was blissfully unaware of him. He was wearing a long-sleeved denim shirt that covered his tattoo. Jayson leaned forward and replaced the phone.
Shane walked up to the desk. “I want to see Bryson. I know he’s in town, and I know this is his office, so don’t give me any shit.”
“Tell me, does this approach open a lot of doors for you?”
“Just tell me when I can see Bryson.”
“As soon as you can convince me you’re worth his time.”
“It’s way too important to tell you about.”
Jayson folded his hands in his lap and rocked onto the back legs of his chair. “You’re going to have to do better.”
“You don’t let me in to see Bryson today, he’s gonna fire you tomorrow.”
“Keep trying.”
“I got no time for this.”
He walked past the desk and opened the door.
“He isn’t actually here right now. But go look around if you want. Don’t steal any staplers, okay?”
Shane returned to stand in front of the desk. “I want an appointment to see him.”
“Let’s have a look at the sked.” Jayson tapped keys. “He’s heading for Ladue now, to play tennis with the CEO of Granger Hospital. Later he’ll be downtown having lunch with the mayor. Then he’s going home for a conference call with the secretary of health and human services. Which one of those do you think he’ll want to cancel to meet a man with a cheap haircut and bad manners?”
“You are gonna be so sorry tomorrow. You are gonna be out of here on your ass.”
“This is sounding familiar. Are you the gentleman who tried to get in to see Mr. Bryson at his condo last night?”
Shane straightened up and backed away from the desk. “Nah, wasn’t me.”
“I’ve heard about your act, and I’m not about to sit through it.” He picked up the telephone. “I’m calling security. They’re right downstairs and they’ll have two big guys here in one minute flat. They’ve done it before.”
“Now listen—”
“No. We’re through. You can walk out or security can drag you out.”
Shane spun on his heel and left, leaving the door swinging on its hinges. Jayson let it swing. He replaced the receiver and turned to his computer.
Chapter 34
Renata was in a corridor of the county jail, waiting in a long queue for the metal detector. It was noisy and stuffy and now somebody’s cellphone began to play a particularly irritating tune. It went on and on. She turned and glared at the woman behind her, who glared right back. Oh—it was the phone Mike had lent her. She hadn’t heard its ringtone before.
“Hello?”
“Renata, it’s Hannah at SLO. We just got a call for you. Kind of a strange one.”
“Who from?”
“His name is Archibald Henderson. He said he found your purse.”
“Oh!’ She was astonished; she had taken for granted that it was gone forever. “Where did he find it?”
“He didn’t say. Do you want his number?”
“Well … I suppose so.” She tapped the number into her phone’s memory as Hannah gave it. Then, since the line was not moving, she tried it. A velvety drawl said, “Hello, this is the number of Archibald Henderson. I’m
sorry you reached this recording and wish I was speaking with you. But I am in all probability at the wheel of my truck. Whatever the laws of the jurisdiction in which I find myself, I do not talk on the phone while driving, which I regard as unsafe.”
Mr. Henderson was one of those people who regarded the outgoing message as a performance art. She wondered how people who called him often could bear it. To compound the irritation, he had a slow, drawling voice from the American South. She was standing in a queue anyway, and she still felt like pressing the End Call button. Finally he wound up his oration and she left her number.
There were more visitors this morning, and they were noisier. By the time she reached the long table, only one seat remained. The prisoners didn’t file in but pushed through the door in a bunch. Don emerged from behind other heads and shoulders and sat down opposite her.
He pointed to her black eye. “Good lord Renata. What happened to you?”
“I tried to get in to see Keith Bryson last night. Couldn’t. There was somebody else who’d failed to get in, so I followed him.”
“Followed him?”
“I just wanted to talk to him. He obviously didn’t want to talk to me.”
Don was slowly wagging his head. “Someone like Keith is always being pestered by whack jobs. Stalkers and paparazzi and conmen and what-not. Renata, I am sorry. If I’d known you wanted to see Keith, I could have called someone.”
Renata sighed. In the car on the way over, she had formed her resolve to make Don face reality. It was absolutely essential now. The problem was, she had been trying to do it for a quarter-century or so, starting with advising him not to press Mummy and Daddy to buy him that Italian racing bike because it was sure to be stolen. But he had, and it was. She’d had no better luck since.
“Why did you want to see Keith, anyway?”
“I think that whoever killed Helen, it must have been connected to her billion-dollar vaccine rather than the opera. And the police haven’t thought of that.”