Master of the Opera, Act 1: Passionate Overture (5 page)

“What
did
you see?”

“This will sound crazy.”

“I don’t care.” Hally propped her elbows on the bar and her chin on her hands, cupping her gamine face. “Tell me everything.”

“Well, first I heard singing.”

“Not unusual for an opera house.”

“When no one was there.”

“Oh ... oh! Yes, creepy. Go on.”

“And then tonight, he—”

“Dammit! Hold that thought.” Hally snagged an order ticket from a waitress and pulled out several bottles of wine. She also slid the potato chips and dip in front of Christy with a cheerful wink. It all seemed so very normal, the jangle of a sports game on the television over the mirror, the rise and fall of conversation. The everydayness of it all grounded her. That man had been no ghost. Nothing creepy or otherworldly there. She’d been rattled. Who knows? Maybe it had been some stage tech, pulling the running gag of scaring the new girl.

“Okay! Sorry about that.” Hally cracked a beer for herself, noting it on a tab. “So—‘tonight he ...’ ”

“You know, I’ve been thinking, and something tells me I shouldn’t talk about it.”

Hally nodded, solemn. “You have to honor that. A spirit visits you, that’s a special thing.”

Christy snorted, then realized Hally was completely serious. “Have you seen a spirit—for real?”

She sipped her beer, her hazel eyes bright as she nodded. “Yes. Of course, I was on a little peyote at the time, but this woman came to me. All pink and purple—that aura is supposed to mean she’s a loving spirit—and she told me I should paint naked.”

She couldn’t help it; Christy giggled. Hally tried to look offended but lost it. “Well, it seemed profound at the time.”

“And did you follow that advice?”

Hally waggled her eyebrows. “Never in public.”

I
t helped to feel she’d made a friend. Hally promised to meet up with Christy on Sunday—sadly, still four days away—to go shopping and show her all the best places to get clothes at “nontourist prices.”

After that, her hotel room didn’t feel quite so lonely. Though on Saturday she needed to go look for apartments, so she could unpack some of her stuff. Because she was staying. No way she’d run home with her tail between her legs, crying for Daddy, because the mean guys at the opera played a joke on her.

She went to bed, firmly resolved.

But she didn’t sleep well. Maybe it was the margaritas, or the chicken enchiladas Hally had finally talked her into. Christy tossed and turned, wakeful, certain someone was in the room with her. She even clicked on the bedside lamp, not once but twice, to make sure. The second time she took her carved stone with the bear and put it in the bedside table drawer.

When she fell into a deeper sleep, the dreams came.

She was running down the spiral staircase, something chasing her.
Run up!
she begged her dreaming self, but she kept going deeper, her feet skidding off the steps, until she fell. The stairs melted away and she plummeted through the dark, searching for a name to call. If she could only think of who to yell for, she’d be saved.

The ground rushed up and her voice choked in her throat as she braced for impact....

The air thickened, stretching out her fall, cradling her. No, those were arms—strongly muscled, holding her close against a masculine chest. A man, eyes icy blue behind a black half mask, gazed down at her, speaking to her in a liquid language she didn’t understand. His cloak swirled around them, and she realized she wore a wedding gown, the bodice tight against her breasts, white lace spilling to the floor.

He laid her on a bed, something out of a medieval castle, and chained her wrists above her head. Her body pulsed with longing. She writhed, drowning in lace, begging without words, while he reached down with black-gloved hands and raised the hem of her skirt.

“Yes, Master!” she shouted.

Christy woke herself with shattering abruptness. She sat straight up in bed, blinking at the dim room, sunshine leaking in around the curtains. Her heart pounded double-time, her skin slick with sweat—and arousal.

She didn’t even want to think what that dream meant. Except no more chicken enchiladas, delicious as they’d been.

At least she was up bright and early. She made it up to the opera house before Charlie did. More cars were parked in the backstage lot now, and a crew of people in overalls were carrying stacks of lumber inside. That confirmed it—more techs around, more people thinking it would be funny to give her a bit of a scare. And okay, okay, they got her good. No wonder she’d had nightmares.

Ha-ha. The best revenge would be to act as if nothing had happened.

She settled into her office, taking the time to transfer her data from the previous day’s inventory into more permanent files, crosschecking them against entries in the BNoD. Three items didn’t seem to be listed anywhere in the notebook. She’d done a good chunk so far—surprisingly so, considering her distraction—but it was a drop in the bucket. It would go faster if she simply entered what she found, marking locations. Then she could compare it to the paper inventory in the evenings.

Except for tonight, when she’d be going out with Roman Sanclaro again.

She might or might not have been doing a happy chair dance when Charlie rapped on the door frame.

“Busy?” He rubbed the corners of his mouth, like he might be trying to wipe away a smile.

“Nope. Just about to head down to the dungeons for more inventory.”

“Well, I’ve got a mission for you.”

“Okay.” She opened a reminder app on the iPad, ready to take notes. Charlie eyed it dubiously and she gave him her sweetest smile. “Hit me.”

“The props manager, Carla—you’ll meet her—needs the flute for
The Magic Flute
and insists she needs it yesterday. Something about needing time to refurbish it. Can you prioritize finding it for her so she’ll get off my back?”

“I’m on it!” Christy assured him, sounding her perky best. “What exactly does it look like?”

“It’s about yea long,” Charlie held up his hands a yardstick length apart, “with gold curlicues. Might have silk flowers and ribbons tied on, depending on how it was put away.”

“Got it.”

“Thanks, kid.” He turned to go. “Everything go okay yesterday?”

“Yep—just fine.”

“No more ... incidents?”

She shook her head and shrugged. “Not a thing. Why do you ask?”

“Just checking.” He gave her a long look, then left, his jaunty whistle fading down the hall.

Ha. Showed him. If Charlie was in on the joke, he’d tell the others they hadn’t rattled her.

Christy paged through the index of the BNoD, looking for flutes, then at broader categories. She found a number of items listed simply as
musical instruments
, which was totally unhelpful. Nowhere did any of the listings say
magic flute
, though there were several plain
flutes
. They were all, naturally, scattered in different storerooms and levels. Resigning herself to searching them all, she made a list and set off on her quest.

She started with the uppermost levels first. Not out of cowardice, but because if she could find the special magic flute with less effort, she’d save herself time and make Carla—and Charlie—happy all that much sooner.

The wig room door stood open when she went past, blazing with mirrors and warm light, row after row of bodiless heads staring into space, each sporting an elaborate confection of gleaming hair. A carpenter passed her in the hall, giving her a jaunty wave while he spoke to someone on his cell about glue. She waved back, feeling full of purpose and enjoying the burst of cheerful activity. It reminded her of an advent calendar that had been all closed up and now was opening, door by door, revealing a whirl of color and promise.

She searched the first storeroom for an hour. Miraculously, she eventually pulled down the box—incorrectly labeled—containing the flutes listed in the inventory. Which turned out to be some lovely champagne flutes.

Not at all what Carla wanted.

By noon she’d searched three more locations to no avail. Stomach growling, she headed back upstairs. Maybe she could run down to the Village Market and get a sandwich to go. Once she got her own place, she could pack her lunch.

“Hey! Hey, you—girlie.” A woman’s angry voice stopped Christy in her tracks. She turned, reflexively hugging the iPad to her breast.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” A tall blond woman strode up to her, looking her up and down. “You’re the new Tara, right?”

“Christy, yes.”

“Did you find the flute yet?”

“Not yet.” She thumbed on the iPad, turning it to show Carla—for surely this was Carla—her list-and-search method. “See, I’ve checked—”

Carla waved a dismissive hand at it. “I’m really not interested in your excuses. You may be sucking on Daddy’s teat, but the rest of us have jobs to do around here. Jobs that are important to us. I take goddamned pride in my job—do you get me, Chrissy?”

“I’ll find it this afternoon, I promise.”

Carla held up her hands, making a face of astonishment. “Why the hell aren’t you looking right now?”

“I was. I am. It’s just, I’m hungry and—”

Making a disgusted noise, Carla rolled her eyes. “And what? Off to have lunch with your little, rich girlfriends?”

“No.” Stung, Christy scrambled for a reply to that dramatically unfair assumption.

“But you did go out with Roman Sanclaro, didn’t you?” Carla pulled off her glasses, peering at Christy as if trying to see her better. “I can’t imagine why—you don’t look like much. I heard he took you to Geronimo. Pity date to curry favor for the family’s sake?”

“Carla!” Charlie called down the hallway. “You’re not badgering Christy about that flute, are you?”

“Well, dammit, Charlie—I told you this morning I need the fucking thing. You might not mind facing opening night with a rusty, decrepit, nasty flute, but I do. And she hasn’t even started looking for it yet.”

Christy’s mouth opened and closed, making her feel like a mindless goldfish gasping for air. Carla glowered at her, daring Christy to say otherwise.

“I’m heading downstairs to search Level 3,” Christy raised her voice for Charlie to hear while she returned Carla’s glare.

“Good luck with that.” Carla shoved her glasses back on and marched down to Charlie’s office, thick blond braid bouncing.

What a freaking bitch. She’d show her. Screw lunch. Besides, Roman would likely feed her well tonight, and screw Carla and her opinions. She could date who she liked. Besides, Roman might have offered a pity date for old times’ sake, but a second date meant he really liked her. Didn’t it? Of course it did. Taking her righteous indignation with her, Christy headed back down the spiral staircase, checking her tablet for the next place to look. Surely she’d strike gold this time.

By six o’clock she was nearly in tears with frustration. She’d found numerous flutes—and a surprising number of various other musical instruments—but none of them were perfect matches. One of the “flutes” had turned out to be a slide whistle.

“Really?” she asked the long-gone anonymous person who’d penciled in that description. “You’re truly
that
much of a freaking idiot that you don’t know a slide whistle from a flute?”

To make herself feel better, she entered the item into the inventory correctly. At least someone else would be able to find the slide whistle someday; her legacy. The orderly inventory she’d begun had morphed into a patchwork quilt of observations. This sort of thing in one room, that stuff in another. But, by God, she knew where to find champagne flutes and a slide whistle!

A cold draft washed across the back of her neck, the door creaking open behind her. She stilled, frozen, a rabbit in the open. Was it
him
?

“Working hard, I see.” Carla’s barbed sarcasm came as a relief. An irony the woman would be unlikely to appreciate. “Must be nice to get a job playing computer games.”

Christy stood, her knees protesting from being cramped so long while she sorted through the 37th box that day. She knew, because she’d been keeping track. “I’ve located everything listed as a flute or a musical instrument in the inventory.” She nudged the BNoD on the floor with the toe of her now very dusty shoe. “And I haven’t found it. I’ll have to go through every room systematically.”

Carla frowned. Or rather, her usual frown didn’t lift. “Did you look under
Mozart
?”

The syrupy tone didn’t fool Christy for a moment. “No. I looked under—”

“
The Magic Flute
is a Mozart opera.” Carla said this slowly, as if English might be Christy’s second language.

“Yes, I know that.”

Carla’s blond brows flew up. “Don’t get snippy with me.”

Christy swallowed her pride in the face of Carla’s rising irritation. “It’s just that it makes no sense to file a prop under—”

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Carla snatched up the BNoD and thumped it onto a carved wooden trunk that looked suspiciously like the Ark of the Covenant, sending a cloud of dust poofing up. She flipped through the pages to the index—though it was hardly deserving of the word—and stabbed her finger at a big, bold
MOZART
. With about five pages of items listed after it. “ ‘Flute!’ ” Carla pointed. “ ‘Antique flute, assorted flutes, flute, flute, flute.’ ”

Well, shit
.

“Okay.” Christy withheld her own sigh. “Tomorrow morning I’ll—”

“No, now.” Carla gave her a stern nod. “Tonight. You can leave it on my desk.”

Christy reflexively glanced at her iPad clock. “Um, it’s already six twenty and ...” she trailed off, partially in fascination at the scarlet creep of fury climbing Carla’s cheekbones.

“What?” Carla hissed. “Do you have something
better
to do?”

She sure as hell couldn’t confess to a date with Roman Sanclaro. Or that she was afraid of a ghost. That bolt of alarm when she’d thought he was behind her proved that she might have convinced her mind he wasn’t real, but her emotions were a few steps behind.

Christy gestured weakly at the page Carla still had pinned with one callused finger. “Most of that stuff is on the lowest levels and everyone has pretty much gone.”

Carla shook her head, cocked it, and studied her like a mouse that had dared invade her kitchen. “So, explain. You’re afraid?”

Yes
. “No. I, just, um—”

“Look—I know our petty little problems are likely of no concern to a special snowflake like you,” Carla snapped the notebook closed and shoved it at her, “so go do whatever it is that’s so important, and I’ll explain to Charlie why we don’t have a decent magic-looking flute for opening night.”

Carla, she didn’t give a shit about, but Charlie ... She couldn’t disappoint him. Especially because it would get back to her father. Oh, joy.

She set down the notebook and began stacking her stuff. “No. You’re right. This is important. I’ll find it tonight and it will be on your desk in the morning.”

“Good girl.” Carla grinned at her, triumph cracking her dour face. “You see to it.”

She stalked off, leaving Christy to lock up the storeroom. And to text Roman her regrets. She hoped he wouldn’t be mad.