PHANTOM IN TIME (41 page)

Bella
glanced, perplexed, at a cluttered expanse of furniture, fake shrubbery,
portable stairs, and pieces of scenery. “What is it? Why have you brought me
here?”

Toby
turned and picked up a piece of rope from a table. He extended it toward Bella
by the frayed edges. “Look at this.”

“Yes,
it's a fraying piece of rope. So?”

“You
know the scene where Jacques stands in the moonlight and sings 'The Sweetest
Story Ever Told' with the big yellow moon hanging over his head?”

“Yes.”

“Well,
the prop we use for the moon weighs almost seventy-five pounds.”

Bella
felt a frisson of fear. “Go on.”

Toby
stepped closer and spoke in low, urgent tones. “A few minutes ago, I climbed up
into the rafters to check on the anchoring ropes for the prop. Two of them had
been cut, and only this one frayed piece held it up. It looks like someone's
been working it over with a knife.”

“Oh,
my God!” cried Bella.

Toby
nodded grimly. “If I hadn't checked on the ropes holding up the moon, it likely
would have come crashing down on Jacques's head tonight.”

“Heavens!
Who could have done this?”

“I
wish I knew.”

Bella
frowned. “Do you think it might have been one of the stagehands?”

He
blanched. “It wasn't me, Bella.”

She
touched his arm. “Of course not, sweetie. I'm just trying to imagine who might
have the skills to do this.”

He
scowled thoughtfully. “Well, there's a scaffolding beneath the rafters. Most
anyone with a knife could have climbed up there and done it.”

Bella
groaned. “Is the prop safe now?”

“Oh,
yes,” he reassured her. “Another stagehand helped me totally redo the rigging,
and we checked the knots to boot. There's no way the moon will fall on
Jacques.”

Bella
hugged the boy. “Thank you so much. You're our guardian angel.”

Toby
smiled, but anxiously. “Bella, you know I don't really like Jacques, but after
what happened last night, I sure don't want to see him hurt again. You'll warn
him to be extra careful?”

Bella
took the frayed piece of rope from the child's hands. “You bet I will!” she
cried, hurrying off.

Seconds
later, she burst in on Jacques in his dressing room. Shirtless, wearing only
his pants and boots, he turned to her and grinned. “Well,
ma belle,
this
is a most pleasant surprise.”

“Jacques,
listen to me!” she began in a rush. “You can't perform tonight.”

“What
do you mean?” He scowled at the piece of rope she held.

She
handed it to him and quickly explained about the sabotaged prop. “Someone is
clearly out to kill you, Jacques, and you must stay off the stage.”

He
fingered the frayed edges of the hemp. “But hasn't Toby fixed the problem now?”

Bella
clenched her fists in exasperation. “That's not the point. For heaven's sake,
Jacques, you've already been bashed across the head and shot! What does it take
to get through to you? Whoever did this will surely try again.”

“How
can we be sure the rope didn't simply break on its own?”

Bella
waved her hands. “Look at it, Jacques. It's new—and obviously cut. Toby
agrees.”

Glancing
again at the rope, Jacques did not argue. Handing it back to her, he turned
away and began shrugging on his shirt. “Bella, I'll be fine. Assuming the rope
was deliberately cut, whoever did this likely doesn't even know it's been
fixed. Besides, a few moments ago, Etienne informed me he has hired a private
security firm to patrol the auditorium and the wings throughout the rest of our
run, to calm public fears and ensure there are no further unpleasant
incidents.”

Bella
considered this news for a moment, then shook her head. “Jacques, that's all
well and good, but I fear it's not enough. Neither the police nor private
detectives will be able to stop a truly determined assassin. You're actually
going to perform, knowing that in a few more days you'll be dead?”

“Bella,
I said I will consider staying away Tuesday night,” he replied with thinning
patience.

She
made a sound of frustration. “But how can we be one hundred percent certain
that's when the murderer will next strike? What if the newspaper article I
brought back is in error on the date? Heavens, it was written ninety years
after the fact!”

He
came to her side and clutched her by the shoulders. “Bella, you're becoming
hysterical.”

“I
am not.”

“You
are.” His expression was deeply troubled. “I've told you how Etienne and I are
taking reasonable precautions. But this goes much deeper, I fear. You're asking
me to give up my life.”

She
jerked away. “No. I'm asking you to save it.”

His
gaze beseeched her. “Don't do this to us, Bella.”

“You're
the one doing it, Jacques.” Staring at him starkly, she drew a shuddering
breath. “You're the one who has decided the opera is more important than our
future together and even your life. And if you won't listen to reason, I don't
think we're going to make it.”

“You
can't mean that.”

She
blinked back tears. “I mean it. I'm bad for you, anyway. For all I know, I
am
causing the jealousies that will soon result in your death. Perhaps the best
thing I can do for you is to leave you alone . . . leave you free to commit
suicide singing.”

“Bella,
I need you,” he pleaded.

She
laughed bitterly. “But you need the theater, the applause, and the acclaim much
more, don't you? So much so that you'll risk your life—and our love—for it.”

His
anguished expression told her she was right. Bella did not wait for him to give
the confirmation she could not bear to hear. Wiping away tears, she left the
dressing room and hurried off to get ready. She felt heartsick, at her wit's
end.

Shortly
before the performance began, she spotted four strange men taking their places
in the wings near the various stage entrances. All four wore striped brown
suits and bowler hats, were grim-featured, and sported handlebar mustaches; all
kept glancing suspiciously around the area. Bella assumed these were the
security guards Etienne had hired.

Despite
the extra protection the private detectives offered, Bella was a nervous wreck
during the program, certain a new calamity would befall Jacques. Even when she
was not onstage, she paced the wings, watching him perform with her heart in
her throat. No other misfortune befell Jacques or anyone else, though Bella
felt tortured every time she passed him and saw the reproach in his eyes.

She
moved mechanically through her own performances of “Ride of the Valkyries” and
“Three Little Maids.” As the evening trickled past, frail hope grew in Bella
that Jacques might survive the night. By the time she changed into her “soiled
dove” costume for “She Is More to Be Pitied Than Censured,” she was feeling a
little less tense.

Soon
after the kaleidoscope began to revolve to the strains of “Love's Old Sweet
Song,” she was entering the stage when the now-familiar dizziness swamped her,
and she could feel herself spinning away again. Panic engulfed her. At once she
knew,
knew
she was going to be swept back to the future once more—but at
the worst possible moment! She couldn't leave Jacques now, she thought
desperately, not mere days before his murder! She looked about for him
frantically, but could see only glimmering shadows.

“No,
no!” she cried, clawing at the whirling light, fighting for balance, struggling
to get free, all the while knowing it was futile, for she felt herself being
sucked into the vortex of time.

When
the spinning finally stopped and the lights went up, Bella heard sounds of
uproarious laughter. She glanced from the howling contemporary audience back to
the stage, and found that she, in her sleazy red satin costume, stood between
an amazed Victor Daly and an equally shocked Anna Maria Bernard, both of whom
wore Italian Renaissance costumes as they sang the love Duet from
Romeo et
Juliette
.

Oh,
God, she was back in the present, and Jacques would soon die without her in the
past! Horrified and trembling, Bella dashed into the wings.

Chapter Thirty-eight

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Bella
rushed to her old dressing room, where she hastily changed into jeans and a
T-shirt. She knew John and Dixie must be needed onstage, or they would have
followed her.

A
tense moment ensued when she heard someone pound on her door, heard Lesley
Litchfield's angry voice demand that she come outside and explain her
outlandish behavior. Thankfully, when she ignored him, he gave up. Once his
footsteps had faded away, she grabbed her purse and keys and dashed from her
room toward the exit.

She
emerged in the parking lot amid a steady rain. Shivering, she sprinted through
mud puddles toward her car. As she drove toward St. Charles Avenue, the whoosh
of the windshield wipers, the glare of headlights from oncoming cars, even the
fact that she was once again back in the twentieth century, all seemed unreal
to her.

She
did realize that she had doubtlessly engineered this second trip through time.
She had pulled away from Jacques again, and just like last time, she had been
whisked through time once more.

Did
her being wrenched away from him a second time mean she could not save him
unless she gave herself to him—and to the opera—unreservedly? But how could she
do so when she remained convinced that he was bound on a course that would
destroy them both? How could she embrace the opera when he was destined to be
murdered at the theater in only three days?

Oh,
if only she had taken greater care! Instead, she was a hundred years removed
from him, mere days before his murder. That devastating reality threatened to
engulf her with panic.

But
all was not lost, she quickly reassured herself. She still had a little
time—time in which she might be able to find additional clues concerning
Jacques's murder. And then, with any luck, she might make her way back to him
before it was too late.

She
must also check on Gran. For that chance, at least, she was supremely grateful
for this detour back to the present.

Bella
arrived at Gran's house, parked out front, and rushed toward the steps amid
thunderclaps and a continuing downpour. Inside, she shivered at the blast of
cool air from the air conditioner and hurried for the stairs.

As
she started down the upstairs hallway, she saw Gran's physician, silver-haired
Dr. Humphries, emerge from her room, his thin features grimly set. As he spotted
her in her drenched clothing, his expression changed to astonishment.

“Bella,
where in God's name have you been?” he asked. “I've been very concerned about
your grandmother.”

Bella
ran to his side. “How is she?”

He shook
his head. “Isabella is declining rapidly, I'm afraid. She's on oxygen much of
the time now. I've arranged for round-the-clock nurses.”

“Oh,
my.” Bella's face was a picture of dismay.

“The
prognosis appears to be dire,” he replied somberly. “Of course, she might rally
again; one never knows in these cases. She has certainly surprised us before.
But as I'm sure you're aware, you can't count on having her around for much
longer.”

“I
know,” Bella murmured cheerlessly, shivering.

“I
don't think these disappearances of yours are helping,” he went on sternly,
“although Isabella keeps insisting she knows where you are and that you're
fine.” He shook his head. “I guess you know what you're doing.”

Bella
sneezed. “Actually, I wish I did know.”

Eyeing
her askance, he muttered, “Well, young lady, I'd advise you to change into dry
clothing at once, before I have two patients to contend with. Good night,
Bella.”

“Good
night.”

Heeding
the doctor's advice, Bella went to her room, skinned off her wet clothes,
towel-dried her body and hair, and donned a warm terry-cloth robe. She slipped
inside Gran's room, spotting the nurse, Mrs. Finch, who sat off to one side,
reading a magazine. Mouthing a greeting to Bella, the woman got up and left the
room. Bella continued toward the bed, her movements guided by the light of a
lamp that glowed wanly on the bedside table. Eyeing all the medicine bottles
and pill containers cluttering that table—including several new ones—she felt a
pang of misery.

The
sight of Gran made her wince. The old woman appeared more pale and gaunt than
ever; her oxygen tubing was in place, the sounds of her breathing labored and
wheezy. Bella glanced at a skeletal hand, the skin heavily blotched and
wrinkled, large blue veins protruding.

She
touched her grandmother's hand, which felt far too cool. Anguish and guilt rent
her. How could she have left Gran when she was so fragile, so needy? How could
she possibly leave her again?

As
if she had sensed Bella's presence, Isabella opened her eyes and smiled faintly
at her granddaughter. She struggled to speak—

“No,
Gran,” said Bella gently, squeezing her hand, “please, just relax and breathe
your oxygen. Don't try to talk—”

Gran's
surprisingly strong fingers clutched Bella's, and her voice came low and
thready, but vehemently. “No, I'll be all right for a moment,” she rasped. “I
must talk to you, dear. I've missed you so. How are you?”

Bella
seated herself on the chair by the bed. “I'm okay,” she replied, blinking back
a tear. “I'm just so sorry I left you, and am frantic with worry about you
now.”

“Give
your old Gran a hug.”

Bella
complied, leaning over and gently hugging and kissing Gran. Her anxieties only
increased as she felt how thin the old woman was, how tepid her skin. Holding
Isabella for that fleeting moment, Bella sensed she was already losing her
grandmother. Isabella would not be long for this world. She sat back down,
smiling bravely while fighting tears.