Kills Well with Others (Killers of a Certain Age #2)

Chapter Nineteen

The next day I was in place well before eleven, watching the foot traffic on the bridge. School groups, official tours, even the odd bachelorette party crowded each other as they jostled for the perfect shot of the Grand Canal. The sun was glittering off the water—good for me, since it meant my oversized sunglasses weren’t suspicious. I had chosen a table near the hostess stand, and a few minutes after I arrived, Helen appeared with a bulging shopping bag from the Accademia and a large camera slung around her neck. She’d asked for a table near the water and angled herself so she could watch me discreetly. The waiter brought her a pizza, and she occupied herself by breaking off small bites and pretending to eat as she paged through a Rick Steves guidebook.

Up on the bridge, Mary Alice was snapping selfies. At the foot of the bridge, on the opposite side from the Bar Foscarini, Nat had set up an easel and was lazily sketching the canal.

I ordered a cup of black tea and studied the photograph of Wolfgang that Nat had bookmarked on my phone. He was exactly what you’d expect of a German opera singer—well-padded with a blond beard. (Jonas Kaufmann being the exception, of course.) Wolfgang looked like he just stepped out of The Aryan Opera Lover’s Guide to Wagner , and I wondered what his grandparents had gotten up to in World War II. I closed out the tab on my phone just as he walked up, smiling a wide, nervous smile.

“Frau Fellowes?”

“Ja,” I said, rising and extending my hand. I greeted him in fluent German, making a point of including a few minor grammatical errors and flattening my accent. People are always more at ease when they think they know more than you do. To my surprise, he didn’t correct me. Instead, he gave me an even bigger smile.

“You speak German!” he exclaimed in real delight.

I smiled. “You should not be surprised. We who love opera must have at least a passing acquaintance with German and Italian and French.” I waved him to a chair and signaled the waiter to bring another tea. Over his shoulder I could see Helen fighting off a seagull that had swooped in for some of her pizza.

“I have never known a singer who didn’t want something hot to drink,” I told Wolfgang with a warm smile. “Would you like some honey?”

“No, no,” he said, helping himself to four packets of sugar as the waiter appeared with a tiny teapot. Wolfgang poured a small cup and stirred in all four packets. He took a deep sip, sitting back with a little sigh. “I am honored by your invitation, Fraulein,” he said, putting his hand to his heart. He had obviously decided that a charm offensive was warranted, and my strategy was to pretend to be charmed. I had had plenty of time to decide how to play it and plenty of advice from Helen, the only real opera lover among us. His official biography stated his age as thirty-three, but Natalie’s internet digging had turned up a few early competitions in his hometown of Erlangen. Working out the dates, it was clear he’d shaved a few years off, no doubt to give himself a little more time to make it as a pro. He was closer to thirty-seven and probably getting desperate. The role at La Fenice was his biggest one yet, and it still wasn’t a lead. He’d never believe it if I hinted at a headlining spot in a major production, so I said some vague things about showcases and fundraisers and perhaps a chance to understudy Der Rosenkavalier . The suggestion of performing a German composer lit him up. He started to talk about the themes of the opera, gesturing expansively as he went on and on about infidelity and selflessness.

I let him chatter until he was good and warmed up. Then I touched his hand, a light, quick touch. It wasn’t intended to be sexy. It was just a small bonding gesture to let him think I liked him and put him at ease for the request I was about to make. I pulled my phone out and gave him a self-deprecating smile. “I hope you don’t mind,” I said shyly. “But I’d love to get a selfie with you.”

He preened, sliding his chair closer to mine and draping a beefy arm around my shoulders. I snapped a few, tilting my head at the last second so that my hair brushed his cheek. I sat back and pretended to study them. Instead with a couple of taps I forwarded them to the others. I got back three thumbs-up emoji, so I knew they’d gone through. Minka never stints on the international data plan, bless her.

When I was satisfied, I put the phone face-up on the table. It displayed the clearest picture I’d snapped. Wolfgang and I were grinning, looking like the best of friends.

“You will send that to me?” he asked hopefully.

“Of course.” I’d saved his number so it took only a few more taps to send him the photo. “I hope that doesn’t make your girlfriend jealous,” I said as he looked at his incoming message.

He glanced up quickly as he pocketed the phone. “I have no girlfriend.”

I tipped my head, giving him a conspiring look. “Don’t you? I’m surprised you’d bother to deny it. I mean, I understand pop stars and actors not giving out that kind of information, but are B-list baritones really worried about groupies getting butthurt that they’ve got significant others?”

He looked confused at the transformation from patrician New York opera buff to plainspoken Texan. “I’m sorry?”

“You will be if Galina Dashkova sees that,” I told him, nodding towards the phone in his hand.

His eyes widened. “You know Galina?” He looked confused but not suspicious. He was such an unsuspecting little lamb, I almost felt bad for what I was about to do.

“Let’s just say she knows me,” I replied. “And she doesn’t like me very much.”

“I don’t understand—” he began.

I held up my hand. “Let me shorthand it for you. Your girlfriend wants to kill me—and a few of my friends. But I’m going to kill her first.”

He gaped at me for a long minute, opening and closing his mouth several times before he found his voice again.

“This doesn’t make sense,” he mumbled. He rubbed his forehead. “Is this some kind of joke? It is a bad joke.”

“No, my sense of humor is better than this, I promise. Look, Wolfie, can I call you Wolfie?” He nodded mutely. “Good, I think it’s better to be friendly about these things. You can call me Billie.”

“But your name is Christine,” he corrected.

“No, it’s Billie,” I told him patiently.

The truth was beginning to dawn. “You are not Frau Fellowes?”

“No, I am not.”

“Then you are not with the Met?” He looked crushed.

“No, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to get your hopes up, but we had to get you alone for a chat.”

“But the job next season—” he began.

“Wolfie, let me save you the trouble. There is no job next season. I have nothing to do with the Met in any way, shape, or form. The only opera I know is what I learned from Bugs Bunny.”

“Bugs Bunny?” His confusion turned to outright bewilderment.

I hummed a few bars of Figaro . “Bugs Bunny,” I repeated. He stared at me without responding. “Look it up on YouTube when you get home. You’ll enjoy it. But in the meantime, I need your help.”

“I don’t understand any of this.” He dropped his face into his hands and I sighed.

“That’s because you’re not letting me finish. Wolfie”—I snapped my fingers and he raised his head—“focus. I need information from you. If you give it to me, you walk free. If you refuse, that photo goes to Galina. As I explained, she really, really loathes me. If she thinks you’re chummy with me, well, I’d hate to be in your shoes.” Of course, I didn’t have Galina’s number since she’d disconnected the one I’d found in Pasha’s diary, but Wolfie wouldn’t know that.

“Why does she hate you?” he asked. It wouldn’t have been my first question in his shoes, but I was okay with satisfying his curiosity.

“Because I killed her father,” I told him. “My friends helped, but I’m the one who actually did the deed. Oh, and I killed her brother too. Pasha. Did you ever meet him?”

He swung his head from side to side as if to clear it.

“Pasha was interesting,” I told him. “He carried a big teddy bear around everywhere he went. Really sharp dresser. Galina didn’t tell you he died?”

“She said he had a heart attack.” His voice was a whisper.

“Yeah, I’m what attacked his heart,” I said. “I drowned him in a bathtub. Galina has had two major losses in a week. Did she tell you about her aunt Evgenia?”

He didn’t even shake his head that time. He simply stared at me, his pupils dilated in fear.

“Aunt Evgenia is dead too, but I’m not responsible for that. Galina is. She killed her own aunt, Wolfie.”

“Why?” His voice was such a hoarse little croak, I really hoped he didn’t have to sing that night. He’d have sounded like Michigan J. Frog.

“Because she thought Aunt Evgenia gave us information about her,” I explained. I gestured towards the phone in his pocket. “And now she’s going to think you did too. You’re not safe unless you work with us.”

“What do you want?” He licked his lips, but they didn’t look any wetter. That meant his mouth had gone dry from the terror, which was good news for me.

“We need to make contact with Galina to set up a meeting.”

I was about to elaborate when he bolted. One second he was there, the next he was up and gone, pelting up the steps of the bridge. Helen was too busy still fighting the seagull away from her pizza to chase him, and I got tangled with a waiter who was delivering plates of pasta to the table next to mine. It was all up to Natalie and Mary Alice.