Running Hot (31 page)

“Irene Bontifort. But it’s safe to say that she was not the Siren who killed Eubanks.”

“What makes you so sure?” Luther asked.

“Bontifort was a star back in the late eighteen hundreds. She’s been dead for well over a century. In her time she was hugely famous. Right up there with Melba.”

Petra’s mug paused halfway to her mouth. “She was as famous as Melba toast?”

Grace laughed. “You could say that. Melba toast was actually named after another opera singer, Nellie Melba. So was the dessert peach Melba.”

“Well, dang,” Petra said. “Learn something new every day.”

“Irene Bontifort was an absolute sensation,” Grace continued. “She toured all the capitals of Europe.”

Luther looked at her. “Did this Irene Bontifort die of natural causes?”

“Not exactly,” Grace said. “She was one of J&J’s early cases. That’s why she caught my eye. According to the file, she was believed to have murdered at least one cover, another singer she thought had tried to upstage her.”

“What’s a cover?” Petra asked.

“An understudy,” Wayne said.

“Show-off,” Petra muttered.

“Covers are always ambitious, of course,” Grace said. “Naturally they want to be stars, too. Evidently Bontifort thought one particular up-and-comer was a serious threat. The other singer died under mysterious circumstances but the death was ruled to be from natural causes. There were a couple of other suspicious deaths among Bontifort’s circle of associates, too—a rival who was starting to gain fame, a critic and a lover.”

“Bontifort had a lover?” Petra asked.

“Several of them,” Grace said. “Divas are known for their big appetites, and we’re not just talking about food here.”

“Damn. I thought rock stars were the wild ones,” Petra said.

Wayne rolled his eyes.

Grace glanced at her notes again. “It was the death of one of Bontifort’s lovers that caught the attention of J&J. The victim was Lord Galsworthy, and he was a member of the Society. His death, like the others, was ruled to be of natural causes but his widow, Lady Galsworthy, asked J&J to look into the matter.”

“Did J&J find any proof that Bontifort killed Galsworthy?” Luther asked.

“According to the file, the agency was satisfied beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was guilty,” Grace said. “But they never came up with any hard proof that could be turned over to the police.”

Petra was intrigued. “How did J&J stop her?”

“They didn’t,” Grace said. “Someone shot her before they could deal with her.”

“Who whacked her?” Wayne asked, looking interested.

“Lady Galsworthy.” Grace checked her notes again. “After J&J informed her that they had psychic evidence against Bontifort but no proof that would be admissible in court, she decided to take matters into her own hands. One night she waited in the bushes outside Bontifort’s town house. When Bontifort got out of her carriage and started up her front steps, Lady Galsworthy emerged from the shrubbery and shot her twice at point-blank range. By all accounts of the incident, Bontifort was taken completely by surprise. She never had a chance to sing a single note.”

“What happened to Lady Galsworthy?” Luther asked. “Was she arrested?”

“No. She went to the town house dressed from head to toe in mourning, including a hat with a heavy black veil. No one at the scene knew who she was. There was so much commotion after the shooting that she was able to escape. No arrest was ever made, although there was a long list of suspects. In the end the newspapers claimed that she was murdered by one of her rivals. The police went with that.”

“What did J&J do?” Luther asked.

“The notes in the file are a little cryptic but it appears that J&J knew what had happened and took steps to ensure that Lady G.’s name did not appear on the suspect list.”

“How the hell did J&J figure Bontifort killed the lover?” Petra asked.

Grace smiled. “Get this. The agent who tracked her down was completely deaf from birth but he was exquisitely sensitive to the psychic residue left by violence. He could literally read a crime scene. He was one of J&J’s most effective agents.”

Luther stretched out his legs. “Did he ever confront Bontifort?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Toward the end of the investigation, she became suspicious of him and tried to kill him with her voice. He wrote in his notes that he could see that she was singing at him and he could sense some dangerous energy pressing against his senses but that was all.”

“So if you can’t hear the sound, the music can’t kill you,” Luther said. “That’s interesting. Maybe there was something to Odysseus’s approach to dealing with the mythological Sirens. Wasn’t he the one who had his sailors put beeswax in their ears?”

“Right.” Grace looked up from the notebook. “And that’s exactly what J&J concluded. The full force of a Siren’s talent only works if the victim can actually hear the music.”

“What was J&J planning to do with Bontifort if Lady G. hadn’t come through with her pistol?”

“It seems that the Bontifort case was not the first time J&J was obliged to deal with a killer who was a high-grade talent and who, for one reason or another, could not be handed over to the police. The firm had a very special agent they called in to deal discreetly with such problems.”

Luther raised his brows. “The Harry Sweetwater of his era?”

“How did you guess?” Grace said.

“Guess what?”

“The agent’s name was Orville Sweetwater, Harry’s many times great-grandfather.”

Petra grinned. “Small world, the Arcane Society. Go on, why are you interested in this Bontifort woman?”

“A couple of reasons,” Grace said. “First, she had a daughter by Lord Galsworthy. Which was probably why Lady Galsworthy got so pissed off, by the way, but that is not important now. Bontifort managed to keep her pregnancy and the birth a deep, dark secret, fearing that it would not be good for her public image. Even J&J didn’t know about the baby at the time.”

“What happened to the kid?” Petra asked, frowning.

“The infant wound up in an orphanage. When she became an adult she somehow discovered the truth about her parents. She blamed the Society for their deaths. She confronted the Master.” Grace checked her notes again. “That would have been Gabriel Jones. In essence, she told him that the Society owed her, big-time.”

“Probably didn’t get far with that tactic,” Petra said. “Can’t see a Jones paying blackmail.”

“As a matter of fact, Gabriel Jones thought she had a legitimate case. He told her that the organization had an obligation to take care of its own. He offered to register her with the Society. When she refused, he gave her a rather large sum of money. She took the cash and sailed for America.”

“Any indication that the daughter inherited her mother’s talent?” Luther asked.

Grace tapped her notebook. “She did not become an opera singer, but she did make her living singing in nightclubs and cabarets. She was very popular. The critics loved her, too.”

Petra raised her brows. “Did they describe her voice as ‘mesmerizing’?”

“As a matter of fact,” Grace said, “they did.”

“Any sign she used her talent for something other than singing?” Petra asked.

“It’s not clear. She had a number of lovers and eventually married an extremely wealthy industrialist in San Francisco. But six months into the marriage, the industrialist dropped dead, apparently of natural causes. The singer inherited his entire fortune, much to the irritation of his family.”

“I think we can assume he might have been given a strong shove into the grave,” Luther said. “Any kids?”

“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.