Death is the cool night, p.10
Death Is the Cool Night, page 10
Holy shit, he’d exclaimed, as he toured the place. Laura winced at the curse, but offered him tea. I was glad he declined. She’d not yet mastered much in the kitchen.
I found out soon enough, in fact, that my new bride could barely boil water or tend to her own wardrobe, let alone perform the usual household duties of a loving spouse. She didn’t know how to make coffee, nor cook much beside boiled eggs and a special cake that required so many ingredients it used up all our food budget.
Even with the Reeds’ assistance, we went through money as quickly as it entered our bank account. My thousand was gone in record time. I’d spent some on our rings, some more on a pearl necklace I gave her as a wedding gift—Mrs. Reed’s suggestion—and blew the rest on clothes and food and liquor and I don’t even know. I think I gave some to Sal, too, as a gift for being best man. He didn’t ask me how I came by it.
That first week, after the wedding at city hall, was a rough one, getting used to having someone depend on me. I drank more than usual, which was saying a lot.
The ceremony itself was a blur, and not just because of our nerves. In fact, to calm myself, I’d started drinking rather early that day, whiskey shots with my coffee, gin mid morning, and on and on. Laura told me later my breath smelled like mint vodka. I’d sucked on quite a few hard candies before showing up in my rented suit. Mrs. Reed cried. Some friend of Laura’s—Carol—cried. Mr. Reed and Sal both managed to look equally sour.
Then we went for a luncheon where I polished off a bottle of wine all by myself, Mr. Reed scowling at me, Laura aflutter.
Our “honeymoon” was one night at the Belvedere hotel where we were told to hush by the front desk when our lovemaking became too raucous. She was a tigress unleashed once she had that ring on her finger. No man could have asked for more.
“What do you love about me most?” she asked me that night, lying snug in my arms.
I smelled the intoxicating scent of her hair. “This,” I said, letting her locks fall through my mottled fingers. She turned on her side and slowly, slowly brushed her hair against the length of my body from head to toe, an erotic swoosh that had me craving her again by the time she was finished.
Now that I had my own decent flat and clothes and all the rest, I took a less cynical view of those who had money. I talked on the telephone with a couple of Mrs. Reed’s friends about the various schools she’d mentioned. There were no openings yet, but a few good possibilities. I also spoke with the conservatory dean, and this time I didn’t feel funny or “less than” when I sat across the desk from him. With the Reed money in my pocket, I was as good as him. He told me a few changes were coming with Ivan gone, but nothing would be settled until after the operas were over.
I was on my way. And all it had taken was marrying the right girl.
*****
Dear Rick,
I know this will come as big news to you, but your baby sister is married. The fellow she has been seeing, Gregory, swept her off her feet, and they were wed in a lovely ceremony at City Hall just a week ago. Gregory is a conductor and composer with quite a future ahead of him, and I am so pleased that Laura has found someone with whom she can share eine bessre Welt—a better world. You do remember that Schubert song that you loved to hear her sing?
They are living in an apartment near University Parkway, so I can see her quite often. Gregory takes wonderful care of her. He is very talented, and I am sure he will go far. One of his compositions placed in a national competition and was slated to be played by the New York Philharmonic, but some complicated circumstances interfered. I am sure we will all be hearing his name in music circles before long.
The important thing is you are not to worry. Your sister is well cared for with this young man. He is dedicated to her safety, comfort, and well-being. As you know, I’ve worried about Laura’s nervous disposition, and she is much calmer now.
Keep yourself safe, darling. And do call when you can. We love to hear your cheerful voice.
All my love,
Mother
P.S. If you’d like to send a wedding gift, you need not be lavish. Laura and Gregory are quite well set up. A sweet trinket from the islands would be sufficient.
Chapter Twelve
For a brief period—a whisper of time—all was calm. Rehearsals for Turandot and Carmen continued. I battled with Chalmers over practice schedules—since we shared singers and instrumentalists—but that was the extent of the drama in our lives.
I began to wonder, in fact, if Mrs. Reed hadn’t reacted too quickly on her suspicions about Laura’s part in Ivan’s murder. Hans was the one who looked guiltiest now.
I’m ashamed to admit that I was just glad I didn’t need to think of my own memories of that night. Drinking kept most of them at bay. As long as I didn’t remember and as long as suspicion fell on someone else, I could breathe freely.
We had dinner with her parents on Sundays, and I started smoking a pipe at Mr. Reed’s suggestion. I dropped the Brentwood job entirely, kept my clothes neat and my hair cut, and I saw Sal less often. My liquor cabinet was stocked with only the finest now, and I sampled it frequently. Laura began to chide me about this, sulking when I didn’t listen.
We were an old married couple already.
***
“Hans, you cry just like a girl. Here, take my handkerchief! Basta! I do not tolerate this. Do you think I would not find out? Do you think I do not know you betrayed me? My only true love—you disgust me!”
Thus raged Renata to Hans in the cavernous practice hall before anyone arrived, her voice carrying to the door where I entered, coughing as I stepped over the threshold, so they’d know their conversation was interrupted. I didn’t need to know more. I’d already heard the story.
Hans was guilty all right, guilty of trying to sing the Kliegman. His protests to the contrary, his declarations of support for Renata—they were as false as praise at the conservatory. Renata had learned that he’d managed to run up to New York by train to sing the piece for the contest judges. He claimed it was merely to persuade them to keep them from disqualifying Ivan’s piece. I wanted to believe that was true, but by this time, I found so much comfort in a guilty Hans that any guilt at all would do.
I’d learned of his betrayal from Chalmers in a conversation two days ago after ironing out scheduling conflicts. Chalmers had gone with Hans to accompany him. And even Chalmers believed that Hans had really wanted to show off how well he sang the composition.
Gossip of that sort never stayed under wraps at a place like the conservatory. By the time Renata heard the story, I’d heard it twice over, with several embellishments, including other auditions he’d done for the Met, for a regional opera company, for a touring opera company up from Florida, for every impresario under the sun.
His little excursion certainly didn’t help heal the rupture with Renata.
Hans was a lost soul now, which caused me considerable irritation during that rehearsal and subsequent ones where his listless, sloppy singing discouraged everyone. He assured me he was only saving his voice for the big moment, but I had my doubts. I berated him more than any of the other singers, while praising Renata out of proportion, just to goad him into doing better.
Praising Renata, however, caused problems for me. Laura resented this, pointing out Renata’s flaws, how she missed a beat or sang a wrong note or was slightly off pitch. Her jealousy amused me most of the time. I enjoyed coaxing her out of her mood and into bed later.
Mrs. Reed visited often, but usually when I wasn’t home. After one such visit, I came home to find we had a telephone as well as a cleaning woman who came once a week.
The phone proved handy. On it, Laura could talk to her mother almost nightly, which meant she wasn’t pining to visit her parents or nagging me about my drinking or complaining about my attention to Renata. It also meant Mrs. Reed could talk to me, which she did one Thursday evening shortly before the opera entered its final week of rehearsals.
“Gregory, is there any way you can persuade that Italian woman to move out of Mr. Ruxton’s house?”
“Who?” Then I remembered—Roustakoff’s name had originally been Ruxton. She was talking about Renata living in Ivan’s home.
“Why?” I asked.
“I finally managed to see Louise Watts. The poor dear is still grieving over her brother. She feels that no one takes her seriously, that everyone thinks her brother was a cad and he got his … well, just desserts.”
How true.
“The Italian woman who claims to have been his wife—which Louise says is absolutely false—causes Louise considerable pain.”
“I don’t know what I can do about Renata. She’s difficult to manage.”
“Well, do try, will you? I think if this Renata woman is out of Louise’s brother’s home, she won’t feel so abused. I think it will calm her down. And then that whole dreadful episode would be over.”
And Laura would no longer be in jeopardy. That’s what she was really saying.
“The police seem to be focusing on the German tenor,” I told her.
She paused. “That’s all well and good,” she said. “But still, I think Louise would be less excitable if the Italian were gone.”
I might have been numbed by drink, but it hit me like a boulder sometimes how awful it would be to have a mother who thought you capable of murder. But then again, if Mrs. Reed knew what Roustakoff had done to her daughter, she might have wanted to murder him herself. So I’d see what I could do about Renata, knowing it was a useless expedition.
As long as Louise was upset, she’d keep pressing the police. The detective could swoop in at any time, making our lives miserable once again.
I had another reason to help. I’d dreamed of Roustakoff several times in the past week, and all of them involved his murder at my hands. Never poison, mind you, but always me with my hands around his neck or with a gun to his heart. I’d even confessed these dreams to Laura, who, with childish trust, had put her hand over mine and smiled. But I’ve dreamed that, too, she said, smiling.
The investigation had to close.
***
“Renata, could I see you, please, for a momento?”
The practice was over, my hands throbbed, I needed a drink, and a drenching rain had given me a blasted headache.
Well, maybe it wasn’t the rain. Maybe it was too much liquor. Sal and I had gone to a bar the night before, for old time’s sake. I’d not returned until two, upsetting Laura.
I saw Laura shoot me a glance as she marched off the risers. We were in the last days of rehearsals and everyone was on edge, particularly me. Although Mrs. Reed had promised to talk to a friend of hers at St. Paul’s school about a music department chairmanship, I’d not heard a word about that. And I certainly didn’t want to risk it falling through with bad notices about my conducting debut. A lot was riding on this opera.
My guess was that Mrs. Reed was waiting to hear from me—on my progress trying to convince Renata to back off her insistence she was Ivan’s widow.
Widow—she even used that designation to advantage, wearing glamorous black dresses to every rehearsal, complicated hats with seductive netting touching her brows, sleek dark gloves up her arms. I suspected she was using Ivan’s credit at various stores to upholster herself so well, another annoyance to Ivan’s sister, to be sure. Amanda Reed was right. This had to stop. And if it did, maybe the investigation would as well.
“Si, Maestro?” Renata stepped my way, preceded by her heady musky perfume. She looked particularly beautiful today, her curvy body encased in a dark black silk cut low to reveal her perfect bosom. Her massive weight of black-brown hair was cinched at the nape of her neck, exploding in a burst of curl beyond a gold clip, with seductive tendrils tickling her cheeks. Her wide eyes blinked at me.
“I need to talk to you about some… upcoming productions. Do you have some time?”
She sized me up. She looked at a diamond-encrusted watch.
“In an hour perhaps. Come to my home. I will be happy to talk about singing more with you, Maestro!” She grabbed both my hands and quickly kissed me on both cheeks before leaving.
Laura came up behind me.
“Why do you need to talk to her?” she asked, holding her coat out for me to help her with.
“The conservatory wants to see if she’ll sing a Butterfly,” I lied. “It’s just an idea. My guess is it won’t happen.” I held the trench coat up, and she slipped into it, quickly tying the belt and putting on a fedora-style hat.
“I was going to go shopping this afternoon. I don’t want to have to wait for you.”
“You take the car, darling. I can catch a bus.”
“What time will you be home?” she pulled on gloves, not looking at me.
“By dinner, I’m sure.” I kissed her on the head to reassure her. “Or even earlier. I’ll take care of this meeting and tidy up some things with the orchestra.” Another lie, but I was trying to sound businesslike. “I’m sure I’ll be home in time. Are you cooking or shall we dine out?” I knew what the answer would be, but wanted to remind her she did fall short in some wifely duties.
She pouted. “I was going to try to make an omelet. Mother is going to send me to some cooking school. She’s had Gertrude come over to show me how to do a few things.”
I hadn’t known. I wondered what Gertrude thought of fast marriage.
“Then I’ll be sure to rush home, my sweet, as soon as I’m finished.”
***
I didn’t rush home. I ended up spending far too much time with Renata.
When the appointed hour arrived, I raced across the plaza, past the Washington monument and the marble balustrades around the green, and knocked on the door of the Roustakoff manse. It was brown and muddy-looking in the rain, its rounded corner and spire-like roof making one think of a church instead of an individual residence.
Renata answered the door herself, ushering me into Ivan’s spacious living room. Music was playing on the phonograph, a recording of Renata herself singing Carmen. She wasn’t subtle—she was still angling for that role. Even though it was a mezzo part, she had the dark timbre and lower range to handle it. Ponselle had sung it.
“Do you want something to drink?” She headed to a liquor cabinet and poured me a Scotch when I said yes.
She’d exchanged her widow’s weeds for something more colorful and comfortable—a burgundy lounging set with a top that wrapped around her body and satiny trousers from which sandal-clad feet peeked.
“Tell me about my singing for you,” she said, handing me the drink.
My plan had been to flatter her first, so I rushed forward with it effortlessly. I complimented her Turandot, pointing out specific places where she shone in the role, I talked about how “regretful” it was she was doing Micaela and not Carmen herself, and how I hoped to change that with my influence over the authorities.
“You can get them to let go that cow who is singing it now?” She slid onto the sofa next to me.
I laughed. “She doesn’t sing like a cow!” The mezzo-soprano the conservatory was using was, however, built like one, with broad shoulders and hips, and disturbingly large eyes that often fixed in a dull stare.
“Carmen must be a woman of passion, Maestro. Like me!” She raised her glass to me—she was drinking wine—and sloshed some on my pants leg. This was followed by much apologizing and cooing and fussing. She retrieved a towel from the kitchen and proceeded to sop up the offending stain, but her touch was too light and provocative to do any good in that department. It succeeded in others.
“You are so serious,” she whispered close to my ear. “Is it this that makes you so serious?” She lifted one of my mangled paws and kissed it, looking at me through dark lashes.
The Scotch relaxed me. I asked for another. She complied. I talked about how I doubted I could get her Carmen, but I’d be damned if she didn’t get something like a Butterfly in the spring. She sat very close.
“Bene,” she said. “I will go to New York, right after the last performance of Carmen. I leave that night. I sing his piece.” She gestured to Ivan’s things. “I sing for some important people in New York. But I be happy to come back to you, Maestro. Will Signorina Ponselle start the opera company?”
“She’s thinking about it.”
“And you will be its Maestro?”
“I’m going to try.” I’d talked to her several times, and I knew Mrs. Reed would help me.
“Then I will be your diva. People will want to come hear me!” She laughed and stroked the back of my head. “I know people will want to come to me. People like me, Gregory. Not just my singing.”
She leaned back, and the top she wore, not securely cinched at the waist, tugged open, revealing breasts encased in a black lacey chemise.
Everything she did—her purring voice, her cat-like actions, her offers of liquor, her hand on my leg, on my arm, her little pecks turned to molten kisses—were aimed at seducing me. And, dammit, I enjoyed it. She made me feel like I deserved this distraction, from such hard work, from the pain in my hands. She made me feel like she herself was a gift and I’d be a fool to turn it down.
After my third Scotch, I was ready to move from petting to lovemaking. I was tugging at the buttons on my pants with her help, in fact, when someone knocked at the door. She growled out her frustration and went to answer it, retying her belt as she cried out, “I am coming!”
I couldn’t see who was there, but I could hear him. Detective Reilly.
*****
Chapter Thirteen
“I am busy,” Renata said as soon as he asked to come in. “So, no talking today.” Then she spoke in Italian.
I smiled as I gathered myself, tucking in my shirttails, neatening my hair, grabbing my jacket. I fled to the kitchen, ready to spring for the door. I waited and listened.
