Prelude to murder, p.2
Prelude to Murder, page 2
She knew he was right. Her apprehension had little to do with cowboy boots and everything to do with fulfilling the conductor’s exacting requirements.
“I’ve heard the music director has fired people with no notice and for no reason.”
“No worries. Blatchley will love you. It’ll be a great experience for you.”
Julia smiled. “And for you.”
“Me? That’s different. Somebody once said opera can be deadly for non-opera people.”
“That was a joke.”
“Personally, I think Santa Fe will be a walk in the park compared with New York. Plus, it’s hot and dry during the day, brisk in the evenings,” Larry said. They both hated how humid New York summers could be. “And all that history. Now there’s something I can relate to.”
“History? You mean like practically every building constructed in the last six hundred years has a ghost of a murdered person haunting it? Unexplained phenomena occurring all over the place? Flickering lights, mysterious slamming doors, sounds of children crying—”
“Let me stop you right there.” He covered her concerned pout with an affectionate kiss. “You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. It can’t be worse than opening night at the Met.”
Julia frowned, remembering the night of her debut performance in her first season as a fledgling twenty-two-year-old violinist at New York’s Metropolitan Opera. Julia’s mentor, conductor Abel Trudeau, had been shot and killed on the podium before her eyes. Abel had been like a father to her; trying to do her job without his benevolent caring and guidance had been a constant struggle. Worse, when she somehow became entangled in the murder investigation, she also got caught up in an ominous web of jealousies and rivalries she never knew could exist at the venerable institution and ended up the target of a ruthless killer. Yet, despite the hazards and impediments, Julia had completed the Met season with her self-respect—and her life—intact.
Larry, almost twenty years older than Julia, had been the NYPD detective assigned to the murder case. The unlikely pair had become friendly as a result of their working together toward the goal of exonerating Sidney Richter, Julia’s closest colleague at the Met, who she was convinced was framed for Abel’s murder. Larry had started out concerned for Julia’s safety and welfare but had come to care for her in other ways. Now, they were an item.
Once Sidney had been cleared of all charges, Julia had felt free to soar to the heights of musical accomplishment of which Abel thought her capable. She had performed so exceptionally that Santa Fe Opera music director Blatchley had offered her the position of concertmaster for the company’s summer season, while the Met was on hiatus. Julia jumped at the opportunity.
“Besides,” Larry said, “How often does a twenty-three-year-old get a chance to be the most important violinist of a major opera company?”
“Abel always told me I would be a concertmaster someday. But what if I’m not ready?”
“Abel would say you’re more than ready. He would be incredibly proud of you. As am I.” Larry beamed at her. “Once you start playing that violin of yours in Santa Fe, they won’t know what hit them. Plus, I get to tag along for their most erotic and murderous opera season in years. Berg’s Lulu, Donizetti’s Lucia, Richard Strauss’s Salome. Each opera bloodier than the last.”
Julia was secretly proud that Larry had been expanding his operatic horizons since the two of them had first started working—and sleeping—together.
“You’re right,” Julia said. “Very high body counts. In Lulu, the painter slits his own throat. Dr. Schön gets gunned down by Lulu. She and Countess Geschwitz are knifed by Jack the Ripper. And St. John’s severed head in Salome could hardly be more gruesome. Crosby would have been thrilled.”
Julia and Larry held huge respect for John Crosby, who founded the Santa Fe Opera in 1957. “The crazy guy who wants to start an opera company,” as one Santa Fe resident described him. Against all odds, he had established the company in the middle of the desert, framed by New Mexico’s mesas and mountains.
Though Crosby had passed away in 2002, the company’s reputation was now at an all-time high, and Julia felt privileged to have been tapped for such a major role in it. But at that moment, her thoughts turned back to her immediate fear. “What if Blatchley hates my playing?”
“Nonsense. He’ll love it.” He flipped to a page showing a stunning photo of the opera’s John Crosby Theatre in front of a New Mexico sunset. “And who wouldn’t love playing here?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Julia said, mesmerized by the stunning image.
Larry reached under his pillow and pulled out a rectangular plastic box. “Here’s something to commemorate your embarking on this important new chapter in your career.”
Julia eyed the package, intrigued. “Sweet. But you didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Don’t just look at it, open it.”
Placing the brochure on the night table, she slid the cardboard sleeve off the box and gasped. “A Fitbit! You sly dog, you knew I’ve been wanting one. And in purple, my favorite.”
Larry aided Julia in her struggle to remove the wrappings and tape that sadistic designers always included in their packaging, lifted out the device, and clasped it around her wrist.
“This will motivate you to walk up and down hills and all around the Santa Fe campus,” he said. “It even has a flashlight. Perfect for snooping around backstage in the dark.”
Julia felt uncomfortable, remembering the trouble she’d gotten into for nosing around hidden stairways and hallways at the Met during Abel’s murder investigation. “There’ll be no snooping. But thank you. This is one fancy piece of jewelry. I love it.”
After her terrifying experience at the Met, when she barely survived a brutal attack on her life with the help of her friend Katie’s tiny gold cross necklace, the only jewelry Julia wore was a small gold Star of David necklace. But growing up, Julia had admired her Aunt Zsófia’s delicate, half-heart-shaped gold locket. When Zsófia had passed away, her daughter, Julia’s cousin, had gifted it to Julia. Now Julia wore Zsófia’s treasure constantly, the gold star peeking out from behind it. But Julia often fantasized about what had happened to the other half.
“Now let me up,” she said. “I have to practice those fiendish solos. You wouldn’t want me to self-destruct like Lulu’s character does—after she destroys every poor slob unfortunate enough to fall under her spell.”
He pulled her back onto the bed. “I had a different kind of practicing in mind.”
“For an opera buff, you can be absurdly unoriginal,” she said.
He wrapped his arms around her. “Reliable as a fine watch. That’s what you love about me.”
Chapter Two
O welche Lust, in freier Luft den Atem leicht zu heben!
O what joy, in the open air to breathe with ease!
—Beethoven, Fidelio, Act 1
Mountain views on all sides, more glorious than they had imagined, the mysterious Sangre de Cristo range to the east, the majestic Jemez peaks to the west, filled their eyes and captured their imagination as Julia and Larry drove from Albuquerque Airport toward Santa Fe.
Through the open window, Julia breathed in the smell of piñon trees, made pungent by the summer rain. “It’s intoxicating. Like honeyed tree sap. Sweet, woodsy, and fresh. So purifying.”
“And cozy, like a campfire,” Larry added.
Forgotten were Julia’s initial spaciness from the extreme change in altitude from sea level to thousands of feet above and her unrelenting anxiety over the anticipated stresses of her new job. Her attention was focused on the natural wonders surrounding her.
“It’s as magical as everyone says. Such an air of mystery about it. Two hundred miles of Precambrian crystalline rock over five hundred-seventy million years old—”
A sliver of lightning tore through the sky. Julia gave an involuntary gasp and waited until it was followed by the inevitable clap of thunder. Thunderstorms usually frightened her, but in this environment, they seemed more like a natural wonder.
She spied the main building of the Pueblo Inn on the left. “Oh, there’s our turnoff. Wow, there’s absolutely nothing around here.”
“Unlike Manhattan’s thousands of buildings and throngs of people, New Mexico, our home away from home for the next three months, is all wide-open spaces. We’ll get used to it.”
There were no piñon trees, not a cactus in sight, only scrubby native chaparral and sparse vegetation. But Julia found the Spanish Pueblo Revival-style buildings awe-inspiring. They looked like contemporary versions of ancient Anasazi cliff dwellings: low-slung, square- and rectangular-shaped adobe-pink boxes with flat roofs and strange-looking wooden posts protruding from the walls.
A concierge led Julia, holding tight to her violin case, and Larry, wheeling their luggage through a leafy garden across an “Enchanted Courtyard” dominated by a large, chunky fountain.
“The design shows the influence of New Mexico’s Indigenous Puebloan Ancient Ones and of Colonial Spain. The turret-like structure attached to the main building, our Kiva, represents Anasazi religious practices and symbolizes the watchtowers that were found all across the Southwest,” the concierge said. “The mysterious, all-important presence of the Ancient Ancestors’ ghostly spirits is very keenly felt—the Tiwa of Taos, Picuris Pueblos, and Puye.”
Julia’s friend Marin Crane, a mezzo-soprano from the Met who had been engaged to sing at Santa Fe, had filled in Julia about the local ghost lore, informing her that Santa Fe was considered one of the most haunted places in the U.S. The thought of spirits’ surveillance made Julia significantly more uneasy than the prospect of electrical storms.
“Do you think we’ll have one of their ghosts in our room?” Julia whispered to Larry.
“Maybe you should request one.”
“Very funny.”
Their room was decorated in the typical Southwestern style Julia had seen in her research about the southwest. A heavy, wooden king-sized four-poster bed festooned with a colorful Navajo wool coverlet and matching throw pillows and draped with thick homespun curtains dominated the space. Above the bed, the inscrutable faces of two sepia-toned Native American photo portraits looked off into the distance. Immense exposed rough wood ceiling beams, which Julia had found out were called Vigas, completed the effect.
“The bed’s got curtains,” Julia said after the concierge had left.
“Good. We can take refuge behind them when the ghost comes by tonight.”
Hiding her unease, Julia peeked into the bathroom, where a traditional pueblo ladder served as a towel holder.
“Oh, look, Latillas,” she said. “Puebloan mud houses had no doors, so they entered them via ladders opening on the roofs. They used them to climb from one level to another. That eventually developed into the pueblo style, using the more long-lasting brown-earth adobe, which the Spanish learned how to use from the Moors.”
“You’ve done your homework,” Larry said, opening up his carry-on. “I’m impressed.”
“I probably should have researched less and practiced more. I’m getting Lulu anxiety.”
“Maybe our ghost can help you.”
“Your jokes are as tarnished as a Navajo silver necklace exposed to a southwestern storm.”
“You’re right. I should respect your feelings more. I apologize.”
“You can make up for it with a kiss.”
Julia and Larry shared a cuddle. Then Julia moved to the window and gazed out at the light rain that had begun to fall. She had envisioned a Santa Fe of dust-covered roads and cowboys and Indians on horseback. She never had expected to be surrounded by mountains enveloped in mist, inhaling the scent of piñons in the rain-soaked air.
It truly is a “Land of Enchantment.”
* * *
At night, the room was quiet, perhaps too quiet. Despite the bed’s relative comfort and its hefty curtains blocking out any ambient light, Julia felt restless. She generally was a light sleeper, but somehow, this was different. She wasn’t sure if it was the time change, the altitude, or nervousness over starting her new position, but something didn’t feel right. She lay listening to the rain and glanced over at the LED clock on the night table. Four a.m.
She tried to conjure one of the more difficult violin passages from Lulu in her head, but it was much too complicated to visualize. Sighing, she turned over and, as she tried to go back to sleep, felt a sensation, as if someone had plopped down next to her on the bed. She felt next to her for Larry; he was in his usual position, which never changed during the night.
Again, she felt the imprint of a body, but this time it moved closer.
Don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes.
Was it the ghost of one of the Native Americans pictured on the wall, come down to avenge his ill-treatment at the hands of Spaniards or Anglos, angry that the population of Native Americans in the region had dwindled to a mere two-and-a-half percent? A Spanish missionary killed in the bloody wars with Comanches? A wounded soldier from the Mexican-American War? A Pueblo Indian rebel? A crypto-Jew, persecuted by the Catholics?
Julia had a hard time reconciling any of these. Her Russian-Hungarian-German-Jewish ancestors came to America in the 1920s and never went beyond New York, as far as she knew. Then she remembered that Spanish Jewry had found a tenuous foothold in the American West and had made their mark as merchants, philanthropists, and artists in Santa Fe. They were discriminated against, however, and those who refused to become Catholic converts, or “conversos,” sometimes had to observe their religion in secret as “Crypto-Jews.” Perhaps one of them was trying to get her attention, make her more aware of her roots?
That’s crazy, Julia. Let it go.
She would have had to see the ghost to believe in its presence, so Julia fought off her curiosity and followed her gut feeling, i.e., to keep her eyes closed and not tell Larry about it.
It must be the altitude making me spacey. Now I understand what “high desert” means.
That morning, she rose before Larry and went to the front desk to request a room change. Larry was wise enough not to ask any questions.
Chapter Three
Un nobile esempio è il vostro…al cielo attingete dell’arte
il magistero che la fede ravviva!
It is a noble example that you give…you draw from heaven
the mastery of art to revive the faith of men!
—Puccini, Tosca, Act 1
Julia’s heart raced as she and Larry drove north on Highway 285 toward the opera campus. Some of her palpitations might have stemmed from her adjusting to the altitude or perhaps from her paranormal experience the night before. But more likely, they were a result of her nervous anticipation of the day ahead: meeting the general director, music director, and new colleagues, and, most importantly, proving her mettle.
They turned on Opera Drive, passed by the OPERA TRAFFIC KEEP RIGHT sign, and wound along the one-point-six miles toward the campus. Julia gazed out across the Tesuque Valley, surrounded by the mountains. The blue New Mexico sky seemed to go on forever.
Larry pulled up to the curb in front of the entrance to the box office. “See you later.”
“What? You’re leaving me here? To face this alone?”
“It’s your show, your chance to shine. Go forth and impress people.”
Larry blew her a kiss and pulled away. Julia shrugged off her nerves and followed a path lined with adobe-pink pavers to the entry portal, where “The Crosby Theatre” was spelled out in gold-toned capital letters on the wall of the open-air structure. With its soaring roof and ship-like baffles, the architecture evoked images of Wagner’s Flying Dutchman, an opera that had fired up Julia’s imagination when she had played it at the Met the previous season.
Overcoming her distress, she approached the building and stopped at the security gate.
“I’m Julia Kogan, here to see Alan Reynolds. He’s expecting me.”
The security guard looked up at her. “The general director? I’ll buzz him.”
“Thank you. Oh, and my colleague is parking the car. His name is Larry Somers.”
As the Guard tapped Larry’s name onto his touch screen, Julia admired her surroundings. The plaque honoring John O’Hea Crosby and his parents, Laurence Alden and Aileen O’Hea Crosby, was impressive, but what struck her most was the newness of everything, especially when compared to the Met. The theatre clearly was meant to show that Santa Fe Opera was of the twenty-first century.
A tall, lanky man, his sand-colored hair peppered with grey, approached her. “Welcome to Santa Fe, Julia. I’m Alan Reynolds.”
Julia shook his hand. “Thank you. I’m honored to be here.”
“The honor is ours. Your reputation precedes you. Stewart is anxious to meet you.”
At the mention of the music director, Julia made a concerted effort to restrain her anxiety. “You have such a beautiful environment. Even the birds’ chirping sounds musical.”
“Southwestern birds sing more sweetly here. The music inspires them.”
Julia was surprised by how affable and unpretentious he was, how comfortable he made her feel, a huge contrast to her nemesis at the Met, General Manager Patricia Wells, whose disdain and overt lack of respect for the musicians made their lives miserable. Julia sensed she was going to have a much different experience at the Santa Fe Opera.
* * *
Alan guided her past the box office and adjoining Opera Shop, down to the central plaza and theater exterior. Julia pointed at several enormous white structures off to each side resembling twist-up ice cream pops.
“What are those huge, gauzy things?”
“Baffles for keeping out the wind and rain,” Alan said. “Mostly to prevent your instruments from being harmed during our heavy storms.”
Julia had never heard such a concern expressed for the orchestra at the Met. “Amazing.”
