Mortal Music

Also by Ann Parker

The Silver Rush Mysteries

Silver Lies

Iron Ties

Leaden Skies

Mercury’s Rise

What Gold Buys

A Dying Note

Copyright © 2020 by Ann Parker

Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

Cover design by The BookDesigners

Cover images © rzarek/Shutterstock, mashuk/Getty Images

Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Names: Parker, Ann

Title: Mortal music / Ann Parker.

Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, [2019] |

Identifiers: LCCN 2019031438 | (hardcover)

Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3616.A744 M67 2019 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019031438

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Author’s Note

About the Author

Back Cover

Dedicated to the Parker and McConachie clans—

Artists, adventurers, scientists, musicians

It is always fatal to have music or poetry interrupted.

—George Eliot

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Colleen Casey for sharing her knowledge and love of San Francisco and its history, to Steve Parker and Sue Stephenson for musical assistance, Wm. Sean Casey for supplying firearms expertise, Wendy McConachie for bird suggestions, the San Francisco Public Library’s History Center and its librarians for their help and advice, and the San Francisco Palace Hotel staff for an amazing tour and their patience in answering my questions. All errors, omissions, and slips into alternate realities are mine.

I’m very grateful to my family—Bill, Ian, and Devyn, as well as the wider McConachie and Parker clans—for their love and support. Thanks are also due to critique partners and beta readers who offered suggestions and support: Bill McConachie, Camille Minichino, Carole Price, Colleen Casey, Dani Greer, Devyn McConachie, Janet Finsilver, Mary-Lynne Pierce Bernald, Nannette Carroll, Penny Warner, and Staci McLaughlin. Here’s a tip of the hat to Maddee James and the gang at xuni.com for designing my website and keeping it spiffy and up-to-date. Additionally, I’d like to give a shout-out of appreciation to my agent, Anne Hawkins of John Hawkins and Associates.

Lastly, special thanks to Barbara Peters, Robert Rosenwald, and the staff at Poisoned Pen Press for all the guidance and support these many years. It’s been quite the journey.

Chapter One

December 20, 1881

There had been occasions in the past when Inez Stannert had looked a man—and even, once, a woman—straight in the eye and felt justified in pulling the trigger. And she suspected there might be times in the future when she would have to do so again.

But she would never harm a child.

Never.

However, there were times that sorely tried her soul.

This was one of them.

Face contorted in agony, twelve-year-old Antonia Gizzi clapped her hands to her ears and implored Inez. I can’t stand it! Please! No more!

Inez frowned at her young ward and tried to stem her growing irritation. At least Antonia had staged her protest in a whisper, loud though it was. And at least they were seated in a mezzanine box of the Grand Opera House, not in the balcony or orchestra where Antonia’s groans and grumbles would disturb others. Inez snapped her silk fan closed, set the silver guard sticks against Antonia’s arm, and pressed down. This is the encore. The performance is almost over.

Inez had intended the evening to be an early Christmas gift to the girl—an elevating experience, but also a partial apology for sending her away from San Francisco for the upcoming holiday. However, Antonia seemed to view being subjected to the recital by a highly acclaimed prima donna as punishment heaped upon punishment, reacting as if knives were being plunged into her ears.

The beautiful strains of "Dove sono i bei momenti" soared through the air, touching the frescoes, flying off the light-blue drapery, stilling the scattered murmurs and shufflings of the two thousand or so viewers. The singer below shifted her stance, raising one languid arm as her voice climbed the scale. Her gloves and dress—a glittering affair of gold and silver—captured the illumination from the footlights, shimmering like her voice. The piano accompanist, a gentleman with dark, silver-streaked hair that had its own metallic sheen, leaned into the keyboard with intensity. A little too much intensity, Inez thought. In her estimation, he should have gone with a lighter touch so the instrument was not warring with the singer for dominance.

At a particularly fulsome trill, Antonia rolled her eyes skyward, looking for all the world as if she were about to have a fit and fall from her chair. Luckily, for Inez’s patience and Antonia’s ears, the aria ended and the audience erupted into applause and enthusiastic plebeian whistles, punctuated by Brava! or Again! depending on the admirer’s familiarity with opera and Romance languages. Antonia jumped up from her chair. Now do we get to go backstage and see all the scenery and ropes and rigging and interesting stuff?

As an additional treat, Inez had used her connections as co-owner of the D & S House of Music and Curiosities to persuade Mr. Thackery, the assistant manager of the opera house, to give them a peek behind the proscenium arch and a personal introduction to the visiting diva. At this point, Inez was tempted to quash the tour as retribution for Antonia’s boorish behavior during the recital. But looking down at the girl’s expectant face—her plaits of dark hair coming undone, even though she had done little besides sit and squirm for the past three hours—Inez didn’t have the heart to do so.

Besides, she was just as curious as her ward to see what lay beyond the footlights.

We are to wait here for Mr. Thackery to arrive and escort us, said Inez.

No sooner had the words been said than the curtain to the box swept aside, revealing the assistant manager. A toothsome smile came out of hiding below his walrus mustache. That smile, the mustache, his slightly bulging blue eyes, and thinning reddish hair made Inez think of him as an over-eager squirrel—all he lacked was a mouthful of acorns. Mrs. Stannert and little Antonia. I hope you both enjoyed the performance.

Antonia glowered. Inez, who suspected the girl was about to blurt out her real opinion of the singing, gave Antonia’s arm a light pinch as a warning.

Thackery didn’t seem to notice, possibly because Antonia’s glare was muted underneath her bonnet. Or it could have been because his perpetually pop-eyed gaze was so firmly fixed on Inez.

The scowl disappeared from Antonia’s face, replaced by a too-wide smile. Oh, yes, Mr. Thackery, she piped up with what Inez knew was patently false earnestness. The seats were excellent and the performances most exquisite.

Glad to hear, he said.

It was wonderful, and we are ever so grateful for your consideration, added Inez.

He beamed, then said, This way, ladies, this way, if you please. He started to take Inez by the arm.

She avoided what she deemed a familiarity by deploying her fan with a twist of the wrist while turning to Antonia and saying, Be on your best behavior, Antonia. It is a great honor to see behind the scenes of the Grand Opera House and to meet Mrs. Carrington Drake. She has come all the way from Philadelphia to sing here in San Francisco.

That’s right, enthused Thackery, who bowed them out of the box and led them to an elegant curved staircase. The Golden Songbird has returned to the city where her voice first took flight and charmed the masses. Not here at the Grand, of course, as we only opened seven years ago, in seventy-four. I recall seeing her ten or more years ago, at the Melpomene Theater. The Melpomene was well known in its time, but it was never as grand as the Grand is now.

A gentleman, who had been mounting the stairs against the tide of operagoers surging down, stopped before them. Blocking their path, he boomed, Mr. Thackery! He ripped the bowler hat from his head, but Inez doubted it was a gesture of respect.

Inez retreated a step, dragging Antonia with her. The man’s wild gaze was alarming, and Inez was glad it was not directed at them. All his attention focused on the assistant manager.

Thackery, to his credit, stayed put, and even bristled. Mr. Teague. It is not necessary to raise your voice.

Two burly ushers at the bottom of the staircase glanced up at the fracas. One started up the staircase, but the other stopped him. They stayed where they were, watching closely.

"Well, if it’s the only way I can get someone’s attention around here, then I guess it is necessary." Teague ran an ink-stained hand over his longer-than-fashionable unruly hair, which was the same dark-red hue as the beard that threatened to engulf his bow tie.

He pointed at Thackery. Where’s Graham Drake? He must be here. After all, his wife was your star attraction.

He is not available, huffed Thackery. If you wish to speak with Mr. Drake, you shall have to do so elsewhere.

You don’t think I’ve tried that? He’s avoiding me. Every place I track him, he’s been and gone. Or, he’s ‘not available.’ Thackery, I bought one of your high-priced tickets for tonight’s performance and I’m here on legitimate business.

You are not a theater critic, Mr. Teague. You came as a member of the audience.

Thackery must have made some secret signal, because the two ushers were in motion, making their determined way upward.

Thackery continued, The performance is over. It’s time for you to leave.

The ushers grabbed Teague’s arms and roughly hauled him backward. Stumbling, he was half dragged, half hauled down the stairs. In a voice that would have carried easily from the Grand’s stage to the back seats, Teague shouted, You tell Graham Drake he can’t hide from me forever. I know who he is, and what he is, and I take it as my professional duty and honor as a member of the fourth estate to tell the world.

As he was thus escorted across the elegant lobby, the departing patrons paused, watching this unexpected epilogue to their evening’s entertainment. The women pulled their long elegant skirts aside as if his passing might contaminate their new winter ensembles. The men murmured to each other and eyed Teague with calculation, as if weighing his words upon the scales of rumor and truth. Upon reaching the exit, the ushers unceremoniously thrust him outdoors, and his shouting ceased.

Thackery turned to Inez and Antonia on the steps above. Well. That sort of excitement was common twenty, thirty years ago in the city, not so much these days.

Inez could see that Antonia was burning with questions. She took the girl’s shoulder, a silent admonition, yet couldn’t help but ask one question herself. So, this Mr. Teague. Is he a local newspaperman?

Thackery looked about, perhaps hoping the question was addressed to someone else. With no likely suspects nearby, he finally said, Yes, yes, he is. Or perhaps, was? It seems I heard some story or other, but since I cannot say for certain, it is best I not say at all. I can assure you he is not a theater critic, nor a reporter of musical news nor high society. So, let’s continue, shall we? To more pleasant things.

He guided them down the stairs to the entrance hall, bright with crystal chandeliers, past the fountain in the center of the lobby. Inez inhaled the fragrance of lavender cologne water as it plashed softly from innumerable needle jets. Scent and sound died as Thackery guided them across the floor to a set of side doors.

They proceeded through a corridor, heading back in the direction of the stage, with Thackery chattering all the while. We are honored, Mrs. Stannert, that you and Miss Antonia take such a strong interest in the arts, particularly the theater. The Grand, with her architecture and amenities, proudly surpasses any of the other theatrical venues the West has to offer.

Inez murmured politely, distracted by his Adam’s apple—large, prominent, bobbling with excitement. It paired oddly with his enormous, drooping mustache, and she found herself wondering, not for the first time, why he hadn’t grown a beard to conceal his throat.

He continued, We have an art gallery over the entrance hall. Perhaps you’d like to return and see it during the day when you can fully appreciate the skylight, which is a work of art in itself. There are numerous offices all along the gallery, designed as artists’ studios. We have corridors that connect to the theater, featuring paintings by local artists as well as select pieces by European masters. It is a most excellent area for promenading, and I shall be delighted to be your guide, next time you grace us with your presence.

He stopped and bent down, bringing his face to Antonia’s level. Ah, but I know what you came to see, little Miss.

Antonia took a quick step back. Inez hoped Antonia’s small but deadly pocketknife was at home and not tucked in her coat pocket. The salvavirgo, sharp but innocuous in appearance when its blade was folded away, had belonged to Antonia’s deceased mother. The girl had a bad habit of carrying it everywhere and pulling it out whenever she felt threatened.

The stage, eh? He winked at her. Would you like to stand on center stage? See what it’s like to look out over the auditorium?

Antonia’s posture relaxed. Oh, yes, sir!

Inez was glad to see she had remembered her manners enough to add the sir.

Antonia added, I’m wondering if it’s like the Grand Central Theater in Leadville. Leadville’s where we used to live.

A deep furrow joined his eyebrows in puzzlement. Lead…what?

Inez interrupted hastily, hoping Thackery was ignorant of the notoriety of that particular Grand theater, which stood hip-deep and proud in the red-light district of Colorado’s premiere silver-mining boomtown. This is a different class of theater, Antonia. This is a proper opera house. Famous actors and actresses and singers of the first order come from all over the world to perform here.

The girl tipped up her head to view Inez from under her bonnet brim. But Mrs. S, they have actresses and singers at the Leadville Grand too.

Inez cleared her throat, thinking that the honky-tonk singers and so-called actresses of the Leadville Grand, who doubled as prostitutes to augment their pay, would probably go cross-eyed and mute should they be shoved onto the stage of the San Francisco Grand. She squeezed Antonia’s shoulder lightly in warning before locking her gaze on the assistant manager. Summoning a smile with just a hint of demureness, she said, Mr. Thackery, we would be most thrilled to see your stage and honored to stand upon it.

With the clucking eagerness of a hen herding its chicks, he led them through the backstage area, providing a nonstop commentary on the opera house’s merits. He interrupted his own monologue to occasionally squawk warnings at the stagehands as they hauled on ropes, lifting scenery to the top of the building or lowering it through openings in the stage into the basement.

The stage is eighty-seven feet deep and one hundred and six feet wide. He halted as an enormous canvas flat, painted to show stately columns and a rolling countryside, was being hauled aloft with ropes by a clutch of stagehands. It was ascending in fits and starts at a dangerously crooked angle with much clattering and ratcheting.

Thackery strode forward and barked, You there, you men with the backdrop. Carefully now.

Are they going to drop it? Antonia whispered to Inez, almost as if she hoped they would.

Thackery waited while the men grumbled and tussled with the ropes. Once the backdrop righted, Thackery returned to Inez and Antonia and continued his verbal annotations in a normal tone. The flats are twenty-four feet high, the highest of any in the world. They can be lifted to the top of the building or lowered into the basement until needed.

They walked out onto the stage, their hard-soled tread upon the boards echoing into the upper reaches of the building and out into the vast space of the auditorium. Antonia, who had been gawking at the rigging and machinery, stepped to the edge of the stage and peered over the footlights powered, according to Thackery, by electricity.

Electricity? Inez exclaimed.

He preened. The Grand is exceedingly modern and employs the latest in technology.

Antonia commented, There are sure a lot of chairs out there.

We can seat three thousand souls, said Thackery. Only two theaters in the United States have larger auditoriums.

The stage itself was mostly empty, save for the grand piano, right of center. The ghostly notes from the arias recently played seemed to swirl around it, calling to Inez. Her fingers tingled in her gloves, longing to recreate what she had just heard. Unable to resist, she headed toward the piano.

A magnificent instrument, said Thackery, pacing her. We are so grateful your music store had a Broadwood in stock. We usually use Steinway, but Mrs. Drake, she, ah…

Inez spared a glance his way as his chatty stream of words dried up. He was visibly uncomfortable, seeming to be seeking a way forward. He finally finished with Mrs. Drake preferred a Broadwood.

They are certainly well suited to such surroundings, Inez replied, as much to ease his discomfort as to reassure him that Mrs. Drake’s preference was completely understandable. Inez smoothed a gloved hand over the curve of the open lid, marveling at the silky sheen. She had another Broadwood that took center stage in the music store, but here in the opera house, the instrument was in its element. Unconfined by pressing walls nor dulled by carpets on the floor, open to the vastness of the auditorium, it stood upon the stage as aristocratic as any diva.

More than anything, she wanted to touch the keys, hear the notes pour out from her fingers to the keys and hammers, out over the orchestra pit, and experience what it was like to send music over the now-empty seats. Mr. Thackery, may I?

The toothy smile broke through again. Of course, Mrs. Stannert. It does have a lovely tone, as I’m certain you know.

Inez settled onto the bench, taking care she wasn’t sitting on the tassels of the mauve satin sash decorating her overskirt and that the long, knife-pleat underskirt stayed untangled from her satin shoes. She removed her gloves, lifted the fallboard to reveal the keyboard, and set her fingertips upon the smooth, cool ivory keys. She pondered. What to play? What would be a proper offering for such a musically sacred setting?

A short reflection, and the choice was obvious. Simplicity, and a nod to the amazing purity of Mrs. Drake’s voice.

Inclining her head over the keyboard, Inez half closed her eyes, pulling up from memory Ave Maria.

The flowing melodic line wrapped around her. Antonia, Mr. Thackery, the stage, everything else disappeared, becoming mist to the music.

The last notes had not yet died when a touch on her shoulder startled her.

Perfectly and impeccably exquisite.

Inez twisted around at the euphonious female voice. The prima donna, Theia Carrington Drake, stood close behind her.

Chapter Two

December 20

Mrs. Drake was still dressed in the shimmering gold-and-silver gown from her performance, a smile gracing her heart-shaped face. A small gold bird with black markings on its head, wings, and tail perched on a gloved finger, raised up and to the side. The opera star’s feathered companion cocked its head as if listening to an echo of the final chords. A delicate gold chain linked one tiny leg to an intricate, finely braided bracelet encircling the singer’s wrist. The slender tether glittered and swayed as she extended her free hand in greeting. Light glinted off her gloves, white kid with the backs richly worked with seed pearls and silver and gold beads.

Inez rose. Madame Drake. Thank you for your kind words. I did not know you were listening. It’s an honor to meet you. She took the diva’s hand, feeling awkward without her own gloves.

The footlights behind them cast a halo about the diva’s upswept light-brown hair. And you are Mrs. Inez Stannert? Or so Mr. Thackery told me. You do this wonderful instrument justice. Would you consider playing ‘Ave Maria’ again? For me, this time? Theia turned to Antonia, still frozen near the footlights. Come here, child. What is your name? Do you like birds? This is my pet, Aria. Would you hold him while I sing?

Inez held her breath, praying that Antonia would hold fast to her manners and not burst out with something rude or outré, such as Those high notes almost made my ears bleed.

Antonia mumbled her name, adding a stilted If you please, ma’am, I would very much enjoy holding your bird.

Inez exhaled with relief.

Theia smiled. "Antonia. Lovely name. Do you know, there is an Antonia, a young girl, in a new opera by Monsieur Jacques Offenbach, Les Contes d’Hoffmann—The Tales of Hoffmann. Mr. Drake and I were fortunate to see it at the Opéra-Comique in Paris. Now, extend your arm and hand, so."

Antonia copied Theia’s raised arm and pointing finger. Theia unclasped her bracelet, which glinted as if made of rust-red wire, and wrapped it around Antonia’s wrist. She refastened the intricate gold clasp before encouraging the little bird onto the girl’s finger. After some flapping about, Aria regained his equilibrium. There! exclaimed Theia. Now, all you must do is stay just like that, as still as can be, until I am done.

A delighted smile spread across Antonia’s face as Aria began preening. Other than the curving of her lips, the girl remained motionless.

Theia turned to Inez. Begin when ready.

Inez lowered herself onto the bench, her stomach clenched as tightly as at her first recital in her parents’ New York City salon more than two decades ago. She took as deep a breath as her corseted lungs would allow, let it out slowly, and positioned her hands on the keyboard. Then she looked up into Theia’s expectant face, nodded once, and moved into the first chord.

The introductory notes opened the door to Mrs. Drake’s soaring soprano. Inez eased her touch, allowing the singer’s voice to take precedence. Like the movement of the tide, piano and vocals flowed back and forth, passing from one to the other in a circling dance of sound. As the last notes faded away, Inez heard Antonia exhale a breathy Wow.

Inez pushed back the bench and rose, lightheaded. Applause erupted from the nearby wing and she saw Thackery and Mrs. Drake’s accompanist. A soft swish of cloth against wood and Mrs. Drake pirouetted to face them, hands pressed prayerfully to her breast, and offered a modest bow. She turned and gestured to Inez to come stand beside her. As Inez approached, she realized she stood nearly eye to eye with the singer—an unusual sensation since she was accustomed to towering over women and even many men.

"Bravissima, Madame Drake, said the pianist. Extraordinary, as usual."

Thank you, Señor Rubio, she replied, the melody from music carrying over to her speaking voice. She then turned to Inez and grasped her hands. The color of the diva’s pale-brown, almost amber-colored eyes, tinged with gold, reminded Inez of weak tea. However, the applause belongs to Mrs. Stannert.

Those eyes—anything but weak in character—bore into her in a way Inez found uncomfortably intimate.

Mrs. Drake gave her hands a squeeze. Inez gasped a little, surprised at the strength in the grip, and gently extracted herself. Thank you, Mrs. Drake.

One gloved hand flew to her lips. Forgive me. A pianist’s hands are like a singer’s voice and must be treated with great care and reverence, yes?

Thackery and Rubio approached, with Thackery saying, Mrs. Drake, I didn’t mention, we rented the Broadwood from Mrs. Stannert’s store, the D & S House of Music and Curiosities. Over on Pine and Kearney.

Theia seemed to brighten even more, if that were possible. Then, I owe you a debt of gratitude, Mrs. Stannert, for I could not sing without a proper instrument to accompany me.

I am glad we could help, said Inez.

"The D is for Donato, interjected Rubio. A most distinguished violinist in the city. It is his store, as I recall. He offered a short bow to Inez, adding, Please tell him, Señor Luis Rubio offers his salutations and will come by the store and provide them in person, when time permits."

Inez caught her breath at this and said quickly, Mr. Donato is no longer part of the business. His sister, Miss Donato, has taken his place.

Is that so. Mrs. Drake’s response was indifferent, as if the change in conversation were a speck of lint to be brushed from her sparkling skirt.

It was definitely so.

In counterpoint to the diva’s disinterest, Rubio’s dark-eyed gaze narrowed. Inez fancied she saw his nose twitch. In that moment, he reminded her uncomfortably of one of those sleek, dangerous panthers she’d seen in majestic paintings of California’s mountain wildernesses.

She decided it was best to change the subject. Mrs. Drake, I must give credit where credit is due. The prompt and timely delivery of the Broadwood is all due to the diligence of my store manager, Mr. Thomas Welles. Mr. Welles is also a pianist of considerable talent.

Welles, muttered Rubio under his breath. Inez thought she detected a disdainful sniff.

He certainly can be no more talented than you, Mrs. Stannert, said Mrs. Drake. Please call me Theia, and I shall call you Inez. I believe we shall come to know each other better in the coming days. Theia seized Inez’s hands again, but gently. You see, Inez, I have decided. I am scheduled for a number of very important appearances, and you will be my accompanist. You will be compensated accordingly.

Startled by the request—which had the tenor of a command—Inez tore her attention away from the diva as she debated how to respond.

Her gaze landed on Rubio. He stood behind Theia, a murderous look on his face.

A shiver chilled Inez as she registered that his ire was directed not at Theia, but at her.

Inez lifted her chin a little higher and stared back, not to be cowed. Rubio’s jaw tightened. Theia pivoted to follow Inez’s gaze. The anger fled Rubio’s face, and a smooth mask descended.

Madame. He smiled ingratiatingly at Theia. Perhaps you are unaware. Your husband contracted with me to be your accompanist throughout your stay. You have been so focused on preparing for your performances, he probably did not want to distract you with details.

Another feminine voice floated in from offstage. Is something amiss, Madame?

Inez startled. Then she chided herself: I have become complacent. In the past, I would have known who was present and where.

A young woman emerged onto the stage, smiling her question, hands clasped before her. Her fashionable, but modest, dark-blue outfit didn’t hide a youthful, blooming figure. Inez realized there were physical similarities between the young woman and Theia, in coloring and height. However, the younger woman glowed in a way that made Theia, even in her glittering outfit, pale by comparison. Seeing the two women side-by-side, Inez realized that Theia must be older than she had first assumed. Forty, perhaps? Even older? But undeniably a handsome woman whose force of personality was such that Inez imagined age didn’t stop Theia from charming anyone she wished.

Inez wondered if the young woman and Theia were mother and daughter, or perhaps older and younger sisters. Before she could ask, a man stepped out from the dark, behind the woman in blue. Dressed in the uniform of the Palace Hotel staff and holding an empty, cupola-shaped birdcage, he stopped a respectful distance away from them all. His dignified ebony face betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

Theia beckoned the young woman over. Here is my understudy and protégée, Miss Julia Green. Miss Green, this is Mrs. Inez Stannert. I have just arranged for Inez to be my accompanist for upcoming performances.

Inez wondered if this was how Theia approached the world: I speak, and thus shall it be. She opened her mouth to protest that her employment was not a done deal, not by a long shot, but reconsidered. Now was not the time. Best to watch and wait, get a better measure of the actors before entering the scene.

Shock flooded Miss Green’s face. But I thought—

Inez saw her eyes flicker toward Rubio.

Theia must have seen it as well, because she remarked irritably, Well. It seems everyone knew about that arrangement but me! I shall have to discuss this with Mr. Drake. Did he fashion this agreement? He must have. But he did not consult me. Julia, your business is your own, of course. You are free to continue with Mr. Rubio’s services for your lessons and practice sessions, should you desire.

Julia retreated, her clasped hands rising in silent plea. Or perhaps in defense.

Was there a note of threat behind Theia’s pointedly neutral words? Inez scrutinized the diva’s furious expression. Her barely contained anger seemed out of proportion with the situation. At least, on the surface.

Perhaps realizing this herself, Theia continued in a more measured, regal tone. Mr. Rubio, I am certain Mr. Drake will arrange compensation for your unfortunate assumption. Theia turned her back on him—a deliberate snub, it seemed to Inez—and addressed the man holding the cage. Jacob, Aria needs to return to the hotel.

The man from the Palace Hotel set the birdcage on the piano seat and opened the wire door. Theia beckoned to Antonia. Come, child. You did well. Aria uttered not a peep and did not try to fly off. You must have a natural affinity for birds. After coaxing the bird onto her own finger, Theia delivered it to the cage and unfastened its little shackle.

Antonia flexed her fingers. Is Aria a canary?

No, child. Aria is a yellow warbler. He stays this pretty color year-round, while a canary turns drab and dull in winter. Aria was a gift from an admirer. He said Aria was the perfect pet for me. Always beautiful, always singing, no matter the season. She hooked the cage door shut.

Staring at the cage, Antonia asked, Is that real gold?

Bronze. A cage of gold would be worth a fortune and would be a treasure nearly as dear to me as my little Aria. Theia made little kissing noises at the bird, now safe behind bars. Aria responded with a tuneful trill. Theia fluttered a languid hand at the Palace Hotel porter. Away. It grows late. Where is Mr. Drake, do you know, Mr. Thackery?

The assistant manager stepped forward from the sidelines where he’d been hovering. Examining the night’s receipts, Madame. It was a sold-out show, as you probably know.

I leave the business to Mr. Drake. I focus on my art, said Theia. She sighed. I am tired now. Would you take me to him, Mr. Thackery? Julia and I must return to our rooms in the presidential suite at the Palace Hotel. Oh, Inez, please have another Broadwood delivered tomorrow morning to the suite’s music room. The piano the hotel provided will not do.

Another Broadwood? Inez thought of the masterpiece sitting in their showroom. Very well. I have one more available for loan. I shall have to set up the delivery and it is now late.

Yes, yes. Theia’s tone made it clear that the details were not of interest. As she moved away, she threw over her shoulder, As early as possible, then. I am not one of those prima donnas who lies abed and breaks fast at noon. I shall expect the piano no later than nine o’clock. Earlier, if possible. And you and I have a lot of work to do to prepare for my next appearance. We should convene in the morning as well, so I can go over the program with you.

Rubio, who might as well have been a ghost for all the attention she gave him, tried again. Madame Drake, wait. Please. That single word rasped out, as if seldom used. Surely, this is all just a misunderstanding. We should talk.

I have nothing to discuss with you, Señor Rubio, said Theia. "We are done. Fini."

She began to walk offstage, leaving Rubio standing with his mouth agape like a fish. Julia Green, with a last helpless glance at Rubio, followed Theia.

Without warning, Rubio walked over to the piano and slammed the fallboard down. Inez gasped as the piano jangled a dissonant protest. Sir, that was quite unnecessary! If the instrument is damaged or requires retuning, you shall pay.

He stalked past Inez, saying under his breath, Rest assured, we are not done.

Are you addressing me? Inez demanded.

He walked off into the wings without answering.

Inez suspected there was more to this quarrel than she was privy to. Becoming the rope in a cryptic tug-of-war between Theia and her now-fired accompanist was not a position to which she aspired.

Mrs. Drake, a word. Inez hastened to catch up with her.

The diva dramatically placed the back of her gloved hand against her forehead as she turned to Inez. As I said, call me Theia. What is it? I feel a headache coming on. Please, be brief. We can talk in the morning.

This being the holidays, the store requires all my focus and attention, said Inez. She didn’t add that business had fallen off since the departure of Mr. Donato, creating a worrisome situation that threatened to consume her in her efforts to bring back much-needed customers. Much as I am flattered that you would ask me to be your musical accompanist, I must regretfully decline the honor.

Decline? Theia’s eyes narrowed in the shadow beneath her upraised hand.

Inez thought for a moment that she might actually try to slap her with that elegantly gloved palm.

The singer rolled her shoulders and tipped her head up. Oh, I cannot talk about this now. I must rest. Tomorrow morning, when you deliver the piano and Mr. Drake is with us to work out the particulars to your satisfaction, we shall address this anew. Good night, Inez.

Shock at being so cavalierly dismissed stunned Inez into uncharacteristic silence.

Theia turned away slowly. The footlights, still glowing, played over her gown like twinkling stars in a night sky as she left the stage on Thackery’s attentive arm, Julia at her side. The trail of Theia’s gown hissed along the boards with a sound like an icy winter wind whispering through the evergreens in the high Rocky Mountains.

Chapter Three

December 21

"Theia Carrington Drake asked you to be her accompanist?" D & S manager Thomas Welles repeated his question to Inez with the same astonishment.

Inez took his proffered hand, stepping down from the carriage into the grand court of the Palace Hotel. Is that truly so unbelievable? As I already told you, yes. She did.

They walked over the marble floor of the vast entrance chamber to the hotel, the scent of evergreen and the profusion of wreaths and red ribbons a reminder that Christmas was nearly upon them.

Welles persisted. "And you declined?"

Inez sighed and looked skyward. The opaque glass of the hotel’s lofty domed roof cast morning light down upon the pine-garlanded galleries circling each of the seven floors and onto the plants, statuary, and fountains crowding the central court—all without warming her face.

The repetitive nature of their conversation nettled Inez.

Not that she was feeling patient to begin with.

She had said goodbye to Antonia and Carmella Donato, titular half owner of the D & S House of Music and Curiosities, at the ferry station at dawn. Even though Carmella was dressed in mourning for her brother, Inez noticed several young men directing admiring glances at Miss Donato as they hurried past to board. Carmella didn’t seem aware of their appreciation, apparently focused on reassuring Inez about Antonia and the upcoming trip. Do not worry, Inez. When we get to Los Angeles, my uncle will meet us. He has a chicken ranch, and they also have horses and orange trees… Can you imagine? All that fresh air will do Antonia a world of good. And there are other young ones to keep her company so she does not have to spend all her time with me.

I’m not a young one, Antonia grumbled to Inez. I’m twelve years old. Nearly thirteen.

You are not acting like it, said Inez in an equally low voice. She planted a quick kiss on Antonia’s forehead and murmured, Remember, you are doing this for Carmella’s sake. This trip is exactly what she needs right now, to leave the city for a while, particularly for the holidays. And she wants your company. It’s the least we can do for all her kindnesses.

Antonia seized Inez’s hand, whispering, But I want to stay here. It’s Christmas! You’ll be all alone.

Do not worry about me. And you and I will have many more Christmases together. The ferry horn sounded a warning. Come. It’s time to go. You two have a train to catch in Oakland.

"Can