Suspicion of Deceit

by Barbara Parker

  "No, it's all right, but I should go."

  "What about my helping you out with Tom Nolan?"

  "Oh." Gail had to remember what they had been discussing earlier. "I'll keep it in mind."

  "Will you? I'd like to help."

  "Yes. If the city makes any noise, I'll speak to you about it. But let's be clear about one thing. I'm the opera's attorney. I call the shots. Okay?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Whatever you say."

  In the lobby of the New World School of the Arts, Gail paused to look back through the glass doors. Seth Greer was gone. If she had seen him, just a glimpse through the crowd, she might have gone after him. Bought him that cup of coffee. Made sure she had heard him correctly.

  They had been in Nicaragua. What had happened there? Not three months of summer studies at Managua U, but something so grim that Seth wouldn't talk about it. Whatever it was, Anthony had never mentioned it. Why?

  "Dammit."

  Gail wanted an answer to those questions, but it would have to wait. She asked the receptionist where to find Thomas Nolan.

  He was on the second floor. Gail shifted to the back of the elevator to allow a dozen or more students to get on, some carrying instrument cases. She exited into a square lobby with gray carpet and metal lockers. One wall had been painted electric blue. From down the hall to her left, a chorus was singing. From another direction, two pianos played entirely different pieces.

  She found the right office and looked through the glass panel beside the door. A man in a white oxford shirt with the cuffs rolled up sat at an upright piano. This had to be Nolan. She had seen him only briefly at the fundraiser, and that from a dozen yards away, but recalled blond hair, wide shoulders, and big hands—which now were dancing lightly over the keys. For a while he hummed wordlessly, then stopped and with a pencil marked something in the book of music he was playing from. His lips moved. He tapped the pencil in rhythm, then dropped it onto the piano and resumed. He sang softly in Italian.

  Standing on the other side of the glass, Gail felt an odd sense of familiarity stir in the far corners of her memory. Not the man, surely. The music? She reached and came up with nothing. The piano stopped. He turned a page.

  Gail knocked. Nolan's hair, tied at his neck, shifted as he glanced around. He said to come in, and she turned the knob. The room was crammed with books, papers, and magazines. The lid of the piano was stacked with them. It was also draped with a lace mantilla. When he stood up, the room seemed even smaller.

  "I'm Gail Connor. I left a message that I'd be here at one o'clock. I'm a little late."

  "Yes, of course," he murmured absently, looking around for a place for her to sit. He finally moved a box of music off the desk chair and set it on the floor beside the piano, shoving a gold-painted Roman breastplate aside to make space.

  As she put her purse down on the desk, Gail noticed the walls. They were covered with posters, black-and-white photographs, framed reviews of performances, signed programs. So many costumes and singers. With her eyes sweeping across them, she could almost hear music. Distant but distinct, a jumble of instruments and arias.

  Nolan picked up a Spanish fan. Snapped it open, then shut it with long pale fingers. "This isn't my office," he said. "It belongs to the head of the department. They say she was an excellent Carmen."

  Gail had expected a deep, booming voice, not this slow and quiet speech, pronounced so carefully it seemed scripted.

  "What were you playing?"

  "Oh. Puccini. 'Vissi d'arte' from Tosca. It's a part for a dramatic soprano—not me, obviously. One of my students will sing it today. I have twenty students, and we do five at each class. I have the piano scores so I can go over their selections beforehand."

  "You're not teaching just basses and baritones?"

  "No, anyone. Sopranos, tenors, it doesn't matter. They choose an aria and we work on it. These kids are quite good."

  "High school?"

  "A voice that young isn't ready for opera. These are upper-division college, and a couple of grad students. Singers ripen around thirty. The next fifteen, even twenty years, are golden. We hang onto it as long as we can." Thomas Nolan sat on the piano bench, leaning forward, elbows on the thighs of faded jeans.

  "I heard you sing last weekend on Fisher Island. You have such talent."

  "Thank you." His face was all ridges.and hollows, with a prominent nose and clearly defined jaw. Blue eyes, set deeply under straight brows, fixed on her with complete self-possession.

  "You must be used to hearing compliments."

  He continued to gaze back at her until Gail wondered if her mascara had run. Then he smiled, just a slight upturn of his lips. "When I was young, I wanted to be a concert pianist. Miss Wells—my teacher—finally said no, you don't have the talent for that. You should sing. Who wants to hear that at fifteen? But I took her advice, and here I am. What if I hadn't listened?" He laughed softly. "I owe everything to her. I would have made a lousy piano player."

  "We can all be grateful to Miss Wells." Gail smiled, then said, "I should explain why I'm here."

  "I think I know. When I saw your message I was curious. The attorney for the Miami Opera. I called my manager. He had heard nothing. The opera's general director is out of town, but the grapevine says I might be fired for having been to Cuba. I said no, that's insane. There must be some mistake. Do you have bad news for me?" His brows lifted.

  Gail said she did not, but spent a few minutes telling him what the opera had to worry about. She went over various choices, not stressing any of them more than the next.

  "Incredible. Only in Miami. Are they going to shoot at me? I'll be famous."

  "You're famous already."

  "Hardly. Tenors are famous. Basses are usually ignored. Well, I can't leave the cast, that's out of the question. This is my debut in the title role in Don Giovanni. Did you know that Luciano Pavarotti had his American debut in Miami? It's one of the top companies in the U.S., and continued good reviews mean a lot to my career." He propped his chin on knitted fingers. "Could I be prosecuted?"

  "That's highly unlikely. Thousands of Americans travel to Cuba every year, and unless someone is provocative about it, the federal authorities don't press the point. For the opera, however, it's not quite so easy. I need to know about your trip—at whose invitation you went, what you did there, and so on. Do you mind?"

  He assented with a slight lifting of shoulders. "It wasn't sponsored by the Cuban government. I was in Dortmund, Germany. The weather had been cold and wet for weeks, and I had just done . . . Lucia di Lammermoor? Yes. Some of my friends in the cast said let's go to Cuba. That sounded like fun. I had to start rehearsals in Houston within a month, so it made a nice detour. I came back through Mexico."

  "Were they Americans, your friends?"

  "Three Germans and one Englishwoman. We stayed... where was it? The Tropicoco on Varadero Beach. There were loads of Canadians and Brits—and Americans, too. I wasn't the only one. There were a lot of international musicians around that week for a music festival—mostly jazz, as you would guess. One of the guys told me he'd gotten us on the program. I can't remember what I sang. We didn't get paid. It was to have something to do, that's all. They took us into Havana, to an old theater downtown. Such a heartbreaking city. You can see how beautiful it must have been years ago."

  "Who did you sing for?"

  "Just . . . people. I believe there was a large group of students from the university. I doubt they had ever heard music from opera performed live. I was glad to show them a small part of the outside world. All the events were listed in the newspaper, but this wasn't a major event. I didn't see any cameras."

  "I don't suppose you noticed a tall, gray-bearded gentleman in the audience."

  That brought a smile. "No."

  "Who paid for your hotel room?"

  "My English friend."

  "Who was she?"

  "A soprano in the cast."

  "Does she have a name?"

  "Lucia."
With a smile he shook his head. "I'd rather not say. She was married."

  Gail glanced again at the photographs crowding the walls. Silent, all of them. Carmen, Salome, Lady Macbeth. Bearded men in cloaks, their arms spread. Everyone in makeup and costume. High drama.

  "So you went to Cuba at no cost to yourself, the government didn't pay you, and you sang on the spur of the moment for ordinary people, including a group of students. Is that about it?"

  "Yes."

  As she looked at him, there was another flicker of something familiar, but again it swerved out of reach. "May I call you Gail?"

  "Please."

  "And I'm Tom. What do you think, Gail? What will they do with me?"

  "At this point, I don't know. It's not my decision."

  "Convey this to the board: If they ask me to leave, I will take legal action."

  "I'm certain you would," she said.

  He made his slow smile. "Nothing against you."

  "I know."

  Nolan glanced at his watch. "Follow me upstairs. We can continue our conversation on the way." He stood at the piano and picked up a stack of scores. "This is so ridiculous."

  "Yes, I agree."

  "Would you like to sit in on the class? They're used to singing in front of visitors." Nolan shuffled through the books as if looking for one in particular. "You'd be impressed by how good they are."

  "Today? I don't think I—"

  "Ah!" He pulled one out of the stack. "This is for a senior I'm working with. I love this part. Leporello, the servant to Don Giovanni. I've done this aria scads of times. It's great for a bass. Great fun."

  He put the scores on top of the piano and opened Don Giovanni. "Here Leporello shows Donna Elvira, one of the Don's victims, a catalog of women his master has loved. He invites her to read along with him. There are over two thousand names!"

  Leaning over the keys, Nolan pounded out a few bars of introduction. Then his voice burst from his throat with such startling force that Gail took a step backward.

  Madamina, il catalogo è questo

  delle belle che amò il padrón mio,

  un catalogo egli è che ho fati' io.

  Osservate, leggete con me—

  He stopped as suddenly as he had begun and removed the music from the piano. "Do you know the story?" he asked. "Don Giovanni, the lover, the deceiver of innocent women. He seduces them all, every rank and age, simply for the pure pleasure of adding them to the list. A man who lives only to satisfy his own unquenchable appetite. He remains unrepentant even as he is dragged into the flames of hell."

  Gail found herself unable to look away.

  Thomas Nolan picked up the scores. "Come upstairs. I'll.sing the entire aria for you."

  "No, I—Thanks, but I need to get back to my office just now. Will the invitation stay open?"

  "Of course." He turned off the light and closed the door, checking to make sure it was locked. "I take the stairs. The elevators are impossible this time of day. Come on. You can get to the lobby from here."

  He pushed open a metal door leading to a stairwell that echoed with footsteps and voices. Students with backpacks and instrument cases rounded the landing and clattered downward. Others went up. Hard surfaces of concrete and metal magnified each sound.

  A young man yelled, "Hey, Mr. Nolan!" Others were standing with him on the landing below, waiting with grins on their faces.

  Thomas Nolan looked over the painted pipe railing. He scowled darkly. Pointing at the young man, he sang out, "Pentiti! Cangia vita, è l'ultimo momento !"

  Gail caught her breath. It was frighteningly loud.

  Nolan glanced at her. "I'm telling Giovanni to repent. It's his last hour. Let's see if he remembers the next part."

  There was whispering from below, then the young man's deep voice boomed upward from the landing. "No, no ch'io non mi pento. Vanne Ionian da me!"

  "The cad. He will not repent. He says to go away." Once more Nolan's expression became fierce, and his voice thundered. "Pentiti!"

  "No!"

  "Si!"

  "No!"

  "Ah! Tempo più non v'è.f"

  The student gave an agonized scream that rattled the light fixtures, and the others in the stairwell laughed as he writhed on the floor of the landing.

  "Too late." Thomas Nolan smiled, then said to Gail, "I'll hear from you about this other matter?"

  "Yes."

  He nodded, then turned and went up the stairs, surrounded by students. Once more he sang, and they joined in. They moved upward, bodies, then legs and feet disappearing. Gail listened until the steel door on the third floor clanged shut.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A superb property, no? Six bedrooms, seven baths, plus maid's quarters."

  With these words, the realtor swung open the mahogany and etched-glass doors to the house in Cocoplum. "The living area has elegant marble floors, as you see, and there is carpeting in the bedrooms. We'll go up in a minute. Look how impressive the stairs are. Twenty-foot ceiling in the living room. Look, the wall there, all mirrors. Ms. Connor, you will love this kitchen—European cabinets, stainless steel appliances. Okay, follow this way, please. Formal dining room, the chandeliers go with the property. All the windows are double-insulated glass, very secure. Saves you money on the air-conditioning bill, too. Look through here, Mr. Quintana. Such a lovely terrace, all Mexican tile. Ceiling fans, bar, hot tub. Up there—you see?— a security camera for keeping an eye on the children in the pool. You have just the one girl, Ms. Connor? Someday maybe you'll have more, you never know. She's so cute. What's your name, honey? Karen? Look at that backyard, Karen. Look. Incredible. The boat goes there, you see? The davits I think need to be fixed, but it's only a motor, no problem. Can you believe the landscaping? The owners are in Venezuela, very motivated. I believe you should offer them three."

  Silvia Sanchez had been waiting on the porch. Not a porch but a portico, a two-story extension over the circular drive and broad curving steps to the entrance. She was around fifty, superbly coiffed and made up, and her brilliant pink suit was a moving spot of color against white walls.

  White walls that still had holes where paintings had been taken down. There were two black leather couches shoved into a corner. Beside them sat a zebra whose stripes were made of shards of silver and black glass. Gail pulled Anthony closer and whispered, "That zebra. I must have it."

  It had been Anthony who suggested that Karen come along, although Gail had planned to leave her with the sitter. Clever man. Get the kid to like the house, Mom would put up less of a fight. Karen herself was walking along with her mouth open. The bill of her baseball cap would turn this way or that.

  In a low voice Gail said, "Why did the owners clear out so fast? Were they one step ahead of the DEA?"

  "That could be," Anthony replied.

  Their reflections moved in the long mirrored wall. Woman in a tailored brown dress, man in a suit, girl in jeans and a sweatshirt from Biscayne Academy. These people, she concluded, would not fit in here no matter what the kid happened to like.

  "Mom, this is the most awesome house. It's huge."

  "You could skate in here," Gail said.

  "I could?"

  "Karen, your mother is kidding."

  "Believe me, I know." Her sneakers squealed as she took off for the wall of glass doors leading out to the terrace. "Can we go outside?"

  Silvia Sanchez turned to her prospective customers. "We can see the backyard now, if you wish."

  Gail smiled. "In a few minutes. Mr. Quintana and I need to discuss a couple of things. Would that be all right? Karen, you can go outside, but stay in the yard."

  With a small shrug, then a smile of acquiescence, Silvia Sanchez said she would be on the terrace. Gail took Anthony's hand, and they curved up the carpeted staircase to a balcony on the second floor.

  He asked, "What do you think so far? It's more modern. You said you didn't want an old house."

  "Six bedrooms plus maid's quarters? We couldn't live i
n a place like this, I don't care if it was only one million. Ha. Only. Anthony—" She tugged on his hand. "Come on. I have to talk to you."

  "Oh? I thought you wanted to find the master bedroom."

  "We'll do that, too."

  They opened a door and peered into a room with a swirly plaster ceiling and built-in laminated cabinets and shelves. The carpet was so thick it snagged her heels. Anthony said how easy it would be to redecorate. He pointed out how secure this house was—the windows were all wired with burglar alarms. There were security cameras, an electric gate—

  "I saw Thomas Nolan today."

  "That's right, you did. What happened?"

  "It was perfect. Nothing anyone could object to. He went with some friends and paid nothing for his hotel room. College kids attended his performance. Fidel didn't show up. I was moved, hearing him talk about Havana in ruins. And he didn't earn a peso."

  Anthony shrugged. "I suppose it's possible."

  "Oh, really? Isn't this suspiciously like what you said at the party at the Dixons' on Friday? If somebody coached him, and it's all a He, we might have trouble later."

  "You'll have trouble either way," he said.

  "Well, what should I do?"

  "There's nothing you can do."

  "I had sort of hoped for some help here," she said.

  "Gail, it isn't your decision. Tell the board and let them decide."

  "Fine."

  He opened the door to a walk-in closet, and his voice was muffled. "Look how big this is." The shelves and drawers and rods went on and on. Someone had left a few padded pink satin hangers.

  Gail leaned against the door frame with her arms crossed. "On my way to see Tom Nolan, I ran into Seth Greer. He wanted to talk about Nolan, which we did, and then he said something odd. He said that in 1978 you and he and Rebecca went to Nicaragua together."

  Anthony looked around at her, then closed a drawer and came out. "What did he tell you?"

  "That you were there one summer as volunteers. He gave me the impression it must have been a pretty bad experience for all of you. You never mentioned it to me. Why not?"