Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [38]
• • •
He’d been introduced to her at a Canadian Opera Company’s production of Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro at Toronto’s Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts. He was sipping white wine during intermission, bought for him by an opera critic for the Toronto Globe and Mail, when a mutual friend waltzed her over to him.
“You’re an agent, I understand,” she said.
“That’s right
“Representing opera singers
“Among others. I also have musicians and—”
“I was an opera singer,” she said.
Oh, God, he thought, what does she want from me, to resurrect her career, which was probably a dismal failure because she—
“I studied in the States and lived in Germany for three years. I studied there, too
“You sang there?” he asked.
“A few small roles. I went there because all the good roles here were going to European singers—Gawd, talk about outsourcing—and supposedly the German companies welcomed American sopranos, but it wasn’t so welcoming for me. Well, with one exception. I met my former husband there. He saved me from the trials and tribulations of being an unwanted opera singer
His mood brightened. “What was your husband doing in Germany?” he asked, not interested in the answer but looking to keep the conversation going until the ringing of the little bells, announcing that the second act was about to start, could save him.
“He owns companies there, and elsewhere
“Really. What sort of companies?”
“Big ones.” She smiled and batted her long, fake lashes at him. Her dress was cut low, exposing an ample amount of freckled bosom, and hemmed high enough to showcase a nice set of legs.
“Big ones?” he said with a wry smile, the double entendre not going over her head.
“Yes. Have you ever considered taking on a partner?” she asked.
“No. Well, it’s crossed my mind on occasion but I’ve never given it any serious thought
The bells sounded. She placed a well-manicured set of fingers tipped with crimson talons on his sleeve and said, “I’m looking for an investment that will bring me back into the opera world. Call me
“Your name is Baltsa?” he said. “Zöe Baltsa? Any relation to Agnes Baltsa, the soprano?”
“No. It’s my married name. My maiden name was Nagle. I’m keeping my married name—and his money. I’m in the book. No, I’ll call you. Melincamp? That’s the name of your agency?”
“Right
“You’ll hear from me. Enjoy the rest of the opera. The sextet at the end of Act Three never fails to delight me
He watched her wiggle away and thought that maybe this was his lucky night, not because he might end up in bed with her, but because her ex-husband had “big ones.” He reentered the theater with renewed vigor.
The infusion of money by his new partner worked wonders to turn around the Melincamp Artists Agency’s financial picture. Now the Baltsa-Melincamp Artists Agency, its run-down offices were abandoned in favor of space in a downtown high-rise more befitting a talent agency “of world renown.” Zöe hadn’t exaggerated about her husband’s money. It seemed endless, and she spent it freely, hosting expensive fetes for her rich friends and opera patrons, draping herself in the latest designer clothing, and traveling the globe to, she claimed, find the world’s most promising future opera stars. She forged alliances with arts centers in myriad countries—England, France, Italy, Norway, and Sweden, and some in the Middle East, including Egypt, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia, where she’d befriended a sheik reputed to be worth a couple of billion dollars, give or take a million. A full-time publicist was put on the payroll to extol Zöe’s exploits in the media. She was invited to opening nights in dozens of cities, invitations she gobbled up with glee, her publicist always at her side to generate local press.
For Melincamp, having taken her on as a partner proved to be both a blessing and a curse. The terms of their written contract,