The Ghost Sonata (34 page)

47

The Final Round

 

It was the night of the competition finals, and Gilda had taken it upon herself to act as Wendy's wardrobe consultant and makeup artist as well as her bodyguard. She had come to the tiny backstage dressing room of the Sheldonian Theater prepared with a suitcase containing a choice of two different evening gowns, a makeup kit, a tiara, a wig, a 1960s-style hairpiece, and three different pairs of high-heeled shoes.

Gilda squinted at Wendy, admiring the false eyelashes she had applied and the heavily teased hairdo she had created as Wendy's stylist-for-the-evening. “I think you should wear the yellow dress,” she suggested.

“Why? Because it's the most hideous dress on the planet?”

Purchased for five dollars at a neighborhood garage sale, the yellow dress was designed in the style of Princess Diana's wedding gown. It had most likely been worn years ago by a brides-maid or someone attending a high school prom.

“To an
ordinary
person, it's hideous,” Gilda admitted, “but on a great performer, it's high impact—the kind of dress an opera diva would wear as she breezes onstage.”

“Maybe if I was a two-hundred-pound opera singer it would look better. On
me
, it looks like a very ugly bridesmaid's dress.”

“I wish we had one of those tall, powdered wigs like they wore in the eighteenth century.
That
would really be something with this dress.”

“You're insane.”

“Wendy, you'd probably win the competition without playing a note if we had one of those wigs. The English act very strict about proper dress for each occasion, but then they secretly love it when someone does something zany. And don't forget how they love tradition. Just look at those ridiculous wigs they wear in courtrooms!”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I'm actually thinking of wearing the red dress my mom gave me. I thought it seemed too ‘Chinese,' but red is supposed to bring luck.”

“Then you should definitely wear it.”

Gilda pulled on her sequined evening gown and peered into the mirror to adjust a rhinestone tiara. “But you have to give me some credit for the hair and makeup,” she said. “I mean, we practically look like models.”

“It does look cool,” Wendy acknowledged, once again feeling grateful that her mother wasn't around to see her wearing so much makeup. “But why are
you
so dressed up?”

“Wendy, as your manager, I have to project a positive impression for the public. Besides, when else do I get to wear this outside my own house?”

“Wendy Choy!” Professor Heslop's voice called impatiently from the performance hall.

“I guess it's my turn to warm up on the piano in the hall.”

“I'll come with you.” Gilda had decided she wasn't going to let Wendy out of her sight. So far, everything had gone smoothly, but Gilda was still keenly aware that Wendy might be in danger.

As Wendy entered the performance hall, she froze, momentarily overcome with the magnitude of her imminent performance in the Sheldonian Theater. She gazed up at the rows of benches decorated with ornate, sphinxlike creatures, and then at a high balcony supported by marble pillars and coats of arms. Looming over the piano were organ pipes in shades of gold and green. it suddenly struck her that this room of gilded gold and marble would soon be filled with people who had actually purchased
tickets
to hear the music. The fact that she was about to take the risk of performing a piece she had just learned the day before seemed sheer lunacy.

Wendy sat down at the grand piano, placed her hands on the ivory keys, and stared at her slender, feminine fingers. Were her hands really capable of this? Was her brain capable?

“What's wrong?” Gilda observed Wendy's sudden motionlessness with concern.

“I'm okay. . . . Just getting focused.”
It doesn't really matter what anyone thinks of me
, Wendy told herself. The simple thought was oddly reassuring.
Just listen for the music and it will be there. After all, you've been thinking about it for days.

Wendy began to run through scales and arpeggios, and Gilda sat down in the front row of the theater and gazed up at the gilded ceiling that arched above her.

“You look like you're off to a fancy dress party.”

Gilda's heart suddenly raced. She was annoyed to feel her face flush with warmth and a surge of hope as she turned to find Julian standing behind her.

“You're all glittery,” he added with a wry grin.

“Same to you.” Julian wore a tuxedo with an untied bowtie. Gilda couldn't help noticing that he had a way of making even a formal suit look appealingly disheveled and undone. She also noticed that he looked more pale than usual.

“Haven't seen you about,” said Julian.

“I've been busy with my investigation.” Gilda did her best to sound nonchalant. “You would have found it quite fascinating if you had been around.”

“Making great discoveries, then?”

“Of course. It's truly amazing what one can discover while faffing about.”

“Still mad about that, are you?”

“Oh, no. I'm not mad about
that
.”

Julian sat down in the seat next to her. “So what did you discover in your sleuthing?”

“Something very intriguing and bizarre about that boy Charles Drummond.” As she said the name Charles Drummond, an image of herself kissing Julian over Charles's grave popped into her mind and she felt her cheeks redden.

As if reading her mind, Julian leaned a tiny bit closer to her. “I'm curious,” he said. “Tell me more.”

He also kissed Jenny Pickles
, Gilda reminded herself.
You're mad at him, remember?
“I'm not at liberty to discuss my investigation right now.”

Julian shrugged, doing his best to act as if he didn't care one way or another what Gilda might tell him. “Sounds like you've had a better time than I have; my teacher had me practicing nonstop. I don't see the point. You've either got it or you don't.”

“Did you get your version of ‘Heart and Soul' just right?”

Julian's eyes darted nervously. He exhaled an uncomfortable laugh.

“You look nervous.”

“I'm not.”

“Are you sure?” Gilda had an urge to make Julian feel uncomfortable.

“Well, to be honest, I never get nervous before a performance, but I feel like something's different this time.”

“Feeling
guilty
about something?”

“Like what?”

“Oh—maybe your sordid lovefest with Jenny Pickles in the practice room?”

“What?” Julian pretended to look confused, but Gilda could tell he was acting. “You're bonkers.”

“Julian, I saw it with my own eyes.”

“We played a duet.”

“You kissed.”

“You're dotty.”

“Julian, at least admit the truth.” Gilda sensed that with each sentence she spoke, she was losing ground somehow. She felt as if she were sliding down a rain-drenched hillside, grabbing at tree branches and plants that slipped from her grasp.

“Maybe you were seeing a ghost.”

“Don't insult me, Julian.”

“Look, Jenny and I were just playing some tunes for a lark. Maybe there was a little kiss. I can't really remember. It didn't mean anything.”

“‘Maybe there was a little kiss,' but you can't
remember
? Is that how you feel about what happened with us in the graveyard, too?”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I don't know. Spookier. You're special.”

“I'm your ‘spooky' date, and Jenny's there for larks?”

“I don't know. Bloody hell, I didn't realize we were married.” Julian looked as if he couldn't wait to escape. “I don't much appreciate being spied on.”

“I wasn't spying; I was looking for Wendy because I had something important to tell her. It's not my fault you and Jenny were slobbering over each other in public.”

He's the most maddening, frustrating, self-centered person I've ever met
, Gilda thought.
I hate him!
At the same time, she couldn't help thinking that ever since she had seen Julian kissing Jenny Pickles, he seemed even cuter than before. His slouchy posture, his close-set and very blue eyes, his small mouth with crowded teeth, the spiky, disheveled remnants of a once-neat, school-boyish hairstyle—everything about him was newly appealing as well as infuriating.

“Look, Gilda, I like you.” He rubbed his hands together, gazing a few inches over Gilda's head. “It's just—I have a competition to focus on right now.”

“Same here.”

“Julian!” Professor Heslop's voice interrupted their conversation. “Your turn for ten-minute warm-up!”

“I'd better get to it.”

“Break a couple legs.”

As Julian headed for the piano, Gilda realized Wendy had already disappeared from the performance hall. Running into the hallway to look for her, Gilda spied Ming Fong wearing her headphones and pacing back and forth with tiny, measured steps, as if she were a toy soldier.

“Hey, Ming Fong, have you seen Wendy?”

Ming Fong didn't respond. Instead, she did something strange: she reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a tarot card that she held directly in Gilda's face without making eye contact, as if she were a police officer holding up a hand to stop oncoming traffic.

The image on the card looked anxious and turbulent; it depicted seven swords spinning through the air and piercing a large numeral seven. The word UNCERTAINTY was at the bottom of the card.

“I just found this in my pocket,” said Ming Fong. “And I told you I didn't do it.”