Chapter 1
Emma Winberry and Nate Sandler walked toward the Lakeshore Center for the Performing Arts, an opulent building reminiscent of late-eighteenth-century grandeur, located on North Michigan Avenue, alongside the great lake. They had been supernumeraries for the Midwest Opera for a number of years. These were the dedicated people who were willing to stand in crowds onstage, perform simple tasks, and appear at all rehearsals and performances just to be a part of the magic of the opera.
Nate protectively held Emma’s hand as he always did as they entered the building.
A high-pitched shriek rent the air.
“What was that?” he exclaimed, searching the lobby area for anything unusual. “It sounded like a scream. Is the soprano having a temper tantrum?”
Emma stopped and listened. “Something’s wrong,” she said as a chill crawled up her arms. “That’s more than a tantrum. Let’s find out what’s going on.”
As cast members and stagehands ran toward the dressing rooms, someone bumped into Emma’s slight figure knocking her over. Nate grabbed her.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
James Greene, an executive of the Midwest Opera and Emma’s son-in-law, appeared pushing his way through the crowd. Emma grabbed his jacket as she and Nate trailed behind him. As they approached the dressing room, they heard a woman’s voice moaning.
“Oh, oh—so terrible—so frightening.” The svelte soprano, Gina Rienzi, sat on a chair outside her dressing room. The wardrobe mistress handed her a glass of water, steadying it in the woman’s trembling hands.
Within minutes, the director and the stage manager arrived and stood next to James. “What happened, Signora?” the director asked.
“A man - a man in my dressing room,” she whispered, unaware that she was sloshing water down the front of her costume.
“There’s no one in there now,” said one of the stagehands. “I checked.”
“Are you sure you saw a man?” the director asked her.
“Of course I’m sure. Are you calling me a liar?” Regaining her composure, the irate singer sat up straight and regal.
“No, of course not, Signora. Tell me, what did the man look like? Did he say anything? Did he threaten you?” the director continued, a frown on his face.
“Don’t you have anything stronger than water?” Signora Rienzi demanded, pushing the glass away. “I have had a terrible shock.”
The director raised his eyebrows and whispered something to the stage manager.
“Is she always like this?” Emma asked her son-in-law.
“Worse.”
When the soprano had stopped trembling, and eagerly sipped a glass of brandy she had been given, she was ready to tell her story. She assumed a melodramatic pose, turned back to the dressing room, and said in a voice everyone could hear, “He was standing in that corner, over there.” Then she pointed to an area near the closet.
“Did he say anything?” the director asked again, clenching his fists.
“Nothing. Just pointed.”
“Pointed? At you?”
“No.”
“Signora, please explain. Security will be here soon and will want to know the details.”
“He pointed over there.” She shook her head and waved her hand in the air toward the costume closet.
“He didn’t speak?”
“No, just pointed.”
The director blew out a breath and swore softly. “How was he dressed?”
The singer screwed up her face and thought for a moment. “I couldn’t see him very well. He looked dirty and his clothes were torn—like a person from the streets, and he smelled—strange.”
“What do you mean by ‘strange’?”
“Musty, like something old and rotting.” The woman had assumed her stage persona and was obviously relishing the attention.
“All right,” the director said. “Our security people will search the entire Center. If they find anything amiss, we will notify the police. Please remain in your dressing room. They will want to question you further.”
He turned to a stagehand. “Is there anything in that closet? Another door leading somewhere?”
“No, sir.” The man shook his head. “I checked.”
“What about the rehearsal?” Emma asked James.
“It’s cancelled for today. We’ll have to reschedule for tomorrow.”
The soprano took the bottle of brandy from the stage manager and sat in a lounge chair with her attendant at her side.
Emma stood still, looked around, and scrunched up her face, thinking.
“Come on, Emma,” Nate said. “Let’s go where it’s quiet.”
“Just a minute,” she said. “Something isn’t right. Do you smell that?”
“Smell what?” He sniffed and shook his head.
“I had a fleeting smell of something stale and musty. I’m not exactly sure.” Her mind conjured up a vague image of someone ragged, just as Signora Rienzi had reported. She shook her head to rid it of the image.
“Now what?” Nate shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Is that ‘sixth sense’ of yours telling you something sinister?” he asked in a mocking tone.
Emma gave him one of her looks, eyebrows raised, lips pursed. “Don’t make fun of my ‘sixth sense,’ Nate Sandler. You know all too well what it’s done in the past.”
“Humph.”
They walked down the hall and into the community room to a table filled with bottled water, coffee and tea. “Shall we have something to drink before we go home?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
Emma sat silently as she sipped a cup of tea and thought about the situation. The Center for the Performing Arts was the home of the Midwest Opera Company. They were rehearsing Lucia di Lammermoor, a particularly demanding role for the soprano. Signora Rienzi had agreed to sing three performances for the Midwest. She had just finished singing for the Lyric, Chicago’s premier opera company, and was staying on in Chicago for a few weeks. Her voice fit the role to perfection and she was in demand at all the prestigious opera houses of the world. Her performance at the Midwest was a real bonus for the company.
Emma would never have this close contact with such great singers if she hadn’t become a supernumerary. She had volunteered to be an extra a number of years ago at the request of her son-in-law and had enjoyed it ever since. Even though she might be relegated to a crowd scene, she was thrilled with the atmosphere onstage—the glorious voices, the music, the dancers. It was like entering a world of enchantment.
She smiled as she remembered her nervousness at her first audition, the enhanced underwear she had purchased to accentuate her nonexistent figure. That was where she had met Nate. It didn’t take long for them to fall in love. Now they lived happily together in a condo on Lake Shore Drive.
“You’re a million miles away. What thoughts are going through that active brain of yours?” Nate asked.
“I was just thinking, that’s all.”
“Don’t give me that innocent look. You’re conjuring up a dramatic scenario. I know you all too well.” He added more sugar to his tea and took a sip.
“I think I’ll ask James if he puts any credence to this intruder business,” Emma said, leaving her tea untouched.
“I’ll come with you,” Nate said, taking the last swallow.
They made their way to the executive offices where James sat at his desk, rubbing his furrowed brow. He was talking animatedly on the phone. His eyebrows met in a frown and his receding hairline glistened with nervous perspiration.
He looked up when they walked in and waved them to a sofa. As he put the phone back on the charger, he blew out a deep breath. “What a mess,” he grumbled.
“This seems like a bad time to bother you,” Nate said.
“No, no, it’s okay.” He sat back in his chair and took a sip of water. “That was head of our security department. His men haven’t found anyone, nor is anything missing, so there doesn’t seem to be any reason to call in the police. The only explanation they have is that the stage entrance was unmanned for about a half-hour. The intruder probably came in that way. We’re pretty careful as far as security is concerned.” He nervously tapped his fingers on the desk. “Somebody has some explaining to do.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
“What about the soprano?” Emma asked. “Is she credible?”
James raised his eyebrows and held out his hands as if in supplication. “Are any of them? This one is especially prone to bouts of hysteria, so we can’t really be sure of anything.”
“Did anyone else see this man?” Emma asked.
“No, only Signora Rienzi,” James said. “I have to talk with the director and the stage manager now.” He pushed himself up from his chair and preceded them out of the office.
As Emma and Nate left, she thought about the intruder. Something nagged at her. She knew that feeling all too well. She had been plagued by premonitions all her life and they were usually well founded. She had inherited this “gift” from her grandmother Elizabeth. Emma’s children had thought she was a witch when her predictions came true. She had a habit of conversing with her Guardian Angel on a regular basis. The celestial guardian had done a good job of protecting her through her six decades of life, but, sometimes, Emma managed to get into trouble anyway.
Guardian Angel, she prayed, please keep me on the right path this time.