The Rebel's Own (Crimson Romance) (15 page)

After wolfing down a small pepperoni pizza and a can of Coke for dinner, Brian returned to his pile of data on Angelique. There had to be some lead or missing link, he thought, leafing through a stack of photographs he had ripped from magazines or printed from the Net. Methodically, he laid out the photographs in a grid pattern on the carpeted floor. Some were studio head shots, others journalistic snapshots taken before, during, or after her performances. Most were secretly taken by determined paparazzi, as unauthorized photographs of her were prohibited.

“At least she can be photographed. She’s not a ghost,” Brian murmured.

He scrutinized the backgrounds and those people surrounding her. There was always an entourage of bodyguards who looked pumped-up on steroids. Something else stood out. In many of the photographs, a certain couple stood nearby. They were rather plain and could have easily been mistaken for wayward fans. The woman, though, seemed to be leading Angelique. The man had a sour, but alert expression and tense body language, like a guard. They hovered over Angelique like buzzards over the dead.

Brian set the photographs together for comparison. Through the years and in settings around the world, the couple was no farther than a foot away from Angelique. He had read that they were her guardians and managers. Surely, they had to be the key. Yet, why hadn’t they been interviewed? Who were they and what was their story?

He scooped up the photographs, determined to uncover the mystery. Angelique seemed too perfect. In an era of rock stars, You Tube, concerts, outlandish costumes, choreographed productions, pyrotechnics, and hype, she was always the unaccompanied solitary figure, alone in the spotlight before a sold-out crowd.

Through the years her fame had exceeded that of Elvis Presley, the Beatles, and Michael Jackson put together. Hers was a talent bigger than life. The public loved her. Be it France or Costa Rica, worldwide adoration for the singer bordered on worship. Her concerts, billed as “appearances,” sold out years in advance. People of all races and musical backgrounds comprised her audience. Her voice was an anomaly that defied the experts, a voice undefined. Angelique was the goddess of song.

Brian put aside the stack of photographs and shuffled through a pile of papers. Perusing the headlines of the gossip rags, Brian could see that rumors abounded. Some claimed Angelique was an angel sent to earth by God to unite the world and to bring peace through her music. The belief that she was an angel had gained so much momentum, the Catholic Church had condemned it as heresy. Brian agreed that her ghostly appearance and unequalled talent could give anyone pause.

Yet there were no records, no birth certificate, no known family or friends. Rumor had it that she was found as infant in the woods surrounding a French abbey and had been raised by nuns. It was as if she had indeed been dropped to earth to perform. She was never observed in public, at parties, at award ceremonies, or at celebrity haunts. No one had ever seen her eat or drink. After fainting during a couple of performances, there were questions about her health but the spells were attributed to exhaustion. She seemed to be the greatest mystery in the modern world.

Whomever or whatever she was, she was a public relations genius. This had to be some finely concocted fairy tale and the joke was on the public. Surely, if this woman was using her voice as a gift from God, why were the admission prices to her “appearances” so high? There wasn’t any mention of the proceeds being given to charity. Someone had to be getting wealthy out of all this hype. He scoffed.

Brian knew he had a lot of work ahead.

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