Ghost Aria (2 page)

“Who's Roman—your boss?”

“No. He's an old family friend and I'm kind of seeing him. Roman Sanclaro?”

“
Roman San-fucking-claro
?” Hally jumped back in mock astonishment.

“Yeah?”

“You're dating Roman Sanclaro and Did Not Tell Me.” Hally clutched her temples, making crazy eyes. “Who are you? What have you done with my friend?”

Christy laughed, snorting some of the chardonnay down the wrong pipe. “Hey, I only met you the other night. His family is kind of big around here, so I didn't want to seem like I was dropping names.”

“No, honey.” Hally wiped the already clean bar. “His family is not big around here. They're
huge
. They're the Rockefellers of New Mexico, only older. They're the Trumps of Santa Fe, without the skyscrapers. Roman Sanclaro is Prince William, if Will were better looking and still unmarried. He's the—”

“Okay, okay. Stop!” Christy held up her hands in surrender. “This is kind of why I didn't mention it.”

“Humph. I dunno, Christy. I thought we were close, but it turns out I don't know you at all.” Hally pretended to wipe away a tear. “And your families are friends? Is your last name Carnegie?”

Christy sighed. “It might as well be.”

“Wow. Then can I ask why you're worried about rent?”

“Because I'm more than my father's daughter, okay?”

Hally gave her a little nod. “Fair enough. But you'll have to make it up to me by telling me abso-fucking-lutely every last detail.”

“There's not really that much to tell . . .”

“I don't care. Make it up if you have to.”

So Christy ended up eating her comfort burger while telling Hally all about her one actual date (so far) with Roman, plus the prom rescue. Hally declared this tale couldn't be told over salad and ordered the chips and dip for them anyway. All in all, it proved to be a far better way to spend her evening than staying in, staying safe, or even making inroads on organizing the inventory.

And when her cell rang with her father's ringtone, Christy silenced it, deciding to pretend a little while longer that nothing more sinister haunted her world than the possibility of choosing the wrong outfit for the next evening's date.

T
he shrill ring of her room phone woke her from dreams of waltzing.

The phantom, ice-blue eyes intent behind the black mask, held her in his strong arms, spinning her around and around, giddiness spiraling with sensual need. She kept hoping he'd kiss her, bring her in tight against him, but he held her in that rigid balcony of an embrace, never quite close enough to kiss.

Blinking at the dark room, Christy wasn't sure what had yanked her out of the dream until the phone shrieked again.

“Gah—stop!” She fumbled around on the bedside table, the blinking orange light showing her where the phone she'd never once used sat. “ 'Lo?”

The receiver was upside down. She reversed it and tried again. “Hello?”

“Christy, dammit!” her father nearly roared. “Where the hell are you?”

She thumbed on her cell phone. 5 a.m. Oops, and still silenced—with a raft of missed calls and voice messages.

“Um—in my hotel room.” Obviously, since he'd called her there. “I was asleep. You do know it's two hours earlier here, right?”

“I don't give a shit what time it is there. Why the hell aren't you answering your cell?”

“Sorry—forgot I had it on silent.”

He didn't respond right away. A glass clinked and his breath sighed out. Calming himself. Possibly counting to ten.

“We had an agreement.” His reasonable tone. Always a red flag that Carlton Davis was incandescently pissed. “I gave you a job I did not agree with—at your insistence—on the grounds that you remained in contact. Your mother is frantic.”

As if he cared about her mother's emotional state.

“I apologize.” Christy clicked on the bedside lamp, to better focus on what he needed to hear from her. “It was irresponsible of me and it won't happen again.”

“Damn straight it won't. You're flying home today. There's a ticket waiting for you at the Santa Fe airport. Leave your car there and I'll arrange to have it transported.”

Shit
. She needed to play this very carefully. Any glimpse that she was being obstinate or emotional—or unstable—and she'd lose this match.

“Okay, Daddy. What time is my flight?”

He paused. “No arguing?”

“No—I understand that you're worried about me. Is this about the murder at the opera house?”

“Of course it's about the murder, Christy, dammit!”

In high school she used to tell her friends that she grew up thinking her name was Christydammit, like those cartoons with the dog thinking his name was Baddog. By the time she finished college, she'd stopped making the joke. It had stopped being funny.

“I apologize that I didn't call you, but the detectives were most insistent that we not speak to anyone about the investigation.”

“Well, it's my damn opera house, isn't it? They damn well spoke to me.”

It's my opera house. I know everything that goes on in it.
The memory of the phantom's velvet voice seemed so at odds with her father's Type A shouting.

“You're right. I should have thought of that. I still have so much to learn.”

“Yes, well . . .” He sounded pleased by that. Point for her. “Your flight is at ten, so you'd better hustle. I'll arrange for a driver to pick you up at JFK.”

“Ah. I won't have time to tell the opera-house staff in person then. That's kind of a relief—they'd all been saying I'd bail before the week was out.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“Oh, you know.” She waved a hand in the air, acting out the role. “The usual remarks about me being a spoiled little rich girl. They had a betting pool going that I wouldn't be able to take real work.”

“That's absurd. Who said that?”

Careful—don't get anyone in trouble. “Oh, everyone, really. It's too bad they'll think they were right and I ran at the first sign of trouble. I hope it doesn't reflect badly on you.”

“Hmm.” The clink again. Not a glass but a china coffee cup. Her father wasn't the type to use a ceramic mug or—God forbid—a paper cup from the coffee shop.

Christy held her breath, making herself stop there.
Don't lay it on too thick.

“What do the cops say? Are you in danger now? They seemed to think we could go on with the season.”

“Oh, yes. With the exception of where they found—” so weird to say it “—the body, we're open. Something about it being a dump site and not the murder scene. They expect to clear it soon.” The cops would have told her father that, but it was good to show him she was paying attention.

“A Davis never runs from hard work.”

“So you always say, Daddy.”

“Don't think I don't know you're playing me on this.”

Too thick. Dammit.
“I want to make you proud. I want to do a good job and I don't want to screw up my first opportunity and have people in the business saying Christine Davis is a daddy's girl who can't take any knocks.”

It was a risk, laying her cards on the table. It might push him over the edge. She waited, winding the phone cord around her finger. At last he chuckled, a bare breath of a laugh, and she relaxed.

“Look who's growing up. Fine. Stay there, if you're determined. But you be careful. Keep that cell phone
on
. And call your mother, would you? I don't need that harpy shrieking in my ear. You explain why I'm letting her precious baby daughter be bait for psychopaths.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Don't you just ‘yes, Daddy' me, either.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she answered around a smile. He harrumphed, but she knew it was to cover a laugh.

Only later did she realize he'd never mentioned the Sanclaros and asking them to look out for her.

 

She ended up leaving her mom a voice mail, seeing as it was the middle of the night in New Zealand. How her mom had even heard the news while doing her story on the rebuilding of Christchurch, Christy had no idea. Probably her mom hadn't called her dad at all and that had been just another guilt point. Her mom didn't enjoy talking to her ex-husband any more than he wanted to hear from her.

But Christy wasn't going to risk her probation on a technicality. She called as she said she would.

It gave her a little pang to hear her mom's voice, if only on the recorded outgoing message. They'd seen each other at Christy's graduation only a couple of weeks before, but things had been such a whirl, they'd barely spent time together. What would her mom make of all these happenings?

She wouldn't approve of her dating Roman, most likely. Christy snorted to herself, waiting at the light to turn onto St. Francis. She had never liked Domingo Sanclaro and often made pointed remarks about the kind of man who brought his son on all his business trips, but never his wife and daughter. She'd also thought Roman was spoiled and insufferable. Of course, she'd only met him when he was a teenager and not as the man he'd become, so she'd still see him that way.

No, she wouldn't approve at all.

Christy drove up the hill, the city street transforming into a divided highway. If she kept going, she'd end up in Taos, where a really great guy had invited her to be. Still, taking the exit at Tesuque and heading up Opera House Drive felt good—it meant she was doing her job.

The new security measures meant she'd be unlikely to encounter the phantom again, regardless. Man or ghost, he couldn't evade the cameras being installed on every level. Until then, Charlie mandated that no one be alone. Christy had gained an assistant for her inventory.

The hapless soul—a lanky teen from UNM apprenticing for the summer—lolled against her locked office door. He gave her a one-handed wave, the other buried in the drooping pocket of his baggy jeans.

“Hiya. I'm Matt. Your new slave. What do I do?”

“Aren't you Carla's apprentice?”

He shrugged and grinned, standing out of her way so she could unlock the door. “Was. The Valkyrie Bitch had to give me up so you'd have help—and a constant escort.”

“I wouldn't let her hear you call her that.” Christy bumped her shoulder on the stubborn door to get it to release, but it resisted.

“Allow me.” Matt slammed the heel of his hand on the door above her head. It flung open to show the tiny space. “Not much in here worth locking up.”

More like locking out, but never mind explaining that.

“So is Carla mad?”

He snorted. “How can you tell the difference? Near as I can see, she's always on the rampage.”

“Still—I bet working with her is a lot more interesting than what you'll be doing with me.”

“It's all good.” He grinned again, with an easy expression that lit up his somewhat homely face. “I get course credit no matter how I spend my days. Bonus for me if I don't get yelled at.”

“Okay, then.” She handed him the Big Notebook of Doom. “This is your new best friend. Let's get to work.”

The time passed more quickly with company. Matt turned out to be an organized soul, with a keen interest in the contents of every box he pried open. He suggested tagging each database entry with additional keywords, so they could cross-reference by opera and composer as well as item type and location. This was after she told him about her futile search for the magic flute—until Carla mentioned the all-Mozart storerooms.

He snickered at the story, sharing her indignation over such a terrible sorting system, until the thought hit him and he pointed at her in shock.

“Wait—whoa! You were down there that night? Where they found Tara's body?”

“Yeah.” She busied herself with typing in a description of a fake sword. “Creepy.”

“So . . . did you
see
anything?”

She shook her head, not looking at him. “Nope. Whatever went down, it happened after I found the flute and left.”

“Carla was really surprised you found it.”

“Really?” She looked up and found him buckling on a scabbard. “How do you know?”

“That morning, right before Danny came running in, all scared and pukey—not that I wouldn't have been scared and pukey, too—I got in before Carla did. So I saw it there on her desk and knew you must have found it. She'd been ranting about how the theater ghost always stole it and seemed to be enjoying that you were on a wild-goose chase. She'd already ordered another one, you know.”

“I didn't know.”

“Yeah. She's got it in for you. Dunno why.”

“So . . . she mentioned the theater ghost?”

“Oh, sure. They all do. Didn't they try to get you with him?” Matt wiggled spooky fingers in the air. “How he haunts the lower levels, searching for his lost love. They say that when the opera house is really quiet, you can hear him singing.”

“Have you heard him?”

“Nah.” But Matt wasn't grinning now. “You?”

“Maybe.” The word was dry in her mouth.

“Spooky.”

“It was.”

“Some of the guys—they think he's the one who did in poor ol' Tara.”

“How could a ghost do that?”

He shrugged and gave his attention to unbuckling the scabbard. “Who else could have done it?”

“Maybe that guy she was seeing—the one everyone thought she ran off with.”

“Could be. That was before I started working.” He handed her the scabbard and gave her a theatrical salute. “But don't worry, fair Christy, I shall guard you with my life!”

She couldn't help but wish he'd phrased it another way.