“You mention a professional level. How about a personal level?”
A cynical smile. “Hated his guts,” said Lloyd Clancy.
Douglas Binns was apologetic. “Alanna Brooks has come down with a severe migraine headache. She’s in her dressing room, but I don’t know if she can give you an interview.”
The prima donna’s dressing room was the twin of Lloyd Clancy’s, but the curtains had been drawn to shut out the light and the beauty of the harbor. Alanna Brooks’s full-figured body was huddled in a chair, her head resting on one hand. The fair, translucent skin of her face was drawn. She said, her voice husky, “Inspector Ashton, I’m sorry, but I’ve asked Douglas to call a cab. When I get one of these migraines, it’s the full disaster-pain, vision disturbances and nausea. The only thing that helps is to lie down and go to sleep. I realize you need to speak with me, but I’m afraid it’s impossible at the moment.”
“Would you just tell me when you last saw or spoke to Mr. Raeburn?”
Alanna Brooks groped around in a bag and found a pair of sunglasses. As she put them on, she said, “God. I feel terrible.”
“Ms Brooks?”
“Yes, Collis… I saw him on Saturday afternoon, here in the dressing room. He didn’t say or do anything to make me think he was going to do what he did.”
Douglas Binns knocked. “The cab’s here.”
The diva stood carefully. “I think my head’s going to explode… Inspector, can I call you tomorrow? I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
“Handy headache?” said Carol to Anne Newsome as they walked to the car.
“Perhaps she needs time to counter the less than flattering comments Corinne Jawalski continued to make after you’d left us,” said Anne. “She was reasonably civil about male singers, but mention a rival soprano and she’s in for the kill.”
“It’s becoming obvious to me that opera’s just like the Police Service,” observed Carol. “You have to watch your back, because your colleagues can be dangerous.”
She ignored Anne’s surprised expression, wondering herself why she’d expressed this thought in words.
Changing to a strictly-business tone, she said, “Did you ask Corinne about her personal relationship with Raeburn?”
“Her actual words,” said Anne with a smile, “were that they were close friends and colleagues.”
“Believe her?”
Anne shook her head. “Underneath all that venom,” she said, “I think there’s a real grief. It’s possible she loved him.”
“Yes, and let’s follow that up. I’ve got something else for you to do. The Euthanasia Handbook is shrink-wrapped in plastic and anyone buying a copy has to be over eighteen. Most bookshops ask for a current driver’s license.” She caught Anne’s unenthusiastic expression, and smiled. “Yes, I know it’s a long shot, but I would like a check made of bookshops where Raeburn might conceivably have bought a copy in, say, the last couple of months. He’s very well known, particularly from television, so it’s possible someone will remember him. And if we can find that he definitely did buy the handbook, that will strengthen the possibility of suicide.”
“His fingerprints were on the book.”
Carol caught at a thought she hadn’t put into action. “Yes, Anne, the fingerprints. The book was marketed sealed in plastic, so it could be expected that his would be the only prints on it. I’m interested in exactly where he touched the handbook-it seems such a convenient prop for a suicide scene.” She smiled as she added, “And in case you have time to spare, I’d like you to see Raeburn’s publicist, Anita Burgess. Also, see if you can speak to Corinne Jawalski’s flatmate. I’d be interested to know if she did have a call from Raeburn, and when.”
“Want to speak with Pat?” said Bourke as she walked in. “I’m taking her to lunch, and I asked her to be early in case you were in the market for first-hand opera gossip.”
Because of the engagement, Carol had become friendly with Pat and found herself growing genuinely fond of her, not only because of her frank, open nature, but also because she had so obviously made Mark Bourke happy. “When will Pat be here?”
“Half an hour or so.”
“Great. I’ll take her out for coffee and you can pick her up from there.” She added mischievously, “I suppose this a wedding-talk lunch?”
“Don’t think I can cope,” he said, laughing. “I just can’t believe how many arrangements have to be made just to get hitched.”
Carol was about to make a snide comment about first-time grooms but caught herself. Bourke had been married before, had lost his wife and child in a boating accident. It was something he’d never spoken about to her, but she knew the tragedy must have cast a permanent shadow over his life. She imagined what it would be like if her own son were to die. She loved David unconditionally. He was the only individual she had ever permitted herself to love so totally, and she was still bitterly regretful that she had ever allowed herself to be persuaded to give him up.
“Getting married’s easy,” she said mockingly. “It’s what happens afterwards that’s hard to cope with.”
“Thanks for the confidence boost.” He handed her a telephone message. “Madeline Shipley called. She wants you to ring her back as soon as possible.”
Carol was surprised by the twinge of excitement she felt at Madeline’s name. “Did she say why?”
He snorted. “We both know why. She’s part of the feeding frenzy over Collis Raeburn, and she’s going to use the fact she knows you personally the best way she knows how.”
One of Australia’s most successful television personalities, Madeline Shipley hosted the consistently high-rated Shipley Report, strip-scheduled early evening where the competition was ferocious, in an attempt to snare viewers for the rest of the night. Television’s demands, as far as female presenters were concerned, made it mandatory that Madeline Shipley be physically attractive and personally charming, but she was much more than this: intelligent, inquisitive, and when necessary, ruthless. Her slight build held a willpower like tungsten and a tenacity that had defeated the most difficult interviewees.
And, for Carol, Madeline held one other potent attraction-she was one of the few people Carol could relax with concerning her private life. She not only knew about Carol and Sybil, she also understood-being so firmly in the closet herself-the tightrope act of balancing professional and private lives. She shared with Carol the same conviction: “Announce publicly that you’re a lesbian, and to your face people will say how brave you are to stop living a lie and how much they admire you. Then you wave goodbye to your career.”
As she dialed Madeline Shipley’s private line, Carol realized that she was actively looking forward to hearing Madeline’s voice, her lazy, beguiling laugh.
Madeline answered at the third ring. “Carol? Why haven’t I seen you lately? How’s Sybil?”
It was a loaded question, though Madeline couldn’t know this. “Sybil’s fine.”
A slight pause, then Madeline said with an indefinable note in her voice, “That’s good.”
Carol could visualize Madeline’s quizzical expression. Wanting to short-circuit any further personal questions, she said, “What can I do for you?”
Madeline chuckled at Carol’s businesslike tone. “No time for idle chitchat, eh? Well, Carol, you know very well what you can do for me. You may know we’ve been preparing a TV special about Collis Raeburn and the Eureka Opera Company. Deadlines have become rather more urgent with his death, so I’m asking for absolutely every gruesome detail you can give me.”