18
An Operatic Affair
EVENING DINERS FLOCKED INTO the lobby of the Call building, while businessmen fled for safety. The newsroom had not changed. Isobel sought quieter space in the back room.
Jo Kelly sat at one of the desks, studying a stack of photographs and prints, while Cara Sharpe perched on another. The older woman scrutinized Isobel through a haze of smoke. “Productive day,” Cara noted.
“I do my best.”
“Nice article. Smoke?”
Isobel shed her hat and coat, and gratefully accepted a cigarette. With a flare of sulfur, she touched the spark to the end and sucked on the gasper like a fine wine.
“You have two messages.” Kelly held out the telegram missives.
Isobel had a lot of experience with reading letters that weren’t addressed to her, and she knew how a resealed envelope felt. As a child, she had made it a point to open every single piece of delivered mail. Curiosity was an addiction.
As she casually opened the first telegram with a blade, she wondered which of the Sob Sisters had stole a peek. The first was an answer to her inquiry about the talking house. The current owner hailed from New York, a Mansfield Randall. It was a dreadful name, but not familiar. Feeling as though she had discovered a brick wall, she flicked the second open.
NEED TO TALK -R
The telegram said two o’clock. She blew out a breath, jammed her cigarette into the ash tray, and hurried to the telephone, closing herself into the confined space. On a whim, she asked for Mrs. Wright. The connection was short, and within a minute, a taciturn voice crackled over the line.
“Number please.”
“This is Miss Bonnie.”
Professional curtness blossomed into whispered excitement. “I see Merrily passed on my message.”
“Yes.”
“There have been three reported murders today, a fire, an opera singer threw a fit at the Tivoli, and a French gentleman rang you at the Call.”
“A French gentleman?”
“So he sounded.”
“I don’t think the person on the other end took a message,” Mrs. Wright confided with disapproval.
“Oh, I see.”
“Miss Taylor said you were a detective.” Shrewd accusation sounded from the other end.
Isobel quickly diffused it. “I’m working undercover at the Call.”
“I thought as much,” Mrs. Wright sounded impressed.
“Er—the opera singer. Did she have a name?”
“Madame de Winter.”
“Can you keep your ears out for any news surrounding the singer?”
“Of course,” the woman whispered, and then in a normal tone, “How may I help you?”
“Ravenwood Detective Agency.”
There was a long minute of silence. “I’m afraid there is no answer.”
Of course not. It was late, and the offices were small, not enough to warrant a night operator. She glanced at the telegram and narrowed her eyes. Lotario could be toying with Riot and her again. “Thank you, Mrs. Wright, I look forward to meeting you.” And she did. Her pawns could prove useful—but first, they had to prove trustworthy. Isobel set that thought aside for another time. Right now, what mattered is that they were willing, and far more trustworthy than her fellow Sob Sisters. Despite Isobel’s overactive imagination and suspicious nature, she could not, for the life of her, imagine Miss Taylor driving a woman to suicide.
She hung the earpiece on its hook, and looked at Riot’s (likely Lotario’s) telegram. The message could mean anything: an expression of gratitude, another invitation to dinner, or worse, he had stuck his finely-shaped Roman nose into her investigation. Surely Riot wouldn’t—would he? The thought made her seethe.
When Isobel returned, Cara’s dark gaze flitted over her. The two women were discussing the layout of a society piece, but from that single glance, the hairs on Isobel’s arm raised. She, too, had plenty of practice at switching subjects mid-sentence.
“Any leads on your will in the sand story?” asked Cara.
“It’s shaping up. Does the whole newsroom know about it?”
“I saw the proofs for the morning edition. By tomorrow, everyone in the city will know.”
Isobel certainly hoped so. When an opponent knew he was being maneuvered into a corner, he usually started making mistakes. Perhaps it would drive a bit of information out into the light of day. That, along with a swarm of reporters.
“A word of advice, Bonnie.” Cara took a long drag from her cigarette, and casually crushed the stub. “Even if you uncover the full story, string it along as much as possible. The reading public loves a good story, especially when a pretty young woman is involved.”
Isobel looked sharply at the older woman. There had been a minuscule emphasis on her last words. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Some stories will make your career.”
“I’m just trying to pay the rent.”
Feeling ill at ease with the two reporters, Isobel gathered her things, and fled. She felt exposed, as if Cara Sharpe had already deduced her secrets.
Hunger did not help her shakiness. She walked down to the street, bought a sad looking sandwich from a vendor who was closing, and retreated back inside the Call building, riding its lift to the basement level.
The archives felt like an old attic: cold, dark, and musty. The quiet calmed her senses. But there was another presence in the dim light. A tall, solid man with broad shoulders and a cocky black mustache. He was searching through the newspapers. She took him for the archivist.
“Excuse me, where might I find newspapers for January 1899?”
The man appeared surprised, but only for a moment. He hopped to it, showing her the proper drawer. It rattled opened, displaying a row of newspapers hanging on horizontal poles.
“New to the paper?”
“Started this week,” she replied, rifling through the dates.
“Typesetting?”
“Reporting.”
“A rough business.”
“So is the city.”
“It is,” the man agreed. There was a faint sigh. “Let me know if I can help you with anything else, Miss.”
She barely heard the man. He faded back into the archives and she set her eyes to the task, starting with the thirty-first of January. Time stretched and pages of tiny print blurred. She reached up to rub an ache in her neck, when an obituary notice snagged her attention. A notice for Victoria Foster, residing at the very same address where Isobel had slipped through the fence and talked to a man under the porch. Victoria Foster, at the time of her death, was survived by a brother and a granddaughter: Mansfield Randall and Elizabeth Foster.
The house was Violet’s, or her Great Uncle’s at any rate. Why the devil was Violet jumping from one boarding house to the next?
Isobel walked straight to the lift, and headed for the nearest Western Union.
✥
The voice of an angel flowed past deaf statues, through the door, and finally settled on Isobel’s ears. The Tivoli’s lobby was empty save for attendants ready to rush her to a seat. She passed pond fronds and gilt and showed Madame de Winter’s personal calling card to the staircase guard. Surprise flickered over the man’s face. She was hardly dressed for a reserved box.
Pulled by Vivaldi’s Aria, Isobel followed the man upstairs, and was shown into Madame de Winter’s reserved balcony. There were only two guests tonight, one of whom she recognized. She sat in the shadows, and looked to the gas lit stage.
Madame de Winter’s voice haunted the air, and the singer’s presence demanded the eye. Dressed in a baroque wig and finery, the slim opera diva swayed with her song.
Isobel closed her eyes, appreciating her twin’s high, clear, contralto—castrato if anyone had known what lay beneath the satin and lace. But not a true castrato in the physical sense. Lotario could reach heights both vocal and physical.
The voice wrapped around her mind, lifting her heart, and sinking into he
r breast. Isobel floated, somewhere far away from the mesmerized audience. It was like the wind and the sea, and for a moment, her mind stilled.
Applause shattered the peace, a battering against her eardrums that reminded her to breathe. Isobel snapped open her eyes, recalling why she had come. A two-fold errand. Duncan August was an added sweet on the pile.
Belatedly, she stood with the audience that had surged to its feet, and leant forward, tapping the coroner on the arm. He turned, eyes widening with surprise. And then, quite charmingly, blushed, as if she had caught him with graft or in bed with Madame de Winter. Instead of shouting over the roar of the crowd, she pressed a note into his palm and slipped through the curtains.
The hallway was empty. The applauding audience was aiming for an encore. Lucie would likely give them two; she could never resist the spotlight.
Farther down the hallway, voices pierced the drone. Two men stood on the grand staircase. Isobel’s heart stopped, and her feet faltered. Alex Kingston dominated the deserted lobby, conversing with a small, blondish man with upswept mustaches. Her ex-husband was as solid and severe as ever. She steeled herself against his presence, swallowed down her twinge of fear, and strode down the carpeted stairway without missing a step. Both men were walking up the stairs, deep in quiet conversation.
She kept her hat tilted towards the two, and her ear.
“This isn’t Honolulu…” the smaller man said, but before she could hear the next words, the doors erupted, spilling the audience into the corridors. Isobel cursed her twin for denying the crowd an encore.
Isobel felt the large man turn, mid-step on the stair. Eyes touched the back of her neck, and a cold chill trickled down her spine. Fingers twitched for a weapon, but before she could surrender to impulse, her heel touched the flat carpet. She swallowed down an urge to bolt, to race into the safety of the theatre crowd, but she kept an even pace. And then stopped. Her thoughts spun, her legs disappeared, and she was vaguely aware of staring like a simpleton.
Atticus Riot escorted a woman through the crowd. Silk left the woman’s shoulders bare, clinging to an ample bosom. A diamond was nestled tenderly in its valley. His lady was shapely and lush and she hung on his arm so closely that her breast brushed his elbow. Riot whispered in the woman’s ear, and she laughed.
Slyly, his keen brown eyes took in the stunned young woman. A flash of surprise, a moment of relief, a twinge of worry, and then his gaze traveled over her shoulder. Without misstep, Riot maneuvered his stunning companion around the frumpily dressed statue, and greeted the man on Isobel’s heels.
“Kingston, it’s good to see you again.”
There was familiarity in the words, more than a business transaction. A small, curious part of Isobel nearly stayed to listen, but the largest part, now angry and berating herself, urged her to flee. She listened wholeheartedly to the latter, and seized the opportunity to melt into the mingling crowd.
She wove her way towards the backstage access, but a large imperious bouncer in jet held the gate against a tide of reporters. Jo Kelly was in the knot.
Isobel switched directions, letting the crowd sweep her towards the exit. Before she plunged into the night, she stole one last look at Riot and the woman on his arm.
✥
The fog slapped sense into her, and its tendrils soothed her burning skin. Isobel’s ears rang. She slipped down a dark side lane, picked her way past the refuse, and rounded the corner to the back of the Tivoli. A single gas lamp lit a lone door. She knocked.
A slat in the door slid to the side. She produced Madame de Winter’s elaborate card. The eyes behind the door looked right, and then left. The door opened. A large man who was as black as his suit ushered her backstage. He looked her over with a dubious sweep, but kept his thoughts to himself as he led her through the chaos.
Isobel made no introductions. She didn’t have to. Madame de Winter was shrouded in mystery, and the theatre was well used to her varied tastes.
The bouncer knocked on the opera singer’s dressing room door.
A chiseled, smooth-faced gentleman answered. He was tall and handsome in a pretty sort of way, with a faint line of kohl tracing his light eyes. Isobel leaned to the left, peering past the man to where her twin sat at a dressing table. Lucie wagged her sculpted eyebrows in the mirror.
“I have a visitor, Walter. Make yourself scarce.” Lucie blew him a kiss in the mirror.
A look of longing passed over the man’s face. He turned annoyance on Isobel, and brushed past without a word.
Isobel stepped inside, and shut the door, collapsing onto a fainting couch. She tried not to think of what the couch had seen, a simple matter as the lush woman with Riot dominated her thoughts.
She refused to glance at her own reflection, targeting her twin instead. “Did you send a telegram to the Call today?” she interrogated.
Lucie pulled off her wig, set it carefully on its stand, and began wiping off the white powdered makeup. With a few practiced swipes, Lotario emerged. He studied Isobel in the mirror.
Instead of answering her question, he asked one of his own, “Have you eaten?”
The question caught her off guard. “A sandwich,” she replied distractedly. Never mind that she had taken a single bite. Her sandwich must still be in the archives. Swallowing her sudden hunger, she pressed the issue. “Answer me, Lotario.”
“I didn’t.”
“But you sent one to Riot, yesterday.”
Lotario fluttered his long lashes innocently.
“I’m going to kill you, Ari.”
Lotario stood. “Until then, help me get out of this lovely thing.” Anything to distract her mind. “Did Riot find you?”
“He’s here at the theatre,” she answered through her teeth. “With a lady. They appeared to be on intimate terms, so would you give up your fanciful romanticism.”
“It’s not fanciful,” he sniffed. “You just need to assert yourself and crush the competition.”
“I don’t want to,” she growled.
“Clearly.”
The subject needed to be changed. Isobel snatched at another; one Lotario never tired of discussing—himself. “Who is Walter? Your current lover?” Isobel asked as she worked at the buttons.
“Hopeful, more like. I met him last night.” Lotario sighed. “It’s agonizing—the not knowing. The guessing.”
“And danger,” she added.
“Hmm.” He shrugged a slim shoulder. “At least the Narcissus is safe. There’s no guessing there. You do remember how to enter unseen?”
“Of course.” She lifted the dress over his head. As she carefully draped it over a chair, Lotario let the bulky undergarments fall, until he stood in bodice, lacy drawers, stockings, and delicate boots. He reached for a silk robe, picked up a basket, and joined her on the divan. The basket was brimming with shiny fruits, decadent chocolates, cheese and crackers, and a bottle of champagne. Lotario knew her well enough not to suggest she eat; instead, he tempted her by popping a chocolate between his painted lips.
Isobel reached for an apple. “Did you discover anything about Violet?”
“After you abandoned me for more thrilling waters, I paid an unannounced visit to the theatre, feigning a sudden foreboding. I had a dream.”
“Convenient.”
“Naturally,” he agreed. “A premonition that tonight’s performance would be a disaster. I demanded that the entire theatre rehearse. During the rehearsal, I told them a story I once heard about an unfortunate accident that befell a promising actress, and demanded that they check all of the stage lights.” Lotario frowned. “I doubt any of the stagehands slept. But people started talking, of course. One actress remembered the girl, and the accident, and then of course, everyone did. Eager to be noticed, as is the curse of actors everywhere, a friend of Violet’s—Lola, came forward, happy to share the tale.”
“Nicely managed.”
“Of course it was,” Lotario waved a hand.
“Did you actually lear
n anything useful?” Isobel asked around a mouthful of fruit.
Lotario’s gaze slid sideways. “Leo wasn’t exaggerating. Violet had a promising future. Apparently, the accident occurred at the Columbia. I can attempt to insert myself there, but a year in the theatre is a long time; I doubt I’d turn up anything.”
“All leads should be explored.”
Lotario sighed. Work was not his forte. “Lola said that Violet left rehearsal on Wednesday to meet her gentleman friend at Golden Gate Park. She suspected marriage was in the air, and being a romantic, thinks Violet ran off to elope.”
“Without a word?” she asked. “Did Lola say whether Violet enjoyed being an actress?”
“For a woman, it’s more lurid to join a theatre than for a man to appear on stage in a corset and garters.”
Lotario had a point. Lola might see marriage as a chance to restore a fallen reputation, or secure a rich husband. It took a rare man (usually a fellow actor) to allow his wife on stage.
“At times, I would give anything to switch places with you,” Lotario confided. He untied his robe, and stood, studying his profile in the mirror. In corset, drawers, and stockings, he looked, save for his luscious hair, as Isobel would wearing the same: fine cheekbones, sleek muscle, and a lithe physique. Utterly the opposite of the shapely woman on Riot’s arm. “But then I think of all the limitations you face in a society that frowns upon a slit instead of a prick.”
Isobel took a bite of her apple.
“In the end, when clothes are removed, even with my preferences, I have more freedom than you.”
“And that, dear brother,” she said, walking over to the costume rack, “is precisely why I’ve come to raid your dressing room.”
A Bitter Draught Page 15