Claire McNab - Dead Certain

Signaling for two more coffees, Carol said, “Surely a tenor having a romance with his prima donna is standard public relations stuff. Doesn’t have to be true, but it adds piquancy to the duets.”

“Who would have thought you such a cynic!”

“Who indeed,” Carol said with a grin. “Was there any comment about Edward Livingston? He’s doing his best to avoid seeing me.”

“Edward Livingston-impresario extraordinaire! If he were only half as good as he thinks he is, the Eureka Opera Company would be as highly regarded as the Australian Opera.” She grinned at Carol’s questioning expression. “No, I haven’t got a personal grudge, it’s just that he takes himself so seriously , and when something goes wrong with one of his magnificent schemes to revitalize opera, it’s never his fault-it’s always somebody else who’s spoilt it for him. For instance, he was bitterly angry when his loony television version of Madame Butterfly slumped in the ratings after he’d promoted it like a football match. Naturally, he had to blame someone, so he turned on Collis and accused him of sabotaging the whole thing by singing the role of Pinkerton, extraterrestrial, so badly.”

Thinking how much she’d hate to work in an atmosphere of such high drama, Carol said, “I’ve been given the impression that the clash of personalities is fairly common in the opera world.”

Pat chortled. “Egos are not in short supply. Even so, successful artists, whatever field they’re in, have to be professional, or they don’t last long. Means there’s often thunder and lightning, but not much rain. It’s always been different, though, with our Edward. He’s one of the great grudge-bearers of the twentieth century, and Collis had crossed him once too often.”

“They were in open conflict?”

“Very. There’ve been veiled references to the stoush in all the newspaper arts’ columns for weeks now. Livingston’s penchant for suing for defamation made sure that no one actually named him, but everyone knew they’d fallen out and Collis was going to do his best to get out of his contract with Eureka.”

Carol took a reflective sip of coffee. “I’ve also heard about conflict with a rival. What about Lloyd Clancy?”

“Ah,” said Pat enthusiastically, “what about Lloyd Clancy, indeed? One society matron, whose name would surprise you, confided to me that in her circle it’s understood that Lloyd assisted Collis to join the heavenly choir in the sky.”

“Murdered him, or helped him suicide?”

“Either. And before you ask for a motive, bear in mind that opera is a high pressure, demanding world, where you make sweet music on stage, and play management politics off it. Only winners really prosper. The also-rans end up in the chorus, are doomed to subsidiary roles, or skitter off to less demanding singing careers. Lloyd’s older than Collis, and he’d established his career, but he was slowly but surely being overhauled.”

Carol played with a sachet of artificial sweetener. “Are you seriously suggesting that’s an adequate motive for a murder?”

Pat laughed. “Carol, you know I’m never serious, but if I were, I’d point you in the direction of Nicole Raeburn. If ever anyone burned with incestuous love, she did.”

“If that’s so, was it returned?” asked Carol, remembering the sister’s disturbing intensity.

“Who knows? But whether it was or not, that woman’s unbalanced. It’s hardly an exaggeration to say that Collis was a god to her.”

“Then she wouldn’t want him dead,” said Carol mildly.

“If she happened to be jealous enough, she might,” said Pat with conviction. “And there’s none so ferocious as an acolyte scorned.”

Feeling positively awash with coffee, Carol refused more when Edward Livingston joined her at the round white table shaded by a central umbrella. The early days of spring hinted at the lazy summer days to come, the sun having a warm weight that tempered the chill of the breeze off the water. Seagulls were preoccupied with noisy courtships, or with harassing anyone who had food. The other tables were occupied by assorted tourists who basked in the sun, took photographs or rested weary feet. Behind the broadwalk the spectacular curved roofs of the Opera House soared, pale against an azure sky. In front of them the harbor danced with light and activity and to their left the gray skeleton of the Harbour Bridge spanned the gulf from south to north like a gigantic metal coat hanger.

“Nice weather,” said Livingston.

“Almost like summer,” replied Carol accommodatingly.

He chuckled at her tone. “Enough of the pleasantries. Let’s get down to business. Just what stories have you heard concerning me?”

Controversial he might be, Carol thought, but he looked very like the stereotype of an accountant. He wore a conservative charcoal-gray suit with a deep green silk tie, his brown hair was cut neatly short, and, apart from a thin white scar that zigzagged down one cheek, his face was unremarkable. His most notable feature was his voice, a deep resonant baritone that he swelled and faded like an instrument, although even short acquaintance with his vocal technique had begun to irritate Carol.

She said, “When was your last contact with Collis Raeburn?”

“Oh, I don’t know… a week before he died, probably.”

Carol raised her eyebrows. “It surprises me you can’t be a little more exact. Sudden death generally sharpens memories of final meetings.”

“Of course I bow to your superior knowledge in these matters, Inspector, but frankly I’m very busy, I really can’t recall. My assistant may have the information in my appointment book…”

“If his death shouldn’t turn out to be suicide, would that surprise you?”

“Is there any doubt Collis killed himself?”

Countering with another question, Carol said, “Do you have any doubt?”

Livingston had kept very still up till this point, but now he began to run his fingers up and down the scar on his cheek. “Collis was an artist. Being unstable comes with the territory.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Seeming to force himself to appear relaxed, he leaned back in his chair as he made an open-handed gesture. “Inspector, I deal with these people every day of the week. To their adoring public they’re larger-than-life personalities with the world at their feet, but to me they’re children, demanding attention, showing off, wanting the limelight.”

Privately wondering how many cliches Edward Livingston could pack into one sentence, Carol said,

“Collis Raeburn certainly wasn’t lacking attention and limelight.”

“Yes, but that’s what drove him to success,” said Livingston almost smugly. “Collis was never, ever satisfied. He couldn’t have too much recognition-fame was like a drug to him. The more he got, the more he wanted.”

She didn’t let her impatience show, although she was convinced she was hearing a well-worn routine that Livingston had used many times before. “So why would he kill himself?” she said baldly.

Livingston pursed his lips judiciously. “Collis’s professional life was outstandingly successful. His personal life, however, was not.”

Carol waited.

“Inspector Ashton, you must appreciate that grand opera creates a hothouse atmosphere. Emotions, hatreds, passions-all exaggerated, larger than life. Alanna Brooks has partnered Collis for many years, and they were good friends. But then, a younger, and very talented, soprano appears on the scene…”

“Corinne Jawalski,” said Carol, obligingly filling in his pause.

“Corinne quite cold-bloodedly set out to have an affair with Collis, so that she could talk him into replacing Alanna with herself as his diva. Unfortunately, Collis fell for Corinne in a big way. Frankly, I tried to warn him, but he brushed me aside. I said she was just using him as a convenient way to leapfrog any rivals, but he was so besotted with her he was furious with me for criticizing her.”