Dead Certain

“You’re not, you know. I want more details on Edward Livingston and his financial situation… and I’d like you to come with me this afternoon, since I’ve pinned him down for an interview.”

Oxford Street was its usual busy mix of nationalities, sexual orientations and colorfully eccentric personalities. This first section of the busy street had a certain seedy enthusiasm, a bohemian acceptance of differences; however, after it flowed past the sandstone law courts in Taylor Square, the money of fashionable Paddington began to dilute and refine its raw vitality.

The coffee shop was Italian-clean, cramped and dominated by a fiendishly hissing coffee machine. After ordering black coffee for herself and cappuccino for Pat, Carol said, “What are people saying about Collis Raeburn’s death?”

“The arts world’s abuzz. Last night we had a cocktail party at the Gallery to launch a new exhibition of Asian artifacts, and believe me, Collis Raeburn was the main topic of conversation. Mind, no one has any hard information, but that little detail has never stopped gossip before.”

Wincing as Pat stirred three heaped teaspoons of sugar into her coffee, Carol decided that the word that best described Pat James was good-humored.

She smiled readily, and, when really amused, guffawed. She had an irreverent, frank approach that seemed at odds with the artistic and cultural world in which she moved because of her position at the Art Gallery of New South Wales.

Pat took a sip of her coffee, made a face, then stirred it vigorously. “There’s very real grief at his death. He really had the most extraordinary voice…” A thought suddenly amused her. “Carol, like a bet? Ten dollars says someone at Raeburn’s funeral says, ‘We shall not see his like again.’ You on?”

“I never bet against sure things.”

Pat looked at her thoughtfully. “No doubt the Raeburn family are pulling strings. Kenneth Raeburn is a ruthless little bastard who likes to throw his weight around, although I have heard that his son was about to dump him.”

Astonished, Carol said, “Dump him how?”

“From the family company. Collis Raeburn employed his father and sister to run his career and handle the financial side of things, but Kenneth has a lot more arrogance than good sense, and Collis was talking of bringing in a professional manager. This could’ve been embarrassing for his father, since there’d be an audit. My guess is that Kenneth Raeburn’s business skills would have been found seriously wanting.”

“So Collis’s death would get him off the hook?”

Pat grinned sardonically. “Although Mark won’t tell me anything about the investigation, the word around the traps is that you’ve been put on the case because you have high credibility and if you say it was all a nasty accident, who will contradict you?”

Carol wanted to say, Do you really believe I’m for hire? That I’d compromise myself that way? But to put it into words would be to imply she believed Pat might think it possible…

“It’s manifestly clear,” said Pat scornfully, “that a nice, clean accidental death would be the best result for the family, especially one that only involves prescription drugs.”

“Meaning?”

“Collis was supposed to be a very good client for drugs, principally cocaine. It seems a popular theory that he accidentally killed himself with a cocktail of illegal substances. Then there’s the clique that just knows he died from unrequited love.”

“For whom?”

“Carol, I do admire your grammar!” She took a sip of coffee, then grew more serious. “Supposedly, he’d been having an affair with Corinne Jawalski, but some people think it was a smokescreen for his real affair with Graeme Welton. And, to add a little spice to the pot, it’s rumored that early in his career he had quite a steamy romance with Alanna Brooks.”

Signaling for two more coffees, Carol said, “Surely a tenor having a romance with his prima donna is standard public relations stuff. Doesn’t have to be true, but it adds piquancy to the duets.”

“Who would have thought you such a cynic!”

“Who indeed,” Carol said with a grin. “Was there any comment about Edward Livingston? He’s doing his best to avoid seeing me.”

“Edward Livingston-impresario extraordinaire! If he were only half as good as he thinks he is, the Eureka Opera Company would be as highly regarded as the Australian Opera.” She grinned at Carol’s questioning expression. “No, I haven’t got a personal grudge, it’s just that he takes himself so seriously, and when something goes wrong with one of his magnificent schemes to revitalize opera, it’s never his fault-it’s always somebody else who’s spoilt it for him. For instance, he was bitterly angry when his loony television version of Madame Butterfly slumped in the ratings after he’d promoted it like a football match. Naturally, he had to blame someone, so he turned on Collis and accused him of sabotaging the whole thing by singing the role of Pinkerton, extraterrestrial, so badly.”

Thinking how much she’d hate to work in an atmosphere of such high drama, Carol said, “I’ve been given the impression that the clash of personalities is fairly common in the opera world.”

Pat chortled. “Egos are not in short supply. Even so, successful artists, whatever field they’re in, have to be professional, or they don’t last long. Means there’s often thunder and lightning, but not much rain. It’s always been different, though, with our Edward. He’s one of the great grudge-bearers of the twentieth century, and Collis had crossed him once too often.”

“They were in open conflict?”

“Very. There’ve been veiled references to the stoush in all the newspaper arts’ columns for weeks now. Livingston’s penchant for suing for defamation made sure that no one actually named him, but everyone knew they’d fallen out and Collis was going to do his best to get out of his contract with Eureka.”

Carol took a reflective sip of coffee. “I’ve also heard about conflict with a rival. What about Lloyd Clancy?”

“Ah,” said Pat enthusiastically, “what about Lloyd Clancy, indeed? One society matron, whose name would surprise you, confided to me that in her circle it’s understood that Lloyd assisted Collis to join the heavenly choir in the sky.”

“Murdered him, or helped him suicide?”

“Either. And before you ask for a motive, bear in mind that opera is a high pressure, demanding world, where you make sweet music on stage, and play management politics off it. Only winners really prosper. The also-rans end up in the chorus, are doomed to subsidiary roles, or skitter off to less demanding singing careers. Lloyd’s older than Collis, and he’d established his career, but he was slowly but surely being overhauled.”

Carol played with a sachet of artificial sweetener. “Are you seriously suggesting that’s an adequate motive for a murder?”

Pat laughed. “Carol, you know I’m never serious, but if I were, I’d point you in the direction of Nicole Raeburn. If ever anyone burned with incestuous love, she did.”

“If that’s so, was it returned?” asked Carol, remembering the sister’s disturbing intensity.

“Who knows? But whether it was or not, that woman’s unbalanced. It’s hardly an exaggeration to say that Collis was a god to her.”

“Then she wouldn’t want him dead,” said Carol mildly.

“If she happened to be jealous enough, she might,” said Pat with conviction. “And there’s none so ferocious as an acolyte scorned.”

Feeling positively awash with coffee, Carol refused more when Edward Livingston joined her at the round white table shaded by a central umbrella. The early days of spring hinted at the lazy summer days to come, the sun having a warm weight that tempered the chill of the breeze off the water. Seagulls were preoccupied with noisy courtships, or with harassing anyone who had food. The other tables were occupied by assorted tourists who basked in the sun, took photographs or rested weary feet. Behind the broadwalk the spectacular curved roofs of the Opera House soared, pale against an azure sky. In front of them the harbor danced with light and activity and to their left the gray skeleton of the Harbour Bridge spanned the gulf from south to north like a gigantic metal coat hanger.

“Nice weather,” said Livingston.

“Almost like summer,” replied Carol accommodatingly.

He chuckled at her tone. “Enough of the pleasantries. Let’s get down to business. Just what stories have you