Claire McNab - Dead Certain

Madeline’s house was set back from the road and extensively landscaped for privacy. Carol turned into the driveway and drew up smoothly at the shallow sandstone steps.

She said, her voice deliberately cool, “Good night… and thank you for the information.”

“Would you like to come inside?”

“Thanks, but no. It’s late.”

“Since Paul’s been gone… I’ve been lonely.”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“Sure it is, Carol. You know it is.”

“No, I don’t know that at all.”

“It’s going to happen. Why not now?”

“Good night, Madeline.”

Madeline slid out of the car and walked around to the driver’s door. Carol wound the window down, looked up at her. “Madeline, we’re not doing a reprise of Desert Hearts you know.”

Madeline was smiling. She leaned through the window and kissed Carol lightly on the lips. Drawing back, she said cheerfully, “It’s going to be fun, Carol. And more…”

Carol turned the ignition key. “No.”

Her emphatic negative drew a broader smile from Madeline as she stood back from the car. “I can feel it, and so can you. Say what you like-it won’t make any difference.”

When Carol glanced in the rear view mirror as she turned out of the driveway, Madeline was still standing there, gazing after her. Carol swore, trying with words to chase away the spiraling tension that Madeline’s words and touch had accomplished.

Carol was home before Sybil, who had a committee meeting for Women in Politics. The red light was blinking on the answering machine, so she pressed replay while she primed her ancient coffee percolator. The first message was from her Aunt Sarah, confirming her plans to arrive on Saturday morning. The second was a whispered voice she didn’t recognize. Collis Raeburn’s death was an accident. Put that in your report. Just say he died accidentally. It’s the best thing to do for everyone, and it’s true. Don’t cause trouble. There’s some things about your private life you wouldn’t want to get out. Remember that .

She stood staring at the machine as it clicked loudly, then wound the tape back with an angry whirring sound. Carol pressed the replay button, listening intently as the whispered voice repeated the message. Blended with a brush of apprehension was anger-and the tingle of excitement that her investigation had driven someone to make the threat.

Collis Raeburn’s singing teacher lived in an old suburb that had once enjoyed more gracious days. Her house, an undistinguished dark brick, sat stolidly in a neglected garden. Carol shivered as she got out of the car. The day had begun with icy wind and sudden, spiteful showers of rain, as a reminder that it was only very early spring.

Earlier, the sharpness of the day had been echoed by the coldness between her and Sybil. “Carol, there’s been something wrong between us for a long time. I’ve grown, I’ve changed, and the way you want to live isn’t enough for me anymore.”

Restraining her anger, Carol had said, “Is running away the best thing to do?”

“We need to have some distance between us… I need some distance…”

“Don’t do this, darling.”

Sybil’s face had tightened at this brisk entreaty. “Carol, we always do it your way-this time it’s going to be different…”

Anne Newsome broke into her somber thoughts. Gesturing at the house, she said, “Being a singing teacher doesn’t seem very profitable. Must be in it for love.”

Love ? thought Carol bitterly.

As they opened the sagging gate and walked up the overgrown path, a voice, warm as sunshine, poured out the open window. The sung phrase curled in the air, then faded. A pause, and it was repeated.

Carol knocked sharply on the door. After a few moments it was opened by a woman whose face was familiar from the Collis Raeburn television special. “Inspector Ashton? You’re a little early. I’m just finishing a lesson. Won’t be long.”

As they were shown into an alcove off the front room, Carol glimpsed the polished flank of a grand piano and the slight figure of a young woman standing beside it. She and Anne settled down into lumpily uncomfortable lounge chairs upholstered in dusty brocade.

The lesson recommenced. The young woman would sing a phrase, the dark liquid of her voice caressing the notes, only to be interrupted by an impatient comment and a command to do it again.

“No! No! Listen to yourself. Where’s your control? Remember, your voice is supported by a column of air… Put your hands against your ribs, here, fingers touching… Now, breathe in! Let the air force your hands apart.”

A pause, apparently for the student to comply. Anne caught Carol’s glance and smiled. The teacher’s impatient voice demanded, “You feel that? Do you? Do it again!… Now, you must always remember that the muscular arch of your diaphragm is the foundation of your voice. Singing is only air passing over your vocal cords, so you must control that column of air completely.”

There was a soft comment from the student, followed by an impatient exclamation from the teacher. “Most people are lazy and breathe shallowly. You must learn to use every part of your lungs-they are the bellows of your voice.” A chord was struck violently on the piano. “Don’t sing the note-hum! Louder… louder . Now! Swell it… fade it. You feel your upper lip vibrating? Yes? Remember that feeling. That’s where your voice must be placed to get that clear, beautiful, sustained sound.”

“Seems like hard work,” whispered Anne.

The teacher had begun a piano introduction. The music was unfamiliar to Carol, but it filled the room with an aching melody that intensified as the young woman began to sing. Her voice-tawny and supple-delighted Carol. She shut her eyes and let it curl around her. This time there were no interruptions. The song ended with a few soft notes, then the voice of the teacher saying grudgingly, “That was better. But you must practice. Practice!”

The lesson over, the student was bustled out the front door and Carol and Anne were taken into the main room. “Your student’s got a beautiful voice,” said Anne.

The teacher grunted. “Oh, yes, God’s given her the voice. But that’s just the first step. It’s what she does with it now, that’s important. She could be the next Kathleen Ferrier-if she works hard, and gets the breaks. It’s never enough to have raw talent. Luck has a lot to do with success.”

“Collis Raeburn was lucky?” said Carol.

The woman’s stern face softened. “Yes, Collis was lucky, but he also had a voice that only occurs once or twice a century. He was sent to me early, before he could learn shortcuts and bad habits-tenors often develop them, I’m afraid-and I realized immediately what he was.” She grew grim. “That is all the more reason why it is a dreadful tragedy that he’s dead.”

“You said on the phone to me that you believed someone had killed him.”

The teacher’s eyes narrowed at Carol’s bland tone. “I can see you doubt me, but I know someone did.” She gave a theatrical shrug. “You’ll be thinking I’m overdramatizing, no doubt. But I knew Collis better than anyone, and there is no way he would have killed himself. He had an arrogance, bordering on narcissism, that would make it absolutely impossible for him to even consider destroying himself. Suicide, no matter what, could not be an option.”

Carol said mildly, “Just hypothetically, what if he’d been suffering from something like cancer…”

“You don’t have to pussyfoot around. I knew about the AIDS.”

Hiding her surprise, Carol said, “What did he tell you, and when?”