“The widow never remarried but she had a daughter by one of her lovers. The girl grew up in the lap of luxury. She never went on the stage, presumably because she never had to work for a living. But she took music and singing lessons and frequently performed at private gatherings. Like her mother and grandmother, she never lacked for lovers.”
“Anybody drop dead in her vicinity?” Luther asked.
“There were a couple of interesting incidents.” Grace flipped a page in the notebook. “At one point she fell in love with a handsome film actor whose star was on the rise. She bankrolled a couple of his movies. But when he became famous, he dumped her in favor of a well-known actress. The actor turned up dead in his Hollywood mansion soon thereafter. The death was attributed to a drug overdose. The lady also had a daughter.”
“And so it goes?” Petra said.
“And so it goes.” Grace closed the notebook. “Right down to the present day. The trail gets a little murky in places but I think I’ve found our killer soprano. If I’m right, she’s the descendant of Irene Bontifort. Her name is Vivien Ryan.”
Wayne frowned. “La Sirène?”
They all looked at him.
“You never fail to amaze us,” Luther said. “Who the hell is La Sirène?”
“She was a major star up until a couple of years ago,” Wayne said. “I’ve got some of her CDs. Incredible voice. But she has sort of faded from the scene lately. Haven’t heard much about her in a while.”
“According to what I found online, she’s trying to make a comeback,” Grace said. “She’s going to sing Queen of the Night at the opening of a new opera house in Acacia Bay, California. The premiere performance of
The Magic Flute is two days from now. Oh, and there’s one more thing.”
“What?” Petra asked.
Grace clutched her notebook to her chest. “La Sirène just happens to be the title that was bestowed on Irene Bontifort.”
“Anybody die of natural causes in the vicinity of this Vivien Ryan?” Luther asked.
“Oh my, yes,” Grace said.
Luther got on the phone to Fallon as soon as Grace had finished reporting the results of her research.
“I don’t like it,” Fallon complained. “It just doesn’t fit into the pattern. Whoever killed Eubanks has to be a pro. Craigmore was smart. He wouldn’t have risked so much by using a notoriously temperamental diva.”
“Maybe he didn’t have a choice after Sweetwater bailed on him,” Luther said. “He had to move fast. There was no time to shop at Hit Men ‘R’ Us.”
“Then how did he find the diva?” Fallon asked. He sounded not just impatient but supremely weary. “It’s not like killer sopranos advertise in the yellow pages.”
“We’re still working on that angle,” Luther admitted. “Look, there’s one way to find out if La Sirène is the singer Grace saw in the hotel. All she needs is a good look at Vivien Ryan’s aura. We need to attend the opening-night performance of that opera in Acacia Bay.”
Fallon was silent for a time. Eventually he spoke. “I’m ninety-six percent sure it’s a waste of time but I’ll authorize the flight to California. Attend the performance. Let Grace get her look.”
“There’s just one small problem,” Luther said.
“Now what?”
“The opera is sold out for every performance. We need tickets. Good seats. Grace has to be close enough to read Ryan’s aura. We have to be sure of this.”
“What? Now I’m a concierge?”
“Hell, you’re better than any concierge. You’re the head of J&J.”
“Just remember, it’s customary to tip the guy who can deliver seats to a sold-out performance.”
FORTY-ONE
The small, exclusive city of Acacia Bay was located on a picturesque stretch of the southern California coast, just north of Los Angeles. Determined to make a name for the city in the arts, its citizens had spared no expense on its new opera house. The arched and colonnaded entrance to Guthrie Hall gave the structure an air of architectural gravitas suitable for a theater devoted to
serious music. The lobby glowed like the inside of a box full of velvet and jewels.
Grace stood with Luther on one side of the elegant room watching the opera patrons as they awaited the start of the performance.
“You were right,” Luther said, studying a distinguished silver-haired man in formal attire. “An aloha shirt might have looked a little out of place here. Not sure the jacket and tie is enough. Should have brought my tux.”
“You own a tux?” Grace asked.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, these days you see everything from jeans to tuxedos at the opera, especially here on the West Coast.”
“Mostly I’m seeing tuxes that don’t look like they were rented. I’m also seeing a lot of fancy gowns and about a million bucks’ worth of glittery stuff on the ladies.”
“People dress up more for opening nights. We’re fine. You said the important thing is that we don’t stand out in the crowd. Trust me, no one will look twice at us.”
That wasn’t quite true. She had looked more than twice at Luther tonight. It was the first time she had seen him in anything other than casual island wear. She had been more than a little surprised when he produced a well-tailored jacket, crisp white shirt, tie and trousers from his duffel bag.
Back in Hawaii, dressed in a short-sleeved sport shirt, khakis and running shoes, he had looked like a homicide detective on vacation, albeit an injured homicide detective. Tonight, in the jacket and tie, he looked like an injured homicide detective going to the office. Clothes might make some men but they had no effect at all on the aura of power that radiated from him.
She had done some hasty shopping at the Ala Moana shopping center before catching the flight to the mainland. Luther had accompanied her, exhibiting remarkable patience while she conducted a series of surgical strikes on the various designer boutiques and high-end department stores. She had targeted the sales racks, unwilling to pay too much for an outfit she might never wear again. She was dressing for the mission, she reminded herself. But some part of her that she could not suppress insisted on finding a dress that would cause Luther to sit up and take notice, even if it meant exposing more of her sensitive skin than she would have liked.
Eventually she had emerged from the dressing room at Neiman Marcus wearing a sleek black number with a wide, ballet neckline and a slim skirt that ended just above her knees. In a bow to her ever unpredictable sense of touch, the dress had long sleeves.
The faint narrowing of Luther’s eyes and the very satisfying spike in his aura told her she had discovered the right dress.
“Let’s go find our seats,” he said.
“I need to make a trip to the ladies’ room first. I’ll be right back.”
Luther dutifully walked her to the swinging doors marked “Ladies.” She zipped inside and came to a sudden halt. Awed, she gazed at the seemingly endless ranks of gleaming stall doors.
“Wow,” she said to a well-dressed middle-aged woman at the nearest sink. “There must be fifty commodes in here.”
“And more in the other restroom on the other side of the theater,” the woman said with satisfaction. “I gather you’re from out of town.”
“Yes, but I’ve been to enough opera houses to know that there are never enough stalls in the ladies’ rooms to take care of the demand during intermission.”
“The mayor of Acacia Bay is a woman. She refused to throw her support behind Guthrie Hall unless the planners guaranteed that there would be enough restrooms for the female patrons.”
“My kind of politician,” Grace said fervently. “She has her priorities straight. Let’s hope she runs for president.”
She emerged from the restroom a short time later and joined Luther.
“You look awfully cheerful, considering the fact that we’re here to ID a murderer,” he said.
“I didn’t have to cut off all
liquids after three o’clock this afternoon, after all.”
“What do you mean?”
“There were at least fifty stalls in the ladies’ room. I counted. And there’s another restroom on the other side of the theater.”
“So?”
“So, it means that I won’t have to get totally stressed out at intermission assuming we’re here that long.”
Luther frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Never mind, it’s a woman thing.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
An usher directed them to their seats on the aisle twelve rows back from the stage. Luther was satisfied.
“Close enough to get a good look at her,” he said.
Grace’s stomach suddenly did an odd little flip. Her senses fluttered uneasily. Ever since Fallon Jones had authorized the trip to Acacia Bay, she and Luther had been consumed with preparations, the long commercial flight to L.A. and the drive up the coast. Now the reality of what she was about to do suddenly hit her like a splash of glacial melt. What if she was wrong? What if she was
right?
“Don’t worry about it,” Luther said. “If she’s not our hit lady, there’s no harm done. Just another night at the opera.”
“And if she is the woman I saw in Maui?”
“Then we report the info to Fallon. He’ll take care of things from there. You and I will fly back to Honolulu tomorrow and have dinner with Petra and Wayne.”
And then what? she wondered. She didn’t live in Waikiki. She lived in Eclipse Bay, Oregon. Alone.
Don’t think about it. Live in the moment.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Luther said.
Startled, she turned toward him. “What? I thought we just agreed—” She broke off when she realized he was reading the plot summary in the program. “Oh, the story line. No one ever said
The Magic Flute made sense. But it’s Mozart so operagoers don’t quibble about little details like plot logic.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“The experts in the Society are certain Mozart was a sensitive, you know,” she added.
“Yeah?”
“How else can you explain his preternatural musical talent?”
“Did he ever join the Society?”
She smiled. “I think he chose the Freemasons instead.”
“Well, the good news is that La Sirène appears in the first act.” Luther closed the program. “It won’t be long before we’ll have our answer.”
The lights went down and the crowded room hushed. The overture began, showering the audience in glorious, sparkling energy.
Music had power. Like some weird combination of a freezer and a microwave appliance, it could capture and preserve the brilliant energy of a long-dead composer, warm it up and serve it again and again to generation after generation.
The curtain rose on ancient Egypt. The story unfolded on an elaborate stage that incorporated all the latest and greatest technology. Grace knew that opera audiences expected over-the-top extravagance, not just from the singers but from the sets and costumes, as well. The Acacia Bay opera company had delivered.
It was the perfect setting for a killer coloratura soprano, and when the Queen of the Night took the stage it was all Grace could do to resist the urge to duck behind the seat in front of her.
The Queen’s costume was an elaborate confection of tiered silks and velvets in luminous shades of sapphire blue. The gown was trimmed with gold and studded with glittering beads. The ornate black wig redefined the term “big hair.” The glittering crown was cleverly woven into the tower of fake curls, producing an effect not unlike lights on a Christmas tree.
Everything about the Queen of the Night flashed and sparkled and glittered in an ominous, stage-dominating way. And all of that energy, including the incredible power of her dazzling voice, blazed just as violently in her terrifying aura.
The audience sat, transfixed, when the florid notes of “O zitt’re nicht” flooded the house to the highest balcony. La Sirène did not just squeak out the impossibly high F, she sang it full voice.
Grace did not move so much as a finger. She almost stopped breathing, half expecting to hear the sound of shattered crystal. There was psychic power in the musical fireworks, not enough to kill, but more than enough to mesmerize the audience. Her skin prickled and burned. All her senses were shrieking that she was in the presence of a predator, a
crazy predator.
She knew that she and Luther were safely hidden in the shadows; knew that the intense stage lighting made the audience largely invisible to the singers; knew that La Sirène had no reason to suspect that she was being hunted tonight. But the logic did little to satisfy her survival instincts. Death and madness walked the stage.
She did not attempt to whisper to Luther. For one thing she was fairly certain that the people around her would be extremely annoyed if anyone in the audience so much as coughed, let alone spoke to a companion.
Luther’s right hand closed around her left. She realized then that she was shivering. He tightened his grip, letting her know that he had received the message loud and clear. She knew that he could no doubt detect the power of the Queen’s aura, if not all the detailed lights and darks. He could probably see the crazy stuff, too.
He shifted a little and tugged lightly on her hand, indicating that he intended for them to leave. She tugged back, letting him know that they could not walk out while the Queen was onstage. There was too much risk that their departure would be noticed.
When the scene changed, they slipped out of their seats and made their way back up the aisle. Grace pretended not to notice the glares of disapproval. She breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the lobby.
“Tough crowd,” Luther observed.
“Opera has a lot of audience protocols. Walking out in the middle of a performance is frowned upon.”
“If those people knew what the Queen of the Night could do with her voice, they’d all be stampeding for the exits.”
“I’m not so sure,” she said, struggling to calm her breathing. “This is opera. People expect larger-than-life performers. Now what?”
“Now, as ever, we call Fallon.”
They went outside, crossed the street and entered the discreetly landscaped parking garage. In spite of the fact that the Queen was still onstage and would be for some time, Grace found herself scanning every shadow with her senses. When they reached the rental car, Luther got behind the wheel and took out his phone.
Fallon answered on the first ring.
“Well?” he asked.
“Grace says it’s her,” Luther said. “No question.”
“Damn.” Shock reverberated in Fallon’s voice. “Is she sure?”
“I know it’s hard for you when things don’t work out the way you anticipated,” Luther said. “Get over it. We’re the ones sitting here half a block from a woman who can kill us with a lullaby. What now?”
“Harry Sweetwater says he hasn’t been able to turn up anything on anyone in his line who fits the description of the Siren.”
“Probably because Grace was right all along. She isn’t a professional hit woman. She’s a professional opera singer.”
“It just doesn’t make any sense. Why the hell would she go all the way to Hawaii to kill Eubanks if she’s not a pro?”
“Maybe Craigmore knew what she could do with her talent and was somehow able to convince her to take out Eubanks for him. Maybe he was her lover. Grace says she’s had a long string of them. The bottom line is that she’s a killer.”
“There are just too damn many questions here,” Fallon insisted. “A big piece of this puzzle is missing. We need to find the connection that brought Craigmore and an opera singer together. Your diva has a town house in San Francisco. I’ll get someone inside as soon as possible.”
Luther checked his watch. “La Sirène is going to be tied up onstage for quite a while. After that, Grace says she’ll probably spend another hou
r backstage with her fans. Then she’s scheduled to attend a private reception. Plenty of time for me to see if I can get into her suite at the hotel where she’s staying.”
Grace turned very suddenly, gripping the back of the seat with one hand, her eyes huge in the shadows.
“No,” she whispered.
“Do it,” Fallon said. He ended the connection.
Luther gave Grace a reassuring smile.
“Relax,” he said. “What could possibly go wrong?”
FORTY-TWO
Grace stalked back across the hotel room, arms twisted around her middle. She could not seem to stop shivering. Luther had dropped her off nearly twenty minutes earlier. Surely he was inside Vivien Ryan’s suite by now. He was an ex-cop, she reminded herself. He knew what he was doing. Besides, the second act of
The Magic Flute hadn’t even concluded yet. Right now the Queen was probably onstage singing her shattering aria about making her own daughter kill her father.
There was plenty of time, Grace thought. Ryan would not leave the theater until she had received her awed fans in her dressing room. She was a diva in the truest sense of the word; she needed adulation the same way she needed oxygen. It was all there in her aura.
Grace reached the far wall, turned and started back across the room. Why couldn’t she get rid of this terrible, creeping unease? All her senses were raw. Only deep breathing and the near-constant pacing were keeping the incipient panic attack at bay. It dawned on her that what she was experiencing was something quite new. She was used to looking out for herself. But now, for the first time since her mother had died, she was terrified because someone else was in danger.
As close as she had been to Martin Crocker, she had never known this kind of anxiety, not even when she realized he was sliding deeper under the spell of the drug. She and Martin had been friends and business associates. There had been affection between them but never love. In the end all she had felt for Martin was a sense of sadness and regret and betrayal. And then her razor-sharp survival reflexes had taken over, as they always did.
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