Carol felt somehow disappointed that Collis Raeburn would have anything to do with someone like Derringer. “Did he show you any hard evidence, or was it all colorful description?”
“He swears Collis Raeburn was HIV-positive and that he got it from unprotected gay sex.” She paused to see if Carol would respond, then said, “Well? Was he a candidate for AIDS?”
Carol felt a thrill of anticipation. This was an approach to Raeburn from another angle, and information gained here might dovetail with other apparently unrelated pieces to form a coherent picture. She said matter-of-factly, “Just tell me what you’ve got.”
Madeline opened her purse and handed Carol an envelope. “A brief report on Derringer and copies of a couple of photos he gave us. They’re nothing startling, just Raeburn in what looks like a gay bar. Derringer’s playing coy and won’t say where it is, because, he says, he doesn’t want anyone else selling us the story.”
The photographs clearly identified Raeburn in a crowd of men, many dressed in leather and all apparently having a good time. He wore jeans and a denim shirt and was laughing in both photographs: in one toasting a startlingly handsome young man; in the other apparently sharing a joke with a group notable for bare chests, leather and studs.
“Straights have been known to go to gay bars, just for the novelty,” Carol said. Then, “I don’t want you to run this story.”
“It’s too thin anyway, unless we get more from Derringer. Frankly, we’re stringing him along so he doesn’t offer it anywhere else, but if it looks like anyone in the media has it, we’ll go to air straight away.”
“Will you tell me if you’re going to do that?”
Madeline smiled lazily. “For you, anything.”
Half an hour later, walking back to the car, Madeline said, “Do I get an exclusive, now that I’ve cooperated so fulsomely with you?”
Carol looked at her sideways. “I won’t promise anything. You know that.”
“Ah,” said Madeline with a soft laugh, “but you’re full of infinite promise, Carol.”
They were silent on the drive to Madeline’s. Carol again felt the disturbing combination of anxiety and anticipation. She tried to rationalize it away-the anger and disappointment she felt about Sybil was fueling this disturbance to her usual equilibrium.
Madeline’s house was set back from the road and extensively landscaped for privacy. Carol turned into the driveway and drew up smoothly at the shallow sandstone steps.
She said, her voice deliberately cool, “Good night… and thank you for the information.”
“Would you like to come inside?”
“Thanks, but no. It’s late.”
“Since Paul’s been gone… I’ve been lonely.”
“It’s not a good idea.”
“Sure it is, Carol. You know it is.”
“No, I don’t know that at all.”
“It’s going to happen. Why not now?”
“Good night, Madeline.”
Madeline slid out of the car and walked around to the driver’s door. Carol wound the window down, looked up at her. “Madeline, we’re not doing a reprise of
Madeline was smiling. She leaned through the window and kissed Carol lightly on the lips. Drawing back, she said cheerfully, “It’s going to be fun, Carol. And more…”
Carol turned the ignition key. “No.”
Her emphatic negative drew a broader smile from Madeline as she stood back from the car. “I can feel it, and so can you. Say what you like-it won’t make any difference.”
When Carol glanced in the rear view mirror as she turned out of the driveway, Madeline was still standing there, gazing after her. Carol swore, trying with words to chase away the spiraling tension that Madeline’s words and touch had accomplished.
Carol was home before Sybil, who had a committee meeting for Women in Politics. The red light was blinking on the answering machine, so she pressed replay while she primed her ancient coffee percolator. The first message was from her Aunt Sarah, confirming her plans to arrive on Saturday morning. The second was a whispered voice she didn’t recognize.
She stood staring at the machine as it clicked loudly, then wound the tape back with an angry whirring sound. Carol pressed the replay button, listening intently as the whispered voice repeated the message. Blended with a brush of apprehension was anger-and the tingle of excitement that her investigation had driven someone to make the threat.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Collis Raeburn’s singing teacher lived in an old suburb that had once enjoyed more gracious days. Her house, an undistinguished dark brick, sat stolidly in a neglected garden. Carol shivered as she got out of the car. The day had begun with icy wind and sudden, spiteful showers of rain, as a reminder that it was only very early spring.
Earlier, the sharpness of the day had been echoed by the coldness between her and Sybil. “Carol, there’s been something wrong between us for a long time. I’ve grown, I’ve changed, and the way you want to live isn’t enough for me anymore.”
Restraining her anger, Carol had said, “Is running away the best thing to do?”
“We need to have some distance between us…
“Don’t do this, darling.”
Sybil’s face had tightened at this brisk entreaty. “Carol, we always do it
Anne Newsome broke into her somber thoughts. Gesturing at the house, she said, “Being a singing teacher doesn’t seem very profitable. Must be in it for love.”
As they opened the sagging gate and walked up the overgrown path, a voice, warm as sunshine, poured out the open window. The sung phrase curled in the air, then faded. A pause, and it was repeated.
Carol knocked sharply on the door. After a few moments it was opened by a woman whose face was familiar from the Collis Raeburn television special. “Inspector Ashton? You’re a little early. I’m just finishing a lesson. Won’t be long.”
As they were shown into an alcove off the front room, Carol glimpsed the polished flank of a grand piano and the slight figure of a young woman standing beside it. She and Anne settled down into lumpily uncomfortable lounge chairs upholstered in dusty brocade.
The lesson recommenced. The young woman would sing a phrase, the dark liquid of her voice caressing the notes, only to be interrupted by an impatient comment and a command to do it again.
“No! No! Listen to yourself. Where’s your control? Remember, your voice is supported by a column of air… Put your hands against your ribs, here, fingers touching… Now, breathe in! Let the air force your hands apart.”
A pause, apparently for the student to comply. Anne caught Carol’s glance and smiled. The teacher’s impatient voice demanded, “You feel that? Do you? Do it again!… Now, you must always remember that the muscular arch of your diaphragm is the foundation of your voice. Singing is only air passing over your vocal cords, so you must control that column of air completely.”
There was a soft comment from the student, followed by an impatient exclamation from the teacher. “Most people are lazy and breathe shallowly.
“Seems like hard work,” whispered Anne.
