Saturday morning was deceptively sunny, the brisk wind having enough bite to be unpleasant. Carol had got up early, gone for a run with Olga, her neighbor’s German shepherd, and come back to breakfast and The Euthanasia Handbook. She had just finished it when a car horn indicated Justin had arrived. Carol had always hated the way he’d sit in his car and imperiously summon people with long blasts from the horn. Swearing to herself, she put down the book and strode outside. David and Aunt Sarah had arrived at almost the same time, David leaping out of his father’s Mercedes, Aunt Sarah scrambling from a taxi.
As Carol saw her son, she was filled with an intensity of love that was almost terrifying. Away from him, thinking of him, made her gentle with affection, but when she actually saw David, she was always aware that she had no control over her feelings, and that she could-and would-sacrifice anything for him.
She hugged him and Aunt Sarah, gave the requisite wishes for a good trip to Justin and Eleanor, who were running late and so did not linger, and took her son and aunt inside out of the wind. David immediately went out onto the huge back deck to annoy Sinker and Jeffrey, who had found the only sunny sheltered spots available and were snoozing.
“Where’s Sybil?” asked Aunt Sarah, taking off a red cardigan to reveal a blindingly bright purple top.
Carol felt her throat tighten. She said unemotionally, “She moved back to her house. I would have called you, but I thought it was better to tell you in person.”
Aunt Sarah, short, plump and formidably energetic, snatched up the two fat bags she had insisted on carrying into the house. “Right, Carol. I’ll put these in my room while you make me a cup of tea-you’ve neglected to offer it, I might mention-and you can tell me all about it.”
Carol watched her aunt stride down the hall, her short white hair standing on end from the wind. With her tanned, wrinkled face and its mobile expressions, she was a beloved if sometimes exasperating person who had more affectionate power over Carol than she cared to permit to anyone else.
Carol had just finished pouring the mugs of tea when her aunt reappeared. “Before David comes in from teasing the cats-he shouldn’t be allowed to do that-you’d better tell me all about it.” She glared. “Don’t sigh, Carol. Just talk.”
Feeling uncertain how to broach the subject, Carol said, “Aunt, I’ve never spelled it out, but Sybil and I…”
“Are lovers. Or is it were lovers?”
She winced. “Are, I think. I’m not sure.”
Her aunt stirred sugar into her tea as though punishing the beverage. “Not like you to be unsure. If there’s one thing you are, my dear, it’s definite.”
She realized what an enormous relief it was to share this part of herself with someone she trusted, whose love was secure. “Sybil says we’ve grown apart. That I won’t keep up with her, won’t try. She wants me to change-and I can’t.” She could hear the echo of resentment in her voice.
Aunt Sarah marched over to the sliding door. “David, cats don’t want to play when they’re trying to sleep. That’s teasing. Don’t let me see you do it again.” Back at the kitchen bench, she said, “Is there someone else?”
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
“Your work has a lot to do with it,” said Aunt Sarah shrewdly.
Carol told her about the wedding invitation. “It only precipitated it, of course. Sybil won’t accept that I have to stay in the closet. It isn’t a matter of choice. If I want to do my job well, that’s just one of the ground rules.”
“Where’s Sybil?” asked David, coming into the room with a blast of cold air.
Carol felt herself softening as she looked at him. He had her fair hair and green eyes, but his father’s sturdy build. “She’s staying down at her house at the beach. When I spoke to her this morning she asked you and Aunt Sarah to go down for lunch. I have to go in to work, but I’ll drive you down and pick you up later this afternoon.”
“Can I go swimming?”
“Of course not,” said Aunt Sarah. “It’s far too cold. But we can try fishing, if you like. Have you got a line for me?” As David went off to find the fishing tackle he always left at Carol’s place, she said, “Carol, don’t take this so seriously. I left your uncle at least three times.”
“You’re making that up.”
Aunt Sarah frowned. “Are you calling your closest relative a liar?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” said Carol, grinning.
Sybil looked relaxed in a black track suit that emphasized the red of her hair. She welcomed David and Aunt Sarah with warmth, Carol with more restraint.
“I’ve told Aunt Sarah the situation.”
Sybil said with certainty, “She won’t take sides, Carol.”
Carol was immediately indignant. “I wouldn’t ask her to.”
Driving into the city, she wondered if that was true. What would she feel if her aunt said to her that Sybil was right, and that Carol must change? Thought was unprofitable-she felt baffled and angry. She walked into her office with a feeling of relief that she could slip into the role she played best.
Mark Bourke had just come into her office when the phone rang to announce that Kenneth Raeburn was waiting to see her.
He entered full of soft smiles. “Inspector Ashton, I do appreciate you seeing me.”
Introducing him to Bourke, she was again reminded of an aggressive bantam rooster. Bourke was much taller and more substantial, so Raeburn swelled his chest, stood almost on tiptoes, shook hands emphatically, then stepped away so that the height difference was not so obvious. “You’d like me to sit here, Inspector?”
Carol waited until both men were seated, then said, “I interviewed Alanna Brooks last night.”
“A very fine soprano. Collis thought the world of her.”
“She says she believes you were trying to persuade her to say that the book on euthanasia in the hotel room actually belongs to her. That it wasn’t your son’s at all.”
He was dressed in a dark blue suit and red tie. He picked an imaginary speck from the lapel as he said, “Alanna, of course, is mistaken. I didn’t try to persuade her of anything at all. We did, however, mention the handbook.”
“You saw her just before the performance of Aïda.”
“Yes?” His tone was polite.
“It was opening night, so hardly the time for an informal chat. Why did you want to see her?”
His soft voice became hostile. “I can’t imagine what this has to do with your investigation, but if you must know, I wanted her to tell me how Collis was when she last saw him.”
Carol glanced at Bourke, who said, “It’s almost a week since your son died, yet this is the first time you speak to Alanna Brooks?”
“Well, no. She rang me to offer her condolences earlier, but I felt I needed to see her face-to-face.”
Bourke was unimpressed. “It wasn’t a very convenient time, just before a major performance.”
Raeburn reddened. “My son is dead! Whether it’s convenient or inconvenient is of no interest to me.”
It was Carol’s turn. “Were Collis and Alanna Brooks lovers?”
“Years ago, when they were starting out-yes. But never after that. Besides, Collis was interested in Corinne Jawalski.” Anticipating the next question, he said so softly that Carol had to listen intently, “I don’t know if they were lovers. You’ll have to ask Corinne.”
“Ms Brooks says that you favored Corinne as a singing partner for your son.”
“This is of no importance now, but I was looking to the future. I believe Corinne will reach the very top.”
Bourke opened a folder. “Edward Livingston told us Alanna Brooks was a bankable star who could be guaranteed to pull the fans. Considering the financial state of your family company, wouldn’t it be wiser to stay with the tried and true?”
Raeburn seemed to be expanding with arrogant anger. His neck bulged over his tight white collar. “What have you got there? What have you been prying into?”
Bourke passed him the papers without a word.
Raeburn leafed through them, then said, “All right. There’s a temporary cash flow problem. Nothing to worry about, as it’s only short-term.”
Pursing his lips, Bourke said, “Your son know about it? Could have preyed on his mind if he did…”
“He wasn’t interested in the financial side of things. Left everything to me. As I said, it was a short-term problem anyway.”
“I’ve had an accountant look these papers over,” said Bourke cheerfully. “Says you were up the creek without a paddle…”
Madeline called as Carol and Bourke were reviewing the case. “Carol, could you drop in on your way home? Something’s happened you should know.”
“Can you tell me on the telephone?”
“No, I can’t. I’ll be here all afternoon, so call by any time.”
“Madeline Shipley,” said Carol in explanation as she replaced the receiver. “I’ll call you if she’s got anything important.”
“We’ve still got nothing on the photo, but it’s Saturday night when the boys come out to play, so I’ve got a couple of men checking the bars in Oxford Street.” He grinned. “Not being sexist, Carol, but this is a man’s job.”
Carol leaned her chin on her hands. “Okay, let’s get this over and done with, and we can both go home.”
He passed her a neatly ruled sheet. “Time of death is so vague that it seems almost any of his nearest and dearest could have helped him on his way, not to mention his enemies.” They went down the list together, stopping to discuss each one.
Kenneth and Nicole Raeburn had agreed that they were both at home most of Saturday and Sunday. “They’d alibi each other, anyway,” said Bourke, “so that means very little.”
“Motives?”
“Kenneth Raeburn’s in real financial trouble, and rumors persist that his son was about to dump him, audit the company and then bring in a professional manager. A verdict of accidental death will get him Collis’s eight hundred thousand insurance, the embarrassment of HIV hushed up and the company assets to play with.” He made a face. “As for his sister, strikes me she’s nuts about her brother, in more ways than one. Still, the way he died seems too disciplined for her-she’s the sort who’d lose her marbles, shove him off a building and then say, Ooops, he slipped…”
Corinne Jawalski had claimed to be at the Town Hall in the audience for Elijah, although, as Anne Newsome had pointed out, she had plenty of time to go to Collis Raeburn’s room and then return before the end of the oratorio.
“How about bitter pique for a motive?” said Bourke. “She thinks she’s got head diva sewn up, then he reneges and says he’s staying with Alanna and it’s just too bad for her.”
“Doesn’t seem enough motive for a murder.”
“How about,” said Bourke grimly, “he infected her with AIDS? Wouldn’t that be a reason to kill him?”
Graeme Welton was working alone all weekend on final touches to Dingo and had ignored phone calls, so he had no alibi. Bourke was jocular. “Welton’s a friend of Nicole’s, though God knows what’s in it for him. Maybe he killed her brother on her behalf to save daddy’s bacon, as well as to punish Collis for saying his new opera was going to go belly up.”
His smile faded when Carol said, “He had a sexual relationship with Raeburn, and we don’t know what his HIV status is…”
On Saturday night Edward Livingston had been at the Opera House gladhanding a group of society matrons who formed the influential fund-raising committee of a national charity. The cocktail party had ended with a harpsichord recital starting at eight in the tiny Playhouse Theater. “Livingston would have had no probs,” said Bourke. “He could have slipped out, walked to the hotel, dealt with Raeburn, then been back in time to smile at the ladies as they trotted off into the night.”
“And he might want Collis dead because he was about to lose him. Even if Livingston held him to his contract, there’d be a debilitating legal battle, expensive and embarrassing.”
Both Alanna Brooks and Lloyd Clancy had been guests at a function honoring an ancient but still prolific artist at the Museum of Modern Art at the Rocks, which was very close to Raeburn’s hotel. “Pat was there, too,” said Bourke, “and she remembers speaking to both of them at different times, but she’s vague about when. People came and went from seven-thirty on, and it was very crowded. Didn’t end until well after eleven, and I’m still chasing up a guest list to see if I can get anything more concrete.”
“All right, Mark-Alanna Brooks kills him because she’s about to be supplanted as prima donna… and maybe there’s a love triangle there too, with either Corinne Jawalski or Graeme Welton at the other point.”
Bourke yawned. “Sorry Carol, had a late night-we went through the wedding rehearsal a hundred times, it seems. Now, who’s left? Lloyd Clancy and Mr. X.” He yawned again. “Clancy has a motive because Raeburn’s career was eclipsing his. Something like that wouldn’t worry me, but then, I’m not an opera singer.”
“A mercy,” said Carol.
“Cheer up,” said Bourke, “if none of these motives attract you, there’s always Mr. X-the guy Raeburn told his singing teacher he’d get even with. Maybe Mr. X got in first.”
Carol frowned. “Doesn’t have to be a Mr. X who infected him,” she said. “Could be a woman.”
Madeline, wearing a russet shirt, tight white jeans and an incandescent smile, opened the door. Carol said, “I’ve got to pick up David and my Aunt Sarah from Sybil’s house, so I can only stay a few moments.”
She had deliberately dropped the clue, and Madeline immediately picked it up. “At Sybil’s house? Has she left you, Carol? Or did you throw her out?” Then, immediately contrite, “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why did you want to see me?”
Madeline seemed chilled by Carol’s tone. “Are you coming inside? Please…”
Carol followed her down the short hall to a charmingly furnished sitting room with plate glass windows opening onto a landscaped garden. Stingingly conscious of Madeline’s physical presence and of her heavy musk perfume, torn by fresh anguish over Sybil, Carol gazed resolutely at the greenery tossed by the wind.
“Amos Derringer’s disappeared.”
Carol looked at her. “Something’s happened to him?”
“No. He’s gone to ground. I think he’s been paid off to keep him quiet.”
“Any ideas?”
Madeline’s heavy copper hair shone as she shook her head. “Thought your people’d be able to turn up something. I suspect it might be the father trying to hush things up, but then again, Collis could have been moving with some pretty heavy characters we know nothing about.” She took a leather folder from a side table. “These are statements, notes, the report from a private detective we had check Berringer out-everything we collected.” She gave a small smile. “I’m cooperating with the police, Carol. Won’t you cooperate with me?”
“In what way?”
“Have you and Sybil separated?”
Carol stood. “This isn’t a topic for discussion.”
“It’s important to me.”
“Why?”
“You know why, Carol.”
Checking her watch, Carol said, “I have to go.” Madeline laughed as though she’d won a victory. “Go,” she said.
When Carol, David and Aunt Sarah came back from Sybil’s, darkness was falling. While Aunt Sarah organized David into a bath before dinner, Carol listened to the one message on the answering machine.
The same whispered voice as before admonished her: You haven’t been paying attention, Carol Ashton. It was an accidental overdose. Why not just say that or do you want everyone to know what you and Sybil Quade do in bed? Collis Raeburn’s death was an accident. Make sure your report says that.
Sounds of enthusiastic splashing from the bathroom preceded Aunt Sarah, who came hurrying back into the kitchen area. “Who was that?”
Her aunt always moved with unsettling energy, towing less enthusiastic people along in her wake. She also had a tenacity that made prevarication pointless. Carol was horrified to hear a shake in her voice as she said, “It’s just a rather well-mannered anonymous call trying to persuade me that Collis Raeburn accidentally killed himself.”
Aunt Sarah squeezed her hand in unspoken comfort, obviously realizing that Carol was struggling for control. She said prosaically, “Why well-mannered?”
It helped to be objective. “Anonymity often encourages people to swear, describe in graphic detail violence or sex… this one’s polite to an extraordinary extent, considering that he, or she, is threatening me.”
Aunt Sarah looked alarmed. “Threatening you with what? Physical harm?”
It was hard to say the words. “Just exposure as a lesbian, Aunt. Just that.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Wait,” said Carol with bitter resignation. “There isn’t anything else I can do. It may come to nothing. If not… I’ll worry about that if it happens.”
If it happens? What about my career? And Sybil-have I sacrificed our relationship for an illusion of safety?
Aunt Sarah swooped on the electric kettle. “Tea, Carol. You’ve got to stop drinking coffee-I’ve told you what it does to you, so why do you persist?”
“I’m incorrigible?”
Abruptly serious, Aunt Sarah put her hand on Carol’s arm. “Carol, I love you. I want you to remember you can talk to me about anything. You know that, don’t you?”
Resigned, Carol said, “Has being with Sybil brought this on?”
“No, although she did talk to me about you.”
“Oh, great!”
Aunt Sarah pursed her lips. “You don’t really communicate, Carol, that’s the problem. How does anyone know what you’re thinking and feeling behind that cool exterior of yours?”
“You don’t seem to have any trouble.”
Aunt Sarah grinned at the resentment in Carol’s voice. “I’ve known you since you were a baby, that’s why,” she said with a hint of complacency. “You’ve always been as transparent as glass to me.”
She handed Carol a mug of tea. “And don’t ask for sugar. It isn’t good for you.”
“I don’t take sugar.”
“Good thing, too.”
Carol ran her finger around the rim of the mug. “Aunt Sarah, what do I tell David?”
Her aunt didn’t dissemble. “Tell him the truth.”
Carol sighed. “Justin’s pressuring me. Says David has to know about me and Sybil, about what I am.”
Showing both impatience and concern, Aunt Sarah said, “What you are, my dear, is very important to him. You’re his mother and his friend and he trusts and loves you. Tell him what he needs to know-no more and no less.”
“How much is that?”
Aunt Sarah threw up her hands. “I don’t know. How can there be a hard and fast rule? You’ll have to play it by ear, Carol. There isn’t any other way.”
Sipping her tea, Carol thought, Do I really need to say anything, now that Sybil’s gone? She was immediately ashamed. Coward, she accused.