Unforgivable Cin An Opera in Three Acts (Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries Book 5) Read online

  Unforgivable Cin

  An Opera in Three Acts

  A Cin Fin-Lathen Mystery by

  Alexie Aaron

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ~

  Copyright 2015 – Diane L. Fitch writing as Alexie Aaron

  Revised 2016 dlf

  ALSO BY ALEXIE AARON

  CIN FIN-LATHEN MYSTERIES

  in order

  Decomposing

  Death by Saxophone

  Discord

  The Wages of Cin

  Unforgivable Cin: An Opera in Three Acts

  HAUNTED SERIES

  in order

  The Hauntings of Cold Creek Hollow

  Ghostly Attachments

  Sand Trap

  PEEPs Lite Eternal Maze 3.1

  PEEPs Lite Homecoming 3.2

  Darker than Dark

  The Garden

  Puzzle

  Old Bones

  Things that Go Bump in the Night

  Something Old

  PEEPs Lite Checking Out 9.1

  PEEPs Lite Ice and Steel 9.2

  The Middle House: Return to Cold Creek Hollow

  Renovation

  Mind Fray

  The Siege

  NOLA

  Never Forget

  The Old House

  Restitution

  A Rose by Any Other Name

  I dedicate this book to the strong, independent women of this world.

  You have broken barriers, scoffed at gossip, and truly have lived.

  And to Kelly and Sandy who are my inspirations.

  Table of Contents

  Acapella

  Act I

  Diva

  Verismo

  Tango

  Recitative

  Carmen

  Act II

  Resurrection

  Rifiuti

  Frequentato

  Ricordare

  La fioritura

  Bella

  Marco

  Speculazione

  Tragedia

  Act III

  Amore Perduto

  Famigerato

  Riposte

  Tradimento.

  Onore

  Gioco Pericoloso

  Lasciare Andare

  Transizione

  Aida

  Finale

  Glossary

  Cast of Characters

  Alexie Aaron

  Acapella

  Eldora strutted out onto the stage. She let the spotlight wash over her and sang. “Quand je vous aimerai? Ma foi, je ne sais pas…”

  The lighting engineer followed the young diva across the stage, struggling to have the light be one with the temperamental singer. The curly-haired brunette wore a black gown, the neck and the back of which plunged far below what was considered good taste. The young woman had an ivy tattoo inked where polite young women would never dare. He didn’t like Miss Capella, but he didn’t have to. He just had to light her. To fill the boredom of another night working the opera, he translated her song into English as she cast her spell on the audience.

  When will I love you? Good lord, I don’t know,

  Maybe never, maybe tomorrow.

  But not today, that’s certain.

  Love is a rebellious bird

  That nothing can tame.

  And it is simply in vain to call it

  If it suits him to refuse.

  Nothing will work, threat or pleading,

  One speaks, the other stays quiet;

  And it’s the other that I prefer.

  He said nothing, but he pleases me.

  The engineer watched the woman and tried to get in her head. To anticipate the diva was foolhardy. To love her, disastrous.

  Eldora searched the standing crowd to see her lover, the one she had played with in the dressing room. He was there with his wife. She smiled knowing she had taken from the woman what was most wanted, a child. There will be no lovemaking for them tonight, all because of Eldora. Her eyes moved upwards to the balcony and watched all the hungry faces. Paupers who dream of touching Eldora? No, no, no. As she sang, she worked her way from patron box to patron box, looking for a lover of means. One to buy her a home and jewels, to fall at her feet, and be grateful for the scraps she would throw him.

  Eldora Cappella was born in poverty but grew up with a rich voice and a voluptuous body. She had used both to get her to this stage. To be the youngest diva to sing Carmen was an honor. Carmen was a demanding role, only the mature women would dare tackle. To sing Carmen, you had to become her. You had to open up your soul to Bizet’s Spanish gypsy and turn into her. The experienced sopranos knew how to let her go after the performance, but the brown-eyed, full-lipped Eldora didn’t know of the danger. She took Carmen in and lived her life. Taking whomever she pleased to bed with her, and to hell with the consequences! She was Carmen, no, Eldora, no, Carmen!

  “L΄amour!”

  One watched her from the box, his heart taken. Here was his Bella; here was the woman who could sustain him.

  “L΄amour!”

  Another watched, drifting further from his young bride’s side. Spent and drowsy, he smiled and lifted his hand, still smelling of Eldora’s perfume.

  “L΄amour!”

  Pello Viteri stood waiting for his cue. The baritone had but tasted the flower earlier, and she promised to shed her petals for him this evening. His heart and his manhood swelled thinking of what was to come.

  “L΄amour!”

  But still another fumed from the wings. His diva, whom he had nurtured and petted, had spurned his proposal. He wasn’t wealthy enough to hold her anymore. Well, he would fix her, and he would do it soon.

  Act I

  Diva

  “I can’t possibly wear that,” I argued, holding up the black, floor-length pencil skirt. “It’s physically impossible for me to play my alto clarinet without showing a yard of naked leg in this skirt.”

  The band manager, Ryan Baker, smiled.

  “Oh no, what are we selling here, opera season tickets or a flesh show?” I asked.

  The pleasantly portly man continued to smile. I saw a wicked gleam in his green eyes, and it made me want to mess up his perfectly-combed brown hair.

  “Come on, Fin-Lathen, it’s for charity,” Leon Madison said. “You don’t hear Nadia or Mercedes complaining about their outfits, and they have miniskirts to wear.”

  I looked over at the two young, beautiful, thin Bb clarinet players and winced. “They don’t have to play an instrument between their legs with the business side of the slit facing the audience,” I complained. “It’s going to look like I’m half naked when I sit down.” Was that the idea? Did I misunderstand the operatic gala theme? It’s not an opera at all. Perhaps Palm Beach Opera would be transitioning into Palm Beach Burlesque. I’m a good sport; maybe they could give me a tassel or two to twirl.

  “How about you and I change places,” Wayne Montgomery offered. “My bass clarinet will block the view.”

  I smiled. “That would work.”

  “No, it won’t,” a stern voice, dipped in acid, said from the wings.

  I closed my eyes, trying my best to handle a burst of nerves, as the interim conductor, Kyle Martel, walked out. He was handsome, young, angry, and very dangerous, not because he was tall and muscular, but his anger was legendary. How had this former musical prodigy l
asted this long, considering the violence he displayed onstage, was beyond me.

  “You have received these specially-designed outfits on the condition you display them as the designer has requested,” he said.

  “It’s not only the skirt. The top has the lowest scoop neck I’ve ever seen. It’s impossible to find a bra to wear with it,” I informed him.

  “Then don’t wear one,” Mercedes said.

  I looked over at the flat-chested waif, who was married to Wayne, and counted to ten before I said, “You don’t have 38DDs to support.”

  “If you weren’t so fat, you’d have normal-sized breasts,” she sniped.

  “She’s not fat,” Kyle said, shutting down any argument from the waif. “Cin is voluptuous, as is most of the cast of the opera.” He turned to me and handed me the sketch. “This is what the designer wants.”

  I looked at the sketch. The designer had placed the quintet center stage with me on the outside. This was the first time I noticed the shoes. “Um, I don’t have any four-inch, black stilettoes.”

  “You do now,” a musical voice chimed from the audience. “Sorry I’m late,” apologized the flamboyant man who led a small parade of box- and bag-carrying assistants down the center aisle of the opera house.

  “Group, this is Preston Steele. He has graciously donated his time and resources to dress not only this quintet, but costume the entire cast performing at the gala,” Ryan explained.

  Preston walked up onto the stage, walked around us musicians and smiled. “Since you’re going to open the gala, I wanted to make an impression. I have flat shoes for the young ladies, but for you, my diva, I have something special.”

  “Diva?” I squeaked.

  “Yes. With that body and that red hair, you’re a diva.”

  Mercedes snickered.

  I hated Mercedes. If I were to be honest, I hated Nadia too. How I ended up in this small professional group was beyond me. All I did was show up late to Coconut Palms Community Band rehearsal, and I found myself volunteered to represent our group at the gala. The quintet’s regular alto clarinet player had a prior commitment. She probably had seen the costume or the heels and scampered to parts unknown.

  The reason I was late was Harry. Harry, my young partner in our consulting business, had gotten himself in a fix. He had been following our person of interest when the man boarded a yacht to attend a party. Harry joined the merrymakers to tape the conversation between the errant husband and the naïve secretary. While he was there, the boat had set sail. Fortunately, it stopped in Fort Lauderdale early this morning. Unfortunately, Harry didn’t have his wallet on him, so I had to drive down and pick him up.

  One of the reasons I balked at Harry’s idea of becoming private detectives is that I don’t like following spouses around. Why? Because it’s degrading snapping pictures of the errant one, and I can see both sides of the marital equation. My partner, however, thought it was an easy way to make a buck.

  “We’re not private detectives. We’re consultants,” I argued.

  “We’re consultants without a job presently,” Harry stated. “I’ll do this. You just do the paperwork.”

  “Fine.”

  I hate paperwork, but I hate ducking behind cars and trees more. Besides, I didn’t need the money. I was finally receiving the back alimony payments from my ex. I had agreed to suspend the payments when Luke lost his job, along with his marriage to the pickle heiress, on the condition that when he was able, I would be paid back. Luke had landed himself another job and was zeroing in on another heiress. This one was the thirty-something, thrice-married heir and CEO to an adult diaper manufacturer. I loved how she introduced herself. “I’m Bunny Malfoy. I’m in adult diapers.”

  “Cin!” Ryan barked. “Get your head out of the clouds and your butt in that skirt, so Preston can check the fit.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said and waited for the designer and his entourage to pass me before getting in line.

  “Cin, darling,” Preston started. “How tall are you?”

  “Five feet nine, and in those heels, I’m going to be six feet one inch of scary.”

  “Nonsense. You’re forgetting that they are platforms shoes. You’re going to be six feet three inches. Is this a problem?”

  “No, but there is always the risk of me developing high altitude sickness. Preston, are you trying to break my legs?”

  “No, darling, just trying to show them off. For an old gal, you’re gorgeous.”

  How do you respond to that? Old gal indeed. I’m barely forty, cough cough. Okay fortyish, but I’ve never considered myself gorgeous. My body was tall and curvy. My curly red hair was long, framing a face consisting of wide-set brown eyes, a pug nose and large full lips. I was hardly gorgeous.

  I walked behind the screen, took off my clothes, slid on the skirt and pulled on the top. I had on a black bra, but it wasn’t helping. I pulled the straps to the edges of my shoulders, and I knew, as soon as I started playing my instrument, they would snap back. I walked out and was handed the shoes. The shoes were beautiful little torture devices. No padding. None, nada. Just polished wood. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not a barefoot stilt walker,” I said as I stood up.

  “You just have to walk out onstage and back off,” Preston said.

  “And then there’s the mandatory meet and greet cocktail party after. You’re going to cripple me.”

  Preston sighed. He looked at the outfit and shook his head. “I hate to say it, but you’re right. You look like a transvestite. How did I get it so wrong? Dear, I’m sorry. Come to the studio tomorrow, and we’ll work on something better.”

  I pulled out my phone and looked at my calendar. “I can’t make it until ten,” I said.

  “Darling, I don’t get up before noon,” Preston said. “Mandy,” he called.

  A spunky, young female assistant bounced over.

  “Check my book. Set up an hour with…”

  “Cin Fin-Lathen,” I supplied.

  “Ms. Fin-Lathen… You’re not that international detective everyone’s talking about, are you?” Preston asked.

  “No, I’m not an international detective,” I said honestly.

  “Yes you are. There’s no mistaking that red hair, although, ouch, what happened here?” he said, spying the regrown chunk of hair that I had lost when a previous paramour cut it off of me with a knife.

  “Employment hazard,” I said.

  He approached me and fiddled with my hair. “You know a black… no, red silk flower pinned here… Oh my god, I’m seeing it now. Mandy, check and see if we still have that black gown we used for Carmen.”

  Mandy consulted her iPad and nodded. “It’s in Miami.”

  “Have it sent.” He looked over at me. “You’re a little thin, but I think we can make it work.”

  In that moment, I loved this man. I’ve never been accused of being a little thin. For him, I would walk on the wooden stilts. Hell, add a few exposed nails. I was a little thin.

  A mature woman, corseted in Spanx, was in the dressing area when I returned. She had tossed my street clothes on the floor. I grabbed them and glared at the aging diva. The great Antonia Aldana, a soprano who had been seduced away from Miami when the new opera house was built in Palm Beach, stood before me. Palm Beach was where the money was, so here would be where this diva would now rule. She brought with her an oversexed daughter, Leora. Rumor had it, Leora was dating a man thrice her age, a patron of the Palm Beach Opera. No wonder the woman walking all over my sundress was still getting leading roles. I don’t want to be called an ageist - my best friend Bernice is in her eighties - but this parakeet was missing a few feathers. It would take a miracle of costuming to enable her to play an ingénue part.

  “What are you looking at?” she sniped.

  “Nothing,” I said honestly. “I thought there was something here, but I see nothing.”

  ~

  I walked back out onstage, this time with my instrument. I sat down and began to warm up with
the other clarinet players. Putting aside my irritation with some of their personalities, as musicians, these were the best that south Florida had to offer. Clarinet groups were never really in style, but lately, the nouveau riche had turned away from string quartets and were now tucking brass and reed groups into the corners of their homes for ambiance during their parties. The quintet I had been asked to sub for was called Reed Asylum. They played anything from classical to jazz. The first-chair clarinet player was a chameleon when it came to style. He could blend in with a smooth tone or be a sexy and raspy alternative for a tenor saxophone.

  Kyle Martel, who was standing in for the Palm Beach Opera’s conductor, decided, instead of letting the group present their own material, that he would write something for the quintet. In my opinion, it was crap. But I would play this crap with as much dignity as I could muster. I was representing the Coconut Palms Community Band, and I would do them proud.

  I was prepared for working with Kyle, and I had a pencil handy. He made six adjustments to my part alone. By the time we were finished, my copy was filled with instructions. However, Kyle had turned the crap into cashmere.

  “This sounds great. Please practice. Try to have it memorized because I want your eyes on me, not on the music,” Kyle instructed. “Dress rehearsal at five. We go on at eight.”

  I took time to jot it down in my phone’s calendar, more for Harry’s benefit than mine. This way, he wouldn’t schedule me for anything. I didn’t want to be late and face the wrath of Kyle Martel.

  “Cin, may I have a moment of your time?” Ryan asked.

  I angled my head and nodded.

  “How would you like to become a permanent part of this group?”

  “Ryan, I’m flattered, but I’m really overloaded with commitments. I’m just helping you out for the gala.”

  “That’s a shame. You’re quite an attention getter,” he said.

  “Me?”

  “This group, although talented, is basic post-college blah, but with you in it, they have a certain flash. You exude sex.”