"Ahhh. You overheard Octavio talking about you. What else did he say?"
"Nothing. Don't make problems for your sister. Let it go. One of the others said he didn't believe it anyway. Who are those men? They were serious as death. Did you happen to see them?"
He nodded. "They came to pay their respects to my grandfather."
The casual way he said it sent a chill along the back of her neck, even with the woollen shawl wrapped tightly over her shoulders. "Are these the guys who take their automatic weapons out to the Everglades on weekends to conduct practice maneuvers?"
"Some do, yes." Anthony shrugged. "My grandfather likes to listen to them talk. They wouldn't get a hundred yards offshore before a U.S. Customs cruiser pulled alongside. Every organization like that has been so thoroughly infiltrated, it's a joke."
"Infiltrated by whom?"
"FBI, Customs, the local anti-terrorist task force, agents from Cuba. And we've infiltrated Cuban intelligence. Everyone knows everything, and no one trusts anybody. They're all crazy." He looked away from the house. Smiling at her, he came closer. "Why are we talking about this?"
"Pretty dull topic—spies, counterrevolution. What have you got in mind?"
He put his arms around her, started to kiss her, then said, "I almost forgot." He took something out of his pocket and slowly opened his hand. Moonlight seemed to sparkle blue-white in his palm. Gail could only stare at it. He kissed the third finger of her left hand, then slid the ring on—a pear-shaped diamond the size of her thumbnail.
"What do you think?" When she didn't reply, he raised his brows. "Well?"
"I—It's beautiful, but I—"
"You don't like it? It's a perfect stone."
Her fingers were splayed wide apart. "Of course I like it, but—"
"But what?"
"How much did it cost?" She dragged her eyes away from the diamond to look at him. "How much?"
"What a question! All right, I traded in some pieces I don't wear anymore. That covered most of it."
"Oh, my God."
"How can you be engaged without a ring? I want you to show everyone. Wear it, you'll get used to it."
Gail continued to stare at the ring.
"You don't like it at all, do you?"
"It's so . . . big. I'd be afraid to wear it."
"Here. Give it to me." He put it back into his pocket.
"You're angry."
"No. I'm not angry. I don't know what you want." She took his hand. "You. That's what I want."
By ten-thirty, Gail's relatives were drooping with fatigue. Aunt Doris dozed in her chair. They revived with the promise of food. The caterers heaped a long buffet table with tenderloin steak and paella with shellfish. Salads, side dishes, and breads. Gail's cousins went back for seconds and thirds.
More wine was poured. There were ornate toasts to Ernesto Pedrosa in Spanish and English. There were toasts to his lovely wife. Then Anthony stood up and reached for Gail's hand. He held his wine glass in the other. "Estoy feliz de anunciarles—" In both languages he announced his engagement to the most beautiful woman in Miami, the woman whom he would love for the rest of his life. Pedrosa raised his glass, wishing them as many years of happiness as Digna had given to him. Anthony smiled, raised his own glass, then leaned down to kiss Gail on the lips as everyone applauded. She whispered, "I love you."
It had already been arranged for Karen to stay over with Irene, so after many embraces and kisses, Gail's relatives made their way out the door. It was past one o'clock in the morning. Gail and Anthony walked them to their cars and promised to come to Irene's for Sunday brunch. Not too early, Aunt Doris whispered.
Going back inside, Anthony said he wanted to stay long enough to have a cigar with his cousin Bernardo, would Gail mind?
In the living room half a dozen of his female relatives chatted quietly in Spanish. Alicia was on the sofa and Digna Pedrosa was in her rocking chair. A great-grandson, Alicia's youngest child, lay across her lap, eyes half-closed, sucking his thumb. Anthony ruffled his nephew's hair, then asked, "Nena, is Grandfather asleep?"
"Oh, yes. Ernesto had a wonderful time. Gail, he said to tell you good night, and to all your family. They are so nice. Your mother and I talked about the opera. In Cuba I saw Renata Tibaldi. I don't remember the name of the opera, but she was brilliant. We had operas, concerts, ballet. Miami was only a little tiny resort town. The women used to come to Havana to shop."
"Everything was better in Havana." Anthony winked at Gail. "Right, Nena?"
Alicia added, "It hardly ever rained. There were more flowers, and no bugs. We didn't need air conditioning because we had the breeze from the ocean."
Digna playfully stuck out her tongue. "They tease me." She rocked in her chair and stroked the child's head. Her own eyes were closing, and her wrinkled face sagged.
Anthony took a cigar out of his breast pocket. "Gail, why don't you help Alicia take Nena and the baby upstairs? I'll be out back for a few minutes. Wait for me here." He walked out of the living room and disappeared into the hall.
"Maybe I should learn to smoke cigars," Gail said, half to herself.
She heard Alicia's low laughter. "I know what you mean. At least they don't do it in the house anymore. Nena won't allow it." She stood up and lifted her son off his great-grandmother's lap, legs dangling.
Digna blinked, then pushed herself out of the rocking chair. She said good night to the others, and Gail walked with her to the stairs. The old woman mounted them slowly, one hand on the baluster. She smiled at Gail, kissed her on the cheek, and told her again what a lovely evening. And how lucky her grandson was, to have found such a charming girl. They parted at the door to the master suite.
Alicia came out of another room, closing the door softly. The Reyes family did not live here, but apparently they would stay the night. Alicia whispered, "Gail? Could I speak to you for a minute?"
They went into Digna's sitting room. Gail said, "Thank you again for showing everyone the house."
"It was my pleasure." Alicia Quintana Reyes had wavy brown hair, like her brother, but her eyes were deep blue. He still had a slight accent; she did not. At forty, after three children, she had put on just enough weight to soften her features. It was Alicia who deserved to have this house, Gail thought. If only she weren't married to Octavio Reyes.
Alicia took both her hands. "Gail, I have to tell you, I'm so sorry about this awful situation with the opera singer. We're going to be sisters soon, by marriage. I want us to be friends. I love my brother very much, and it would be terrible to have a division between us. What Octavio says on the radio—He doesn't mean it personally, against you. It isn't his intention to hurt anybody. He has to keep people aware, so they don't forget. Can you understand?" Alicia's eyes had filled with tears.
In that instant Gail knew that she had kept her distance from this woman tonight for the sole reason that she was married to Reyes. She had felt that Alicia disapproved pf her. But that had been her own interpretation, not the reality of it. Alicia loved her husband, and she loved her brother. She would close the gap if she could. Gail impulsively hugged Alicia, who was shorter and bosomy.
"Thank you. I think we're going to make great sisters."
"Oh! Come here, I want to show you a picture of Anthony when he was a little boy. I bet you haven't seen it." She turned a light on over her grandmother's desk and opened an envelope. Inside were black-and-white snapshots with ruffled edges. "Nena was showing these to me the other day."
She shuffled through them quickly. Family photos taken many years ago. A much younger Ernesto Pedrosa riding a horse in the country, royal palm trees in the background. Digna waving from the stands at a race track. Caridad, slender and pretty, holding a baby. Many shots of people Gail didn't recognize. "Okay, here's Anthony. Isn't he cute? He was about two years old."
A courtyard—an atrium. Terra cotta planters with areca palms. Tiles in geometric patterns on the shiny floor. A laughing, dark-eyed boy with glossy hair sto
od on the seat of a wicker sofa. He wore shorts and a striped pullover and laced leather shoes. There was a toy truck at his feet. To his right, nearly out of the frame, the shoulder and arm of a man in a white linen suit.
"Where was this taken?" Gail asked.
"That's the house in Vedado. It's been torn down." Alicia put the photo into the envelope. "Here. You can have it."
Exhausted from so little sleep the previous night, Gail decided to get her purse and her shawl, then try to hurry Anthony along. Avoiding the party room, where she had last seen Octavio, she went out the side door and took the walkway that led to the rear patio.
She didn't get that far. Nearing the guest house, she saw a movement ahead of her. Two figures. Anthony and another man, walking slowly, chatting. Gail heard bits of conversation in Spanish. She could understand none of it.
Then she heard her own name.
A glowing ember rose toward the other man's face. A glint of light on a pair of silver-rimmed glasses told her who it was. Quickly she glanced toward the back of the main house. There was no one on the patio. She started forward, then froze, undecided whether to call out to Anthony or to leave them alone.
Suddenly a quick movement. A brief arc of orange as the cigar flew to one side. A split second later, a thud. Octavio was gagging. Anthony pulled him upright and slammed him into the wall of the guest house. Then he did it again.
Gail stared open-mouthed.
Anthony spoke slowly, each word clear, his voice raspy with rage. "¡Hijo' puta! Escúchame bien—" You son of a bitch, listen to me.
"¡Ay, por Dios!"
Anthony jerked Octavio forward, then back. The air went out of Octavio's lungs. There was a moan. "Te juro, si hablas de ella otra vez así—" If you talk about her again like that—Their faces were inches apart. "—te voy a matar." I will kill you. Gail held her breath, horrified. "¿Me comprendes? ¡Respóndeme!"
Still gasping, Octavio nodded.
Gail slowly backed away, moving farther into the shadows toward the side door. She knew Anthony would not want her to see this. Nor did she want him to know that she had seen it, until she could decide what she felt. At the moment, she only felt ashamed and confused.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The concrete block, twenty pounds of cement and gravel, lay among shards of plate glass in the foyer of the opera offices. The parquet floor was gouged. A gloved workman was gingerly picking up pieces of glass, and another pushed a broom. Office staff stood around watching.
The general director, back from New York, had called Gail asking her to come downtown. When she arrived, two City of Miami police cruisers were pulling out of the parking lot. They had just written up the report. Around five o'clock in the morning, someone had waited until the security guard had gone around back, then tossed the block through the door. A message had been left on the machine: Get rid of the communist singer or we'll blow up the building.
"Maybe I should keep it," Jeffrey Hopkins mused as one of the men picked up the ugly lump of concrete. "A reminder that the arts is a dangerous business. We could mount it on a pedestal in the lobby with a color enlargement of the broken door. What do you think?"
Hopkins was a slim, youthful-looking man with a fringe of white hair. Little red dragons patterned his bow tie of rich yellow silk. He had run opera companies for years, and had perfected the smooth voice and quick smile necessary for dealing with egos of major donors, prima donna singers, and, less often but no less important, public relations emergencies.
"I think you should hire an extra guard," Gail said.
"I may have to consider it. Come into my office, Ms. Connor. Let's chat." He whirled on one heel and beckoned her to follow. He led her in and closed the door.
Gail asked whether the media had showed up yet.
"Channel Seven was just here, and I expect the rest of them to descend on us any moment. I've already called the head of the Community Relations Board, whom I know—and who happens to be Cuban, which is irrelevant but interesting. He was furious. Couldn't believe anyone could—Well, he could believe it, of course. Loonies abound."
Hopkins had perfect white teeth, no doubt the handiwork of a very fine dentist. He flashed them at her as he offered her a seat before his desk. "I called you because I've also heard from one of the pinheads in the city of Miami permit department. They want to know what additional security arrangements we have planned for the run of Don Giovanni."
"You hire off-duty officers, don't you?"
"Three for each performance," Hopkins replied, "but the city is concerned about demonstrations in the street. They're thinking about requiring us to erect barricades and hire enough policemen to keep us separated from the thousands—yes, he said thousands— of people in the Cuban community who might come to protest."
"Jeffrey. Tell me you're making this up."
"Oh, no. The permit department suggests, oh, a hundred or so extra officers to line the streets." Hopkins counted off some figures on his fingers. "Let's see. Sixty dollars per officer, a hundred officers ... six thousand dollars. That's for each show. Plus the barricades. And—how could I have forgotten?—they want us to pay to clean up the trash, eggshells, and broken glass, and to have paramedics on call, just in case it really gets out of hand." A tinge of red had crept into Hopkins's cheeks. "This doesn't count the money we lose on ticket sales because people are too afraid to show up."
Gail laughed. "Has the police department been abolished?"
"We live here. We pay taxes," Hopkins huffed. "We're a recognized cultural organization. It's their responsibility to protect the citizens. That's what I told the person who called me. He said he'd discuss it with staff—his phraseology was priceless—then get back to me. I have no desire to deal with these morons. Do you mind taking care of it?"
"Of course not," Gail said. "I'll call the city manager. I wouldn't worry too much. He knows they can't do this."
"Bare your teeth for us," Hopkins said. "We need to get this settled. Opening night is less than three weeks away. My God. Look at me. I never sweat, and my forehead is perspiring."
"Tell you what," Gail said. "I'll call the city manager before I leave and make an appointment to see him, all right? I'll say, The opera gonna kick yo butt." She grinned. "How's that, Jeffrey?"
"Perfect—or some variation thereof." Waggling his fingers like a broom, he shooed her toward the door. "I've got to get busy. See that stack of messages? They're from nervous nellie board members wondering if their lives are in danger."
Holding onto the doorknob, Gail leaned back in. "Jeffrey, have you heard of an English soprano named Jane Fyfield?"
He focussed on the ceiling, "Fyfield. Yes, I think so. Why do you ask?"
"She flew to Havana with Tom Nolan. He didn't tell me her name, only that he'd traveled with the woman who sang Lucia with him in Dortmund. I let my mother do some detective work for us. She tracked down Ms. Fyfield's manager, and he gave us the number where we can reach her. She's in her flat in London now, but she'll be leaving for Scotland in the next day or so to sing in Glasgow." Gail tilted her head toward his anteroom, where an extra telephone waited. "We should call her before speaking to the city manager."
"And why should we do that?" Hopkins was frowning.
"Wouldn't it help to have all the facts?"
"Aha. This is the investigation that Rebecca Dixon authorized in my absence, isn't it? Do we really need to pursue that?"
"We should know if he lied to us," Gail said.
"Well .... wouldn't you? If you came to Miami to debut in the title role in an opera, and suddenly you were told that a petty incident two years ago might get you kicked off the cast? Forget whether the opera has a right to do it—which we don't."
"Okay." Gail stepped back inside his office and closed the door. "I understand his reasons, but it doesn't change our position. What if you assure the press that he did nothing but sing for some college students, then we see a videotape on the nightly news—Nolan getting a big hug from Fidel C
astro? I couldn't care less, and neither could you, but not everybody feels that way. Lawyers are paid to worry. I worry about what Nolan was doing in Cuba."
"I agree," Hopkins said, "but Tom does a great Don Giovanni, and I'm going to support him. Let it not be said that we would fire a singer for political reasons. Oh, all right. Look into it if you want, but be discreet."
Gail crossed her arms and tapped her fingers on the sleeves of her jacket. "I'm going to make a recommendation I hope you take seriously. Hire a bodyguard for him."
"What?"
"Not around the clock, just someone to escort him to and from home or wherever be has to go, if he's not with friends. Here's the thing, Jeffrey. If the next concrete block is aimed at his head, you'll have more damage than one broken door. Try explaining that to the press. Or worse, to our liability company. At least it would make Tom feel safe. If I were in his place right now, I'd be concerned. I might even say forget it, use the understudy, I'm out of here. And wouldn't that make certain radio commentators happy."
Jeffrey Hopkins chewed on a cuticle, then frowned at it and dropped his hand in his lap. "You've got a point, but we should see what Tom thinks. Would you like to talk to him? It's your idea."
"I'd be glad to."
"Who do we hire for this?" Hopkins asked. "A hulking ex-cop in a fedora?"
"I have someone in mind," Gail said.
The lobby had been cleaned up when Gail came back through, and two men were lifting a new sheet of smoky bronze plate glass off a carpeted dolly. A third man was unscrewing the door frame. Their truck was parked just down the walkway in the employee lot. Gail skirted around them through the open, and intact, twin door, then saw a Channel Four news van with a satellite dish on it turn in from the street. Two men got out—one in a suit, the other carrying a video camera.
"They're all yours, Jeffrey."
She was halfway to her car when a silver Jaguar came into the lot from the other direction. Rebecca Dixon. The Jaguar slowed, then the wheels cut toward Gail. The car parked next to Gail's Buick, and the door opened. Rebecca swiveled, hem up her thighs, one suede Prada pump hitting the pavement, then the other. Her chic little suit said she might be on her way to a charity luncheon, but had been detoured by the unpleasantness at the opera.
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