by David Linzee
As they pulled up in front of Don’s house, Peter said, “Shall I come in with you?”
“No, thanks. It’ll take a while. You must be dying to get home. Have a drink and a shower and something to eat. I’ll drive over in Don’s car, soon as I can. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Peter Lombardo.”
“Why?”
“You’re not thinking about sex. I can tell. What’s the problem?”
“Uh … can we talk about Bryson?”
“Oh lord. Do we have to? I’ve done nothing else for the last night and day.”
“Well, I wasn’t about to say this to the media, but I believe him. About the pharmaceutical company being behind the attempt to blackmail him. Newton-Drax did make forty-seven point five million off Sūthyne last year. I checked.”
“Of course you did. You’re a journalist. You love a conspiracy. Go ahead and believe him. Fine with me. It doesn’t alter the fact that he killed Helen Stromberg-Brand.”
“I wonder why he denied it to you, when he admitted everything else.”
“It’s bleeding obvious why he denied it. Because there’s no video of him doing it.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry. What I meant to say is, what Bryson told you—about how he told Helen what she wanted to hear, that Jeff Csendes accepted the hush money and she could forget about him—that sounds plausible to me. So there was no reason for Bryson to kill her.”
“It sounds plausible because he’s a good liar. But now that the Clayton police know what to look for, they will find evidence. He killed Helen.”
“Okay. I expect they will.”
He was looking through the windshield. He knew he’d annoyed her and wasn’t expecting a kiss. Compunction poked Renata: she was going to have to do something about her filthy temper. She said, “Sorry. There’ll be plenty of time to talk about this tomorrow morning.” They kissed and she got out of the car.
In the Charles MacNamara III Auditorium of the Jane B. Pritchard Theatre, intermission was just ending. The “turn off your cellphones” announcement was repeated for the benefit of the hard cases. The house lights went down. Maestro stepped into the spotlight, bowed to the applause, and swept his arms to share it with his musicians. Then they began to play. Images of the U.S. Border Patrol rounding up illegal immigrants popped up on the big screens. The smuggling party entered, led by Iris Kortella in the orange tube-top and miniskirt and Ray the super in American flag T-shirt. Act III of Carmen was under way.
Chapter 68
Peter was driving north toward home on Big Bend Boulevard. A traffic signal ahead turned red and he brought the car to a stop. A hundred yards down the street, he could see Ransome Chase’s apartment building. The light was on in Chase’s second floor window.
There was no reason why Peter could not pay Chase a visit, as he’d planned.
Peter had a moment of weakness. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
He had wanted to talk to Renata about Chase before confronting him; unfortunately, she had not been in the mood. Nor was he, really. He was so tired. Home beckoned to him. Renata’s list—a drink, a shower, and something to eat—sounded wonderful.
The light turned green. Peter drove through the intersection, and found out that it was impossible to continue on by. He swung the car into the parking lot of Chase’s building. This being Webster Groves, the street door was unlocked. He climbed the stairs.
Chase didn’t respond to his knocks. He shouted “Doctor Chase!” until the door opened.
“Look, I’m Skyping a colleague in Peru. Come back later.”
“No. You need to talk to me now.”
Chase frowned. Only now did he seem to recognize Peter. “Lombardo. That business is all over with, I heard. What can you possibly want to talk to me about?”
“What’s the word for an operatic extra?”
Chase froze. Peter waited.
“Supernumerary,” Chase said at last.
“Right. I want to talk about a supernumerary who seems to be a friend of yours.”
On stage, Mercédès and Frasquita were taking turns pulling the lever of the giant slot machine and singing about their fortunes. Iris Kortella ably handled Mercédès’s little number on becoming a rich widow. Amy Song sashayed over, swinging her slender hips in her tight camo fatigues, to pull the lever and receive a prediction of imminent death.
The first ace of diamonds descended swiftly and smoothly, in perfect unison with the second ace of diamonds, arising through the trap. “Carreau!” Amy sang. As it locked in place the first ace of spades dropped. It landed with a thud, catching the edge of the slot into which it was supposed to fit. The hooks holding its top edge disengaged. The twelve-foot high, eighty-pound structure of canvas and wood tottered and fell forward. Amy Song, trying to get out of the way, was a step slow. The card caught her on the shoulder and knocked her flat on the stage. The giant card lay lopsidedly, half on top of her.
The orchestra stopped playing. Gasps and cries arose from the audience and here and there people stood. The house lights came up and stage hands rushed out to help Mercédès, Frasquita, and Ray, who were lifting the card off Amy Song.
Chapter 69
Peter sat and waited patiently while Chase, leaning over his computer with headphones on, ended his Skype session, which took rather a long time. Finally he pulled off the headphones and crossed the room to loom over Peter. “I don’t know what supernumerary you’re talking about.”
“Going back to Tuesday night—”
“You mean, when you were falsely accusing me of murdering Stromberg-Brand? I wouldn’t think you’d want to go back there. If you insist, perhaps a lawsuit for slander can be arranged.”
“Remember, they stopped the opera, the lights came on, and everybody headed for the lobby. Renata and I were talking to the cop, and you came to the door of the auditorium with a super in an American flag T-shirt. And he pointed us out to you.”
“He told me he knew Renata Radleigh, and she’d told him she was trying to make trouble for me. He came to warn me.”
“Right. Renata explained that much. She also said Ray told her that you didn’t know each other.”
“We didn’t.”
“You don’t know his name?”
“No.”
“It’s Ray Costello. Does that help?”
Chase advanced on Peter, bumping into his coffee table and sending a stack of medical journals slithering to the floor. “I don’t have to answer your questions, Lombardo. This is my home and I don’t want you in it. Get out.”
“Ray Costello had a daughter named Michelle who died two years ago at the age of twenty-six. She died of Chagas Disease. You are one of the leading authorities on Chagas Disease. It wasn’t hard for me to find these facts on the internet. It won’t be hard for the police, either. And they’re bound to look, once they figure out that Keith Bryson didn’t kill Helen Stromberg-Brand. Sooner or later you’ll have to talk to them about you and Ray Costello. So you might as well talk to me now.”
Chase backed away from Peter. He sank down heavily on the sofa.
Chapter 70
In the crowded wings of the Ruth Baxter Irwin Mainstage, Congreve was pacing, his face locked in a rictus of anguish. Amy Song was seated on the crate to which she had been helped five minutes before. Two EMTs were attending her. Mike was standing nearby with his hands in his pockets. Even now, he radiated calm competence. One of the EMTs turned to speak to him. He nodded and walked over to Congreve
“Well?”
“The EMTs say no broken bones, just bruises. But Amy says she’s in considerable pain. She wants to go to the hospital for X-rays.”
“Can’t it wait? What about the rest of the show?”
“We really, really don’t want to aggravate her anymore.”
“But where’s her professionalism? Her sense of responsibility? I’m going to talk to her.”
Mike stepped in front of Congreve and placed his hands flat on his chest. He said, quietly but em
phatically, “No.”
“Well, shit, Mike. What are we gonna do?”
“We call in Amy’s understudy, of course.”
Congreve’s eyes opened wide. He was speechless.
Three-quarters of a mile away, in Don’s kitchen, Renata was making a glass of iced tea. The phone on the wall beside her was ringing, but she ignored it. Word had spread quickly among reporters that she was reachable at this number. But when her cellphone emitted its tune, she thought it might be Peter and took it out of her pocket. The little screen told her that it was Mike. Puzzled, she pressed talk.
“Hello?”
“Renata, can you come to the theater?” said Mike, in the please-pass-the-potatoes tone he used in a crisis.
“What for?”
“To sing Carmen.”
Renata did not ask if he was joking. Nor did she take the Lord’s name in vain.
She was neither incredulous nor dismayed. Not even flustered. She had been waiting for this moment for years—all her life, really. She said, “I’ll drive right over.”
“We’ve sent a car. It should be pulling up outside now.”
“On my way.”
She pocketed the phone. Was there anything she needed to bring with her? No. It was all at the theater. She walked to the front door and out. The car was parked in front, lights on and engine thrumming. The driver was rounding its front end at a trot, headed for the house. Seeing her, he grinned and waved, and went to open the car’s back door.
As the car accelerated away she leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. These were the last calm minutes she would have. She used them to breathe deeply, feeling her throat open and relax in several yawns. She made a few experimental noises to confirm her cords were healthy and began to hum softly. In a little while she would sing to nine hundred people, and they would all hear every note and syllable.
Abruptly she remembered that there was now somebody else in her life, to whom this moment would be almost as important as it was to her. She called Peter. His phone was off. She waited through the recording and said, “Come to the theater as soon as you get this, my love. I’m singing Carmen. They won’t make you pay for your seat this time.”
Already the bright lights of the SLO complex were filling the windshield. The car pulled up at the stage door. As she got out there was a rattle of applause and shouts of “Brava!” A few of the more savvy audience members had come round from the lobby to await developments. She waved to them and went up the steps. Mike was waiting in the doorway. A repetiteur was standing by with the heavy folders of the score, in case she needed to refresh her memory. She didn’t, but she did think to ask, “Where are we taking it from?”
Mike put his arm round her shoulders and they started down the hall. “Voyons, que j’essaie à mon tour.”
“Oh. Those bloody cards again?”
“One of them fell on Amy.”
“Is she all right?”
“I think so. But she’s too pissed off to continue.”
Renata noticed a dresser walking beside them. “You’ll never get Amy’s camo fatigues to fit me.”
“We’re going with a basic black dress from another production.”
“Bernhard von Schussnigg won’t like that.”
“Bernhard von Schussnigg will never work in this town again,” said Mike. He pushed through a door.
The supers and choristers lining the corridor burst into applause and cheers. Renata smiled and nodded as Mike rushed her past them, trying to meet every pair of eyes for at least a split second. One face was not smiling.
It would have brought her up short, but Mike and the others bore her along. Ten feet down the corridor she realized that it had been Ray. She had not given him a thought for the last two days. Now she recalled that their early friendship had rather cooled and thinned lately. He’d thought Don was guilty and disapproved of her attempts to clear him. Well, if he apologized, she’d forgive him. She was in a magnanimous mood tonight.
And that was all the time she had for Ray. He vanished from her thoughts as the door of the wardrobe department slammed shut behind her and four dressers closed in and began to tear off her clothes.
Chapter 71
“Michelle Costello was never my patient,” Chase said. “And the first time I met Ray Costello was last night.”
“Okay. That might delay the cops for a while. Did you delete his emails?”
Chase said nothing.
“If you did, it probably won’t help you. The cops can work miracles when it comes to recovering deleted emails. Not to mention that Ray probably didn’t delete your replies. They must have meant a lot to him.”
Chase gave a heavy shrug.
“All right. Ray emailed me, out of the blue. Like hundreds of people do. He was an engineer at the Boeing plant. He was used to knowing how things worked. With what was happening to his daughter, he felt helpless.”
“How did she contract Chagas? We don’t even have it in this country.”
“On a spring break trip to Cancun. It was her first trip out of the country. He said he could never forgive himself for letting her go. On the brochures it looked just like Myrtle Beach and all her friends were going, so he said okay.”
“It’s not exactly Myrtle Beach.”
“No. An insect they have down there—Reuviidae, commonly called the assassin bug—bit her and passed on a protozoa called Trypanosoma. At the time it was only a little soreness and redness. She didn’t even mention it when she got home. Years went by. Michelle felt fine. She graduated and went to work and got engaged. And all that time the parasite was multiplying inside her, spreading through her blood, invading her organs. Including her heart.
“When she started feeling sick, it took a long time to find out what was wrong. Chagas isn’t a possibility that occurs to American doctors. I would have asked about the trip to Mexico; they didn’t. She was put through lots of useless tests as she got sicker and sicker. By the time they tested for the parasites, they found too many. Her heart was about worn out.”
“Ray Costello couldn’t accept the diagnosis, I suppose. He contacted you.”
“All I could do was confirm that it was hopeless.”
“But you kept in touch.”
“Michelle’s doctor was hiding behind his secretary. Afraid of being sued for malpractice. Or just plain squeamish about death. Somebody had to answer Ray’s questions. Comfort him. His beautiful daughter. Twenty-six years old. To die like that. No parent ever gets over it. We exchanged a lot of messages.”
Peter said, “When you were comforting him, what did you say about Helen Stromberg-Brand?”
Chapter 72
The cast was waiting in the wings when Renata came up the steps. Dressers flanked her, titivating her costume and hair. She could not see the stage over heads and shoulders, but she could hear the sonorous voice of Congreve, who was saluting the spirit of his company. The audience was cheering and applauding whenever he paused. Many had been at the bar during the unscheduled interval, obviously. Oh, shut up and let us get on with it, Renata pleaded. This wasn’t one of the big crowd-pleasing numbers from earlier in the show. This was a quiet moment, with Carmen calmly and courageously resigning herself to death. Anyway, that had always been Renata’s interpretation of the character, and in tonight’s performance, that was how it would be.
Dismissing the dressers, she moved through the crowd. People made way with encouraging smiles. As she got closer to the stage, she saw with pleasure that the giant aces were gone and the video screens were off. They’d even got rid of that wretched slot machine. She and Georges Bizet’s music would be on their own.
She realized that she was standing next to Ray. She glanced at his doleful profile. He wasn’t acknowledging her; they stood like rush-hour passengers on the Underground.
“Hello, Ray. We’re on speaking terms, aren’t we?”
He actually jumped, then turned to her with his old sardonic smile, though it seemed a little forced. “Didn’t
know if you were still talking to us peons.”
“Oh, after tonight I’ll be back to peonage again.”
He looked at her for a moment longer, with an expression she couldn’t make out, then faced front. Go ahead, be that way, Renata thought. This might have been a good moment to apologize for all those snarky things he’d said about her brother being guilty.
She had no time for petty annoyances. Congreve was leaving the stage. Over the applause the stage manager called out, “Places, everyone!” The cast went out and deployed to their marks. Renata stepped into the center-stage spotlight reserved for her. The silly people applauded again. She wished they would let her sing first. She did not look out in the audience to see if Peter had arrived yet. Peter was not her boyfriend, Don José was. She had just told him she no longer loved him. Now she would face the consequences.
Maestro’s head floated above the edge of the stage, lit from below like a horror-movie villain. He lifted his hands and the music began. Filling her lungs with the breath that would leave them as song, Renata set off across the stage toward Mercédès and Frasquita, who were sitting at a table on which playing cards were laid out. She gathered them up, listening for the eighth G-note that was her cue. And here it was.
Voyons, que j’essaie à mon tour
Carreau, pique—la mort! J’ai bien lu.
Let’s see, it’s my turn
diamond, spade—death! That’s what it says.
She turned and walked slowly away from Mercédès and Frasquita, folding her arms and hunching her shoulders against the cold mountain air and the premonition of death.
Mais si tu dois mourir, si le mot redoutable
est écrit par le sort …