A Fatal Finale

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

  While no one would ever discuss such things in public, women singers will privately tell you that the early stages of a delicate condition can actually improve the voice; no one knows why, but it is true. Of course, the later stages aren’t nearly so helpful, and the enforced rest of confinement can slow recovery. But Marie does her work, and to my discerning ear, she was right back at her usual level.

  We ran through it a few times, each one better than the last. I didn’t mind; with this work, I could skip vocalization for the day and just relax when I got home. This practice was really more for Marie, anyhow, to reassure her that she was indeed ready to return to the stage.

  “Wonderful as always,” I said after the third run.

  She smiled. “It felt right that time.”

  I nodded. “Good.”

  “Better than good.” She pulled the bell rope with a grin. “Would you like to spend a few minutes with the rest of the cast?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Marya, the maid, carried Joseph back into the room, followed by his sibs: Jimmy, who was dark, and already working on his daddy’s serious mien, but blessed with Marie’s blue orbs and long lashes, and Polly, who was exactly the opposite hybrid of her parents: brown eyes, almost–white-blond hair, and her mother’s impish smile. I was glad to see that both were in sensible, colorful play clothes instead of the befrilled white muslin things that many parents force their children to wear when they’re showing them off to the world.

  “Miss Ella!” the older two chorused.

  I’d come prepared, as always. With Marie’s permission, I’d bought interesting books for both on the tour. Jimmy got the story of Paul Revere’s ride from Boston, and Polly, two years younger, a picture book about Betsy Ross from Philadelphia. I handed out the volumes, and hugs, and watched happily as the two slipped off to the corner to read. For Joseph, I’d brought one of those little cloth ABC books. He probably already had one; the Winslows believe every bit as strongly as I do in the power of reading, but considering what babies do to anything they touch, another was not unwelcome.

  Joseph showed no interest whatsoever in his book, but was happy to sit in my lap and bat at the charms on my bracelet for a while as Marie watched with a knowing smile.

  Soon enough, it was time for the small ones to return to the nursery, and the big ones to their busy day.

  Marie walked me to the door. “I’m so glad you came over. It’s so good to be back.”

  “I’m glad you’re back. And the little ones are splendid, as always.”

  “You are always welcome to borrow them for a while. And you aren’t required to bring books, you know.”

  “I enjoy playing fairy godmother.”

  “Maybe you should be working on the ‘mother’ part, Ells.”

  “This again?”

  Marie gave me a long look as we embraced at the door. “The music is wonderful. It makes us who we are. But it isn’t the only thing in the world.”

  Chapter 11

  In Which Our Heroes Play Stradivarius

  The Beacon’s music critic was delighted to join Tommy and me for coffee Monday, the day before the small benefit for the girls’ school. I’d carefully locked the studio door so Montezuma would not make any unexpected appearances. Mrs. G, no mean judge of character, happened in with the coffee tray as Anthony Stratford made himself to home in our parlor; then she quickly reappeared with absolutely plain bread-and-butter sandwiches, instead of the cookies or other dainties she would normally produce. Tommy and I shared a smile at that. Stratford, utterly oblivious, or perhaps distracted by the excitement of refreshments at the Diva and the Champ’s house, happily tucked in.

  “So this is a treat,” Stratford said around a mouthful. Even if we weren’t aware of his repulsive behavior toward his female colleagues, he would have raised some flags. A small, skinny man, with a ratlike face and bony hands that continued the rodent theme, he had the same fanatic gleam in his eye as the worst of the stage-door admirers. But his reviews of my productions had always been merely complimentary if not enthusiastic, saving his best adjectives for the tenors and baritones, and leaving me mostly beside the point.

  As I poured, I could tell from the way Tommy watched him that he was picking up something he didn’t like, which I was sure he’d share once Mr. Stradivarius played on, so I simply picked up my coffee and offered an appropriate smile. “We are delighted to entertain you, Mr. Stratford.”

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  I looked to Tommy, but he was happy to let me raise the curtain. “We are hoping to gather a bit of information or insight from your wide experience.”

  Stratford preened a little. “Oh?”

  Tommy nodded. “There are some questions about our late soprano Violette Saint Claire, and we wonder if you might have heard of her before she signed on with us.”

  “The poor little dolly who died?” Stratford took two more sandwiches and ate them simultaneously. “Yeah, she wasn’t any Canadian.”

  “We are aware of that,” I said coolly. “Her talent was at such a level that we weren’t concerned with a little stretching of the truth on her curriculum vitae. Many singers do it.”

  Stratford laughed, giving us a lovely view of a half-chewed sandwich. “Isn’t that the truth. You don’t, though.”

  “I’ve been fortunate. I try not to judge others.”

  “Right, you don’t. Nobody’s that nice. What do you think she was up to?”

  Tommy glared at him. “We don’t know if she was up to anything. We’re just trying to find any information that might comfort her family.”

  “Did they find her family?”

  I kept my face and voice carefully neutral. “When they do, I would like to be able to tell her loved ones a bit about what she was doing.”

  “Nothing but singing, that I know.” Stratford looked hard at me. “A lot like you, huh? No rich swells sniffing about, no ill-gotten jewels.”

  “To the best of my understanding,” Tommy began coldly, “she focused all of her energy on the music and becoming a better singer.”

  Stratford chuckled unpleasantly. “Would have taken a lot of energy. She was a light lyric soprano, and she wasn’t going to be anything like Miss Shane here.”

  I sighed. “She was twenty-one. She had no idea where her voice was going to settle, and she was doing everything right.”

  “That wasn’t what you thought when she was chewing up the scenery in Boston, was it?”

  I glared at him over my cup.

  “I happened to be in town last winter, thought I’d swing over and see how Arden Standish was developing.”

  “Yes, you like your tenors, don’t you?” Tommy said, his voice neutral, his eyes absolutely not.

  Stratford’s face tightened for a moment; then he recovered. “It’s no secret that I’m an authority on the male voice.”

  “Indeed you are . . .” Tommy agreed, amiably sipping his coffee.

  “What do you think of Standish, Mr. Stratford?” I cut in.

  “Well, Miss Shane.” The critic smiled, clearly thinking that the poor foolish woman had missed all the subtext. Toms and I would have a nice chuckle over that later. “He was quite promising, actually. Though I thought he was trying for roles that might be beyond him. I see him as more suited for the lighter works, not as a heroic tenor.”

  “We agree. He was a fine Tebaldo, but I’m not at all certain he would have done well as, say, Radamès.”

  Stratford snorted. “No, I don’t think so. And I think any impresario who gave him the chance would be sorry in the end.”

  I nodded and took another small sip of coffee, trying to remember what Arden had planned to do next. “He was looking to find a company that would offer him leading roles.”

  “Well, good luck to that company . . . and the ladies wherever it is.”

  Tommy and I both looked sharply at him.

  “What do you mean?” I asked slowly.

  Stratford
gave me the unpleasant smile again. “Didn’t check him out as thoroughly as you should have, maybe?”

  “We took a good hard look at his history.” Tommy’s voice turned a bit cold.

  “Well, it never came to a criminal charge, so perhaps it’s only gossip in the singers’ watering holes. Neither of you drinks with the tenors and baritones, do you?”

  “What?” Tommy asked, his voice a little harder.

  Even the persistently repulsive Anthony Stratford wasn’t fool enough to ignore that note in the voice of the Champ. “The girl didn’t bring charges, of course.”

  We waited. He was enjoying stringing it out.

  “A camp follower, for lack of a better description.” Stratford looked at me, clearly wondering if I knew what the expression meant. I gave no sign either that I knew, or that I was thoroughly disgusted by his use of it. “Claimed he’d gotten her, um, excuse me, Miss Shane, in a—”

  Tommy just looked at Stratford.

  “Sort of trouble,” the critic said quickly. “And that he’d beaten her badly when she told him.”

  My stomach twisted, both at the realization of what kind of man I’d hired and worked with, and the terrible situation that poor girl had found herself in.

  “What became of her?” I asked.

  “She was just a bit of—” Stratford started.

  “She was a human being created in the image of God, Mr. Stratford.” I scowled at him with all the dignity I could muster.

  He turned to me with an ugly smile that quickly died when he looked in my eyes; he actually shrank back. I can be quite terrifying when I have to be.

  “Um, well, I heard she threw herself in the East River. Couldn’t prove it by me.”

  “I’ll find out,” Tommy said quietly. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Stratford replied. “I’m not sure what any of this has to do with Violette Saint Claire, though.”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t. But now that I know this, I can assure you I won’t be seeking Mr. Standish’s services anytime soon.”

  “I can give you a list of ten better tenors, none of whom have nasty habits.”

  I nodded. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Stratford. I will be having a word with my booking agent.”

  “I certainly would,” he agreed. “What about poor little Violette?”

  “Do you know anything else about her?”

  “Sadly, no. Just that I thought she had a real problem with overacting. Which is probably no revelation to you.”

  “All young singers have a tendency toward overacting,” I reminded him. “Most of us grow out of it with time and some schooling from our colleagues.”

  “‘Schooling,’” Stratford said, looking from me to Tommy. “That’s a word for it. Most singers I know will tell you that they’d happily strangle a ham.”

  “A little excessive,” I observed.

  “Perhaps. But if anyone had reason to want her dead, it was you. After what I saw in Boston, no jury would have convicted you.”

  Considering that Frances had likely been her own judge, jury and executioner, I did not find his comment amusing. “Apparently, she was a very troubled girl.”

  “Unfortunate,” Stratford said.

  “Very,” Tommy agreed.

  Stratford grabbed a couple more sandwiches and chewed thoughtfully and grotesquely. “So I’ve given you what I’ve got. How about you give me something?”

  Tommy didn’t actually growl, but it was a close thing.

  “Information for information?” I asked. I’d been expecting this. “Well, why don’t we tell you about our upcoming Western tour?”

  “The Ella Shane Opera Company is going West again?”

  “We plan to play San Francisco in the late summer.” Tommy put on his manager’s cool voice and smile.

  “What’s the repertoire? Capuleti again?” Stratford pulled a notebook out of his jacket pocket and started scribbling.

  “No. I’m considering Xerxes,” I said, hoping it might be interesting enough to back him off. “We’ve never taken that on tour.”

  “I don’t think anyone else even does it. It’s been forgotten for most of a century.”

  I nodded. “All the more reason to take it on the road.”

  “Casting?”

  “Not set yet. We’ll start looking for singers soon.”

  “So you’ll be needing tenors again.”

  “Not this time. The male lead is a baritone. I think it’s important to give the heavier voices a chance, too, don’t you?”

  Stratford shrugged. “Not my cup of tea, but it’s your opera company.”

  I smiled. “Why, yes, it is.”

  We forced a few more minutes of amiable small talk before Stratford looked at his watch and remembered his deadline.

  Tommy and I walked him to the door, which is where I bowed to them, and Tommy shook his hand, very firmly, and didn’t let go.

  “I’ve heard that you’re not very polite to your female colleagues.”

  Stratford went pale.

  “You don’t need to speak,” Tommy continued, his voice as cool and pleasant as if he were discussing the spring weather. “But we’ll have no more of that.”

  “Um, of course, right, then.” The critic extracted himself from Tommy’s grip and backed off.

  Tommy smiled, not soothingly. “I will know.”

  Stratford swallowed and put on his hat.

  “Good day, then.” I gave him a polite smile as if I had no idea what had just happened.

  “Right,” he mumbled. “Good day.”

  Stratford practically ran out the door. I closed it, then patted Tommy’s arm. “Well done, Toms!”

  He gave me a sheepish grin, then started back into the parlor. “So, what do we do now?”

  “Well, you’ll tip a glass or two with the tenors, and in the morning, we’ll have a serious chat with Henry Gosling.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t know.”

  “I am, too. But he needs to know now.”

  Tommy nodded grimly. “I hate that we hired someone like that.”

  “I hate that someone like Stratford was the one to tell us.”

  “All the worse.” He picked up his coffee cup. “He’s a nasty piece of work.”

  “I understood that part, but there’s more, isn’t there?”

  Tommy looked at me for a moment, clearly deciding how to phrase his explanation. “I know you’re not an innocent little girl, Heller, but there are some things that are hard to explain.”

  “Well, tell me what you can.”

  “I’m not sure I understood it all myself.” He paused and shrugged. “But I suspect that he’s getting some kind of . . . consideration . . . from tenors.”

  “Oh.” I knew he wouldn’t tell me any more about what sort of consideration, and I really didn’t want to know, anyhow.

  “And I also suspect that he’s chasing the girls at his office as a way to draw suspicion away from those other activities. He would not be the first man to do that.”

  “Oh.”

  “Really ugly things going on with that one.” Tommy shook his head. “It’s despicable enough abusing the women at the Beacon, but he’s probably doing that to cover blackmail and worse with the tenors. And he didn’t even know much about Violette.”

  “Except a few nasty comments.”

  “She was a rotten little show-off.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Don’t turn her into a dead angel.”

  “She was also twenty-one. None of us is who we’re going to be at twenty-one.”

  He chuckled a bit. “So true, my wise and ancient one.”

  “If I’m ancient, what are you?”

  “Too damned old to care, Heller.” Tommy put down his coffee. “I suppose I should get to work on finding the singers’ drinking spot.”

  “I suppose I should just get to work. I should go over the lyrics for the Xerxes aria.”

  “Or maybe just take your book and go sit on the
chaise.” He stood over me like a good protector. “You work too hard, you know.”

  “Probably. You aren’t going to be home by dinner, are you?”

  “Not likely.” He was almost pouting. “Believe me, I’d rather stay home and have something tasty from Mrs. G.”

  “I’m sure. Well, then maybe I’ll just ask her to leave us some soup and send her home early. She might as well get an easy night.”

  “Glad someone will.”

  I picked up the library book. I’d gotten to the part where Anne had forced Henry to seek the divorce that would upend Christendom for the next three hundred years. “Now that you mention it, it may be a good night to just read.”

  Tommy smiled. “The exciting life of a diva.”

  “I have no complaints.”

  I didn’t make much headway with the book, though. It was hard to care about historical upheaval when there were more current problems to consider.

  Chapter 12

  A Matter Not Good for the Gosling

  Normally, when I am performing at night, I spend the day relaxing at home. I do a light vocalization session early, with help from Montezuma, some kind of easy exercise—a little dance or fencing, maybe just a walk around the block—and mostly simply rest my mind and body for the strenuous night ahead. But the situation on the day of that first benefit was serious enough to merit breaking my routine for a visit to Henry Gosling. Especially after Tommy appeared late for breakfast with a scowl that had as much to do with what he’d learned as the ale he’d tipped at a grubby spot on the edge of the Theater District.

  “It was bad, but not as bad as Stratford said, and it took me two vile pints with a couple of equally awful chorus members to find out.” Tommy glared at his eggs, over easy with bacon—a man needs his strength.