“A prima donna dies no less than three times: First go her looks, that is death number one; then her voice, that is number two; and finally the death she shares with the others.”

—Lillian Nordica, opera singer, as quoted in The Last Prima Donnas by Lanfranco Rasponi

What first struck Patricia about Carlotta Moses was her absolute stillness.

Carlotta stood at the window, holding back the drapery. One would expect her slender, pale hand to tremble under the weight of the heavy sapphire material, her thin body to quiver with the tension of her rigid pose. Yet Carlotta was as still as a statue: long, ivory neck; sharply sculpted chin; slightly parted lips; deeply carved eyes. Even the folds of her black skirt hung perfectly still, as if not so much as a draft in the room would dare to disturb a thread of Carlotta’s outfit.

Did those unblinking eyes really focus on the snow whirling and gathering outside the window? Patricia Delaney wondered. It did not seem possible. Carlotta had been standing thusly—straight, unwavering, silent, not even the slightest breath seeming to move through her—ever since Howard Eismann, Carlotta’s husband, had directed Patricia into the library of the Eismann-Moses estate—nervously explaining that both he and Carlotta, as well as Carlotta’s son, Quentin, and her daughter-in-law, Wallis, were eagerly waiting for Patricia.

And yet, while they fussed over her—taking her coat and hat and gloves; offering her tea or coffee, which Patricia declined—Carlotta never moved from her position at the window. Had Carlotta been so entranced by the frozen view, as she “eagerly” watched for Patricia, that she herself had frozen in place? Patricia smiled at that thought. Carlotta Moses, retired, world-renowned operatic diva and movie star, with thousands of adoring fans, would wait for no one.

Patricia knew this because she counted herself among Carlotta’s fans, although she was a generation removed from most of them. Her father, Joseph, had always loved opera, particularly as performed by Carlotta, and had shared his love of it with all six of his children. Yet Patricia, the youngest, was the only one who had grown to share that love. From years of hearing and reading about Carlotta Moses, Patricia knew a considerable amount about her: her rise to operatic fame; her marriage to a movie director; their failed attempts to have children followed by the adoption of Quentin; the tragic death of her first husband in a boating accident; her second marriage to Howard Eismann many years later; her retirement from the operatic stage and her debut on the movie screen; and finally her retirement from the movie screen and her subsequent, gradual withdrawal from the world. In four years Carlotta had not been known to leave her home in Indian Hills, a wealthy town east of Cincinnati, Ohio. What Patricia did not know yet was why she had been summoned by Carlotta.

Patricia Delaney was an investigative consultant specializing in background searches on individuals for companies, organizations, and sometimes other individuals. Normally, her clients came to her office in Alliston. Charles Leiber had called her the previous morning, introduced himself as Carlotta’s attorney, and requested that Patricia come the next morning to the Eismann-Moses estate. Patricia had accepted the assignment immediately.

Now she surveyed the little group gathered in the library, all but Carlotta seated in a grouping of sapphire-blue Queen Anne sofas and chairs just inside the perimeter of a large Persian rug. The furniture, rug, and draperies offered the only color in the room; the library was otherwise all mahogany flooring and paneling, and leather-bound books.

Patricia wondered who read them. Howard—who sat on the edge of a sofa, one hand fussing inside his gray suit jacket, searching for some pocket or another, the other hand sweeping nervously through his thick white hair? No, she imagined him with a stash of Western paperbacks. Wallis—who sat on the opposite sofa, toying with one of the many gold chains that perfectly accented her plain, black cashmere dress? No, for her Patricia selected the latest contemporary fiction bestseller, and perhaps a fashion magazine or two. Quentin—who sat next to his wife, flicking a surely imagined bit of lint from his impeccable navy trousers, and then another from the impeccable burgundy sweater? No, for him Patricia imagined a thick biography or historical tome.

Patricia resisted the urge to look again at Carlotta while trying to imagine her moving away from the window to reach for one of these books.... But again, no. This library was simply a setting for Carlotta; Patricia could not imagine a secret reading pleasure for Carlotta; she was too much, in Patricia’s mind, the image of the diva as shown on the stage, in the press. It seemed unreal to be here, with the great Carlotta Moses actually standing by the window—or perhaps that really was a statue, and the real Carlotta would come sweeping into the room any minute now… Enough, thought Patricia. She had finally started to warm up after coming in from the cruelly cold January morning; she was ready to get to work.

Patricia looked at Howard. “Mr. Leiber telephoned me yesterday morning, telling me he had gotten my name from a contact he has in the Schultz, Moore and Bell law firm.” Patricia didn’t explain that Jay Bell was also the leader of the Queen River Band, a classic rock- and-roll band in which she played drums on Tuesday nights at Dean’s Tavern in Alliston, a southeastern suburb of Cincinnati.

“Mr. Leiber said that you and your wife were very eager for me to come here this morning to assist you with a problem. Why don’t we start with a general description of it? Then I’ll probably ask a few questions, get a few more specifics, and we’ll see if it is the kind of work I handle.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is the kind of work you handle, Ms. Delaney. When Schultz, Moore and Bell recommended you, we knew—” Howard started.

Quentin stirred restlessly. “Actually, I’m the one who contacted our family’s attorney about this problem. And of course you’ll handle it, Ms. Delaney. We need your full attention immediately.”

Patricia looked at Quentin. “Mr. Leiber did not inform me,” Patricia said crisply, “that I would be considering”—she paused to silently underscore that last word—“taking on a case for the whole family.”

“Oh, but it concerns all of us. Very much. Me at the museum, our daughter, not to mention Carlotta’s reputation—” Wallis’s words rushed out, then stopped abruptly as Quentin clenched her knee.

“Please, Wallis, we need to explain the situation rationally to Ms. Delaney, and then I’m sure she’ll understand.”

Patricia smiled. “Patricia. Just Patricia, is fine. And I would like to start with hearing what Mr. Eismann has to say.”

She looked at him. Howard rubbed his florid cheeks, then clasped his hands in his lap. Despite his brilliantly white hair, the expensively cut gray wool suit, the silver-framed glasses at the tip of his nose, his manner reminded her of that of a scared little boy. He reached a nervous hand into his jacket again, this time pulling out a small bottle with which he struggled until Wallis took it from him, murmuring, “Please, let me...”

“As you can see, Patricia”—Quentin snapped off the final syllable of her name—“my stepfather is not well. He has a heart condition, which this situation has worsened. He will answer your questions, as will Mother, assuming she feels up to it, but first let me explain to you what has happened.”

He cleared his throat and continued. ‘Two days ago my mother received a telephone call. Actually, our housekeeper, Marcy Bergamore, took the call, but it was for Mother. The caller introduced himself as Wayne Hackman. Does the name sound familiar?”

Patricia considered, then shook her head. “Should it?”

“It should if you follow television tabloid shows.”

“I go for renting the occasional Thin Man movie—or maybe a Disney classic—myself.”

Quentin proffered his first true smile of the morning and seemed to relax a little. “I have to admit, I’m rather glad you don’t watch the TV tabloids.”

“Why did this Wayne Hackman call your mother?”

“Hackman is a so-called reporter for this syndicated hour-long show called Flash. He told Mother that he was working on a show about her.”

Patricia frowned as she considered Quentin’s statement, unable to imagine Carlotta Moses agreeing to an interview on a TV tabloid show, or to imagine why anyone from such a show would be interested in her. Carlotta’s life had been lived publicly since her operatic debut in 1945, and her life had been lively but devoid of the disgrace on which such shows tended to feed.

“Why is a show like Flash interested in your mother?” Patricia asked.

“The reason is—” Quentin started, and then stopped abruptly, gasping. His face contorted in a sudden spasm of strong emotion. Anger? Fear? The expression was difficult to classify as Quentin struggled to regain his former composure.

Wallis had finished her ministrations with Howard, who sat quietly, hands fallen to his sides, eyes shut. Now Wallis turned her attention to Quentin. “It’s all right, darling—I know it’s difficult,” she said, holding and stroking his hand.

“The reason this Wayne Hackman wanted to talk with my mother-in-law,” Wallis said, looking at Patricia, “is that he’d been contacted by someone claiming that as a young woman Carlotta had a son, and that she’d given him up for adoption when he was nearly four years old—just before her debut.”

Patricia rubbed a finger across the white diagonal scar on her chin as she considered the ramifications for Carlotta and her family if such a story were true. The biological son, and any of his relatives, could want money from Carlotta, or favors, or—even more distasteful, perhaps, to Carlotta—an actual relationship. Many of Carlotta’s fans would not believe the story, even with irrefutable evidence, but some would, even without evidence of any kind. To at least some degree, Carlotta’s reputation would be damaged, and by extension, so would her family members’ reputations. Carlotta and her family could easily absorb a loss of money, but a damaged reputation... To this diva, and apparently to her family, there could be no worse loss. No wonder they each acted as if suffering from varying degrees of shock.

Patricia wondered briefly why this person—or the alleged son—didn’t contact Carlotta directly. But the answer came to her quickly; Carlotta, although beloved for her remarkable talents on stage and screen, was not known for personal warmth. The contact or the alleged son—were they the same person? Patricia wondered—would be instantly rebuffed. If money was the goal, more would be gained by going through a show like Flash.

“Did Hackman say anything about what kind of proof this person has?” Patricia asked.

Quentin looked at her suddenly, sharply. “Proof! There can be no proof! Maybe Hackman made this all up for his own reasons! Or this is just some deranged idiot’s idea of...”

Hackman might not have proof, Patricia thought, but he certainly had at least a little something to go on. Patricia knew enough about tabloid television to know that only a bit of fact was needed as the basis for embellishment. Pointing this out to Quentin, however, did not seem likely to calm him.

“Quentin, presumably you want me here to provide some expertise to help with this situation,” Patricia said. “That means I am going to have to ask a few perhaps uncomfortable questions of all of you.”

“Yes. Sorry. No, Hackman didn’t suggest any proof.”

“Just a moment; I need to take a few notes on this.” Patricia had brought two cases with her, her briefcase and a smaller case carrying her notebook computer, the best and most powerful one available that winter of 1994. She opened up the notebook computer on her lap, powered it up, started up the word-processing package, and tapped in a few notes. Technology was changing fast and she still marveled, even a few months after investing in the notebook computer for her business, at the flexibility and convenience of having a second, portable, computer. Later, back at her office, she’d transfer the notes to her desktop computer.

Patricia finished tapping and glanced up at Quentin.

“All right. Hackman didn’t offer anything helpful, did he, like the name of this contact? Or what connection the contact supposedly has with Carlotta?”

Quentin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It would be helpful to know if Hackman’s contact is the person claiming to be the son, or someone else, perhaps someone who has reason to want to hurt your mother.”

“No, he gave no clue about his contact. He asked Mother if she would agree to be on the show. Of course she said no, and of course he knew she would. He only asked because that way he’d be able to state that Carlotta had been contacted and refused to comment. These so-called journalists. They take a shred of information and try to make it appear to have more significance than it actually does...”

“Hackman has created a problem for you,” said Patricia. “But if there’s no proof to support his claims—not even a shred of it—couldn’t your attorney threaten to sue the producers for slander or libel?”

“We thought about that. But that would draw attention to this, and believe me that’s something we don’t want. My mother’s reputation needs to be protected, quietly, from this lie getting any attention at all,” Quentin said.

So her instinct about the family’s defensiveness of its collective reputation was on target, Patricia thought.

“What about counterproof then? Surely a physician could examine Carlotta and testify that in fact she’d never had children.”

Quentin looked as if his sweater collar were suddenly threatening him with asphyxiation. In the brief moment of silence that followed, Patricia heard a note, middle C, being struck on a piano in a nearby room, followed by the major and minor scales played rapidly in succession: C major, A minor...

“No, my mother would never agree to something so...

“It would be pointless, of course, anyway,” Howard said.

Patricia startled and looked at Howard; she’d almost forgotten about him. He was now busying himself with preparing a cup of tea, as if of course he’d been listening all along to the entire conversation; and perhaps, thought Patricia, he had.

“You see, Carlotta was pregnant several times before and lost the babies. This is why she and her first husband had to adopt Quentin. But a physician could not truthfully say she’d never carried children, or that she could not have possibly carried one to term, given it up, had a bit of bad luck later, then chosen to adopt—although, of course, that’s not what happened.” Howard stirred his tea, then tapped his spoon against the rim of his cup. The pianist in the nearby room was on to F major, then D minor.

“And at any rate, Quentin is exactly right. Carlotta would never agree to have such an exam in order to defend herself from something of which she’s not guilty.” Howard took a sip, frowned at the cup, then dropped in another sugar cube.

“But we wish to guarantee, as quietly as possible, that this show not take place,” Howard continued.

“And that’s why we’ve contacted you,” said Quentin. He had fully regained his composure now, and again wanted to take charge of the conversation. “We want you to find this... contact”—he spat out the word as if the unnamed person were unworthy of being recog­nized as human—“and let him know we’re willing to pay him. Plenty of money. Far more than he could get out of that ridiculous show.”

“You want me to track him—or her—down; don’t assume this person is male. Then you want to buy this person’s silence?” Patricia asked.

“We’re not buying silence about something that is true. We’re not asking to cover something up. We’re simply paying him to back off with this ridiculous story. Or her, as you so correctly point out. Whoever it is, surely money is what this person wants, anyway...

“You’re offering yourselves up for blackmail!” Patricia said.

Quentin suddenly turned red, his face again contorting with emotion, this time obviously rage. “What choice do we have? If you don’t want to do it, then I’m sure Leiber can find us someone who—”

“Now, Quentin, please calm yourself,” Wallis said soothingly.

How long before Wallis cracked from constantly playing the comforter? Patricia wondered. But, still, she appreciated Wallis’s intervention. Patricia would not have liked hearing what she thought Quentin had been about to say, or his implication that her services were easily duplicated.

“No time is good for such a problem, of course, but now is particularly awful,” Wallis said. “Have you heard of the Carlotta Moses Museum we’re developing in Lebanon?” The scales continued in the next room—B flat major, G minor.

“Yes,” Patricia said quietly.

“You have?” Wallis sounded surprised.

Patricia smiled. “Yes. I did a little research yesterday afternoon, in preparation for today’s visit, to see what recent news I could find about your mother-in-law.”

Actually, the research had been a simple matter of tapping the name “Carlotta Moses” as a search term in a news database and reviewing the results. Patricia had also looked up the property records for this home and searched for records for Quentin and Wallis, in public property records also available in a database. Quentin and Wallis had no real estate locally, but owned a rental property in New Mexico.

The unnamed pianist in the adjoining room progressed to the E flat major and then C minor scales.

“Carlotta recently inherited the home in which she spent her later youth, a home in Lebanon, which is a small town about twenty miles north of here,” Patricia said to Wallis. “The place had actually belonged to her stepfather, Douglas Powell, and had passed to his sister, Violet, and after her death a year ago to Carlotta. Now the home is being renovated to house memorabilia from Carlotta’s career, and you are serving as the director. Profits from the museum will be used to create a scholarship fund for musicians. Am I right in guessing that you are the one who sent the information to the local newspapers, to get some publicity well in advance of the museum’s opening this spring?”

A flat major, F minor.

“Yes. I’m the one who sent the information out,” Wallis said. “I have a television interview this afternoon, and I’ll do even more publicity as we get closer to the date of the opening. It’s important that the opening goes well, for several reasons ”

“One reason is that our daughter, Ashley, will be making her debut at the opening,” Quentin said.

A flat major, F minor.

“Debut?”

“Yes, her singing debut,” Wallis said.

D flat major ... and the beginning of B flat minor ... and then the scale stopped midway.

Suddenly a note, middle C, was struck repeatedly and loudly on the piano in the adjoining room by the unnamed pianist. A brief bit of silence was followed by a woman’s voice then singing this note with la. The note was sung tepidly, but the voice gained strength as it started up an arpeggio. On the top note of the arpeggio, the voice wavered, then gained a little strength as it worked its way back down.

It was as if the singer beginning her vocal exercises released Carlotta, for suddenly she turned from the window.

Carlotta looked directly at Patricia, who held her gaze, unwavering. “What do you know of me?” Carlotta asked, her words spoken evenly, precisely, directly.

The first answers that came to mind were the most obvious—you’re a world-renowned soprano and movie star, Ms. Moses, a superstar who, even though living within these walls for the past four years, draws attention easily with just a simple press release, a superstar who has lived most of her life with unquestioning adoration from innumerable fans—fans like my father, Joseph Delaney, who sees you as superhuman.

But these answers were too obvious, and Carlotta’s direct, unwavering gaze told Patricia that they were also not the kind Carlotta was looking for.

Patricia drew in her breath slowly and evenly just as she did at the start of her morning meditation sessions, sifting quickly through all that she recalled her father telling her about the great Carlotta Moses, all that she herself had read about the great Carlotta Moses.

“For the first year of your formal training,” Patricia finally replied, stating each word distinctly, “you in­sisted upon practicing breathing, more than learning specific music. You practiced the art of controlling your breath, your diaphragm, your lungs. Three hours of breathing exercises in the morning, two in the evening. You insisted upon this, and continued doing extensive breathing exercises, because, you said in an interview in 1975, just before you retired from opera and moved on to acting, and I quote, ‘besides gaining a base of physical strength, necessary to support the voice in performing the most difficult arias, it taught me to temper and focus my passion for music, to discipline the passion so that I could then direct that passion at the audience.’ ”

Patricia stopped, and forced herself to keep looking, unwavering, at Carlotta. Finally, Carlotta smiled slowly and then moved past Patricia. As she did so Patricia caught a scent of a jasmine perfume. A surprising fragrance for Carlotta, she thought, far too simple for so complex a personality... but then some things, such as a woman’s scent, would not be captured in an interview stored in a database. Carlotta sat down next to Howard.

“Excellent answer, Ms. Delaney. Only a fan would know this about me. I’m assuming you are a fan?”

Patricia smiled. “I am a fan. But I am here as an investigator.”

“Yes, yes. The call from this Hackman. The poor timing what with the museum opening in a few months. Ashley’s debut. My first time out in public in four years.”

Carlotta smiled at Patricia’s surprised look. “No, they didn’t get to that, did they? Yes, I’m going to the museum opening. It’s my museum, after all. Let me ask you, Patricia, if you know another quote, from another great singer. Lillian Nordica said it… I read it once ‘A prima donna dies no less than three times: First go her looks, that is death number one; then her voice, that is number two; and finally the death she shares with the others.’ Do you know this quote?”

“No,” Patricia said.

“Well, I’ve died the first two deaths. And before I reach the death we share, I’m little left to enjoy but my reputation, and I won’t have it destroyed, especially not by a two-bit reporter with a crackpot story. I’m going to devote myself to the museum, to helping Ashley get her start in music. So, then, Patricia, are you taking our case or not?”

Patricia smiled. Finally, somebody in the room wasn’t assuming that she would take the case. She suddenly liked Carlotta, liked her directness, even her undisguised egotism, and no longer felt put off by her eccentric behavior at the window. “Yes,” Patricia said, “I’m taking the case.”

“How do we start, then?”

“The best way to proceed is to first establish if this Wayne Hackman actually did place the call. It’s possible that someone—maybe someone working on the museum, someone working here, someone you used to work with—is disgruntled or jealous and simply trying to cause you grief or discomfort,” Patricia said.

Carlotta laughed dismissively. “One always has one’s enemies, of course.” Then she looked a little sad. “But no. It’s been too long since I’ve been on stage or screen for me to have any active rivals now.”

“And anyone else in your family?” Patricia asked.

“I retired about three years ago, left the business in Quentin’s hands,” Howard said, “and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt me, certainly not in this way.”

“I run Eismann Furniture Stores now,” Quentin said. “We returned here after Howard’s retirement.”

Eismann Furniture Stores sold very expensive, very exclusive furniture in the Cincinnati area. Patricia could not recall any negative press about the privately owned business, but she made a note on her laptop computer to check it out.

Patricia looked at Wallis. “Can you think of anyone, now or from the past, who’d want to harm this family in this way?”

Wallis shook her head quickly. “No. I’m working on the museum by myself—well, with Carlotta, of course, but, I mean, there are no other employees right now, except the crew that’s repainting and wallpapering, but they’re just for hire temporarily, and there’s no one from where we lived before, in New Mexico....” Her voice trailed off as Quentin gave her a sharp look, qui­etly sending a message that apparently Wallis under­stood as a request for her silence on the subject of their lives in New Mexico.

Patricia tapped some more notes into her laptop computer, including one to thoroughly check into the backgrounds of all of Carlotta’s family members. Perhaps there was something one of them had overlooked; perhaps there was something one of them didn’t want to admit in front of the others.

Patricia looked up at Carlotta and Howard. “I think I should check into the backgrounds of your household staff, and regular visitors as well.”

“Why?” asked Howard. “We just have the housekeeper, and I can’t imagine she—”

“How did Hackman get your telephone number? It’s unlisted, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Carlotta.

“Then either he used an investigator to dig it up for him, or he knows a few investigative techniques for finding unlisted numbers, or he’s contacted someone who knows you. It’s just a possibility, and it’s a good idea anyway to check out the backgrounds of your staff and your regular visitors, because if he’s serious about doing this show, you can bet he’ll be in touch with them to see if they’ll go on it. If any of them have financial problems, they’ll be more likely to go on.”

“Well, there is the groundskeeper we have in the warmer months,” Howard said.

“And the psychologist, working with you, Mother, what is her name—” Wallis stopped abruptly as Quentin suddenly squeezed her shoulder. Wallis looked at Patricia helplessly. “Just to help her prepare for attending the museum’s opening,” she added lamely.

Agoraphobia, Patricia thought. No one wants to put a name on the psychological condition into which Carlotta had slowly descended, and was now fighting to overcome. Were there any other problems this proud family wished to leave unnamed? Problems that might inspire someone with a slanderous bit of gossip to contact a television tabloid show?

The voice in the adjoining room, which had been practicing arpeggios all along, stopped abruptly. Carlotta suddenly sat very still, frozen again.

“I’ll need a list of the visitors that come regularly, Ms. Moses,” Patricia said quickly. “Any hairdressers, accountants—”

The voice in the next room shrieked in frustration, and several cacophonous notes crashed on the piano’s upper register.

Carlotta looked at Patricia. “Howard can give you the details. When can we expect a report from you? In the next few days?”

“This is Wednesday, so let’s see, I’ll try to get back to you no later than Friday, but it depends upon—” The middle C was played repeatedly again on the piano, and the voice took off again on its arpeggios, but with less conviction than the first time.

‘Tomorrow. I want to hear what you’ve learned by tomorrow,” Carlotta said firmly. “Now I must go help my granddaughter.”

Carlotta stood and left the room. Wallis moved to stand as well, but Quentin pressed her back. “Let Ashley be,” he said. “She needs to learn from Mother.”

“I know, but—” Wallis started. She looked at Patricia and smiled apologetically. “She’s so nervous, Ashley is, but she can have a great future if she’ll just—”

“The staff and visitors,” Quentin said firmly. “We’re supposed to list them for Patricia.”

Howard smiled and gestured toward the coffee and tea service. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a beverage before we get too far into the list?”

Creating this list could take a while. Patricia was tempted to ask for her year-round favorite drink—iced coffee, sometimes with a shot of bourbon. Even with subzero temperatures and snow raging outside, the drink was tempting. But it would have to wait until the day’s business was complete.

“No, thanks,” she said to Howard. “Now, you mentioned a housekeeper and a groundskeeper. Let’s start with them.”