It all came out. Marsden had formed a friendship with Dennis Cullen, Rachel’s husband, when their wives were appearing together in Minneapolis. From Dennis, Marsden had learned that Olivia wasn’t handling her ex-fiancé’s suicide well. Dennis, who needed to learn how to keep his fucking mouth shut, had repeated Rachel’s speculation that Olivia was traumatized with guilt after her ex-fiancé’s suicide, and that her vocal problems were worse than she was letting on. That was all Marsden needed to hear, and it didn’t take him long to come up with a plan to prey on Olivia’s guilt. The possibility of his wife being able to step into Olivia’s shoes and have her shot at the big time had been his catnip. He saw playing mind games with Olivia as low risk, with a potentially huge payoff for his wife’s career.
“Lena can’t do anything for herself!” Marsden whined, clutching his stomach. “She was happy being second rate. I have to do everything.”
“Uh-huh.” Piper toed him with her motorcycle boot, not enough to hurt him, but enough to establish female solidarity with his wife. “Let’s begin with those notes you sent.”
Marsden started singing like his wife’s canary once had. He’d come up with an idea as an experiment—seeing if he could get into Olivia’s head by sending her the anonymous letters. After a couple of chats with Big Mouth Dennis, he’d learned Olivia seemed to be getting worse, and that motivated him to step up his efforts with the photographs, bloody T-shirt, and the phone call Olivia had gotten when they were hiking. He was behind it all, right up to the moment when Piper mentioned the hotel room break-in and the New Orleans incident.
The guy practically peed his pants. “I’ve never been to New Orleans. I swear. And I didn’t break into any hotel room!” He curled into a ball, afraid Thad would go after him again.
Thad and Piper exchanged a look. Marsden was a coward and a bully—not the kind of guy with the guts to pull off a direct attack or a desert kidnapping. Olivia was still at risk.
*
Olivia slept in late the next day. Tonight was the Aida gala, her final obligation to Marchand and the last place she wanted to be after her lackluster performance. Holding her head high and pretending not to overhear any of the whispered conversations about her singing last night would be exhausting. Except . . . she’d be able to see Thad again.
She’d kill him if he brought a date.
He’d bring a date. She knew it. He wasn’t a man who’d ignore any kind of rejection without fighting back.
She needed a date, too. She mentally sorted through possible candidates but couldn’t bear the idea of spending the evening with anyone who was part of the opera world. She could ask Clint, but if she brought him, Thad would think she was trying to rub his face in their breakup when all she wanted was to throw her arms around him and tell him once more she was sorry. He deserved his retribution. She’d choke down her resentment, go alone, and make herself be extra nice to the woman he’d almost certainly bring with him. Even though it would devastate her.
She tried to focus on the positive. It would be good to see Henri again. Paisley had somehow landed her dream job as a personal assistant to one of the Real Housewives, so she wouldn’t be there, but Mariel would. Mariel’s blind ambition to best Henri had grated on Olivia from the beginning. The advertising campaign had been expensive, and if it wasn’t paying off, she’d be gloating over Henri’s remains.
Olivia had to talk to Dennis. He needed to know what his loose lips had cost her. She intended to keep this between the two of them because Rachel would be crushed if she found out the part her husband had played in what had happened.
She texted him.
Call me.
Less than a minute later, her phone rang. It was Rachel. “Now you’re sending secret messages to my husband?”
Olivia thought quickly. “Somebody with a birthday coming up shouldn’t be asking questions.”
“My birthday isn’t for two months.”
“So?”
Rachel laughed. “All right. Here he is.”
He answered quickly. “Hey, pal. What’s up?”
She couldn’t do this with Rachel standing next to him. “Call me when big ears isn’t around. We need to talk.”
Dennis turned his head away from the phone. “She needs to talk to me in private. We have a thing going on.”
Olivia heard Rachel laugh. “If you’re planning a surprise party, I’ll kill you both.”
“Hold on. I’m going into another room.” A few moments later, he’d returned to their conversation. “What’s up? Rachel’s birthday isn’t for two months.”
“This isn’t about her birthday.” She steeled herself. “I’m afraid you and I have a problem . . .”
She laid it out. Everything that had happened and Dennis’s part in it. As the story unfolded, he began stammering apologies. “God, Olivia . . . God, I’m sorry . . . I hate myself . . . Rachel keeps telling me I have a big mouth . . . Jesus, Olivia . . . I never meant . . . Shit . . . I’m sorry . . .”
“No more apologies.” Olivia had heard enough. “You’re a gossip, and your blabbering has threatened my relationship with Rachel. I know wives confide in their husbands, but they expect their husbands to keep their mouths shut. How can I ever again talk openly with her if I know she’ll tell you, and you’ll broadcast it to the world?”
“You’re right. I’ve learned my lesson. God, have I ever. Don’t tell Rachel about this. Please. She already has enough issues with the way I butt into her life.”
That was news to Olivia. “Dennis, I swear, if you ever again pass on anything that I’ve told Rachel, I’ll tell her every detail about what happened with Christopher Marsden.” She hung up on him before he could issue any more apologies.
Afterward, she moved over to the piano and began her vocalization. Only a few more hours before the gala when she’d see Thad again.
*
The Muni’s Grand Foyer had been transformed into a facsimile of ancient Egypt. Guests entered through a reproduction of the Temple of Dendur as projections of ancient temple columns and statues of Ramses II, interspersed with the Marchand logo, played on the walls. An array of artificial palm trees decked out with fronds made of twinkle lights added to the glamorous setting.
Her late entrance caused a stir. Heads swiveled, and a brief lull fell over the crowd. The Chicago Tribune’s review of last night’s performance hadn’t yet appeared in the paper, but the online reviews were posted on all the big opera sites, and nearly every one of them used the word “disappointing.” She forced her head higher, even as she wished she were anywhere but here.
Kathryn Swift, the chair of the gala committee, rushed over all in a flutter. “Olivia! My dear, you look incredible!”
Olivia wore her own floor-length gown for the evening—slender, white, and sleeveless, with a narrow gold belt. She’d left her hair long and borrowed an Egyptian-style circlet from the costume department to wear across her forehead. Her fan-shaped gold earrings, like the wings of Isis, were studded with coral and turquoise.
The majority of the men wore tuxedos, with only a handful disregarding the suggested male dress code. One had confused a Greek toga with an Egyptian robe. A few had adopted the more modern djellaba. Fortunately, no one had shown up in a loincloth. Almost all of the women were in some form of costume, many dressed in embellished robes, some with collar pieces. A number of women had donned long, black wigs. Kathryn Swift had chosen a gown with accordion-pleated wing-shaped sleeves in a silver fabric that set off her gray society matron bob. She snatched up Olivia’s hands and examined her rings. “Is that a poison ring? Eugene gave me one from the Victorian period, but I can’t remember what I’ve done with it.”
“It’s a poison ring, but not an antique.” Olivia had paid thirty dollars for it on Etsy, one of her favorite sources for costume jewelry. Of the five rings she was wearing, only the cushion-cut sapphire she’d bought as a gift to herself after winning the Belvedere Singing Competition had any value.
She couldn’t win the Belvedere Competition now. She would barely make it through the qualification round.