They had hardly spoken the night before, so when Carol came in from her usual morning run. through the quiet streets and the bushland skirting the calm water of Middle Harbour, she was determined to be affectionate and open.
Sybil, in jeans and a blue T-shirt, was leaning against the kitchen bench sipping a cup of tea. Carol sat down to unlace her running shoes. “Darling, I’m sorry I was late last night…”
Putting her cup down carefully, Sybil said, “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Her tone made Carol stop and look up. “Is it important?”
Sybil’s face was remote, contained. “I think I mentioned the tenants in my house aren’t renewing their lease. They left at the end of last week.”
Carol thought she knew what was coming. She stared at ginger Jeffrey, Sybil’s cat, who lay at her feet playing with one of her shoelaces. “You’re thinking of moving back there?”
“Just for a while. Until we can sort things out.”
Jeffrey was galvanized into evasive action as Carol abruptly stood up. Even Sinker, who had been sitting in a neat package under the chair, was prompted to move by Carol’s raised voice. “You’re going because of what I said over the invitation to Mark’s wedding? I don’t believe it!”
Sybil flushed with a corresponding anger. “Carol, of course it isn’t just that. It’s everything.”
A feeling of baffled rage swept over Carol, but she kept her voice even. “Why do you always pick breakfast to bring these things up? Is it because you know I have to go to work?”
Sybil’s reply was stinging. “It’s because,” she said, “it’s the only bloody time you’re not too tired or too preoccupied. And even then…” She broke off with a gesture of frustration. “This is pointless.”
“Darling…”
“Let’s talk about this later.”
“You brought up the subject,” Carol protested.
Sybil gave her a weary smile. “Yes, I did, didn’t I? Stupid, really, since I always know what the outcome will be.”
Ordinarily, Carol would have mentioned to Mark Bourke that she’d received his wedding invitation, but the subject was off-limits this morning. She frowned at him when he came jauntily into her office. “Yes?”
He raised his eyebrows at her tone. “Saw Raeburn’s doctor this morning, but if you’d like to see me later…”
At his mild rebuke she felt an irritated guilt. “Now would be fine.”
“First, I checked that the drugs Raeburn took in the hotel room were prescribed by his doctor-and they were, so there’s nothing suspicious there.” He referred to his notes. “Now, about the HIV. Raeburn wasn’t a blood donor, so I presume he wouldn’t have had any tests at all until the first signs of sickness turned up, except that his father was insisting that Collis take out a much heftier life insurance policy than the one he had.”
“Beneficiaries if he died?”
“The family company would get the lot. Of course, once the HIV result came in, there was no way the insurance company was upping the payout to the requested million and a half, so Raeburn’s life was insured for the original eight hundred thousand when he died. And you can see why his family want it to be an accidental death, because the existing policy has the usual clause voiding the contract in the case of suicide.”
Carol played with her gold pen, a present from Sybil. “Raeburn didn’t try to avoid the blood test?”
“Nope. The insurance company wanted a physical, including a blood test, before they’d increase the policy, so Raeburn went to his own doctor, apparently without the slightest idea there was any problem. His doctor says that he, himself, was astounded when the blood test indicated that Raeburn was HIV-positive. When he told him, Raeburn insisted on a second blood test. That showed the same result.”
“Any idea how long he’d been carrying the virus?”
Bourke looked as though he’d eaten something bitter. “As far as I know, Raeburn wasn’t showing any physical signs, but it varies so much from person to person. Could have been months, years even.”
Carol began to doodle arrows on a scratch pad. “How’d he take it? Depression? Anger?”
“The doctor says he was reasonably calm. He listened to all the medical stuff, took the name of an AIDS counselor-who, incidentally, he never contacted-told his doctor he’d beat the virus and he was convinced a cure was around the corner, and went off into the sunset. His doctor never saw him again.”
“He may have gone to an AIDS clinic where he’d have specialist medical help.”
Bourke ran his hand over his hair. “Can you imagine,” he said, “what it’d be like to walk in, thinking everything was okay, and be told you had a death sentence?”
Carol wondered what she would do. “It’d be rough, and all the worse when you had to tell friends or lovers that you might have infected them.”
Sounding almost angry, Bourke said, “You say he told Martha Brownlye, but as far as I can see, that’s it. Either he didn’t warn anyone, or they’re keeping quiet about it. The doctor told Raeburn he must warn any sexual partners, whether he practiced safe sex with them or not… it’s not always that safe.”
“There were no needle marks on the body, but he may have used intravenous drugs in the past.”
Bourke’s usually mild voice was harsh. “He was told to contact anyone he’d shared needles with, if he ever had.”
Puzzled by the suppressed anger in Bourke’s voice, Carol said, “Mark, there’s something here I don’t understand. Have you got a problem with this?”
“Sort of.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t want this to go any further.” He looked up at her murmur of protest. “I’m sorry, Carol. It’s just that it’s a little close to home. Pat’s younger brother, actually…” He rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. “The first he knew is when he got sick, really sick. He’s progressed to early-stage AIDS and his immune system’s stuffed. Tony had pneumonia a few weeks ago, although he seems okay at the moment.”
“Oh, Mark…”
“He’s really still just a kid-he’s in his early twenties.” He added bitterly, “It was an older man, married. He told Tony everything was okay, that he was clean, that it was quite safe. After all, the guy said to Tony, I’m not gay, just looking for something a little different…” He shook his head. “The bastard’s probably infected his wife too.”
“He might not have known.”
Bourke’s face was flushed with anger. “That’s an excuse, is it? Tony’s going to die, Carol, unless some miracle occurs. He won’t ever see thirty. And it’s all because someone just like Collis Raeburn was too selfish or too stupid to take precautions.”
Carol wanted to cool his uncustomary anger. This new Mark Bourke had the uncomfortable shock of the unfamiliar. “Can we get back to Raeburn?”
“Sure.” He gave her a fleeting smile. “Sorry-got a bit carried away there.”
“Not at all, Mark. Did Raeburn discuss with his doctor how he caught the virus?”
“Not a word. He listened to the medical advice, refused to answer any personal questions, established the protocol about confidentiality, and left.”
“We could try some of the AIDS clinics.”
“We could, but they have an absolute ban on providing any information that could identify an HIV patient.”
“See what you can dig up, Mark.”
He unfolded himself from the chair. “Okay. But you know no one’s going to want to talk. To lots of people HIV and AIDS are words that are the ultimate obscenities.”
“What’s more obscene,” said Carol, “is that there may be people he slept with who are infected, and don’t know it.”
Carol noticed that Anne Newsome seemed to be treating her with unusual deference. As their car was waved through the gate at the Sydney Opera House, she glanced over at the young constable. Her short curly hair and olive skin shone with health and suppressed energy. Carol said mildly, “Perhaps I’m wrong, but you seem to be treating me with rather elaborate courtesy.”
Anne didn’t bother to dissemble. Grinning, she said, “Thought you’d bite my head off if I didn’t.”
“That bad, eh?”
An anxiously obsequious official was waiting for them under the illuminated STAGE DOOR sign. This inappropriate appellation marked the cavernous entrance to the Opera House basement that was barred by a boom gate and flanked by a glass-walled room with uniformed security officers and an elaborate console of lights indicating the status of all areas of the building.
“Inspector Ashton! I’m Douglas Binns. We spoke on the phone? Afraid there’s a minor problem. Lloyd Clancy and Alanna Brooks are still in rehearsal. I know you made firm appointments, and both of them should be free soon, but… ah…” He trailed off into a glum silence.
He was neat, nondescript and eager to please. When Carol said, “Is Corinne Jawalski available?” he brightened immediately.
“Indeed, yes. I left her in the Green Room, actually, a few minutes ago. She isn’t due for rehearsal for some time, so if you’d follow me…”
The Stage Door entry was the beginning of a huge square tunnel that bisected the building from south to north and was large enough to accommodate trucks and machinery. At the far end Carol could see the scintillating light reflected off the water of Sydney Harbour. Binns led them past forklifts, stage flats, anonymous piles of equipment, then plunged into a network of stairs and passages.
Over his shoulder he said, “I’ve been in touch with Edward Livingston’s secretary since I last spoke with you, Inspector. I’m afraid Mr. Livingston can’t make time to see you for a few days, at least.”
He paused, seemingly embarrassed by his inability to deliver on schedule, but brightened as they entered a large rectangular room. Only a few people occupied an area that obviously could accommodate hundreds. At one end was a serving area with what looked like standard cafeteria food, at the other a wide window framed an arresting view of the harbor. Between these extremes of utility and beauty sat rows of tables and chairs like any communal eating space, and then, nearing the dazzling water, a lounge area and bar.
Smiling with obvious pride, he said, “The famous Green Room. You might be interested, Inspector, to know that seven hundred performers and staff eat here every day.”
Carol repressed a smile. “Indeed?” she said.
He waved a proprietary hand. “And these monitors show each theater, so one can sit here and see one’s cue on stage.” He paused, apparently expecting some positive reaction from his audience.
Half-smiling, Carol looked at Anne Newsome, who obediently responded, “That’s very interesting.”
This seemed to be sufficient. He swept them towards a red lounge near the glare of the window where a slight figure in a plain white dress sat desultorily flipping the pages of a magazine. “Corinne?”
She looked up, sulky and unsmiling. “Yeah?”
“This is Detective Inspector Carol Ashton and Constable Newsome.“ When she didn’t respond, he went on, “Corinne Jawalski, one of our brightest young stars.”
She came to her feet with one easy movement. Carol had the thought that she was one of those people who, although not beautiful, act as though they are. “You want to speak to me about Collis.” Her voice had been assured until she said his name. She blinked quickly, obviously attempting to regain control.
A year before, Corinne Jawalski had had the good fortune to step into a major role at short notice when a flamboyant imported soprano had fallen suddenly ill. The fledgling diva was already known to the general public because she had won a television talent quest and had then gone on to be featured in a series of advertisements devoted to the Tourist Board’s drive to depict Australia as a cultural identity rather than just a collection of scenic items. Unfazed by the searchlight of publicity, Corinne had sung Gilda in Rigoletto to spectacular effect, and her operatic career had moved into high gear.
At Carol’s elbow, Binns was looking anxious. “Inspector, would you like me to find somewhere private…”
Carol glanced around the almost deserted Green Room. “It’s only a few preliminary questions. Here will be fine, if it’s all right with Ms Jawalski.”
“Then I’ll check on the rehearsal. I’m sure they’ll be free soon. Be back shortly.”
As he hurried away, Corinne gestured to an adjoining red couch. Any grief for Collis Raeburn she might have felt was hidden as she said crisply, “Might as well make yourself comfortable, Inspector. I’ve got a few things to say.”
Dryly amused that her interrogation seemed to be in the process of being hijacked, Carol nodded to Anne to take her place, then obediently sat down. “Please go on.”
Head tilted to one side, the young woman surveyed her. At last she said, “Is this really an investigation, or is it just going through the motions?”
“Meaning?”
Her voice had grown harsh. “Do I have to spell it out? Hush up the scandal and accentuate the tragedy. That sort of thing.”
Carol gave her a brief ironic smile. “This is really an investigation. Now, what would you like to say?”
Corinne Jawalski pursed her lips. She had a plain, yet elegant face, heavy coils of rich brown hair and an aura of cool authority that was almost incongruous in one so young. “Next season, I was to be Collis’s new partner. He was going to tell Edward Livingston that he didn’t want Alanna singing with him anymore, at least in the roles that really need someone my age.” She smoothed the skirt of her white dress. “Quite apart from the fact she was older than Collis, it looks ludicrous, don’t you think, to have a middle-aged woman singing in Romeo and Juliet?”
Noting the thread of malice under the conversational tone, Carol wondered if she had been jealous of the other soprano. “They’ve been singing together for some time?”
“I suppose so.”
Carol probed a little more. “They were friends?”
Corinne flushed slightly. “What has this got to do with anything?”
Carol said mildly, “I was wondering how he told her about this new arrangement.”
She shrugged. “I’ve no idea if Alanna knew. Frankly, I don’t know if he told anyone else, but that’s what he was going to do. I mean, these things happen, don’t they? Things change.”
Carol said pleasantly, “Forgive me-I don’t understand the ins and outs of your profession, but I would have thought decisions about casting would not be left to the singers…”
Corinne’s tone was equally agreeable. “In most cases, of course not. But Collis could ask for anything… and he got it. It’s one of the perks of fame, Inspector Ashton.”
“Why was he thinking of replacing Alanna Brooks with you?”
The question elicited a complacent smile. “I don’t like to sound immodest, but Collis believed we would make a better team. I mean, Alanna’s had a great career, and she’s not that old for a singer, but…”
“She’s past it?” said Anne.
The young singer swung her attention to the constable. “Brutal,” she said with a faint curve to her lips, “but pretty accurate. Alanna had it to begin with-there’s no doubt of that-but her high notes are getting hard, the bloom’s off her voice. She should have years of singing left, but…” She added with unconvincing regret, “Faulty technique, probably.”
Such casual cruelty. Carol said, “When did you last speak with Collis Raeburn?”
The question jolted the young woman. Her expression of private triumph melted into misery. She dropped her head, saying almost inaudibly, “That evening.”
“He called you from his hotel?”
“Collis didn’t say where he was, but it must have been from the hotel. It was about seven and I was on my way out when my flatmate took the call. Beth called me back, but I was in a hurry, so we only had a short conversation.”
“Why was he calling?”
“Why was he calling,” Corinne repeated.
Repeating the question gives you time to think. What is it you need to think about? Carol looked over at Anne, and was pleased to see that she was watching Corinne Jawalski intently.
The young soprano put her hand to her mouth, then said with an attempt at nonchalance, “Nothing important. Just some stuff about Graeme Welton’s latest little epic.”
“Dingo? Were you to sing in it?”
“I wasn’t tied to it legally, if that’s what you mean. Poor Collis was packing death at the thought of the whole thing. Didn’t want to be involved, and couldn’t see how he could get out of it.”
“Did Mr. Raeburn sound depressed?”
“Well, he wasn’t very happy. I got the feeling Alanna was giving him a hard time.”
“Because you were to replace her?”
The singer gave an offhand gesture. “Don’t know. Could’ve been anything. Alanna’s always taken the role of temperamental prima donna as far as she can to give her an excuse to bitch about anything and everything.”
Carol looked up to see Binns approaching. She got to her feet. “Ms Jawalski, I’d appreciate it if you give Constable Newsome full details of the conversation-anything you can remember verbatim would be a help.”
Binns was beaming. “Lloyd Clancy’s in his dressing room right now. Can I take you down?”
Confident the young constable could complete the interview efficiently, Carol said to Corinne, “Please excuse me. Constable Newsome will have a few more questions for you and will make arrangements for a statement.”
Plainly irked to find Carol leaving her midway through the interview, she said tartly, “There’s a lot more you should know, Inspector.”
“I’m sure we’ll speak again.”
Carol followed Binns as he plunged into a low-roofed wide corridor. Brightly lit, filled with the muffled hum of air-conditioning and carpeted with gray-brown carpet chosen to blend in with the widest range of stains, it seemed identical to all other corridors she had seen in the Opera House. “Do you ever get lost?”
He was delighted with her question. “No, but I can see how you might think that. It’s the white birch ply.” At her raised eyebrows, he elaborated, “This blond wood you see everywhere. It’s in all the passageways, the rooms. Native wood of New South Wales, white birch. Makes everything look the same.”
As they came to a halt outside a pale door labeled Mr. Clancy, Binns pointed to a row of huge wicker containers that filled half the corridor. “They’re called skips. It’s traditional to transport all the costumes and props in them.”
The door opened to his diffident knock. Carol had seen Lloyd Clancy in photographs and on television, but she wasn’t prepared for the full weight of his engaging personality. Rather heavily built and with an imposingly hooked nose, deeply set dark eyes and a rougish smile, he radiated a cheeky informality. He was wearing ancient jeans and a navy blue shirt. “Come in, Inspector Ashton,” he said with an elaborate sweeping gesture. “I find it very reassuring that you’re on the case.”
“Indeed?”
“Absolutely indeed!” He was chuckling at her skeptical tone as he ushered her down a tiny hallway with a cramped bathroom on one side and a walk-in wardrobe on the other. The dressing room itself was quite small, one side of it taken up with makeup mirrors ringed with lights. Set into another wall was a control panel from which music and singing whispered. “The rehearsal,” he said, as she glanced at it. “I’m due back for the next act, so I’ll know when I have to be there.” Seating her on a rather battered lounge, he said to Binns, “Douglas, coffee would be wonderful. Could you?”
The dressing room had the ubiquitous gray-brown carpet and pale cream woodwork and walls. The window was a long oblong laid on its side through which an expanse of water danced in the sunlight. Seeing her watching a catamaran ferry swishing past, he said, “Lovely view, isn’t it? Unfortunately, I hardly have time to appreciate it, and besides, one can become accustomed to too much beauty, don’t you agree?”
“Perhaps, although the harbor’s changing all the time.”
The amusement disappeared from his face. His voice was washed of laughter as he said, “Yes, everything changes. You want to see me about Collis.” He’d taken one of the three-wheeled swivel-backed chairs from the makeup mirror, swung it around so the back faced him, and had straddled it. Now he sat, hands folded along the top of the backrest, watching her closely.
“Let’s start with how he was the last time you saw or spoke with him.”
Clancy’s initial levity had vanished. He said pensively, “I can’t believe we’re sitting here discussing Collis’s death. It’s such a pity…”
“When did you see him?” Carol prompted.
“Would have been about midafternoon on that final day. He was here, in this dressing room. Wanted to check something about next month’s schedule. Seemed preoccupied, but not depressed. Of course, you couldn’t always tell with Collis. He was an intensely private man.”
“Did you get on well?”
This question earned a rueful smile. “To be honest, not particularly.” He seemed to make an effort to be jocular. “I mean, it’s no secret we were rivals. Tenors often are.” He added disarmingly, “In opera we have all these noble, heroic parts, you see. And all this drama spills over into our lives.”
What are you really feeling? Are you happy that your challenger has gone? She said lightly, “So the stereotyped perception of the opera world is correct? It is seething with professional jealousy?”
He tried to match her tone. “Positively boiling.”
“And Collis Raeburn? Where was he in all of this?”
Clancy’s smile disappeared. “He was heading for the very top. Superstardom, internationally. It wasn’t just the voice, plenty of singers have that. What made Collis different was his drive, his determination, his eye for the main chance. Oh, and a theatrical sense. His PR person didn’t hinder him, either.”
“Who is that?”
“Anita Burgess. You’d have heard of her.”
Carol had. Ex-wife of a prominent politician, she had used every contact he had made in public life to establish her public relations consultancy as one of the most successful small agencies in Australia.
Clancy went on, “And success like Collis’s made a lot of people very envious. Some wanted to pull him down, some wanted to hitch a ride on his coattails…”
“What did you want to do?” asked Carol blandly.
He gave her a mocking look. “Why, Inspector, surely you realize I’m a success in my own right?” He added, “You might like to think of us as twin rockets, our careers ascending to the skies.”
“Is that how you saw it?”
“I envied Raeburn’s success,” he said soberly. “It was unfortunate that my career coincided with his, because it seemed inevitable that he would overshadow me. But that’s all it was-envy. I didn’t wish him harm, and on a professional level we got along perfectly well. I can say quite sincerely that I regret his death deeply, because he had a magnificent voice, and he’d hardly begun, in operatic terms, to realize his potential.”
“You mention a professional level. How about a personal level?”
A cynical smile. “Hated his guts,” said Lloyd Clancy.
Douglas Binns was apologetic. “Alanna Brooks has come down with a severe migraine headache. She’s in her dressing room, but I don’t know if she can give you an interview.”
The prima donna’s dressing room was the twin of Lloyd Clancy’s, but the curtains had been drawn to shut out the light and the beauty of the harbor. Alanna Brooks’s full-figured body was huddled in a chair, her head resting on one hand. The fair, translucent skin of her face was drawn. She said, her voice husky, “Inspector Ashton, I’m sorry, but I’ve asked Douglas to call a cab. When I get one of these migraines, it’s the full disaster-pain, vision disturbances and nausea. The only thing that helps is to lie down and go to sleep. I realize you need to speak with me, but I’m afraid it’s impossible at the moment.”
“Would you just tell me when you last saw or spoke to Mr. Raeburn?”
Alanna Brooks groped around in a bag and found a pair of sunglasses. As she put them on, she said, “God. I feel terrible.”
“Ms Brooks?”
“Yes, Collis… I saw him on Saturday afternoon, here in the dressing room. He didn’t say or do anything to make me think he was going to do what he did.”
Douglas Binns knocked. “The cab’s here.”
The diva stood carefully. “I think my head’s going to explode… Inspector, can I call you tomorrow? I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
“Handy headache?” said Carol to Anne Newsome as they walked to the car.
“Perhaps she needs time to counter the less than flattering comments Corinne Jawalski continued to make after you’d left us,” said Anne. “She was reasonably civil about male singers, but mention a rival soprano and she’s in for the kill.”
“It’s becoming obvious to me that opera’s just like the Police Service,” observed Carol. “You have to watch your back, because your colleagues can be dangerous.”
She ignored Anne’s surprised expression, wondering herself why she’d expressed this thought in words.
Changing to a strictly-business tone, she said, “Did you ask Corinne about her personal relationship with Raeburn?”
“Her actual words,” said Anne with a smile, “were that they were close friends and colleagues.”
“Believe her?”
Anne shook her head. “Underneath all that venom,” she said, “I think there’s a real grief. It’s possible she loved him.”
“Yes, and let’s follow that up. I’ve got something else for you to do. The Euthanasia Handbook is shrink-wrapped in plastic and anyone buying a copy has to be over eighteen. Most bookshops ask for a current driver’s license.” She caught Anne’s unenthusiastic expression, and smiled. “Yes, I know it’s a long shot, but I would like a check made of bookshops where Raeburn might conceivably have bought a copy in, say, the last couple of months. He’s very well known, particularly from television, so it’s possible someone will remember him. And if we can find that he definitely did buy the handbook, that will strengthen the possibility of suicide.”
“His fingerprints were on the book.”
Carol caught at a thought she hadn’t put into action. “Yes, Anne, the fingerprints. The book was marketed sealed in plastic, so it could be expected that his would be the only prints on it. I’m interested in exactly where he touched the handbook-it seems such a convenient prop for a suicide scene.” She smiled as she added, “And in case you have time to spare, I’d like you to see Raeburn’s publicist, Anita Burgess. Also, see if you can speak to Corinne Jawalski’s flatmate. I’d be interested to know if she did have a call from Raeburn, and when.”
“Want to speak with Pat?” said Bourke as she walked in. “I’m taking her to lunch, and I asked her to be early in case you were in the market for first-hand opera gossip.”
Because of the engagement, Carol had become friendly with Pat and found herself growing genuinely fond of her, not only because of her frank, open nature, but also because she had so obviously made Mark Bourke happy. “When will Pat be here?”
“Half an hour or so.”
“Great. I’ll take her out for coffee and you can pick her up from there.” She added mischievously, “I suppose this a wedding-talk lunch?”
“Don’t think I can cope,” he said, laughing. “I just can’t believe how many arrangements have to be made just to get hitched.”
Carol was about to make a snide comment about first-time grooms but caught herself. Bourke had been married before, had lost his wife and child in a boating accident. It was something he’d never spoken about to her, but she knew the tragedy must have cast a permanent shadow over his life. She imagined what it would be like if her own son were to die. She loved David unconditionally. He was the only individual she had ever permitted herself to love so totally, and she was still bitterly regretful that she had ever allowed herself to be persuaded to give him up.
“Getting married’s easy,” she said mockingly. “It’s what happens afterwards that’s hard to cope with.”
“Thanks for the confidence boost.” He handed her a telephone message. “Madeline Shipley called. She wants you to ring her back as soon as possible.”
Carol was surprised by the twinge of excitement she felt at Madeline’s name. “Did she say why?”
He snorted. “We both know why. She’s part of the feeding frenzy over Collis Raeburn, and she’s going to use the fact she knows you personally the best way she knows how.”
One of Australia’s most successful television personalities, Madeline Shipley hosted the consistently high-rated Shipley Report, strip-scheduled early evening where the competition was ferocious, in an attempt to snare viewers for the rest of the night. Television’s demands, as far as female presenters were concerned, made it mandatory that Madeline Shipley be physically attractive and personally charming, but she was much more than this: intelligent, inquisitive, and when necessary, ruthless. Her slight build held a willpower like tungsten and a tenacity that had defeated the most difficult interviewees.
And, for Carol, Madeline held one other potent attraction-she was one of the few people Carol could relax with concerning her private life. She not only knew about Carol and Sybil, she also understood-being so firmly in the closet herself-the tightrope act of balancing professional and private lives. She shared with Carol the same conviction: “Announce publicly that you’re a lesbian, and to your face people will say how brave you are to stop living a lie and how much they admire you. Then you wave goodbye to your career.”
As she dialed Madeline Shipley’s private line, Carol realized that she was actively looking forward to hearing Madeline’s voice, her lazy, beguiling laugh.
Madeline answered at the third ring. “Carol? Why haven’t I seen you lately? How’s Sybil?”
It was a loaded question, though Madeline couldn’t know this. “Sybil’s fine.”
A slight pause, then Madeline said with an indefinable note in her voice, “That’s good.”
Carol could visualize Madeline’s quizzical expression. Wanting to short-circuit any further personal questions, she said, “What can I do for you?”
Madeline chuckled at Carol’s businesslike tone. “No time for idle chitchat, eh? Well, Carol, you know very well what you can do for me. You may know we’ve been preparing a TV special about Collis Raeburn and the Eureka Opera Company. Deadlines have become rather more urgent with his death, so I’m asking for absolutely every gruesome detail you can give me.”
“This is where you get the standard reply.”
“No it isn’t,” said Madeline with conviction. “I’ve got something to trade. Have dinner with me tonight after the show and I’ll tell you some very interesting things.”
Carol found herself smiling. I really want to see her. “How do I know it’ll be worth my while?”
“One little phrase should do it,” said Madeline. “How about ‘HIV-positive’?”