by David Linzee
“I don’t remember.”
“Well, never mind about him. I wanted to ask about the man you were talking to.”
“I said, I don’t remember.”
“A big man with a beard. His name is Doctor Ransome Chase. Do you know him?”
“No.”
Ray’s makeup was finished and he was eager to go. She reminded herself that he was easy to annoy and this was not the moment to do so, but she couldn’t let it go. “Please try to remember. It seemed to me you and he were having a conversation when I came up.”
“Maybe. Warmth of the evening. Cheapness of the white wine. But I don’t know the guy.” She looked at his face in the mirror in front of them. What a short fuse the man had. He looked like he wanted to draw his prop nightstick and break it over her head. “This is about your brother again, isn’t it? What does Dr. Chase have to do with that?”
“He’s in the same department as Helen Stromberg-Brand, and it seems he bears a grudge—”
“So you’re gonna try to make his life miserable. What right do you have to do that? Christ, Renata.”
“Sorry I brought it up. Forget it. We’ve a show to do. Break a leg, as they say.”
Ray stood and adjusted his gun belt. “Break a leg, Renata.”
Chapter 45
A quarter hour to curtain. Peter, who had paid for his ticket already and was in no hurry, stood watching the people at the tables packing up the remains of their picnics. New arrivals were coming up the path from the parking lot.
Being the approachable sort, Peter was always falling into conversation with strangers. In the line for the caterer’s truck, he had starting talking to two elderly sisters from Bloomington, Indiana who seemed to know everything about opera. Sharing a table, they told him they were excited about seeing the rising star Amy Song. They’d seen Carmen countless times, but they knew Bernhard von Schussnigg would present a startling personal vision.
Now the sisters had gone to find their seats and Peter was leaning against a tree, thinking about Renata. Considering opera was her vocation, he probably shouldn’t have told her that he’d never seen one. Especially since he had earlier scored some points with her by working that “britches, bitches and witches” line into the conversation. And maybe his advice to her in the car had been too personal. The British didn’t like that. But it upset him when she started to cry over her brother. It was obvious to Peter, as to practically everybody in St. Louis County, that Don Radleigh was a jerk of the first water. Not that he deserved to go to prison for a crime he had not committed.
As much as Renata had tried to lower his expectations, he couldn’t wait to see her on stage. He kept thinking about how different she was in real life than on screen. As Cherubino, she had a straight-ahead, heavy-footed male walk, but her real gait was light, swaying, feminine. Proclaiming her brother innocent on the TV news, she’d sounded like Queen Elizabeth II, but her informal voice was rather nasal. Neither speaking voice hinted at the beauty of her singing voice. He was also wondering when she played a guy, what did she do with her bosom? In propria persona, she had an awesome rack.
Peter straightened up, narrowing his eyes. Among the people filing down the path from the parking lot was Ransome Chase. He remembered that Chase had said this afternoon that he might be at Carmen tonight. If his girlfriend could drag him, was the way he’d put it. That must be the girlfriend beside him, a dandelion of a woman, tall and skinny with an aureole of frizzy gray hair. She looked about ten years younger than Chase. They were talking animatedly, but it didn’t stop Chase from spotting him. The great hairy head turned his way, and the eyes behind the goggle-like glasses widened. Chase said something to the woman and headed his way. She captured his arm and spoke vehemently in his ear. But he shook her off and closed on Peter, arms swinging in arcs around his bulky torso, madras jacket flapping.
Back in Springfield, Peter had been confronted several times by people he had written unflattering articles about. That had been rather enjoyable. But he kept seeing Chase smashing a crystal bowl over Stromberg-Brand’s head. While his mind stayed calm, his heart beat faster.
Chase started talking—shouting, really—from five paces away. “My girlfriend doesn’t want me to talk to you. She says I was a fool to talk to you the first time. I should’ve done the cover-your-ass bureaucratic thing. Told you and the sister that I had no comment on my esteemed colleague Dr. Stromberg-Brand.”
“I doubt you told us anything you haven’t told a hundred other people, Dr. Chase.”
By now Chase was looming over Peter. He smelled sweaty. “She also said I should’ve reported you to your boss. And that’s an error I can still correct—if you don’t give me some answers right now.”
“Skip the threats. What do you want to know?”
“My girlfriend says I jumped to the wrong conclusion this afternoon. That you weren’t just digging up dirt on Stromberg-Brand. Your plan is to distract the cops from her brother by giving them another suspect.”
“No, it’s simpler than that. I think you killed Helen Stromberg-Brand.”
Chase fell back a step. He was breathing hard. As Peter himself was. They glared at each other in silence. Then Chase moved in again, raising his right fist, which made Peter flinch. But it was only to shake a stubby forefinger in his face.
“Who the fuck do you think you are? I have a complicated life. I have a lot of enemies. And I do not need somebody like you, with no standing whatever, trying to make trouble for me. Drop this now, or I will come back at you hard.”
He turned away.
Peter said, “You forgot something.”
Chase turned back.
“The denial.”
“You’re not entitled to one, you little shit.”
He stalked back to his girlfriend, who was clutching her purse before her with both hands and looking skyward. She was probably used to having her good advice ignored. Peter glanced around. Some people were studiously avoiding his eye; they must have overheard. He found that his fists were clenched and opened them.
Chapter 46
The oddly named St. Charles Rock Road, a broad but not busy street, passed through a run-down area in near-north St. Louis County. Bistouri’s Saturn turned off it, onto a narrow track, and bounced over broken pavement into a stand of ailanthus trees and tall weeds. In just a few yards, the track came to an end next to a derelict shack with boarded-up windows and a collapsed roof.
“This is where we’re gonna meet,” Bistouri said to Shane. “But not yet. Don’t get out.”
He reversed back onto the road, then drove over a viaduct and turned into a large, empty parking lot. He crossed it and stopped next to the platform of a MetroLink station.
Without turning to Shane, he said, “Here’s where you get off.”
“What?”
“You’re gonna wait here.”
“No. That’s not what we agreed.”
“I said you could come along. This is as close as you get.”
Shane made no move to get out of the car.
“This is a comfortable place to sit. And it won’t be long. I’ll pick you up as soon as the meeting’s over. Now get out.”
Shane did not take this turn of events well. He screamed and cursed, spraying spittle in Bistouri’s face. He pounded the window and kicked the dashboard until the car swayed on its springs. The tantrum went on for a good three and a half minutes, but Bistouri did not move or speak or show a flicker of reaction.
Finally Shane gave up and opened the door. He said, “Remember, I have the disk. You can’t close the deal without me.”
“I never forgot.”
Shane got out and slammed the door.
Chapter 47
The Charles MacNamara III Auditorium was full. The crowd was chatty and excited, but as the ushers stepped out and closed the doors behind them and the lights went down, an expectant hush fell. Peter, from his seat in the very back row, had not been able to spot Ransome Chase.
The hou
se was in darkness for a moment, then a spotlight shone on the Ruth Baxter Irwin Mainstage and a man in a tuxedo stepped into it. The audience recognized him and applauded as he bowed and beamed. He had silver hair and a veritable cliff of forehead that would have made him handsome but for the dewlaps hanging over his black satin bow tie.
He welcomed the audience to the beginning of the Fidelity Investments Season of the Saint Louis Opera. Without saying anything specific about the murder and fundraising scandal, he thanked the audience for their loyalty, which brought more applause. Then he said that Endeavor Rent-a-Car Endowed Artist Amy Song was suffering from allergic inflammation (moans and grumbles) but had bravely decided to sing anyway (enthusiastic applause) and begged the audience’s indulgence if her voice was not in tip-top shape (even louder applause). After plugging some more sponsors, he stepped down.
The Amy Song announcement struck Peter as distinctly bush league. Maybe making pre-emptive excuses was acceptable in the opera world, but he was willing to bet that Renata had never done so.
He had already thought of warning her that Chase was in the audience, but he had no way of contacting her. Anyway, what would be the point? It would only distract her.
A recording asked everyone to silence their electronic devices. A scattering of tiny, bright screens appeared in the darkness as the audience obeyed. The conductor mounted the podium and was illuminated and applauded. He turned to the orchestra and raised his arms. The overture began and Peter recognized a few tunes. Maybe the performance wouldn’t be too dull.
The Ruth Baxter Irwin Mainstage being a platform jutting out into the audience, there was no curtain. The lights just came on, very brightly, to show a grimy concrete factory wall with Hazmat decals and peligroso signs on it. The operatic sisters had told him that Carmen took place in Seville, but this didn’t look much like it. Oversize video screens showed American tourists out of a ’50s cartoon, fat people in shorts with straw hats on their heads and cameras around their necks, walking down a street kicking beggars out of the way. Other screens showed downtrodden women laboring on an assembly line. The sisters had said Carmen rolled cigars on her bare thighs. A bunch of guys in khaki uniforms with nightsticks swinging from their belts and “Ace Security” printed on their backs marched out. This was the Spanish army? They were singing in French. Then they stopped, and started talking in English. Peter was bemused.
A lot of light spilled into the auditorium from the thrust stage, and he saw a large man in the third row get to his feet and make his way down the row and over the feet of other spectators. When he reached the aisle and turned, Peter recognized Ransome Chase. Watching him go up the aisle and out the door, Peter wondered what to do. He hadn’t a clue where Renata was, and he didn’t like the idea of Chase prowling around the building. He rose and stumbled over knees and feet, muttering apologies.
The Emmanuel Gerwitz Lobby was quiet. The bartenders were checking their stock and the souvenir shop ladies were leaning on the counter and chatting. Chase was nowhere to be seen. Peter’s heart was pounding, though he couldn’t have said what he was afraid of. Pulling open a door at random, he found himself in a dim stairwell. He heard a voice and descended.
The familiar head of unruly hair came into view round an angle of the stairs. Ransome Chase was sitting on the steps, talking on his cellphone, giving orders to some intern or nurse in some hospital. Peter backed up the steps out of sight. He decided to keep an eye on Chase until he returned to his seat. He wasn’t going to miss Renata. The operatic sisters had tipped him off that Mercédès did not appear in the first act.
Chapter 48
Darkness had fallen on the St. Charles Rock Road. Traffic was sparse. Bistouri, slumped behind the wheel with his eyes on the rearview mirror, straightened up. A Porsche Cayenne turned off the road and drew to a stop behind him. The driver’s door opened and Schaefer approached.
Seeing that he was alone, Bistouri shifted in his seat and muttered to himself. When Schaefer reached his open window he said, “Where the hell’s Bryson?”
“Nearby. We have a couple preliminaries to take care of.”
“Like what?”
“I’m going to search your car.”
Bistouri laughed. “You think you’re gonna find the disk? It’s nowhere near here.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“You’re not searching my car.”
“Mr. Bryson doesn’t get in a car until it’s searched. Ever.”
“Okay. We’ll talk standing next to the car. If that’s the way you want it.”
“Agreed. Now get out of the car.”
“What for?”
“I’m searching you.”
“I won’t stand for a frisk. Forget it.”
Schaefer stepped around so that he could look down through the windshield into Bistouri’s face. “I want to make sure you understand. Mr. Bryson’s safety is my top priority. Always. The way you keep insisting on meeting him personally has to make me wonder if you mean him harm. I’m going to get on the phone and advise him not to meet you.”
“Good luck with that. He knows he’s got to.”
“If he decides to go through with the meeting,” went on Schaefer as if Bistouri hadn’t spoken, “I will observe, and I will be armed.”
“Okay. But you stay twenty feet away.”
Schaefer studied Bistouri through the glass for a moment. “It will be a lot simpler if you and I settle this. I have full authority to agree on the figure and deliver the cash.”
“We’ve already been through all this.”
“If you think you can scare Mr. Bryson and get more money out of him than you could get from me, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“I know what Bryson’s capable of, Schaefer. That’s why we’re here. So let’s get on with it.”
Schaefer walked away, drawing his cellphone from its holster on his belt.
Chapter 49
The summons from the stage manager crackled over the intercom, and Renata and the soprano playing Frasquita started to make their way through the dim, narrow, crowded passageways under the stage to where they would make their entrance. There were six or seven ways of getting onto the thrust stage, and von Schuschnigg had his cast using all of them. She was feeling the calm, deep joy that suffused her whenever she was about to sing to an audience. Real life was fading to a low hum at the back of her mind.
The assistant stage manager in her headset was dressing the ranks of the choristers. She placed Renata and Frasquita at the front. Then everyone went still as she listened for the cue. It came and she tapped Renata’s shoulder.
Renata ran up the ramp, out onto the stage. As always she felt the warmth of the stage lights—purely imaginary, but she felt it all the same—and the presence of the audience out there in the dark. The choristers deployed, and she and Frasquita draped themselves artfully over the fenders of a mockup of an old Chevy. Von Schussnigg’s version of Lillas Pastia’s tavern was a roadside taqueria. Upstage Amy Song, clad in tight black jeans, was swinging her delectable hips and singing of a gypsy’s life.
Renata kept her eyes locked on Carmen as she sashayed across the stage. On a stage like this one, where you performed in the audience’s laps, there was always a risk of meeting an audience member’s eyes and losing your concentration. She had resolved that there would be no nonsense about looking for Peter in the auditorium, about singing to him. Everything Renata did in her professional life, she did for an imaginary ideal audience, more demanding and more appreciative than any real audience could ever be.
In this scene, Frasquita and Mercédès were required only to look admiringly at Carmen and back her up with a tra-la-la now and then. But when tra-la-las were all you had, you needed to take each one seriously. Most of the characters Renata played spent longish periods onstage with nothing to do. Sometimes a director would give her a bit of business, but von Schussnigg hadn’t, so she had worked up a little back story on her own.
&n
bsp; Mercédès was thinking that she knew the smugglers were coming to meet them tonight with a new job, and Carmen didn’t know that yet. Of course Carmen was more beautiful and had more lovers, but in this case Mercédès was one up on her and feeling smug. Renata liked to think she was adding a little daub of color to the stage picture. In any case, it helped her keep her concentration.
Carmen crossed the stage again, tracked by Mercédès, and Renata found herself looking into the eyes of Ransome Chase. He was sitting in the third row, only a dozen paces away. Renata jumped. She kept turning her head, watching Carmen, but she could feel Chase’s gaze upon her. He wasn’t watching the opera. He was glaring at her. He must have figured out that she and Peter suspected him of murder. It couldn’t have been hard.
Renata’s thoughts were in a whirl and she went deaf to the music. Not until Frasquita gave her a startled sideways glance and a nudge did she move to her next mark. All trappings of Mercédès dropped from her and she was just Renata Radleigh again, who’d spent the last few days bungling attempts to help her brother. Under its coat of makeup, the bruise around her eye began to throb. She could feel Chase’s gaze upon her, its weight and heat, and instinct told her that he intended to harm her and she must flee. Only sheer willpower kept her feet nailed to the stage. It was necessary to explain to herself, in detail, that there was no way Chase could get at her.
By the time she pulled herself together, Frasquita had guided her into the dimness at the very back of the stage. In the bright lights upstage, Carmen and Escamillo the bullfighter were flirting. So the opera had gone along smoothly without her. Here was a revelation, thought Renata. She could zone out completely for several minutes, in front of nine hundred people, and no one would notice. It made one wonder why one went to all that trouble.