Another gift had appeared on her dressing table while she was gone, a small box wrapped in white tissue paper. She glanced at the wall clock—twenty minutes to overture—slid her finger under the tape to pull off the paper, and opened the lid.
With a gasp, she dropped the box.
A dead yellow canary fell at her feet, its single black eye staring up at her.
She shuddered. Who would do something this depraved?
There was a scent. A strong scent she recognized. But not from the dead bird. No. She picked up the box that had contained its corpse. The cardboard held the smell of Egyptian incense.
Rage bubbled up inside her. There was only one explanation, the one she’d been refusing to accept. The wrapping paper was different, but the box held the identical scent as the incense Lena had given her.
She picked up the bird in her bare hands, too furious to grab a tissue, and marched through the hallways, the dead canary extended in front of her. She stormed past the extras on their way to be costumed for the Triumphal March, her gold sandals striking the tile floor, amethyst gown swirling around her calves. They took one look at her and backed away.
She stormed into the stairwell, lifting her gown with her free hand so she didn’t trip on the hem. Up one flight, out into the hallway, and down the corridor to the room where the covers were required to stay during a performance so they’d be close at hand if they were needed. If, for example, a famous mezzo-soprano was so traumatized by a dead bird that she lost her ability to sing.
They were gathered in the lounge, a golf tournament muted on the television. The tenor covering for Arthur Baker played a game of solitaire. Sarah’s cover was doing a crossword. Others were on their phones, while Lena sat at a table reading a book.
Their heads came up in unison as she stormed into the room—her gown rippling at her ankles, dead canary in her hands, gold cobra on her head. She marched across the floor and dumped the bird in Lena’s lap.
Lena shrieked, leaped to her feet, and then fell to her knees in front of the bird. “Florence?”
The rawness of Lena’s emotions—the way her expression shifted from horror to shock to grief—gradually penetrated Olivia’s fury. She began to realize she might have made a mistake.
Three people she didn’t recognize were in the room. Someone’s wife or girlfriend, an older woman who might be one of the singers’ mothers, and a person she did recognize. A man Lena had introduced as her husband, Christopher.
Instead of showing concern for his wife’s distress, his eyes were on Olivia, as if he were assessing her—or wary of her. As if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.
Lena’s husband . . .
It all came crashing back to her. Rachel had worked with Lena in Minneapolis. She’d said the couples had hung out together. As much as Olivia adored Dennis, he was a gossip. How many conversations had she had with Rachel where she’d said, “Don’t you dare tell Dennis”? Rachel generally kept her word, but occasionally she’d share a piece of news with him before Olivia was ready to make it public. Olivia had talked to Dennis about it, and he’d apologized. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Rachel told me not to say anything, and I didn’t mean for it to slip out.”
Olivia didn’t know exactly how the pieces fit, but she was certain they did. Rachel knew Olivia was guilt-plagued about Adam’s suicide, and she’d suspected Olivia’s vocal issues were worse than Olivia was letting on. Rachel had put two and two together and mulled it over with Dennis. If Dennis knew, he could very well have told Lena’s husband sometime when the couples were together.
Lena hadn’t been her saboteur. It was Christopher, Lena’s husband, a man who had a sizable stake in his wife’s career. A man who wanted his wife onstage instead of Olivia.
Lena lifted her tear-streaked face to her husband. “What happened to Florence?”
“That’s not Florence!” he exclaimed.
“It is Florence! Look at the white on her tail feathers, the little dash by her eye.”
Christopher addressed the rest of the room with a fake, dismissive laugh. “Florence is Lena’s pet canary. The bird stopped eating, and Lena’s been worried, but . . .” He returned his attention to his wife. “Florence was alive when I left home. I swear.”
His swearing lacked conviction. Lena, looking lost and confused, her dead pet cradled in her hand, gazed up at Olivia. “I don’t understand.”
From the speaker, the opening notes of the overture began to play. “You and your husband need to have a long talk,” Olivia said. “And if I were you, I’d hire a lawyer.”
* * *
She hurried back to her dressing room. When she got there, she made a quick call to Piper outlining what had happened and then muted her phone.
The stage manager’s voice came from the speaker. “Mr. Baker, Mr. Alvarez, please report to the stage.” Her call would be next.
She locked the door and turned off her dressing room lights. She had so many questions, but for now she had to set them all aside. Lena’s husband’s sabotage had stolen enough from her. She wouldn’t let it steal any more.
Be fearless. She drew herself to her full height and breathed into the darkness. Long inhales. Slow exhales. Even, deliberate breaths. Trying to trust herself once again.
Inhale . . . Exhale . . .
“Ms. Shore, please report to the stage.”
19
Olivia made her entrance to thunderous applause. Thad had a hard time catching his breath. She wasn’t alone onstage, but she might as well have been. How could the audience look at anyone else? In her purplish gown with that cobra on her head, she was six feet tall.
He’d read the libretto, and he knew what she’d be singing first. “Quale insolita gioia nel tuo sguardo,” “What rare joy shines on your face?”
She’d joked with him about it. “Not your face,” she’d teased him. “Radamès’s face.”
Now here she was, throwing herself at the old dude playing Radamès who wasn’t going to love her back in a million years. Stupid fool.
He’d sneaked in at the last minute, and so far, he’d attracted only the minimum of attention. He didn’t want her to know he was here, but he couldn’t imagine staying away, even though he was still mad as hell at her. But not mad enough to want her to fail.
Aida appeared, dressed in white. Sarah Mabunda had a curvier figure and lacked Olivia’s height, but she had a luminescence that lit up her face and made her a worthy adversary. Too bad she had to die at the end.
His attention returned to Olivia. As magnificent as she was, he couldn’t help wishing she was singing Carmen so he could see her in that red dress.
No. He didn’t need to see her in that dress. Better she was covered up.
The scene came to an end, and the audience applauded. She’d sounded incredible to his ears, but nobody was calling out “bravo,” and the applause seemed more polite than as if the audience had been swept away.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it and kept his attention on the stage.
* * *
Curtain call . . . Olivia had survived opening night.
She and Sarah had begun to connect in the first act, and that connection had continued through the bedchamber scene in act 2. As for the all-important final Judgment scene . . . Olivia’s pitch had sagged here and there, and she’d smudged some of her runs, but she’d been good. Acceptable. The audience might not be getting everything they expected from La Belle Tornade, but it wasn’t the disaster she’d feared. She hadn’t sung brilliantly, but she’d sung competently. That’s what the critics would say. A competent, if rather lackluster, performance. Competent was fine.
No, it wasn’t fine. She wanted greatness, not competence. Something Thad would understand.
* * *
Backstage, she greeted her well-wishers, many of them wealthy donors to the Muni. It was easy to separate those who truly knew opera from the others. The pretenders told her she had been magnificent. The true fans me
rely commented on how glad they were that she’d returned to the Muni.
Kathryn Swift was of the former group. “Olivia, darling, you were superb. Spectacular! I so wish Eugene could have heard you tonight.”
Olivia was glad he hadn’t, because he would have known right away that she hadn’t been spectacular at all.
The person she wanted most to see—the person who would understand how she was feeling more than anyone else—was missing. And why should he be here after she’d thrown him out of her life?
Her guests finally left. The dresser took away her costume and wig. Wrapped in a white robe, Olivia sat in front of the mirror removing her makeup. She was drained. Empty. As she wiped away Amneris’s winged eyebrows and elongated lapis eyeliner, she tried to make herself feel better with the reminder that she’d at least had the courage to go onstage tonight. That was something.
But it wasn’t enough.
She took off her wig cap and ran her fingers through her hair. She understood Christopher Marsden’s twisted motivation for doing what he’d done, but how had he orchestrated it? And what about the bookstore and kidnapping?
A knock sounded at her door. She had this absurd leap of hope that it might be Thad. “Come in.”
It was Lena Hodiak. Her tangled blond hair; round, blotchy face; and red eyes told their own story. She dashed across the room and fell to her knees in front of Olivia. “I didn’t know what he was doing! You must believe me!”
Olivia imagined how Thad would view this grand, operatic gesture, and she could almost hear him muttering “sopranos” under his breath. “Please get up, Lena.”
Lena gripped Olivia’s white robe tighter, staying on her knees. “I didn’t know. Please believe me. I would never have let him do something like this.”
As exhausted as she was, Olivia couldn’t dismiss Lena’s anguish. “Sit down,” she said gently.
Lena stayed where she was. Weepy and beseeching, she gazed up at Olivia. “You’re everything I aspire to be. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Please tell me you don’t think I did this.”
Lena’s incredulity as she’d gazed at her husband was all the proof Olivia had needed that Lena wasn’t the one who’d tried to sabotage her. She drew Lena to her feet and directed her to the room’s single easy chair. “I know you didn’t. And I’m sorry about your bird.”
Lena dropped her head in her hands and started crying all over again. “Florence was special. She’d trill for me when I left the room. I could cuddle her in my hand, and if she didn’t think I was giving her enough attention, she’d sulk.” Lena dragged her sleeve across her nose. “She stopped eating a few weeks ago, and she was sleeping all the time, so I knew she was sick, but . . .” She gulped for air. “I think he killed her.”
Olivia winced.
The words came pouring out. “After you left, he pulled me into the hall and tried to convince me nothing you said was true. I said I knew he was lying. That made him furious and he told me all of it. Everything he’d done to you. He threw it at me. Like it should make me happy. He said since I wasn’t looking out for my own career, he had to.”
Olivia sat at her dressing table and rubbed her eyes. “He wanted to get rid of me so you could have your big moment.”
“Covering for you was my big moment, but he couldn’t see that. He kept talking about how this was my chance and that I should see what he’d done to you as a sign of how much he loved me.”
“Twisted.”
“I should have figured it out. He’s been so secretive. I told him I hated him. That I was divorcing him and never wanted to see him again.” She bit her bottom lip. “I thought he was going to hit me, but Jeremy came out to check on me and kicked him out of the building.”
Jeremy was the big, barrel-chested bass covering for Ramfis.
“You’re not safe with your husband,” Olivia said.
“I know.” Lena plucked at the chair arm. “When I met him, he was so charming. He was interested in everything I did. I’d never had anyone care about me that way.” Lena looked up. “A few months after we got married, things started to change. He wanted to know where I was every minute. Nothing I did was good enough. I wasn’t working hard enough. I gained a few pounds, and he told me I was fat. He started monitoring everything I ate. He made me feel stupid. He said he had to be tough with me because he loved me so much, and he only wanted the best for me. He said I should feel lucky to be married to a man who cared so much. But I knew it was wrong. As soon as the Aida run was over, I was going to tell him I wanted a divorce.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can’t go back to your apartment.”
“I called a friend. I’m going to stay with her.”
“Promise me you’ll let me know if I can help.”
“How can you say that after what happened?”
Olivia smiled at her. “We sopranos have to stick together, right?”
That made Lena start crying all over again.
* * *
Thad banged on the door of Lena Hodiak’s apartment, then moved to the side so only Piper could be seen through the peephole.
The door swung open. Thad shouldered Piper away—exactly what she’d warned him not to do—and stepped into the door frame. “Christopher Marsden?”
Marsden wiped the early-morning sleep from his eyes. “Who are you? Wait— Aren’t you—”
“Yeah. Thad Owens. A good friend of Olivia Shore.”
Christopher tried to slam the door, but Thad wasn’t having it. He shoved his way in before Piper could stop him and delivered a perfectly targeted undercut to Marsden’s jaw followed up with a punch to the gut that sent the vermin sprawling to the floor.
“Okay, that wasn’t helpful,” Piper said. “But completely understandable.” She shut the door, closing them inside the apartment.
Thad wanted to finish the job, but Piper pushed him away and advanced on Marsden. “I have a few questions for you, Mr. Marsden. And I think it’s only fair to inform you that my friend here has a hot temper and short patience when it comes to liars, so I suggest you stick to the truth.”
Marsden whimpered. His lip was bleeding, and he looked like he might throw up. Thad had a strong stomach, and he wouldn’t mind seeing that.
Piper put one of her small feet, clad in a black leather motorcycle boot, on Marsden’s chest. “I think we should start at the beginning, don’t you?”
It all came out. Marsden had formed a friendship with Dennis Cullen, Rachel’s husband, when their wives were appearing together in Minneapolis. From Dennis, Marsden had learned that Olivia wasn’t handling her ex-fiancé’s suicide well. Dennis, who needed to learn how to keep his fucking mouth shut, had repeated Rachel’s speculation that Olivia was traumatized with guilt after her ex-fiancé’s suicide, and that her vocal problems were worse than she was letting on. That was all Marsden needed to hear, and it didn’t take him long to come up with a plan to prey on Olivia’s guilt. The possibility of his wife being able to step into Olivia’s shoes and have her shot at the big time had been his catnip. He saw playing mind games with Olivia as low risk, with a potentially huge payoff for his wife’s career.
“Lena can’t do anything for herself!” Marsden whined, clutching his stomach. “She was happy being second rate. I have to do everything.”
“Uh-huh.” Piper toed him with her motorcycle boot, not enough to hurt him, but enough to establish female solidarity with his wife. “Let’s begin with those notes you sent.”
Marsden started singing like his wife’s canary once had. He’d come up with an idea as an experiment—seeing if he could get into Olivia’s head by sending her the anonymous letters. After a couple of chats with Big Mouth Dennis, he’d learned Olivia seemed to be getting worse, and that motivated him to step up his efforts with the photographs, bloody T-shirt, and the phone call Olivia had gotten when they were hiking. He was behind it all, right up to the moment when Piper mentioned the hotel room brea
k-in and the New Orleans incident.
The guy practically peed his pants. “I’ve never been to New Orleans. I swear. And I didn’t break into any hotel room!” He curled into a ball, afraid Thad would go after him again.
Thad and Piper exchanged a look. Marsden was a coward and a bully—not the kind of guy with the guts to pull off a direct attack or a desert kidnapping. Olivia was still at risk.
* * *
Olivia slept in late the next day. Tonight was the Aida gala, her final obligation to Marchand and the last place she wanted to be after her lackluster performance. Holding her head high and pretending not to overhear any of the whispered conversations about her singing last night would be exhausting. Except . . . she’d be able to see Thad again.
She’d kill him if he brought a date.
He’d bring a date. She knew it. He wasn’t a man who’d ignore any kind of rejection without fighting back.
She needed a date, too. She mentally sorted through possible candidates but couldn’t bear the idea of spending the evening with anyone who was part of the opera world. She could ask Clint, but if she brought him, Thad would think she was trying to rub his face in their breakup when all she wanted was to throw her arms around him and tell him once more she was sorry. He deserved his retribution. She’d choke down her resentment, go alone, and make herself be extra nice to the woman he’d almost certainly bring with him. Even though it would devastate her.
She tried to focus on the positive. It would be good to see Henri again. Paisley had somehow landed her dream job as a personal assistant to one of the Real Housewives, so she wouldn’t be there, but Mariel would. Mariel’s blind ambition to best Henri had grated on Olivia from the beginning. The advertising campaign had been expensive, and if it wasn’t paying off, she’d be gloating over Henri’s remains.
When Stars Collide Page 25
