Delaine rolled her eyes. “Goodness’ sake, there’s lots of money here, too.” She looked around, seemed to notice Gilles, and snuggled close to him. “Hello, sweetie,” she purred.
“Are you enjoying the opera?” Theodosia asked Gilles. She felt like she should say something to him.
“I’m a huge fan,” Gilles said, waving an arm enthusiastically, almost clobbering a woman with an overdone Throwback Thursday beehive hairdo. “I’ve actually had the pleasure of seeing this particular opera performed in Paris.”
“And how does it compare?” Drayton asked politely.
Gilles gave them all a slightly haughty look and shook his head. “There is no comparison.”
Theodosia smiled broadly and turned toward Drayton. “Well then, we should probably be heading back to our seats.”
“So soon?” Delaine looked disappointed.
“It was lovely to see you both,” Drayton said, hastily backing away. “I hope you enjoy the rest of the opera. Or at least try to,” he muttered under his breath.
Theodosia gave a little wave. “Nice meeting you . . .”
? ? ?
A few minutes later, the froth of the second act once again swept Theodosia up in its embrace. Her eyes fluttered shut as the music carried her from scene to scene. How could these singers simply open their mouths and fill this hall with such glorious mind-boggling sound? she wondered. She smiled as the music gained in intensity. She was devouring each note with her ears, anticipating the next.
And then, just as the mezzo-soprano was hitting her highest note, just as the chorus was really pumping out the backup chords, a scream suddenly rose up from somewhere in the audience. It mingled with the soprano’s voice for a long moment, and then climbed to an even higher screech. Like steel wheels braking on rusted rails, it rose and fell and rose and fell until . . .
The soprano suddenly fell silent, a look of absolute shock on her face.
The orchestra faltered.
And still the scream continued, rising so high it ended in a horrible, guttural shriek.
Somewhere, a door slammed loudly, the noise reverberating throughout the entire hall, rattling everyone’s sensibilities.
Now everyone on stage had stopped singing . . . the principal players, the chorus. Everyone glanced about nervously, unsure of what to do.
A few murmurs rose up from the audience. And then a hundred more people joined in.
The orchestra’s frizzy-haired conductor turned around and stared at the audience with disapproval.
“What happened?” a woman cried.
“What’s going on?” a man demanded.
Several members of the audience jumped to their feet.
Then, from the box seat next to them, Theodosia heard a plaintive voice call out.
“Help!” the woman cried. “Something terrible has happened to Abigail and Harold. Won’t somebody please help them?”
As the screams continued, the house lights flashed on in a sudden blaze. Due, no doubt, to the quick thinking and fast action of a nervous usher.
It suddenly became very obvious that the screaming was coming from the private box that was closest to the stage. In fact, as Theodosia leaned forward, she could see a woman standing there, a look of utter terror on her face as she screamed bloody blue murder.
“Help!” the woman continued to scream, her voice drawing out the word in an awful, wrenching shriek. “Somebody please help me!”
Theodosia stood up. “Something’s horribly wrong,” she cried out to Drayton. Then, without thinking, without hesitating, she dashed into the hallway and sprinted down the row of box seats. If nobody else would help this poor woman, then she would do it!
She passed one, two, three doors that led to box seats. Ran past a curving stairway that led downstairs. For one brief instant it felt like she’d just missed seeing someone. That she’d caught a faint, ghostly image out of the corner of her eye. Then she was sliding to a stop in front of the last set of box seats where the screams were pouring out.
The door stood open.
Theodosia drew a deep breath and plunged inside.
Her eyes quickly took in the bizarre tableau. An elderly man in a tuxedo lay sprawled on the carpet, gasping for air. Blood poured from a cut on his forehead and had trickled down to soak through the front of his white shirt. An older woman—the screaming woman she’d seen before—was now bent over him and racked with sobs. A grim-looking theater manager crouched next to the man and barked sharp orders into his cell phone.
When the theater manager glanced up and saw Theodosia, he waved a dismissive hand at her. “Go away!” he cried.
“What’s wrong?” Theodosia asked urgently. “What happened?”
The crying woman stumbled toward Theodosia, almost tripping on the hem of her long lilac-colored dress. “Help me,” she gasped. Her shoulders shook and her body heaved with erratic sobs. “Somebody snu-snu-snuck into our box,” the woman babbled. “They hit my husband over the head and then they . . .” Her right hand clutched at her bare neckline as her lower lip quivered wildly. “They stole the necklace right from around my neck.”