Suspicion of Deceit

by Barbara Parker

  The door to the house burst open, and a man in a cape came out, trying to get away from a woman in a nightdress screaming for help. They threw insults at each other. Gail recognized Thomas Nolan's voice, but could not see him clearly. His cape swirled, and a white-plumed hat hid his face. The servant, Leporello, ran about helplessly. Gail glanced at Karen, whose eyes were wide, taking it all in—the father demanding that Giovanni defend himself, the swordfight that ended in death.

  When Thomas Nolan swept off his hat, Gail let out a breath of surprise. He was not blond, but dark. A wig, of course. The hair was combed straight off his forehead, thick and wavy, tied in a bow at the nape of his neck. Makeup had given him dark eyes and brows, a straight, narrow nose, and a fuller, more sensuous mouth. For a second Gail had seen Anthony Quintana. Somehow he had walked onstage in this costume. In the next moment the man was Thomas Nolan again, and Gail relaxed in her seat, laughing at herself as if an illusionist had shown her a magic trick.

  Karen tapped her arm. Gail leaned over to explain that the tenor who had come back with Anna was in love with her, and he promised to avenge her father's death.

  There was a glitch in the scene change, and the stage manager conferred with the director. The curtains closed, the conductor once again tapped his baton on his music stand, and the orchestra began scene two. Giovanni strolled past an inn with his servant, plotting to make another conquest before dawn. Suddenly a disheveled woman appeared, her hair flying about her face. Gail recognized the aria. This was Donna Elvira, who wanted to tear out Giovanni's heart for deserting her.

  Giovanni escaped, and Leporello assured the woman that she was not Giovanni's first victim or his last. "Madamina, il catalogo è questo, delle belle che amò il padrón mio ..." The audience laughed when he pulled out a roll of paper that hit the floor and unrolled toward the orchestra pit.

  Gail whispered to Karen, "Don Giovanni had more than two thousand girlfriends. Elvira was one of them. He dumped her but she's still in love with him."

  “I think she's crazy," Karen whispered back.

  "Well, she can't help herself, he's so charming and handsome."

  Anthony had come back from his visit with Lloyd Dixon telling Gail that everything had been worked out. The boxes would go back to Sun Fashions and the money returned. Dixon had taken a look at the photos and laughed. No skin off my nose, buddy. Gail had asked Anthony if he intended to let Octavio walk away from this. He said he had to think about it.

  Onstage Don Giovanni was singing to a young peasant girl, persuading her to go with him to his villa. Gail smiled. She had seen Tom Nolan show this one to the students in his master class. His velvet voice wrapped around the girl, and her lovely soprano quivered with uncertainty, then desire.

  Watching this, Gail again experienced the odd sensation of seeing Anthony onstage. His dark eyes fixed on the girl, and his hand lightly touched her cheek. The same day Gail had visited the master class, Seth Greer had told her about Emily Davis. She hadn't wanted to go to Nicaragua, but Anthony had talked her into it. She had followed him believing he loved her, but at twenty-two, Anthony still had too much of his father in him, a machista for whom love was a useful word.

  Enter Donna Elvira to save the girl from ruin. But a few scenes later Giovanni was ordering his servant to make preparations for a party, at which he would seduce at least ten more.

  The music whirled and danced, and Thomas Nolan ran from one spot to another, miming how he would flirt with so many women. His sprained knee had apparently healed. His voice was leaping, too, easily taking the fast turns of a difficult aria. Nailing every note. When he finished, the audience shouted "Bravo!" and applauded and whistled. Nolan made a deep bow.

  Exit stage left.

  Gail's eyes were directed at the stage, but she didn't register the next scene. She was wondering how he had recovered so completely in less than two weeks. His voice had come back from a ragged, painful whisper, and there was not the slightest sign of a limp. She recalled he had been in the workroom making a photocopy when the bomb went off. Closer to the bomb than she herself, standing around a corner in the hall. The door to the workroom would have been open, of course, because Rebecca Dixon was waiting for him in the lobby. She had been sitting next to a small table with a lamp on it, and the bomb had been under the table in a cardboard box. The explosion had thrown her across the room. If Nolan had been where he said he'd been, the fireball would have fried his ponytail into a crew cut.

  Possibly he had gone into the supply closet for more paper. Or even into the next room, a small conference area outside Jeffrey Hopkins's office. No reason to go that far, but if he had—Gail counted three turns and two walls between him and the blast.

  Strange that Rebecca had sat in that particular chair waiting for him to make a photocopy. They had been talking in the board-room. Why not wait there? No, Rebecca wouldn't have let him make the copy at all. She would have done it. She knew where the machine was. Thomas Nolan was the opera star. He should have been sitting in that chair.

  Gail had told the police she had heard them talking in the lobby. But no. Not both of them. She had heard only Nolan's voice. He had laughed, then said, Take care. I've got to be going now.

  That wasn't, Let me make a copy, I'll be right back. It was . . . Goodbye.

  In the lobby at intermission, Karen finished her cup of soda and asked Gail if she could go to the topmost balcony. "All right. I'll go with you." Gail was too tense to sit still.

  Up and up the silent, carpeted stairs, trying not to lose sight of Karen, who knew this theater's secret hiding places and could move like a cat in her sneakers and jeans. "Wait for me!" Gail trotted behind in her pumps and the tailored dress she had worn to the office this morning.

  Her eyes were on Karen, but her mind was constructing the case against Thomas Nolan.

  Point one. He could not have been standing at the copy machine. Point two. Most singers arrived three weeks before opening night for rehearsals, then left after closing. Nolan had arrived just after Christmas and would be here through the semester. Time to plot murder.

  Point three. There was only one reasonable way he could have known that Seth Greer was heading for WRCL the night he was killed. Lloyd Dixon had told him. Nolan had said he'd been out with friends. Assume a beeper. Assume a return telephone call to Lloyd Dixon, who had overheard Seth Greer telling Rebecca where he was going.

  The shiny brass railing turned up another level, the stairs getting narrower., Gail saw the flash of Karen's sneakers in the dim light. "Would you slow down?"

  Nolan had to be working for Lloyd Dixon. Perhaps it had been Dixon who suggested using the controversy with the exiles. That would explain why Dixon had apparently not been worried about it. He had let the situation continue in order to make murder look like political terrorism.

  But the police had not been fooled. Detective Delgado had explained to Gail why they did not suspect the exiles. There was no communique. In addition, the method was wrong. If a killer had really wanted to make Seth Greer's murder look like a political act, he would have used a pipe bomb. Pipe bombs are as Cuban as the royal palm tree. And Gail had sat with Tom Nolan on his patio having sandwiches, telling him everything.

  Holding onto the railing, Gail sank down on a step. Her legs were shaking. Even now, two weeks after the bombing, her body had not completely recovered, but it wasn't just that. She was staggered by the knowledge that she might have enabled Rebecca Dixon's death.

  Nolan had made the bombing look like an attack on the opera. He had somehow maneuvered Rebecca into position and set the timer. Gail remembered how annoyed he had been that she had unexpectedly showed up. We don't have much time. He waited for her to leave, then knocked Rebecca unconscious. Possibly strangled her. A blow to the head or bruises on her neck would hardly show after a pipe bomb explosion.

  How easy. Put Rebecca in the chair, put the bomb under the table. Set the timer for ten or fifteen seconds, run through the workroom, around the corner
, crouch behind Jeffrey Hopkins's desk. Hands over the ears, eyes closed. Then come out limping and roll in the ashes. A cut to the arm and a bump on the head for good measure.

  After the shocked silence following Seth Greer's murder, Thomas Nolan had been ordered not to talk to the press, not to stir things up again, but he had made some outrageous statements, setting off the controversy all over again. The bombing was at first assumed to be the work of militant exiles, right down to the communique from a phony anti-Castro group. Until the announcement that Felix Castillo was wanted for murder.

  Still clinging to the brass balustrade, Gail lowered her forehead to her hand. Point four. Thomas Nolan was the one who had reported seeing Felix Castillo's van driving through the parking lot before the bombing. It had been his tip that sent the police to Castillo's house, finding the black powder and bullets like those that had killed Seth.

  Gail heard music and remembered Karen. She ran up the remaining stairs, coming out in the top balcony.

  The second act had begun. She found Karen with her chin on the railing, a small solitary figure among all the empty seats. Gail hugged her and sat down.

  She barely took note of what was going on in the opera. Giovanni attempting to seduce Elvira once again, only to trick her and laugh about it. Then disguising himself as his own servant.

  Felix Castillo had suggested Thomas Nolan was a hit man, and Gail hadn't listened. Castillo had suggested that a sniper's rifle would fit in that suitcase Nolan had brought back from Costa Rica. A contract killer in the disguise of an opera singer.

  From this angle the street scene on the stage looked like a doll's village, and the singers were two inches tall. A group of men were preparing to capture Giovanni, but he sent them off in all directions. He tricked the leader into handing over his musket and pistol, then beat him up. A clever, ruthless man.

  Why had Lloyd Dixon hired Thomas Nolan? A jealous husband, getting rid of his adulterous wife and her lover. No, that didn't fit. Rebecca had said that Lloyd knew about her affair and tolerated it, as long as she was discreet.

  Second possibility: Rebecca and Seth had found out too much about the weapons. That made more sense. Or did it? Lloyd hadn't seemed so bothered when Anthony put a stop to the arms deal. No skin off my nose, buddy.

  Octavio knew that Seth was coming to WRCL. Maybe he had hired Nolan. But was Octavio smart enough to orchestrate two murders and blame them on Felix Castillo? Anthony had been certain that Octavio was not a killer. He only wanted to overthrow the regime. But if the CIA were involved—if big American business interests were at stake—

  Reaching into her purse, Gail remembered that her portable phone was still being repaired. She found a quarter and told Karen not to move, she'd be right back. The telephone was down two levels outside the ladies' room.

  Anthony's secretary told her he was still in court, and she didn't really expect him back in the office, because he was meeting a client for dinner at seven o'clock.

  "Oh, yes. He mentioned something about that. Tell, tell him—" Gail looped the steel phone cord around her hand. The party after the dress rehearsal would last until six. "Tell him to call me at home later. Thanks."

  She hung up and leaned against the wall. Anthony, I think Thomas Nolan was hired to shoot Seth Greer and set off the bomb that killed Rebecca. How insane, to make a statement like that on no evidence whatsoever.

  What if she was wrong? As a criminal defense attorney, Anthony Quintana had a funny quirk—he wanted evidence of guilt. She closed her eyes and thought of the argument Anthony might make to a jury on Thomas Nolan's behalf. Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecutor has produced no evidence that Rebecca Dixon and Seth Greer knew anything about Lloyd Dixon's activities. Second. Do you really believe that Thomas Nolan would have put himself anywhere near a bomb? To risk his hearing? His voice? Never. Third point. We know who did it. Felix Castillo. Bomb-making materials were found in his house. His fingerprints were on cartridges matching those at the scene of Seth Greer's murder. What has the prosecutor shown you from Thomas Nolan's house? Nothing.

  Gail went back up the stairs.

  As she walked along the front row, the curtains parted on a graveyard. Fog drifted among headstones and statues of the departed. Don Giovanni appeared, climbing a tree, then dropping over the wall, another narrow escape. He laughed with his servant about it. Then a deep, hollow voice came from somewhere, and, Giovanni drew his sword.

  "Wow," said Karen. "Mom, look!"

  One of the statues was moving. Gail said, "That's the Commendatore, the man Giovanni killed at the beginning. He says, 'You'll have your last laugh soon.' But Giovanni's not afraid. He invites him to dinner. 'Will you come or not?' "

  "The statue is nodding!" Karen said.

  Looking over the rail, Gail could see her mother sitting with some friends. She tugged on Karen's hand. "Come on, let's go back down. Gramma will think we deserted her."

  Karen was bored with the next scenes—until the ghost of the Commendatore showed up in the dining room at Giovanni's villa. The statue demanded repentance. Giovanni refused, and the pits of hell opened up. Hunchbacked demons swarmed out with pitchforks. Whatever the set designer had used for flames looked frighteningly real, and steam hissed from hidden vents in the stage. The music reached a crescendo, Giovanni screamed, and an elevator under the stage lowered him down.

  Then, in Mozart's odd way of joining frivolity to tragedy, the music was suddenly uptempo, everyone happy again, the remaining characters coming on to deliver the moral of the story—evildoers get what they deserve.

  Gail's spirits were not lifted.

  She had not intended to stay for the donor party, but Karen wanted to, so they joined the crowd in the rehearsal hall. Gail heard someone say, "If you ask me, Giovanni is the only one with any spunk. Nobody else knows how to have a good time."

  The hall buzzed with congratulations. The orchestra had played wonderfully. The cast had been brilliant. The opera would be a smash. Jeffrey Hopkins gave Thomas Nolan a hug, careful not to touch the makeup on his face. Standing closer, Gail could see the fine net of the wig, which had been crafted of real human hair. For the last scene he had worn a loose white shirt with lace at the cuffs and a red embroidered vest over black satin knee pants and white hose. The heels on his shoes gave him another inch in height. He towered.

  "Congratulations," Gail said. "A terrific performance."

  He made a slight bow.

  "Your voice seems to have recovered."

  He spoke softly. "I was lucky. So were you." He smiled at a woman handing him a glass of champagne. The woman started to speak, but Gail beat her to it and said she needed to borrow Mr. Nolan for a minute. She maneuvered him so their backs were to the crowd.

  "So your piano teacher's first name is Elvira. What a coincidence. Does Miss Wells really exist, or did you make her up, too?" Gail looked straight at him.

  The makeup gave him such odd eyes, pale blue outlined in dark brown. One black eyebrow was painted higher than the other in permanent ironic jest. His face was several shades darker than normal. "All the world's a stage, Gail, and reality is what you think it is."

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  He saluted with his champagne. "Whatever you want it to mean. Excuse me, I've got to get cleaned up, then make happy talk for an hour. It comes with the job."

  She watched him go toward the dressing rooms, having to stop several times, people smiling up at him. She heard his deep laughter, his modest expression of thanks. She tried to imagine him standing in the shadows of the building next door to WRCL. Pulling out his sniper's rifle, sighting the laser on Seth Greer's chest.

  If Lloyd or Octavio had not hired Thomas Nolan, then who had? Some group that knew about Castillo's background as a spy, and was powerful enough to convince local police he was responsible for two murders,

  The same people would want to know why the shipment of weapons to Cuba had never been made. Lloyd Dixon, whereabouts unknown, would give up Antho
ny Quintana in a heartbeat.

  Gail wanted out of here. Too many people and too much noise. Too many mouths open in laughter. She looked around for Karen and found her in serious conversation with one of the little horned demons, a woman not much taller than Karen. "Go already? Mom!"

  Irene agreed to take Karen home with her after the party. She looked at her watch. "Well, I suppose we'll be here till six or so. Where are you going?"

  "I have to deliver something for a client."

  "You look so pale. Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine. I'll meet you at your house. We'll go out to dinner, my treat."

  Curtains were drawn in the mansion at the front of the property. Gail hoped the owners were still out of town. She looked both ways, then turned quickly into the driveway, stopping her car behind some hedges where it could not be seen from the street. She got out and walked to the rear entrance of Tom Nolan's cottage. The green grass, dappled with shade, stretched to the bay.

  She had tried to call Anthony again before leaving the theater, but he had still not returned to his office. She could not afford to wait by the pay phone in the lobby.

  Gail shaded a glass pane in the French door and looked through, seeing the evidence of a musician's life. Grand piano, scores, sheet music, and classical CDs by the dozens. How irrational it seemed, thinking of Thomas Nolan as anything more than an opera singer or that a sniper's rifle was being aimed at Anthony because of what he knew. Reality is what you think it is.

  There was only one way to find out.

  Gail checked her watch. 5:20. She did not expect to be here longer than ten minutes. On her previous visit, she had not noticed a burglar alarm. No security company stickers in the window, no wires. Her hand was poised over the doorknob on one of the French doors. She hoped there was not a deadbolt requiring a key from the other side.

  Behind her, water splashed in the coral rock fountain.

  She stared at the glass. She looked at her watch again. 5:24.

  "Oh, just do it and get it over with." She spotted a piece of scalloped edging stone in the flowerbed. After a glance toward both sides of the property, she picked it up. Touched it to the glass pane beside the doorknob. Swung it back, then forward. The glass shattered like a sonic boom passing over. Gail flung away the stone, sat in one of the metal chairs, and crossed her legs. She waited for barking dogs or someone wanting to know what the hell that noise was.