“And the other?”
“Ah, that is the question, is it not.”
“The woman is secretive?”
“I have never met anyone who could say they truly knew Erin Brandt.”
Marcus found himself thinking of another lovely woman. One with eyes like an Arctic sunrise, softest indigo and shattered ice. “Maybe Dale came to know the real Erin.”
“Perhaps so, Mr. Glenwood. Perhaps that is why she left him.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare these documents for overnight shipment to London.”
“We are at the Wyndham another two nights. Come by tomorrow afternoon and I’ll tell you a little more about the woman you oppose.” She offered a hand long and tapered as a man’s. “It is seldom I meet someone able to shrug off one of my husband’s broadsides.”
Marcus turned away as swiftly as was polite. “Maybe I’ve just got more pressing matters on my mind.”
CHAPTER 18
Kirsten found it strange that she had missed the threat until she came out of the dressing room, since people in the shop had already begun casting glances her way. She had entered the Escada boutique on New Bond Street because she knew the place and liked the dark little number in the window. She figured she’d make a quick in-and-out, grab what she needed, and be gone so fast she could pretend it hadn’t really happened. For any moth, however, there was grave risk in flirting with the flame. She opened the dressing room door and aimed for the floor-length mirror on the opposite wall, only to be stopped by a far more ominous reflection.
The framed poster was a blowup of an ad they had run all over Europe. She was standing in heels and a fluffy hotel bathrobe, her hair still wet from the shower, giving a sultry inspection both to the viewer and an array of four Escada dresses and jewels and bags laid out on the bed. The company had made it their trademark ad for three seasons, beyond eternal in the rag trade. Kirsten turned away with the speed of retreating from a white-hot oven. But the salesgirl was there with an old copy of Vogue opened to the same page, asking for her autograph. Which drew over the store manager and another salesclerk and one of the patrons, all of them saying how great it was to meet her, where on earth had she been, the girls these days were just empty faces. Which was precisely Kirsten’s thought as she stared at herself staring back.
She returned to the hotel and pretended to sleep. But the internal din was resettled now into audible confines. This was not a random series of events. The game was stalking her. She was being drawn back, and to a new level whose appeal was so strong she could feel it grip her middle and twist with exquisite pain.
The early evening traffic was so bad Kirsten finally had the taxi let her off halfway down Piccadilly. The late July evening held an almost autumnal chill, particularly in her new sleeveless number of midnight blue silk. Walking was sweetest anguish. Everything was tainted by earlier memories. She passed swiftly through Leicester Square, skirting the grifters and the crowds. A cluster of Persian boys caught her by the tube stop and chased her with lewd offers. Who’s your daddy, they cried repeatedly as she fled. The litany bit deep.
She walked the length of Garrick Street, past the fashionable spots she knew so very well. The Covent Garden market was alive with its nightly theater when she entered, the first-timers agog over the spice-laden air and the multitude of street performers. Kirsten slipped through the knot of autograph hounds waiting by the stage door and gave her name to the very attentive guard. She was buzzed inside, then had to wait while someone was called from upstairs. Over the guard’s loudspeaker came the sounds of the orchestra warming up. The preperformance bustle and electric tension squeezed her into the far corner.
“Ms. Stansted?” A bony middle-aged woman with a dancer’s stance offered her hand. “Hillary Crampeth. So nice, so nice. Would you care to come this way?”
The guard buzzed them through a second locked door. The hostess led Kirsten past the backstage entrance and hurried up the winding stairs. “We’re so delighted to have Ms. Brandt singing tonight. We’d do absolutely anything for her. Naturally we try to anticipate a star’s every whim in advance, but when she asked us for a prime seat for tonight’s performance, well, it gave us quite a start. Thankfully, sold out never actually means sold out. There are always one or two seats which the house management hold back.”
She knocked smartly on a door with a brass plaque proclaiming it to be the director’s box, then opened it and said, “Your seat is there on the left. Enjoy the performance. I’ll be back to gather you at the intermission.”
The alcove held the feel of a velvet-lined jewelry case, with a high-ceilinged balcony directly overlooking the stage. Kirsten nodded to the two older couples in formal evening wear, who responded with haughty British curiosity.
The performance opened with a number by the orchestra, chorus, and ballet. Kirsten was so close to the stage she could see the dust fly off the dancers’ feet. She observed the cords in the singers’ necks tense up with carefully masked effort. She felt their talent and power in her chest.
Erin Brandt appeared to a spontaneous burst of applause. The diva was stunning. The two women to Kirsten’s left used the word to death as they applauded her opening aria. Kirsten could think of nothing else which described her. Erin was captivatingly small, certainly not the standard big-boned, lard-encased soprano. She floated, she trilled. She spun her magic and carried the house. Every eye was upon her for every instant she remained upon the stage.
At the intermission the aging hostess was back to lead Kirsten away. She ignored the caustic stares of others who wished for such personal treatment and asked, “How do you find the performance so far?”
“Stunning.”
The woman nodded matter-of-fact agreement. “We’ve arranged for you to have a table in the Vinson Floral Balcony. I hope that’s adequate.” She did her best not to appear to hurry Kirsten along while slipping easily down the cramped hallway. She pushed through a side door, marched down a private hallway, and entered a massive chamber awash with noise. “This was originally a Victorian floral market attached to the theater. It was then used for storing stage sets before the changeover.”
They traversed a balcony-restaurant overlooking a main hall with a seventy-foot domed ceiling. The hostess led Kirsten to a table by the balcony’s railing, where an iced bucket and a split of champagne awaited. She signaled to the head waiter, gave Kirsten a tight smile, and departed with “I hope you’ll be comfortable.”
As the waiter was opening her champagne, a bulbous little man with cat’s-eye glasses of electric blue came rushing over. “Ms. Stansted?”
“Yes.”
“Reiner Klatz. I am Ms. Brandt’s manager.” He clipped his heels together and bowed such that his jacket bunched over his belly. “You are most welcome, I am sure.”
The man was so familiar she could have drawn him from a hundred different scenarios. “Thank you.”
“This hall, it is so very British, is it not? It reminds me of a Victorian train station, all glass and steel and noise and bad air.” Klatz found reason for disdain in everything he saw. Another common trait of such hangers-on. “Do you know, they held the final topping out ceremony here when the house’s reconstruction was completed. But the week before, they discovered pigeons nesting in the steel railings. How were they to get them out? Of course with all this glass they could not use guns.” He gave her a tight smile. “So they brought in sparrow hawks. Very hungry ones. Ingenious, no?”
If there was a message intended for her, she missed it entirely. “Ms. Brandt sings beautifully.”
“Of course. Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a reception by one of the corporate sponsors after tonight’s performance. Ms. Brandt has agreed to make a brief appearance. Naturally you’d be welcome to join her.”