Eclipse (20 page)

‘Thank you, Doctor.' Relieved, David shook his hand. ‘I'm very grateful to you, and Mildred will be too.'

‘Just doing my job,' Adams said.

David introduced Grace to the doctor, and Adams made a courtly bow from the waist and told her it was a pleasure, then returned his attention to David.

‘Your wife may have a few difficult days, simply because of her issues. The drops are a simple matter for most, but . . .' He gave a small shrug.

‘I don't think she'll mind, now that it's done,' David said.

Adams smiled. ‘Let's hope so.'

‘And when she's ready, I expect we'll be back for the second round.'

‘I'll be seeing her a couple of times before that,' Adams said, ‘but in the meantime, if you'll excuse me . . .'

‘Of course,' David said. ‘Many thanks again.'

‘My pleasure,' Ethan Adams said, and left the room quietly.

David sat down again, feeling a little shaky.

‘Better now?' Grace asked him gently.

‘I will be,' he said.

‘You'll be perfect,' Grace said, ‘just as soon as you see your wife.' She bent to pick up her bag. ‘You should get straight to her room.'

‘You don't have to leave,' David said.

She smiled. ‘I think I do.'

Martinez called Sam just after eight.

‘How's Mildred doing?'

‘Good,' Sam said. ‘I just talked to my dad.'

‘More good news,' Martinez said. ‘Marie Nieper showed up an hour ago, safe and well, got bawled out by her family, said she had no idea anyone was worried about her.'

No idea they'd feared she might be Black Hole's seventh victim.

‘I got nothing yet on our creepy snapper, but I'm still on it.'

Sam thanked him, told him to go home, mentioned the espresso he'd just finished and his hopes for inspiration.

‘Nothing,' he said.

‘You give it a rest too,' Martinez said. ‘You going to visit Mildred?'

‘She's too tired,' Sam said, ‘and my dad's OK, so I'm going to look in at rehearsal, just in case Billie's turned up too.'

‘Here's hoping,' Martinez said.

‘Not a word,' Linda told Sam, as soon as she saw him. ‘I'm sorry to say I'm going to have to think about recasting.'

She looked tired, and the atmosphere in Tyler Allen's backyard felt strained all around.

‘The kid's a diva, I told you,' Allen said.

‘I'm just so worried about her,' Linda said.

‘Without your lead,' Allen said, ‘I'd save your worries for the production.'

‘I'm female,' Linda said. ‘I can worry about more than one thing at a time.'

Sam laughed.

‘I'm glad you're here, Sam.' Toni Petit came up behind them, dressed in black T-shirt and jeans. ‘I have your costume to fit.' She shook her head. ‘I brought one of Billie's, too, but . . .'

‘Not tonight, I'm afraid,' Sam said.

‘Linda's getting really upset about it.' Toni led the way into the big converted garage, all the way to the back where she'd leaned a tall mirror against the wall.

‘I don't blame her.' Sam spied his plastic wrapped matador outfit hanging on a rail. ‘Let's hope Billie gets to wear her costumes.'

‘Let's hope.'

Toni drew the wrapper up, unzipped some fasteners, then took it down off the rail in two parts, first the gilded jacket and then the narrow pants.

‘It looks terrific,' Sam said.

‘We'll see,' she said.

There was something not right about her this evening, Sam felt, as Toni got down on her kneeling pad and regarded the fit of Escamillo's pants. He'd often seen small vertical lines of concentration form between her eyebrows, but tonight they looked deeper and her mood seemed distracted.

‘You OK?' he asked as she took two pins from the small black velvet cushion held by elastic on her left wrist.

‘Mm-hm.' She stuck the pins between her lips.

‘Only you don't seem your usual self.'

She took one pin out of her mouth, shrugged and bent to her work.

Toni Petit not the shrugging kind, as a rule, always precise and wholehearted about her work.

Aside from her work with the company, of course, Sam realized that he knew little about her – which was true of most of the S-BOP family. They were drawn together because of opera, worked hard as a group until after the crescendo of performances, then went their separate ways until the next time.

Toni made an irritated sound, shook her head, began unpinning a seam.

‘I don't know how you have the patience,' Sam said.

‘All part of the job.' She transferred two more pins to her lips.

‘I'd be worried about swallowing one,' Sam said.

‘Never done it yet,' she said.

‘Don't know how you talk with pins in your mouth.'

She didn't answer, went on, her fingers deft.

He waited till her lips were safe. ‘Do you still have family in Louisiana?'

‘No.' She sat back on her heels and surveyed his legs. ‘Turn to your right, please.'

He turned, and Toni shuffled on the pad to get in position.

‘I don't even know if you have family down here,' he said.

She looked away from her work for a moment, up into his face.

Something in her eyes.

Abruptly she took two pins from his pants seam and stuck them back into the velvet cushion.

The way she did that, like small stabs, jarred him.

Definitely something up with her.

‘How about we take a break?' he suggested. ‘I could make us both a cup of Linda's chamomile tea.'

‘I'd rather finish this.'

‘Sure,' Sam said.

And then suddenly, it struck him that it wasn't just a bad mood he was sensing about Toni this evening.

Something about her was manifestly
wrong
.

The small hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Because suddenly, Billie had sprung back into his thoughts.

Sam was prone to hunches and gut feelings, and he'd had a minor one last Friday just before visiting Billie's home, which had taken him no closer to helping him find their missing Carmen.

But just now, when Toni Petit had stabbed those pins into the cushion, Sam had inexplicably experienced another jolt.

A medium to strong one on the Becket scale. About a 6.00, he figured. Nowhere near powerful enough to shake up anyone but himself, but still a
hunch
.

The kind that had often led somewhere over the years.

He took a breath.

‘Toni?' he said.

‘Mm?'

She leaned forward again, slid both hands down the fabric on his left leg, then tugged it gently, not looking up at him.

‘How well do you know Billie?' He kept his tone conversational.

‘Not well,' she said. ‘Like everyone here, it seems.'

‘But you're not really like the others,' Sam said.

‘Why not? Because I'm not a singer?'

‘No,' Sam said. ‘Because you care about other people's needs in the company. Not just their costumes. You notice when they're sick or down.'

‘I try,' she said.

She leaned back, removed another pin from the cushion, then slid it into place in the hem of his pants, and the motion was smooth enough, yet he noticed a tiny tremor in her right hand.

His hunch edged up to a 7.00.

‘That's why I just found myself wondering if Billie might have confided in you,' he said. ‘I don't necessarily mean immediately before she went missing, but in the past, in general.'

Toni sank back on her heels again. ‘It's no good,' she said, then stood up with a grunt of effort.

‘Are you OK?' Sam asked again.

‘No,' she said. ‘I'm not. I have a headache.'

‘Bad one?' He was sympathetic.

‘Bad enough,' she said.

‘Are we done?' Sam asked.

‘We're done for tonight,' Toni said. ‘You can take it off.'

He did so with care, passed the clothes to her, stepped back into his pants.

‘The costume's really terrific,' he said. ‘You're very talented, Toni.'

‘I try,' she said again.

He looked into her face and thought he saw the pain she'd complained of – though to him, fleetingly, it looked more like despair than the physical kind.

Up to an 8.00 now.

‘Toni,' he began.

‘No,' she said. ‘Please.'

And without another word, she turned, still holding the costume, and walked away from Sam, out of the garage and into the backyard.

Leaving him unaccountably chilled.

He waited three minutes before following.

The rehearsal had gotten under way again, Don José singing with Micaëla, and Holden's throat seemed better and Carla's voice was beautiful, and if her heart wasn't really in this role with her sights set on the lead, no one could have accused her of short-changing the company.

Toni was standing by the table, a water glass in her hand, had probably taken pain pills; and maybe that was all this was, after all, maybe he could downscale to less than a 2.00, more of a knee-jerk than even a micro-hunch.

‘Hey.' He kept his voice low as he approached. ‘I was wondering if I could maybe offer you a ride home.'

‘Thank you,' she said, ‘but I have my car.'

Her small smile was insincere, but that too was probably down to pain.

‘Is it a migraine?' he asked, still quiet, mindful of the rehearsal.

Toni nodded. ‘Excuse me.'

She moved away from the table and from Sam, bypassing the performers on Tyler Allen's lawn, heading toward the pathway that led to the front of the house and to the road.

Sam realized that she was leaving. Without a word to Linda or anyone else.

There might be a precedent – Sam had been away from S-BOP for a few years, after all – but though Toni's presence wasn't mandatory, he couldn't recall her ever leaving before a rehearsal was over.

And though Sam was still wholly unsure why, his hunch magnitude climbed right back up to a 7.00, and after waiting sixty seconds, he went after her.

The taillights of her small Honda were still visible as she made a turn out of Lime Court.

Sam got in the Saab, started the engine, and followed.

Grace was not feeling relaxed.

Joshua had asked Claudia if he might spend the night at her house, where Mike and Robbie, her sons, always enjoyed playing with him, and Grace hadn't wanted to spoil their pleasure.

Perhaps, she thought, it was her slight concern that Thomas Chauvin might decide to put in another appearance, and in that respect she was doubly glad she'd let Joshua stay over in Sunny Isles, away from any possible unpleasantness.

Felicia Delgado was on her mind, too, disappointment that her father had not yet called her again.

Nothing she could do about that now.

She went upstairs, ran water into the tub, lit an aromatherapy candle.

She was, she realized, missing Sam and Joshua, and felt somewhat ashamed of that, because her little boy was safe and happy at her sister's, and Claudia's husband was never coming back, while Sam would be home soon enough.

And so far, at least, there had been no sign of the Frenchman.

If he did show up again, she would simply not answer the door.

On the South Dixie Highway, heading north, Sam was trying to rationalize his reasons for tailing Toni Petit's car.

The woman had done nothing wrong, either at Allen's place or on the road; had exceeded the speed limit a few times, but minor infringements only, her driving in no way erratic.

Sam was almost certain that she had no idea that he was following.

Still had no solid idea as to
why
he was.

Only that sense of something ‘wrong' about her, and because something indefinable was telling him that she might possibly know something about Billie's disappearance.

Something had caused that brief look of despair after he'd asked a couple of questions about Billie – though probably it had been unconnected to that, could just have been a stress response to a fast-building migraine.

But was it just a headache that had made her cut and run so swiftly after a few harmless questions?

Except Toni had not really ‘cut and run', Sam continued the dialogue in his head. She had taken his costume – had not rewrapped it, which was unusual but hardly a crime – and had walked out of the garage into the backyard, where he thought she had taken pills, probably for pain, and then she had
walked
, not run, out to the road and gotten into her car.

And now she was driving just a little faster than she ought.

But who didn't?

Still, he guessed he'd call Martinez as the Honda continued north on I-95.

Force of habit for them both, even off duty, checking in at unexpected moments like these.

He called him on his cell.

‘I'm still at the office,' Martinez said. ‘I'm going to wait a while longer in case I get something on our pal.'

‘Give it up,' Sam said. ‘Chauvin's my creep, not yours.'

‘And I thought we shared everything,' Martinez said.

‘Matter of fact,' Sam said, ‘I might ask you to run a twenty-four on a tag number.'

‘Shoot.' Martinez took it down. ‘What's up?'

‘Ninety per cent probability, nothing at all, just one of my gut feelings.'

‘About?'

‘Woman from S-BOP, name of Toni Petit.'

‘The dressmaker, right?' Martinez said.

Sam kept his eyes on the car still up ahead, keeping two vehicles between them. ‘I thought you never listen when I talk about opera.'

‘It's the singing I try not to listen to, man. I don't mind hearing about the people – except I thought it was the choreographer you had a bad feeling about.'

‘I know, and I have no real foundation for this, but I'm just keeping you in the loop, like always. I'm on Ninety-five going north, tailing this woman's Honda Civic, and there's no need to run the tag yet or do anything, because I'm seventy per cent sure this really is nothing.'