Ghost trio, p.1
Ghost Trio, page 1
Synopsis
Lee Howe, a professional pianist, comes to Southern California from New York on a mournful mission: She believes that if she can see the site where her beloved Devorah met her death, she will begin to accept that she must move on with her own life. Devorah Manikian had been rehearsing for a starring role in Carmen and was living in Eggerscliffe, a 1920s-style pseudo-castle belonging to wealthy and eccentric impresario, Annajean Eggers. Devorah was gone only a few weeks before Lee was notified that she was dead—killed in a tower fire at Eggerscliffe. But as Lee stands alone on a deserted patch of beach just below the castle, she hears Devorah singing. Is it the cocktail of tranquilizers, sleeping pills, antidepressants, and antianxiety drugs Lee has been taking since the announcement of Devorah’s death that makes her hallucinate her beloved’s voice—or is Devorah being kept a prisoner somewhere in Eggerscliffe?
Ghost Trio
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Ghost Trio
© 2013 By Lillian Q. Irwin. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-908-4
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First Edition: April 2013
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Credits
Editor: Ruth Sternglantz
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Sheri (GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)
I. Doloroso (with pain)
Chapter One
At the top of the hill Lee turned right. And there it was. She stopped the car. The house—if you could call a 1920s pseudo-castle a house—looked like something American millionaires were building just before the crash. It was separated from the street by a gate of black rails and pillars that were decorated with urns of startling white camellias. The effect reminded her of things funereal, like cemetery entrances and tomb paraphernalia. Through weeping willows, she could see that the house (Devorah had said it was called Castle Eggerscliffe) was built of slabs of dark stone. As she’d driven her rented car around the neighboring San Diego beach town, she’d been jolted by the cheeriness of vibrant green lawns and bright red and yellow flowers. She could glimpse between the houses a glistening Pacific Ocean. How was it that Castle Eggerscliffe alone looked as though it were impermeable to light? The place exuded sorrow. Like a backdrop for a Hollywood horror film, she thought. All that’s needed is a couple of buzzards perching on the gate. And, for a moment, she felt that to regard Castle Eggerscliffe in that light way dispelled its power to sink her back into grief.
But then she saw it, standing off to the south of the main building: the freestanding crenellated tower. The remains of the tower. Her eye had probably caught it before but hadn’t registered it fully in her consciousness. She was looking at the place where Devorah had met her death. Lee was seized by a shudder. She stared at the impervious giant that had swallowed up the person she loved most in all the world. This was Devorah’s crematorium. The tower appeared unscathed except for long fingers of black ash on its gray stones.
The weeping willows swaying in a slight breeze were the only movement. She turned her eyes from the tower to look at those trees that Devorah must have seen every day for the weeks she’d lived at Castle Eggerscliffe. Lee listened to their sad rustle, to the sounds Devorah must have heard; and she felt her loneliness more than ever, sitting in this place where Devorah had once been alive.
She had to rouse herself because she’d come here for a purpose. Now is the time for good-bye, she thought. She waited for the tears. She would say a real good-bye, and then she would leave, go back to New York maybe, and try to do better about getting on with her life. But the tears would not come.
In their place, fury suddenly swelled in her like an engorging beast. She slammed the dashboard. “Devorah, how did you live in this hideous place?” she yelled as though her lover were still alive and sitting by her side. “Why—when I begged you not to—did you go off to be with that woman?” Lee glared at the ugly stones, at the cemetery vegetation. She hated Annajean Eggers. Never in her life had she felt such painful hatred. She imagined confronting her, hurling her wrath at her. “Devorah would be alive if not for you!” She would do it. She flung open the car door and stepped out.
At that instant, the iron gate across the long driveway swung open to the street. A black Mercedes sedan rolled slowly out. The unexpectedness of movement where there’d been only stillness startled her, and as if by reflex, she jumped back into her car. Was it Annajean in the Mercedes? It accelerated, then passed Lee’s car. She peered, trying hard to make out who was inside. The driver was wearing dark glasses and was muffled in a big scarf. But it seemed to Lee that there was a passenger too, though her impression was vague since the side windows were tinted and her glimpse was brief. Annajean must have been in that car. Lee heard her blood roar in her ears.
She would wheel around and follow the Mercedes. She started her car and tried to make a U-turn, but a little truck appeared out of nowhere, and she had to stop. She spun the steering wheel quickly when it passed, her tires screeching, but by the time she got her car turned around, the black Mercedes was out of sight.
Lee drove up and down the narrow streets. She knew she wouldn’t find the Mercedes there, but now she had no notion what to do next. She’d probably never even be able to get close enough to Annajean to tell her what she thought of her. If she buzzed the intercom at the gate, a servant would answer, and Annajean would surely tell her to say that the Madame wasn’t home. I’ll lay in wait for her, Lee decided. She would jump out in front of Annajean’s car before the gate could close. Make her stop—and then do what? People didn’t challenge each other to duels nowadays—and duels had always been the prerogative of men, anyway.
She felt depleted, as though adrenaline as potent as an electric charge had surged through every fiber of her and then dissipated into nothingness.
She headed back to the Pacific Coast Highway, still not knowing what to do next. It was almost lunchtime and she hadn’t even had breakfast. There were drive-through fast-food places on every block. She maneuvered the car up to a Jack in the Box, but the smell of grilled meat and greasy fries made her stomach jump before she could give an order to the disembodied voice that squeaked, through static, “How may we serve you?”
“Just black coffee,” she grunted.
With the hot paper cup in one hand, she steered back onto the highway. Without thinking, she headed for Castle Eggerscliffe again. Annajean was probably still out. Maybe she could park on the little bluff that was near the castle and just sit and drink her coffee and look at the ocean for a while and think about Devorah. Then she’d go back to Gerri and Miriam’s. She’d go shopping, and she’d cook their dinner, as she’d promised. They’d been so good to take her in, but she’d been withdrawn, hadn’t even been able to be sociable. After they ate, they’d have a nice evening making music together because that’s what Gerri and Miriam loved to do most. And then—well, perhaps she had no business being in San Diego. Perhaps she really should go right back to New York, or Connecticut, or Europe. But any place would remind her of Dev. Any place would be hard.
She parked in front of the grassy bluff and walked out to its edge, the cooling cup of coffee still in her hand. The sharp salt smell of seaweed made her think of how she and Devorah sometimes used to dream about what they’d do when they were old ladies. “Ever notice how most of the great opera houses are in cold cities? When we finally retire, we’ll find sunshine and surf,” Dev used to say. Lee had liked the idea that they’d move to Southern California and be near Gerri and Miriam. And now she was in Southern California, alone. They’d never be old ladies together in sunshine and surf.
*
How different her life might have been if she and Devorah hadn’t gone to that postconcert reception. Lee looked out at the green expanse of ocean in front of her and remembered an overheated penthouse near Central Park. Devorah had said she wanted to go because women didn’t get to conduct in New York very often, and it was the duty of all the New York women in music to be there to honor Edith Krantz. Lee had resisted. It always seemed to her at those receptions that everyone was trying to impress everyone else, name-dropping, spewing endless monologues about their latest accomplishments. “That’s what gatherings like that are about,” she’d complained to Dev. “They’re a colossal bore. I’d rather go home and read a book or take a bubble bath.”
“Oh, come on, darling,” Devorah said, linking her arm with Lee’s. “We’ll stay for half an hour. Just to see and be seen.”
Lee knew the “to see and be seen” was to tease her; but she also knew that Dev really did love such parties. She loved to be in the presence of glittery people, those who were hugely successful or hugely talented or wealthy or in some other way extraordinary. Lee couldn’t care less about such things. But she cared about making Dev happy, and so a fter the concert at Lincoln Center, they hailed a taxi along with droves of other women musicians and ended up in the crowded penthouse. They stood in line to shake the hand of Edith Krantz, a plump, jolly woman who looked more like an old-fashioned grandma than an orchestra conductor, and Lee told her sincerely that she’d never heard the Sibelius so masterfully conducted. Then she left Dev chatting with Edith Krantz and went off to get them some champagne.
As she glanced at Dev from across the room, Lee thought she looked especially lovely that night, her lustrous dark hair pulled to one side, where it fell in waves onto the shoulder of the formfitting emerald gown which matched her large eyes. This was the only thing Lee liked about going to such gatherings. They’d be at a party or some kind of reception, and they’d separate for a few minutes, and Lee would get a glimpse of Devorah. Then her breath would catch in utter wonder that so glorious a creature chose to share life with her.
That evening, Lee stood in the champagne line for a long while, and she was able to watch Devorah, first as she spoke to Edith Krantz, then as she stepped aside to let others approach the conductor. Dev leaned against a wall, waiting for Lee to come back with the champagne, and Lee, watching from a distance, was struck all over again. How Devorah lit up a room. My diva, Lee thought tenderly—the way Dev held her elegant head, her majestic carriage, and yet that moving hint of shyness in her smile and sadness in her eyes.
Lee hurried back with the champagne flutes, but before she could reach Devorah, she saw a tall, sharp-featured woman stride up to her—a woman in flowing black, with heavy silver jewelry around her neck and short-cropped black-and-silver hair. Lee got there in time to hear the woman say, “Ms. Manikian, how incredibly fortunate for me that you’re here.” Her words came out in a rapid staccato. “I’m a great admirer of yours—I have all your CDs.”
It seemed to Lee that the woman absolutely gushed. Lee handed Devorah a champagne flute, and Devorah took it with one hand and smiled thanks. Her other hand was already being clasped by the woman, who would not let it go, and who did not give Lee as much as a glance.
“I’m Annajean Eggers, director of a new Southern California opera company,” she said, parting her lipsticked lips to flash bright white teeth at Dev. She ignored Lee as though she were a pillow on the couch they stood beside.
“A new opera company, how lovely—oh, this is Leanne Howe. We work together,” Devorah told the woman, clasping Lee’s shoulder with the familiarity that comes from fifteen years of shared space. “Live together too.”
Lee stepped forward to shake hands with the rude woman and got an overpowering whiff of her heady perfume. “Happy to meet you,” Lee lied.
“Oh yes.” The woman offered her limp fingers. Then she turned back to Devorah. “I came to New York partly to see Edith conduct. You know I helped finance the concert.” She shrugged modestly, as though to minimize what her smirk maximized. “But mainly I came to New York to find talent for my new company. In fact, you were one of the people I’d intended to look up.” Annajean Eggers laughed nervously as she said it, baring her even teeth again.
“It’s fate that I should run into you here, Ms. Manikian. Will you give me a few minutes to tell you what I’m doing in California?” And with that, she’d steered Devorah by the elbow toward a pair of red velvet chairs in an alcove, effectively eliminating Lee from the picture. Lee was miffed for only a second. Let Dev be amused for a while, she decided. She went off to thank the hostess for the party, and then she was buttonholed by a bosomy soprano she’d accompanied once in Rochester, who wanted to tell her about how the organizers of both the Graz summer festival and the Edinburgh summer festival were “already positively dueling over little old me for next year.”
Devorah came to rescue Lee just a few minutes later, her olive cheeks a rosy color now, and said with a megawatt smile, “Okay, love, I’m ready.” Neither of them mentioned the odd lady in black the rest of that evening. Lee remembered only the vision of Dev leaning against the wall in her green gown, and that night in their bed she made fierce and gentle love to her.
But the next day, when Lee got home from teaching her students at the conservatory, there was a note. My sweet, Ms. Eggers called. Having cocktails. Will be home for dinner no later than 7:30. Lee had looked forward all day to spending the hours before dinner showing Dev the progress she’d made on setting Amy Lowell poems to music. She was annoyed Dev hadn’t called her to say she’d be gone. But she made herself sit down and look over another poem. She hummed a tentative melody aloud. When I go away from you, Lowell had written of her lover, the world beats dead like a slackened drum. Lee listened all the while for Devorah’s key in the lock. I call out for you against the jutted stars and shout into the ridges of the wind.
Devorah came home breathless and announced that Annajean Eggers had invited her to sing the role of Carmen. “Lee, that’s the most glorious mezzo role in the history of opera. It’s sheer luck for me that the Carmen she’d had just dropped out. Oh, darling, this is the break that’ll finally get my opera career going again.” Her eyes shone and she looked almost girlish, the way Lee remembered her looking that night years before, when it had seemed Dev’s career in opera was unstoppable. “We’ll have to get started right away because Annajean says it would be great publicity and would really help launch things if we could do some benefit recitals first,” Dev went on. “Of course, we’ll also be rehearsing soon too. We’ll have two weeks of performances. So, altogether, Annajean thinks I should plan on being in San Diego for about three months.”
Lee opened her mouth, but for a minute she could not find words.
“Oh, Lee,” Devorah went on, “if things go well, she says she’ll introduce me to old friends of hers who work for La Scala!”
“Devorah,” Lee finally said, “we’ve never been separated for three whole months, and I can’t just up and leave right now for California. We agreed that I should sign that contract with the conservatory, and I have to finish the semester. And what about our bookings?”
“Oh…God…I guess I was so delirious about this that I forgot…”
Lee rose from her place at the piano bench and went to put her arms around Devorah. “Baby, what about my Amy Lowell pieces that you wanted to learn? I thought we were going to do them in the New Haven recital next month.”
The almost feverish flush seemed to drain from Devorah’s cheeks. “Yes. You’re right.” She shrugged. “Of course, I can’t just up and leave. It was a dumb idea.” She laughed ruefully. “I’m probably too old to play Carmen anyway. “Well…let me go put on something more comfortable than this dress,” she said, moving out of Lee’s clasp.
But she did not go to change. Instead, she stood still, as though deep in thought. “Lee, listen,” she said hesitantly after a while. “Why couldn’t you do our bookings with that mezzo in your accompaniment class that you said was sounding so great? It would be a wonderful opening for a young person.”
“But three months is such a long time, Dev.” She struggled to keep a whine out of her voice.
“No, Lee,” Devorah said, shaking her dark hair that Lee longed to caress even in the midst of their struggle, “we wouldn’t be separated for three months, darling. You can fly out every single weekend that you’re not playing. Why not? And I’ll be able to come back here for a couple of days once in a while, like I did a few years ago when I sang the Alto Rhapsody with the Houston Symphony and did those master classes at the University of Houston. Remember, I came back for three days right in the middle.”
“But that was just a ten-day gig, not three months. And what do we know about this woman anyway? How do we know she’s for real?”
“Lee, please don’t take me for an idiot.” Dev erupted in anger. “Don’t you think I called around this morning to half-a-dozen people to ask about Annajean Eggers? Ms. Eggers is very, very rich, and she uses her money to support music. Everyone who cares about music on the West Coast knows who Madame Annajean Eggers is. Lee, damn it, I’m almost forty years old. If it doesn’t happen for me soon, it will never happen. Do you believe I can do opera or don’t you?”
They’d so seldom fought in their fifteen years together that Lee was shocked. She struggled with herself to understand how it was Dev could contemplate going off alone for three months.
