A Fatal Finale Read online

  A Fatal Finale

  Kathleen Marple Kalb

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1 - She Was Her Man

  Chapter 2 - In Which We Meet the Wicked Duke

  Chapter 3 - Dinner en Famille in Washington Square

  Chapter 4 - A Proper Cup of Tea

  Chapter 5 - In Which the Priest Stays to Dinner

  Chapter 6 - A Night with the Ink-Stained Wretches

  Chapter 7 - The Daring Young Ladies on their Flying Machines

  Chapter 8 - In Which Dr. Silver Offers a Second Opinion

  Chapter 9 - Candles for Remembrance

  Chapter 10 - Madame Marie de l’Artois Plots Her Triumphant Return

  Chapter 11 - In Which Our Heroes Play Stradivarius

  Chapter 12 - A Matter Not Good for the Gosling

  Chapter 13 - Backstage Dramas

  Chapter 14 - No Stage-Door Lotharios Wanted

  Chapter 15 - In Which the Agent Calls

  Chapter 16 - In Which Our Divas School the Duke

  Chapter 17 - What She Left Behind

  Chapter 18 - Milady in Her Bath

  Chapter 19 - A Fine Promenade in the Park

  Chapter 20 - In Which We Pass a Pleasing Night at Home

  Chapter 21 - Shall We Dance?

  Chapter 22 - Consolation and Confusion with Uncle Preston

  Chapter 23 - At Her Mentor’s Knee

  Chapter 24 - No Dollar Princesses Wanted, Either

  Chapter 25 - Worth the Candle

  Chapter 26 - Perfidy and Prejudice Among the Lilacs

  Chapter 27 - In Which We Make Our Duke Useful

  Chapter 28 - All a Lady Has Is Her Reputation

  Chapter 29 - What It Was, and How It Was Done

  Chapter 30 - In Which We Seek Counsel with the Good Father

  Chapter 31 - “O Happy Dagger”

  Chapter 32 - All Things Resolved After the Curtain

  Epilogue - The Post from London

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Kathleen Marple Kalb

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2019953659

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2723-7

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: May 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2729-9 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2729-0 (ebook)

  Acknowledgments

  It still feels like a miracle that we made it here.

  This all starts with my agent Eric Myers, and my editor, John Scognamiglio. Thank you for giving Ella, and me, a chance. Much appreciation to the team at Kensington for getting Ella ready for showtime.

  Special thanks to Ben Mevorach, my boss at 1010 WINS, for years of support and understanding, and to my mentor Mark Mason for the break that made everything else possible.

  I don’t have enough words for my weekend WINS family. You saved me in every possible way, from beta reads to endless discussions of plot points, to simply talking me down. It took a lot more than 22 minutes, but you gave me the world.

  Deepest and most personal thanks to Dr. Andrew Zelenetz and the staff at Memorial Sloan Kettering Westchester, and Dr. Annapoorna Kini and the staff at Mount Sinai’s Cardiac Lab, for making sure my husband is here for this day . . . and for their kindness to the crazy lady with the laptop.

  Similar gratitude to my eye surgeon, Dr. Aron Rose; it helps to be able to see the screen!

  Yes, 2018 really was that year. Surviving was enough, but we were blessed with so much more.

  Which brings me to my family. To my mother, who believed—my husband, who knew—and my son, who bought the first copy . . . none of it happens without you.

  With love, awe and appreciation,

  Kathleen Marple Kalb

  Chapter 1

  She Was Her Man

  Juliets are more trouble than they’re worth. We have never yet hired one who did not bring some spectacular disaster down upon the company, and quite often herself. Every time, Tommy does his best to choose the soprano who seems sane, quiet and smart enough not to waste the opportunity, and, still, something goes terribly wrong. Our first eloped with the tenor in Chicago. The second took sacred vows at a convent in Boston. And then there was the third Juliet. It’s enough to make a Romeo wonder—and certainly enough to make a diva take other operas on the circuit.

  This time, New Haven was the last stop on the tour, leaving us just a short train ride from home in New York and my next bookings in the City. We’d sold out Poli’s Wonderland for the run, even though we had played it just two years before, admittedly with a different repertoire. The Bellini I Capuleti e i Montecchi is always a winner, and there are still plenty of people willing to plunk down good cash money to see trouser diva Ella Shane in her most famous role. And I’m quite happy to oblige them. I didn’t grow up with nearly enough to afford pretensions.

  Besides, I like Romeo. While I’m nearly twice his age now, the score is wonderful and the role, of course, is a great deal of fun for me, and, better, for the audience. Yes, I know that there’s the whole frisson of an attractive adult woman in doublet and hose making operatic love to the soprano, but I am not responsible for what people think in the dark of the theater. I know who I am, and am not, and I love putting on a good show.

  That icy night in February 1899, I was just hoping that my latest Juliet would behave herself in the final duet. Miss Violette Saint Claire (who almost certainly was not born with that name, not that Ellen O’Shaughnessy can throw stones) had been doing her level lightweight best to overshadow me. First, I had gently pointed out that the audience gets a better show if we all work together. When that proved fruitless, I had Tommy rather less kindly remind her that the marquee says “Ella Shane Opera Company,” and when it says “Violette Saint Claire,” she can chew all the scenery she likes.

  In the wings, preparing to walk out into the footlights, I was trying to think about the music and my technique, and not her escalating overacting. For Heaven’s sake, I thought irritably, it is almost the twentieth century. We do not need the florid nonsense that people used to find acceptable in the 1830s.

  I am, naturally, well aware of the irony of an opera singer complaining about overacting. But as Tommy’s been known to say, I know it when I see it. And indeed I saw it that night, as Violette sang her little heart out, climbing all over me, and making sure the audience got a much better look at her sweet, heart-shaped face than mine. Too bad this one didn’t run off with the tenor.

  Not that I was worried about the competition; while she was undeniably lovely, with black hair, pale blue eyes and perfect white skin, I’m not exactly unappealing myself. Tall, of course, with greenish-blue eyes and, thank you, naturally blond hair with a reddish cast, all perfectly set off by my midnight-blue costume. Though, when the curtain is down, I’m more likely to be smiling, or laughing at Tommy’s latest joke, than cultivating the soulful look you might have seen in my cartes de visite.

  At least it was quiet at the moment. Aft
er the intermission, there’d been some kind of donnybrook among the young stagehands. It had happened before, though not in usually professional New Haven. This scuffle wasn’t especially serious, unlike the incident in Cleveland where one hand tossed another right into the orchestra pit, ruining the rehearsal, the timpani and his career in the performing arts.

  Tonight, though, all I’d heard was a treble voice yelling, “Take yer hands off me, ye nathrach. I’m done wi’ ye!” and some running footsteps.

  If it had gone any further than that, I’d have had to ask Tommy to have a word, which I absolutely did not want to do. From the accent, the boy was fresh off the boat, probably from Scotland, and he almost certainly could not afford to lose his livelihood.

  In any case, I had other concerns just then. Beyond the warring stagehands, the aggressively lovely Miss Violette would still be in need of correction later tonight, and I owed the audience my best in the final scene.

  Whoever might be the fairest of them all, real talent beats overwrought hopeful every time. I finished my final aria and expired, satisfied to hear that moment of absolute silence from the audience that means they’re truly moved.

  As Violette took her turn, I watched her through my eyelashes, suddenly realizing she looked really sick. Jealousy’s an ugly thing, I reflected, only slightly uncharitably, as she collapsed on me with a strangled cry, without finishing her final notes. How very unprofessional, I thought, remembering the many times I’d pushed through all manner of unpleasantness.

  She didn’t move during the last few moments of the show, but thanks to the heavy costumes we all wear, I did not realize she wasn’t breathing until the curtain was falling.

  “Tommy!” I yelled, thoroughly inelegantly, as I tried to climb out from under her and see what I could do to help.

  Tommy Hurley, my cousin, manager, best friend, and rock, ran over from the wings, his usually cool blue-green eyes wide with concern. “What happened?”

  “There’s something very wrong with Violette.”

  It was one of my more magnificent understatements.

  Chapter 2

  In Which We Meet the Wicked Duke

  Late April, in Washington Square

  “Come on, Tommy. At least try to parry,” I urged, swiping my foil. Really, I should stop practicing my fencing with him, but I didn’t have anyone else at the minute, and it’s like dancing—you have to stay sharp. I usually alternate days between the two, and, no, I don’t even attempt dancing with Toms.

  “I’m trying, Heller.” He rarely calls me by anything but the childhood nickname, earned during any number of street scuffles. “Too bad you don’t box.”

  “Sorry, Champ”—I pointed, jokingly, to my face—“can’t afford to risk my lovely visage.”

  Tommy laughed. He really had briefly been a top fighter, until he decided that no amount of violence would make him the man he wasn’t, and didn’t want to be, and turned his management skills from his career to mine. He’d gotten out soon enough that he still had the muscles and dangerous air, but no noticeable damage to his sharp Celtic features. “Hard to hit the high notes with a bloody nose.”

  “Too true.” I moved back into position. “All right, just try to keep up.”

  “‘Try to keep up’!” squawked another voice from the rafters as Montezuma swept down toward us.

  I like to think of the studio as my domain, but in truth, it belongs to Montezuma, my Amazon parrot. He requires space to fly, and enjoys singing along when I vocalize. Tommy and his sports writer friends are also fond of Montezuma, and, unfortunately, they’ve taught him a few colorful turns of phrase.

  Montezuma came with the town house, a condition of sale from the importer who’d owned it, and had given him run of the attic, which the bird kept, once it became the studio. I call him “my” parrot, even though one doesn’t really own such an amazing creature, because he’s attached himself to me. Montezuma flew just over our heads, took a perch at a window and started preening his vivid green feathers with his bright blue beak, enjoying the spring breeze as much as we were.

  “There’s someone here to see you, miss,” Rosa, the housemaid, called, running in ahead of a very tall, dark stranger.

  “Oh?” I stepped away from Tommy, still holding my foil.

  “He says he’s a duke or something.” Her big brown eyes were wide with excitement.

  “Everybody’s got a confidence game.” Tommy chuckled as the man walked in.

  “Not a confidence game at all, my good man. I am Gilbert Saint Aubyn, Duke of Leith.”

  “Of course, you are,” I replied, taking a good look at him. Whoever he was, he was certainly a positive addition to the rehearsal studio. He was several inches over my height, with nearly black hair, ice-blue eyes and enough time on him to make him interesting. Not ostentatiously dressed—a neat black coat over a dark gray day suit, a plain black fedora in his hand—so he might just be something real, and not a swell. But probably just another opera fancier, if at least a creative and nice-looking one, so I decided we’ll give him a minute or two.

  “Are you Miss Shane?”

  “None other.” I held out my hand to shake, but he didn’t take it. I remembered that British aristocrats are very uncomfortable with the new American ways. The accent seemed right, too; I’d spent enough time singing for my elegant supper in London to recognize the vowels, and pick up a faint trace of somewhere else in the consonants. I put my hand in my pocket, and did my best not to giggle as I realized he was trying very, very hard not to look below my face.

  He would not have seen much if he had; I was wearing one of Tommy’s discarded shirts loosely tucked into a pair of dark blue cotton cavalry twill breeches so old I didn’t remember where I’d acquired them. With, of course, the light, but modest, underpinnings any proper lady would wear with such.

  “Good. I am trying to gather information on the fate of a young lady. You would have known her as Violette Saint Claire.”

  The giggle strangled in my throat. Poor, dead Juliet. The New Haven coroner had ruled it accidental, for the sake of her family, if they were ever found, but since it was real poison in the prop vial that only she touched, we all knew what it really was. “Oh, dear. I’m terribly sorry. Was she a relative?”

  “A cousin. I am the head of the family, of course, so I am taking charge of finding out what happened to her.” A muscle flicked in his jaw, and the skin around his eyes tightened a little, the way it does when people are trying not to show too much emotion.

  “Well, Your Grace, I don’t know how much you know.”

  “I have already seen the report from New Haven. I want to know what she was doing with you theater people.”

  Tommy’s eyes narrowed at the last two words, pronounced in a tone redolent with disdain, and the unmistakable suggestion of all manner of impropriety.

  I offered a cool response as my sympathy for the Duke of Something died an early death. “‘Theater people’?” I repeated.

  “She was a gently-brought-up young lady who did not belong in that world.”

  Well, aren’t you the precious one. I took a breath, and tried to tamp down my Irish temper. I explain—if not excuse—my next action as an effort to do something other than slap the judgmental scowl off his face. I grabbed Tommy’s foil. “How’s your fencing?”

  “What?”

  “My practice time is limited, and we theater people have to stay sharp to earn our keep. I’ll talk to you while we spar.”

  Gilbert Saint Aubyn’s stern face softened a bit. “All right.”

  He doffed his immaculately tailored coat and suit jacket, with a black armband still on the sleeve, no doubt for poor Violette or whatever her name really was. I had no compunction about taking a good look at him, and was not disappointed with what I saw. I may be a proper maiden lady, but I do appreciate the well-assembled male form, especially in a nicely fitted gray waistcoat, neat white shirt and dark trousers. I tossed him the foil, and he dropped it.

&nbs
p; “Good thing we’re fencing and not playing baseball,” I observed, carefully not snickering, in case it was a feint.

  Saint Aubyn, who would have been the late, lamented himself if this had been an actual duel, gave me a wry, and rather appealing, shrug. “I have not been on the field of honor in a while.”

  “Well, let’s see what you’ve still got. En garde.”

  I started on the attack. At first, he was very cautious, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of fencing with a woman. But he quickly realized I was much better than he was expecting, and began matching my parry and thrust. He was far more skilled than you’d have expected from that awkward start, but still nowhere near my level. Thankfully (and entirely uncharacteristically), Montezuma observed all of this without providing commentary. I knew it was just a matter of time.

  “What was her real name?” I asked. Still better than fencing with Tommy, who was not always able to hang on to the sword for more than a few minutes.

  “Lady Frances Saint Aubyn. Daughter of one of my uncles.”

  I let him back me up a bit before I went on the attack again. “She was a very well-trained operatic soprano.” And a rotten little show-off, but we don’t need to go into that.

  “A lifetime of singing lessons wasted,” he replied as I forced him back across the studio. “It is supposed to be merely a ladylike accomplishment.”

  “Clearly, she didn’t see it that way.” Parry.

  “Clearly.” Thrust.

  “Singing opera is an honorable profession.”

  “Maybe for a woman who has to earn her way in the world.” He nodded as he attacked. “I will give you that.”

  “Generous of you.” I met the attack and very nearly twisted the foil out of his hand.

  “Well done. I probably deserved that.” He smiled faintly as he backed up and regrouped, then started toward me again. “She ran off two years ago. We got a letter from the coroner of New Haven. I gather you did not know she had a family.”