Ghost Aria

The
Master of the Opera
series
by Jeffe Kennedy

 

Act 1: Passionate Overture
(January 2, 2014)

 

Act 2: Ghost Aria
(January 16, 2014)

 

Act 3: Phantom Serenade
(February 6, 2014)

 

Act 4: Dark Interlude
(February 20, 2014)

 

Act 5: A Haunting Duet
(March 6, 2014)

 

Act 6: Crescendo
(March 20, 2014)

ACT
2

Ghost Aria
M
ASTER
OF THE
O
PERA

jeffe kennedy

eKENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

C
hristy didn't tell anyone about the rose.

Or the note. Especially not about the note.

She buried them both in the bottom of her bag and, on her way home from work that night, took a drive down Cerillos and found a Dumpster behind a strip mall and threw the rose in. It laid there, absurdly lush and lovely on a black plastic garbage bag bursting at one long seam with some sort of rotting residue, a gaping wound. Squelching the urge to climb in and take the rose back—what the hell was wrong with her?—she resolutely dropped the lid. The gunshot bang brought her shoulders up around her ears.

Just a little jumpy.

Since the note could be evidence—God, how she hated to contemplate that—she kept it and brought it back to her little hotel room.

Once inside, she gratefully threw the bolt on the door, dropped her bag, and flopped on the bed. Bonelessly, she lay there, her nerves and muscles thrumming with a tension that kept her hyped despite her exhaustion.

It had been possibly the worst day ever, topping even the day in junior high when her mom had taken her out to lunch and broken the news about the divorce. Probably because it hadn't been actual news by that point, just the final confirmation. In some ways—despite the pinched concern on her mother's face and the awful point-by-point breakdown of who would get which houses, cars, and slices of Christy's life—that day had at least provided an end to the unbearable tension of waiting for the inevitable.

Someone finding Tara's body in the bowels of the opera house? That had not been inevitable. Christy hadn't realized how much she'd embraced the fantasy that her predecessor had run off to Acapulco with some cute guy and was romping in the surf instead of dealing with the labyrinthine inventory she'd escaped.

But no. All this time she'd been dead. At least according to the scuttlebutt—mostly gossip from the backstage staff who'd talked to Danny before the police shut him up, though a couple of the other guys said they'd seen the body, too. Everyone watched way too many forensic shows, and some of their discussion of blood pooling and putrefaction had curdled Christy's stomach.

Charlie said that everyone processed trauma in different ways and not to listen to their talk. He offered to let her take off the rest of the day, or even the rest of the week. But she'd told him no, she'd rather work. That it would keep her from dwelling on it all.

That much was true.

She didn't tell him the rest—that she'd lied to the police by omission. She hadn't told them about any of her encounters with the mythical theater ghost. Christy groaned and threw an arm over her eyes.

Despite her fear, she'd felt fascinated, giddy and enthralled just being near him.

And now he might be a psychopathic murderer, lining up Christy as his next victim. Maybe that's why he'd dumped Tara's body—because he'd lured Christy into his net and planned to do her in next.

She needed to tell the police. Only now it would look really bad that she hadn't before this. What did people do? In the TV shows, the witness who later slunk into the police station and confessed to holding back always got in trouble. Or ended up dead.

But just because it made for good television didn't mean it would happen to her. Right?

Feeling a hundred years old, she sat up, every joint protesting, and dug the note out of her cell phone case. Using her nails to pull out the thick vellum by the very edges—because, you know, fingerprints—she set it on the glass-topped hotel dresser.

When had he left it in her desk drawer? After she'd left the building but before Danny found the body in the early morning hours? The police said Tara's body could have been in that spot for days or longer, but Christy didn't think so. She'd been down that hallway, she was sure. Pretty sure.

Did the phantom put Tara's unlovely corpse there to cement the warning that she tell no one about him? Or was she to tell no one about that?

None of it made any sense, least of all that she'd done exactly as he'd instructed, even before she saw the warning note. She just couldn't bear to see those expressions again, the way people look at you when they think you're crazy. It was irrational and cowardly of her, but there it was. The only thing that made sense for the immediate future was to keep it hidden.

Taking her eyebrow tweezers, she pried out the molded plastic shelf that held her eye shadows inside the pretty case and set the note inside. Face down. She didn't have plastic to wrap it in, so this would have to do. Snapping the shadows back in place, she stowed the whole thing back in the counter drawer and caught her image in the big mirror.

Oh yeah, she looked like hell.

Her formerly saucy pixie cut looked more along the lines of a bad incident with a garbage disposal and the deep circles under her eyes were worthy of one of those meth-addict cautionary billboards. Good thing she wouldn't be seeing Roman tonight; he'd finally left for Taos once the police were done asking him if he'd seen or heard anything, anything at all, while he waited for her in the parking lot.

Speak—or think—of the devil, her phone whistled with a text message from him.

The guy worried about her safety more than her dad did. It was a little over-the-top macho, but also caring. The protective, big brother vibe. She'd been glad to have him there that morning, steadying her with a warm hand on the small of her back, giving her reassuring smiles, reminding the detectives that she was a witness, not a suspect, unless he should call in his lawyer for her?

She smiled as she sent it, remembering how the police had backpedaled when Roman suggested bringing in his family lawyer. He was kind of her knight in shining armor, rescuing her from prom disasters and police interrogations alike.

Here, too
, she texted back. At least she figured it was. She pushed back the Indian blanket–patterned curtain and popped open a space between the slats of the blinds. Beautiful streetlights. Her window faced the wrong way to see the moon. Oh, well.
And I needed to work.

Been thinking
, he answered immediately.
I could get you another job. Better pay.

Whoa. She sat on the end of the bed, taking in that text. Only two nights ago she'd been thinking of that very thing. Would that be the smart thing to do? Charlie wouldn't be surprised. Neither would her father. But then, he'd only arranged the apprenticeship for her because she'd nagged him to death—to prove she wouldn't like it. And because the opening had conveniently popped up at the last minute.

“Why start at the bottom when I can make you my executive assistant?” he'd complained. “There's a reason people do it this way. Do you see Romney's boys working shit jobs? No, you don't.”

It had devolved from there, as their arguments always did, ending up with him calling her obstinate and her trying not to cry and failing, as usual. Which always made him feel that he'd won. Or, rather, she'd feel that she'd lost, which amounted to the same thing.

But she'd won this time and gotten this job. She still wanted it. Roman might be happy working with his dad, but she needed to do something on her own. Maybe that made her less mature, but whatever. The phone whistled again.

Yeah. Gotta go. Phone call from Dad.
She winced a little as she texted the lie.
Talk to you later!

She'd thought she wanted nothing more than to stay in, order food from Dashing Delivery, and soothe herself with comfort food and bad TV. Maybe it was the obstinate side of her, but something about Roman telling her to stay in and stay safe rubbed her the wrong way.

Besides, maybe she wanted to see the damn moon for herself.

Grabbing her jacket and bag, she headed back out, deciding to drive around a little bit. She headed toward the historic plaza and found an open meter. Though the evening had turned chilly, quite a few people wandered around the square, lit with old-fashioned lamps. A couple of blocks away, the glowing tower of the cathedral stood tall against the night sky, the moon serene and nearly full beside the spire.

It did look lovely.

Hands in pockets, she walked along the colonnade, looking in the shop windows now and again, but mostly strolling. Enjoying not having to talk to anyone for a little while.

Beside one of the ancient posts, an older man wrapped in a long leather coat played a violin. The music drew out, echoing against the arcade, sad and sweet. She hummed along, then stopped herself, the notes choking in her throat. It was the phantom's song, the one she heard when the opera house fell silent. Something so familiar yet just out of reach.

She pulled out her wallet and found she had a five. When he finished the song, she dropped it in the man's open violin case. The violinist grinned, a ragged jack-o'-lantern rictus of round cheeks and missing teeth.

“Has young leddy got a request fo' me?”

“Just, um—what song were you just playing?”

“You like? I play again for you.”

He launched into the opening chords and she felt bad for stopping him. “No. I mean, I do like. I wanted to know the name of the song.”

The man shrugged, no longer pleased. “ 'S an old song.”

“You don't know the name?”

“I teach meself, yanno? No fancy lessons. Jes' me an' this.” He shook the violin at her. “You wanna hear? Then listen.”

With something close to a sneer, he played the song again. Feeling trapped, she stayed there. Every once in a while he'd raise his gnarled brows at her, as if a certain note was significant. The melody wound around her, pulling at her, a problem that needed solving. But the answer remained out of reach.

“Thank you,” she said when he finished with a flourish.

He cocked his head, shook it with disgust. “Eh. You din't listen. Go 'way.”

She resisted the guilty feeling that she should throw more money in his case and walked away from the plaza. Her stomach growled, insistent now, and her feet took her down to Del Charro and some rational company, she hoped.

Hally, the bartender and her new friend, waved as Christy walked in the door and set down a round coaster ostentatiously in front of an empty barstool. Feeling like a local already, Christy hung her jacket on a hook by the door and took
her
seat.

“Was hoping you'd stop by!” Hally did a little dance. “Any sightings?”

“Don't ask.” Christy dropped her forehead on her folded arms with a groan. She shouldn't have told Hally about the theater ghost rumors the other night. Never mind that she'd been wondering if she was losing her mind. Heh. Now that it was clear she was, she didn't want to talk about it.

Hally patted her arm sympathetically. “Nothing one of my monster margaritas won't cure!”

“Not tonight. Maybe just a glass of chard or something.”

“Coming right up. Menu?”

Christy nodded and took it, tempted to get the chips and blue cheese dip again. She ordered the burger instead—with blue cheese crumbles to satisfy the craving—and a side salad instead of the fries. Half comfort, half healthy.

“Rough day at work?”

“You could say that. Among other things, this one woman, Carla, seems to hate me.”

“Ohhh—I know her. She came to a couple of my art classes in high school. She's an expert on calligraphy. And a major bitch. Don't let her get you down.”

“Okay. I know it's not that big a deal.”

“We still on for Sunday?” Hally set the glass of wine in front of her and leaned her elbows on the bar, a vertical line between her crimson-dyed eyebrows. “Maybe no? You look kind of beat down.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

“Yes, we're on for shopping on Sunday. I could use some fresh air. But I'm apartment hunting Saturday, so it kind of depends on what I find.”

“I'm totally flexible. Whatevs.”

“I've been looking through the listings—is everything in Santa Fe so expensive?”

“Yes.” Hally's red ponytail bobbed with her emphatic nod. “Resign yourself to paying a fortune in rent if you don't want your stuff ripped off every time you leave the place.”

“That bad?”

“Eh.” She lifted one shoulder. “It's a lifty culture round here. You're not going to get murdered or anything, but don't leave your stuff out. What? What did I say?”

Christy made herself relax her jaw. The police had warned them not to spill details. Just then the Albuquerque news station broke in with a special report—and a shot of the lovely opera house on the hillside, a yellow stripe of caution tape across the image. Christy pointed Hally to the screen. “That.”

Hally turned up the volume, and they watched the report, most of the other people at the bar not paying any attention. There wasn't much for the reporters to reveal. No details yet. Police investigating. Hally turned wide hazel eyes on her and twisted up her pink lips. “I take it all back—you look great, considering.”

“Sorry. They told us not to talk about it.”

“No kidding! But are you okay, honey?”

Hally's sincere concern did more to unhinge the dreadful tension than anything else, even Roman's sympathetic texts. “Yeah. Roman thinks I should work somewhere else.”