by Claire McNab
“Thanks, but no. It’s late.”
“Since Paul’s been gone… I’ve been lonely.”
“It’s not a good idea.”
“Sure it is, Carol. You know it is.”
“No, I don’t know that at all.”
“It’s going to happen. Why not now?”
“Good night, Madeline.”
Madeline slid out of the car and walked around to the driver’s door. Carol wound the window down, looked up at her. “Madeline, we’re not doing a reprise of Desert Hearts you know.”
Madeline was smiling. She leaned through the window and kissed Carol lightly on the lips. Drawing back, she said cheerfully, “It’s going to be fun, Carol. And more…”
Carol turned the ignition key. “No.”
Her emphatic negative drew a broader smile from Madeline as she stood back from the car. “I can feel it, and so can you. Say what you like-it won’t make any difference.”
When Carol glanced in the rear view mirror as she turned out of the driveway, Madeline was still standing there, gazing after her. Carol swore, trying with words to chase away the spiraling tension that Madeline’s words and touch had accomplished.
Carol was home before Sybil, who had a committee meeting for Women in Politics. The red light was blinking on the answering machine, so she pressed replay while she primed her ancient coffee percolator. The first message was from her Aunt Sarah, confirming her plans to arrive on Saturday morning. The second was a whispered voice she didn’t recognize. Collis Raeburn’s death was an accident. Put that in your report. Just say he died accidentally. It’s the best thing to do for everyone, and it’s true. Don’t cause trouble. There’s some things about your private life you wouldn’t want to get out. Remember that.
She stood staring at the machine as it clicked loudly, then wound the tape back with an angry whirring sound. Carol pressed the replay button, listening intently as the whispered voice repeated the message. Blended with a brush of apprehension was anger-and the tingle of excitement that her investigation had driven someone to make the threat.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Collis Raeburn’s singing teacher lived in an old suburb that had once enjoyed more gracious days. Her house, an undistinguished dark brick, sat stolidly in a neglected garden. Carol shivered as she got out of the car. The day had begun with icy wind and sudden, spiteful showers of rain, as a reminder that it was only very early spring.
Earlier, the sharpness of the day had been echoed by the coldness between her and Sybil. “Carol, there’s been something wrong between us for a long time. I’ve grown, I’ve changed, and the way you want to live isn’t enough for me anymore.”
Restraining her anger, Carol had said, “Is running away the best thing to do?”
“We need to have some distance between us… I need some distance…”
“Don’t do this, darling.”
Sybil’s face had tightened at this brisk entreaty. “Carol, we always do it your way-this time it’s going to be different…”
Anne Newsome broke into her somber thoughts. Gesturing at the house, she said, “Being a singing teacher doesn’t seem very profitable. Must be in it for love.”
Love? thought Carol bitterly.
As they opened the sagging gate and walked up the overgrown path, a voice, warm as sunshine, poured out the open window. The sung phrase curled in the air, then faded. A pause, and it was repeated.
Carol knocked sharply on the door. After a few moments it was opened by a woman whose face was familiar from the Collis Raeburn television special. “Inspector Ashton? You’re a little early. I’m just finishing a lesson. Won’t be long.”
As they were shown into an alcove off the front room, Carol glimpsed the polished flank of a grand piano and the slight figure of a young woman standing beside it. She and Anne settled down into lumpily uncomfortable lounge chairs upholstered in dusty brocade.
The lesson recommenced. The young woman would sing a phrase, the dark liquid of her voice caressing the notes, only to be interrupted by an impatient comment and a command to do it again.
“No! No! Listen to yourself. Where’s your control? Remember, your voice is supported by a column of air… Put your hands against your ribs, here, fingers touching… Now, breathe in! Let the air force your hands apart.”
A pause, apparently for the student to comply. Anne caught Carol’s glance and smiled. The teacher’s impatient voice demanded, “You feel that? Do you? Do it again!… Now, you must always remember that the muscular arch of your diaphragm is the foundation of your voice. Singing is only air passing over your vocal cords, so you must control that column of air completely.”
There was a soft comment from the student, followed by an impatient exclamation from the teacher. “Most people are lazy and breathe shallowly. You must learn to use every part of your lungs-they are the bellows of your voice.” A chord was struck violently on the piano. “Don’t sing the note-hum! Louder… louder. Now! Swell it… fade it. You feel your upper lip vibrating? Yes? Remember that feeling. That’s where your voice must be placed to get that clear, beautiful, sustained sound.”
“Seems like hard work,” whispered Anne.
The teacher had begun a piano introduction. The music was unfamiliar to Carol, but it filled the room with an aching melody that intensified as the young woman began to sing. Her voice-tawny and supple-delighted Carol. She shut her eyes and let it curl around her. This time there were no interruptions. The song ended with a few soft notes, then the voice of the teacher saying grudgingly, “That was better. But you must practice. Practice!”
The lesson over, the student was bustled out the front door and Carol and Anne were taken into the main room. “Your student’s got a beautiful voice,” said Anne.
The teacher grunted. “Oh, yes, God’s given her the voice. But that’s just the first step. It’s what she does with it now, that’s important. She could be the next Kathleen Ferrier-if she works hard, and gets the breaks. It’s never enough to have raw talent. Luck has a lot to do with success.”
“Collis Raeburn was lucky?” said Carol.
The woman’s stern face softened. “Yes, Collis was lucky, but he also had a voice that only occurs once or twice a century. He was sent to me early, before he could learn shortcuts and bad habits-tenors often develop them, I’m afraid-and I realized immediately what he was.” She grew grim. “That is all the more reason why it is a dreadful tragedy that he’s dead.”
“You said on the phone to me that you believed someone had killed him.”
The teacher’s eyes narrowed at Carol’s bland tone. “I can see you doubt me, but I know someone did.” She gave a theatrical shrug. “You’ll be thinking I’m overdramatizing, no doubt. But I knew Collis better than anyone, and there is no way he would have killed himself. He had an arrogance, bordering on narcissism, that would make it absolutely impossible for him to even consider destroying himself. Suicide, no matter what, could not be an option.”
Carol said mildly, “Just hypothetically, what if he’d been suffering from something like cancer…”
“You don’t have to pussyfoot around. I knew about the AIDS.”
Hiding her surprise, Carol said, “What did he tell you, and when?”
“About a week before he died he came to see me here. Said he’d tested positive. He was angry and upset, but he wasn’t about to kill himself over it. Collis was a fighter. Wouldn’t have got where he did in his career if he was the sort to throw up his hands and give up. He told me he was determined to beat the virus. That he could afford the best advice, the latest drugs… and he firmly believed a cure was probable within the next few years.”
Carol said bluntly, “Did he have any idea how he caught it?”
She glared. “All he said was it was someone he knew. Said he’d get even, any way he could.”
“Any idea if it was a man or woman? Did he give a name?”
“No. And I didn’t ask, Inspector.” Her face contorted with grief and
anger. “Wish I had, because whoever it was killed him to keep him quiet. I’m sure of it.”
As Anne drove them back into the city, she said rather smugly to Carol, “I think I know why he told the housekeeper and his singing teacher, but no one else.”
“He may have told several people, but they’re not saying anything.” Anne looked subdued by this comment, so Carol prompted, “What’s your theory?”
“Well, since Collis Raeburn’s mother died when he was very young, and the housekeeper and his singing teacher are sort of middle-aged, I think they might be mother-substitutes for him.” She flushed slightly. “That’s just off the top of my head.”
“It’s an interesting point, Anne. And it could lead somewhere, or not, but it’s worth saying.”
After an awkward pause, Carol said, “Who was Kathleen Ferrier?”
Anne grinned. “Luckily I can answer that, because my father had all her records. She was an English contralto with the most beautiful voice. She died young from cancer, and her records are all mono recordings, but they’re still wonderful.”
Singers live on in their recordings, thought Carol. What will I leave behind?
Back in her office, Carol closed the door and dialed home. “Sybil? Have you changed your mind?… Darling, please…” She listened, her face blank, then said, “Are you taking Jeffrey with you?”
Ridiculously, the mention of Sybil’s fat ginger cat brought her closest to tears. She blinked, keeping her voice steady as she said, “I’m glad you’re leaving him with me. Sinker would be lonely without his company-”
A sharp knock at the door interrupted, but she knew Sybil wanted to end the call anyway. They’d said everything that could be said last night. Her voice still calm, with no hint of the gray desolation that filled her, she said goodbye and replaced the receiver deliberately.
Bourke opened the door. “Carol, sorry to interrupt, but I’ve seen Amos Berringer, the would-be expose king.”
She gestured for him to sit, resolutely pushing her despair about Sybil out of her mind. “Was he selling a genuine story?”
“Not really. He’s a sleazy little bastard, skating around the edges of the gay scene and picking up married guys cruising for a quick thrill. His m.o. is to take a photograph or two on the sly, then try a little blackmail for, as he calls it, gifts. Seems the photos of Raeburn were pure luck-he recognized him in the bar and decided to take a few snaps for future reference. He’s dropped the claim he was Raeburn’s ex-lover, and now says he just moved in the same crowd.”
“So why the story that Raeburn was HIV-positive? How could he have known he was?”
Bourke shrugged. “It might just be Berringer’s lucky guess. He probably thought, too, that it would make a stronger story for sale to Madeline Shipley.”
Carol was finding it an effort to concentrate. Forcing her thoughts away from Sybil’s angry words-“Everything’s got to be on your terms, Carol. Everything.”-she asked if Bourke had traced anyone else in the photographs.
“Not yet, but we’ve got the name of the bar and I’ve got Ferguson chasing up any names we got from Berringer.” He paused, irresolute, then said, “Remember you asked me to pick up on what was being said on the grapevine? You won’t like it, Berringer but the general impression seems to be that you’re in the Commissioner’s pocket on this one and the result-accidental death-is a foregone conclusion. Bannister, of course, is helping this along, although I’ve managed to point out to a few people it’s sour grapes on his part.”
“There was a call on my answering machine last night-no name, of course-advising me to find that Raeburn’s death was an accident. It was whispered, but possibly a man.” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the threat of exposure. She didn’t want Mark Bourke’s sympathy, or his understanding. I can pretend it hasn’t happened-but that won’t make it go away.
Mark said dryly, “It’d be a lot less trouble if it was an accident.”
She nodded wearily as her phone rang. “It sure would.” Hoping it was Sybil calling back, she snatched up the receiver.
“Inspector Ashton? This is Alanna Brooks.”
“I would like to see you as soon as possible.”
“And I you, Inspector, but unfortunately it’s the opening night of Aïda, and, having missed so much yesterday, I’m tied up with rehearsals almost right through. I do, however, have a suggestion I hope you might accept. I’ve two tickets for one of the boxes, and I’d be delighted if you saw the performance tonight, then joined me in my dressing room afterwards. I’d be more than pleased to answer all your questions then.”
Carol thought of her house, lonely without Sybil, and accepted the invitation.
The wind had dropped, so the night was cool, not cold. The Opera House looked its spectacular best. The patrician curves of the floodlit cream-tiled roof shells were a counterpoint to the dark heaving water of the harbor, the ribs of the Harbour Bridge and the garish vitality of the city.
Carol met Anne Newsome in the foyer. The stark concrete curved in buttresses to support the soaring roofs, the walls were curtains of glass that allowed the city’s changing pattern of lights to provide a background to the crowds thronging around the circular central bars.
Mark Bourke had reacted with horror at the idea of attending an opera, but Anne had been delighted. “I know you don’t have to really dress up for opening nights anymore,” she had said, “but it’s a great chance to get your glad rags out!”
Aware that she would be interviewing Alanna Brooks, and, as always, wanting to create a controlled impression, Carol had selected a severe black dress and discreet gold earrings. Anne had been rather more daring. Looking impossibly glamorous, in comparison to her working garb of plain, serviceable clothes, Anne was a vision in metallic green. “Startling, eh?” she said, as Carol blinked.
“Arresting,” said Carol, her lips twitching.
Douglas Binns had been waiting anxiously for them. “Inspector! Please come this way. Miss Brooks has asked that you be given some refreshments before the performance begins.”
Carol sipped her glass of champagne and considered Binns over the rim. “Mr. Binns, I presume you’d know everything that goes on in the opera company?”
He made haste to deny this. “By no means, Inspector. You must remember, I work for the Opera House itself. The Eureka Company is here for a season only.”
Giving him her most charming smile, Carol said, “Nevertheless, I would like you to answer a few questions.” Before he could voice his protest, she went on, “And I do appreciate your position, Mr. Binns.”
“Well, of course, if I can be of any help…”
She asked a few mild questions about his work responsibilities, then, when he had relaxed, she said, “You’re in a unique position, Mr. Binns, to give me unbiased information about the interrelationships in the Eureka Opera Company.”
“I don’t listen to gossip,” he assured her quickly.
“It’s not gossip I’m interested in, but your personal impressions. And of course, anything you say will be treated in confidence.” He looked both flattered and wary as she went on, “As an outsider I’m at a disadvantage, so I need the insights you can give me.”
She thought, Have I laid it on too thick? but was reassured by Douglas Binns’s proud little smile.
“Well, yes, Inspector, of necessity I must know what’s going on…”
It was easy after that. He freely discussed the complicated web of allegiances, alliances, rivalries and open conflicts that, he assured Carol, characterized most artistic communities. He answered her specific questions about Collis Raeburn’s relationships with a frankness that seemed to surprise him. “Inspector, I hope you don’t think I discuss these matters on any other occasions. Even my wife doesn’t know these details…”
Bells rang to indicate that Aïda would soon commence and in obedience to their gentle insistence, people began to straggle towards the entrances to the opera hall.
Binns was obviously rather
taken with Anne in her metallic green dress. “Almost fifteen hundred and fifty seats,” he said to her as he led them into their box high on the dull black left wall.
Out of habit Carol surveyed her surroundings carefully. A swelling murmur filled the opera theater as people crowded in, their animated conversations competing with discordant sounds from the cramped pit as the orchestra tuned up. Red seats with armrests in the familiar blond wood rose in tiers with no central aisle, so those in the center had to shuffle sideways past patrons already seated. The lighting was subdued, the banks of floodlights dark as they stared blankly at the heavy curtain masking the stage.
Binns was gazing around with proprietary pride. “Acoustics in the opera hall are very satisfactory,” he said. “One point four reverb time!” He looked from Carol to Anne, as though expecting an admiring response. “You know, of course, that the singers use no electronic amplification.”
“Why doesn’t the orchestra drown them out?”
Anne’s question pleased him. “I imagine,” he said with a faintly superior smile, “that most-if not all-popular singing is very much the product of microphones and sound engineers, so that even a thin voice can be given weight and timbre electronically. This is not the case in grand opera. The voice is an instrument, and the singer must provide the controlled power and resonance to be in partnership with the orchestra, and often to soar above it.”
Anne looked impressed. “They don’t only have to compete with an orchestra, they have to act and sing in a foreign language, all at the same time. What happens if they get confused?”
Binns was clearly delighted with her appreciation of the rigors of opera. “Singers do have a little help,” he said. “When the curtain goes up, you’ll notice a little hood center stage front. It hides the prompt, who sits suspended over part of the orchestra pit in a space so small it’s like sitting in a racing car.”
The flutter of programs and the hum of voices stilled as the conductor entered. He acknowledged the applause, then turned to the orchestra. As the soft violins that introduced the prelude continued to soar above the threatening bass line, Carol consciously relaxed the tight muscles in her shoulders, determined to escape into the music.