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Diva's Fool—
Winner of 2008
Lovey Award in
Best Paranormal
Category.

T H E   D I VA ' S   F O O L

CHAPTER ONE
Day One: Sunday, March 23

Carmen Dellamorte lay on her stomach, her nude body covered only by a large pink towel. She gripped the end of the table with such intensity that her knuckles turned bone white.

"Miss Diva, por favor," Jorge, her masseur, purred. He warmed peppermint oil between his hands and rubbed her shoulders. "You must try to relax."

"Relax?" murmured Carmen into the donut face pillow, her olive skin glistening. "This opera is bad luck, I tell you."

I sat at her side taking notes on this Sunday afternoon, doing writer's research on her passion for Tarot cards. In two hours, the diva would give her final performance at the Chicago Lyric Opera House as Verdi’s Lady Macbeth. Her nerves were as frazzled as the fringe on her opera costume hanging nearby. In the center of the dressing room stood a three-foot tall cardboard box, taped along its seams with wide packaging tape.

I fidgeted in the plush burgundy armchair and looked around Carmen's dressing room–wigs rested on foam skulls, and several dozen long-stemmed red roses in glass vases wrapped in wide crimson ribbons. Fruity perfume and peppermint oil laced the air. I lifted the foam skull lying next to me, and placed it on Carmen's vanity table.

"Miss Dellamorte," I began. "About your interest in the Tarot cards."

"Not now, cara mia," she said. "I am ordered to relax by this madman."

I had no other choice but to watch the massage with the hope that she'd allow me to begin the interview soon. I spotted the diva's Tarot deck on the ledge of the upright piano…she had flipped over two cards, the Fool and the Hanged Man, and I wanted to ask her about that. How strange that she displayed these two particular cards.

She looked at me sideways and said, "You know about that ancient curse on this play, don't you? The one that forbids you from saying the name of the production?"

I nodded. It was one of the reasons my editor, Alyce, sent me here. She hoped I'd witness something supernaturally ill fated during this cursed opera. "It's not just an article about the Tarot cards," Alyce told me three weeks ago when she first gave me the assignment. "It's about the Macbeth opera, the curses that surround any production of The Scottish Play. See if you can interview cast members on their feelings about performing in a show with a 400-year-old curse."

To help Carmen relax, I spoke slowly and calmly. "During its first production as a play in 1606, a castrato playing Lady Macbeth–because women weren't allowed on stage–was stricken with fever and died. Since then a curse forbids anyone to pronounce the performance's title while in production."

Alyce would love that Carmen was worried about this curse before her last performance, and I poised my pen, ready to take down her every word.

"Don't you see?" Carmen said to Jorge, as she skooched herself up. "If someone says the name of this opera in the next few hours, somebody from the cast could die."

Jorge glared at me and I felt myself stiffen. He seemed to want to protect Carmen from any thoughts that would disturb her, and he treated me as if I were her enemy. He moved over to the other side of the table, so that his back faced me, and helped Carmen to lie back down.

For my part, I wanted to pursue the conversation in the same direction because Carmen might offer something colorful about the curse that would be perfect for the story, a quote that would grab my readers. At the same time, I wanted her to start talking about her use of the Tarot cards.

"It doesn’t mean anything," Jorge said to Carmen. He moved back to the other side of the table and faced me again. "Don’t let it rattle you. Why don’t you let me finish your massage?"

"I suppose you’re right," she said, but her tone of voice suggested doubt. She pursed her lips and closed her eyes, although she did not look relaxed. Jorge rubbed her slowly and sensuously. A silver and black pendant bearing an image of a cat hung from his neck.

"Does she have to be here now?" Jorge asked Carmen. "This massage is not going to work in front of her."

I hoped Carmen would come to my defense, but she just lay silent on the table, allowing him to rub her. I realized I wouldn't get very far with Jorge in the room. He wanted her lying down and quiet; I wanted her up and talking.

Jorge chop-chopped on her thighs. He took a bottle of warmed rubbing alcohol and freely poured the clear liquid on her back.

"Mmm," said Carmen. "So what are your questions, Alexandria?"

I avoided making eye contact with Jorge. I rearranged my notebook and pen, cleared my throat, and asked, "How long've you been working with the Tarot cards?"

"It's been at least ten years," she said, stretching her arms forward. "I have a collection of Tarot cards, at least seventy different packs."

"So that's not just a rumor."

"Oh, no, it's true. Every morning I meditate on a card."

"What card did you pick today?"

She closed her eyes, as if to focus on the card she'd drawn for that day.

"The Fool, one of my favorites. I love it when I draw this card. The Fool is a trickster, the one no one takes seriously, yet the Fool always says wise things." She opened her eyes and sent a coy look. "Some people are really scared of the cards. Have you noticed that?”

I nodded, eager to capture more quotes.

“When I say I like playing with the Tarot cards, I rather like the reaction I cause, shock and outrage sometimes. It's all rather fun."

She looked sideways at me as Jorge continued to wear his set-jawed expression.

"The Tarot is misunderstood by many people. It can take a long time to get over one's natural fears of its power," I said.

Jorge glanced uneasily at me.

The Diva rolled to her side, careless of her nudity. "Would you mind finishing up, dear Jorge? It's time for me to get ready for my final performance."

"Are you sure? You’re still full of knots. And this interview right before your last performance…you have enough to worry about, if you ask me.” As he scrutinized me, he looked like he wanted to kill me, and I felt the hairs prickle on my neck. I sat quietly, waiting him out. As I held his gaze, I wondered if he was going to lift me by the scruff of my neck and toss me out. After what seemed like a long moment, he lifted his hands off Carmen's body and wiped them on a towel.

"It was silly of me to think I could relax before a performance," Carmen said as she stood up and stepped to her vanity mirror. In the meantime, Jorge gathered his supplies.

The mirrored closet door squeaked as Carmen opened it to remove her first costume. "You're a writer, aren't you?"

"Yes, reporters are usually writers."

She either missed or ignored my sarcasm.

"Why, just three weeks ago, you called me for this interview, and I thought you'd be perfect. I confirmed it with my Tarot cards." She dressed in front of Jorge and me with no shame. I felt uncomfortable, but couldn't help evaluating her body. She had an ample figure, well proportioned, but with three rolls of olive-toned flab on her waist. Her long brown hair was tied in a knot at her nape, and her dark chocolate eyes set off her dramatic high cheekbones. The press called her La Tempestua, and I assumed it was because of her temperament on stage.

"Why do you need a writer?"

"I need help with a special project I've been working on."

I looked at my watch. In less than an hour, Carmen would be on stage, and then off to Florence. If I didn't do this interview now, I'd never meet my deadline. Alyce had been complaining about the magazine's dip in subscriptions, and any misstep on the part of a writer caused her to fly into a rage. About six months ago she'd already fired one person for missing a deadline, shocking the rest of us into punctual compliance. On the other hand, I was torn with curiosity over what this world-famous diva wanted from me.

"What sort of project?"

The expression on her face hardened. "For years, I've been collecting material on my father, and now I want to write a book about him. It’s all there.” She pointed to the box. “Every time I start it, I'm interrupted, and I just haven't been able to…"

"Ah, the box." I approached the box and touched it, attempting to gauge its weight, guessing it was quite heavy.

"To begin. I need someone to put it into some sort of order."

"You want me to write a book on your relationship with your father?”

"Of course I'd pay you handsomely. Name your price."

Jorge and I exchanged glances as he folded up the massage table. I sat back down and crossed my legs. This morning, I'd slipped on black sheer pantyhose with shiny black patent leather pumps, and now I studied a scuff mark in the area of my left big toe as I contemplated my dilemma. Alyce didn't like her writers freelancing on the side. She said it caused them to lose focus on her magazine. The only problem with that line of thinking was that I was always short of paying my bills, and here was the diva asking me to name my price.

"My price?"

Carmen sensed my hesitation. "What is it they call it? Ah, for…ghost writing. I'm prepared to deposit $20,000 into your bank account, and give you this material on the spot."

Never in my life had anyone offered me that kind of money for anything I could do. Something about Carmen made me think she was desperate, and I couldn't believe she was ready to give me so much money without knowing me better. Fear mixed with excitement surged through me. I tried to move the box–it was so heavy I could barely slide it two inches.

"It’s such an unusual request. Can’t you tell me anything else? Why me?"

“Of course you couldn’t possibly carry this box alone. We’ll get a messenger to do it, how's that?"

She didn't answer my question, and that bothered me.

"Why me?" I asked again.

"Because of your timing. I'm ready to write a book about my father, and you're the writer who is in front of me. Call it an accident or fate."

I sat back down on my chair and arranged my notebook and pen, both of which promptly dropped from my lap onto the floor. As I bent over to retrieve them, I felt lightheaded. Logic and desire battled within me–I wanted the money, yet my boss didn't want me to take on any side jobs. Carmen offered me more money than I'd make in the next five months at Gypsy Magazine. I thought about paying off credit cards and having enough for a down payment on a condo on the North Side. It would be hard to refuse all that money, but could I do it? On the other hand, no story worth that kind of money could be easy.

"Who is your father?"

"I can’t talk about it right now. There’s not enough time. I need you to accept this material. Please. You’ve got to do it."

"I just…I don’t know anything about him."

"It’s all in the box." With shaking hands, Carmen pulled an appointment book out of her purse. In that moment, she seemed a frightened schoolgirl. "What's your address?"

Jorge moved into the restroom with a garment bag, apparently to change his clothes.

I didn’t know what to make of her plea. Why did she want to give me so much money for a book about her father? Why didn't she just write it herself? Yet the figure of $20,000 danced before my eyes, jiggling and wiggling, until I could barely resist. I knew this story would bring me trouble. I had to say no.

"No, really, I couldn't."

"Nonsense."

"Can’t we talk about this after your performance?"

"You need to accept this now. There’s no one else. Please."

A feeling of fireworks mixed with foreboding hit the pit of my stomach when I knew I couldn't say no. All my life I wanted a story that would pay me bundles, and that could take me straight into the mainstream. Maybe this was my break, the one that would get me away from Gypsy, away from Alyce's tirades, and onto something bigger.

"All right, I'll do it," I said, surprised at the elation washing over me.

"Oh, that's wonderful! I'll have it sent to your home tomorrow morning. I'm off to Florence for a couple of weeks, so let's talk about this when I return."

As she took my address and called a messenger to pick up the box, I thought about what I'd tell Alyce. Maybe I wouldn't tell her anything, I'd just work on this project on the side. That extra $20,000 would eliminate several of my troubles, give me a cushion to think about my future, and be enough for a down payment on the condo. Then I wondered what The Wizard would think about my taking this job. I had a feeling it was part of my test, and that he would approve.

During this conversation, Jorge had changed into a black turtleneck and slacks and was now ready to leave.

"Good-bye, Mademoiselle."

"Did you get the tickets for this opera, Jorge?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "Thank you. I look forward to your last performance."

Just as he walked out the door, Carmen said in a low voice, "If anything should happen to me, I want you to keep the box, and I don't want you to talk about it with anybody else. There's something in there only you would understand."

Before I had a chance to respond, someone knocked on the door. "Who is it?" asked Carmen.

"Teresita. I’m here to fix your nails."

"Oh yes, hold on." To me, she added, "It's a deal then, right? You'll take this assignment and not talk about it to anyone, no matter what happens?"

I nodded as Teresita barged in.

"You're so late," scolded Carmen, back into her role as the commanding diva. "What in heaven's name took you so long?"

Teresita was a beautiful woman with a commanding presence herself, one I didn't normally associate with manicurists. She looked at me with surprise and regarded the box with raised eyebrows and a puzzled expression. Then she looked at Carmen.

"That’s Alexandria Vilkas, a reporter," said Carmen. "This is Teresita, my manager at Parsifal’s Beauty Spa and chorus member at the Lyric."

Ah, she managed a business and had a voice that was good enough for the Lyric. That accounted for her self-confidence. After we both said hello to each other, Teresita dug into her pocket and pulled out a bent three-inch carpenter's nail, which she offered to Carmen. "I found a nail on the floor for you."

Carmen sighed. "Just put it over here, next to the others." She pointed to a corner of her white vanity table, which held three such carpenter's nails already. Oddly, all were similarly bent.

“Keep them for me. You’re the only one I trust with them."

Teresita smiled. "Okay, let me see the damage. We don’t have much time."

Carmen held out her right hand, revealing a horizontal split on the nail of the ring finger. Teresita proceeded to fix it so it looked like the others, painted with an intricate black and white art deco design.

Silence filled the room as Teresita worked intently on the diva’s fingernail.

"Why are you collecting nails, Carmen?" I asked.

"They're good luck tokens. I'll tell you about them another time."

Teresita worked on Carmen's nail some more, and I worried Carmen wouldn't continue our interview on the Tarot cards. I still had to write that article for Gypsy, my first priority. My story would be ruined without her, and I knew Alyce would threaten to fire me for missing this chance. I noticed how Teresita kept glancing at the box.

"I know it’s none of my business, but what’s in that box, Carmen?" Teresita asked.

"Some material I’m giving to this reporter."

"Oh?"

Carmen locked eyes with me. "About Tarot cards, how they’re symbols and speak using their own special language."

I felt she was trying to tell me something, but couldn’t with Teresita there. The contents of the box contained material for the book about her father, yet she talked as if they contained material about the article on Tarot cards. Perhaps she didn't want to talk about the book in front of Teresita. I tried to help Carmen.

"What do you like most about the cards?" I asked.

"Every card tells a story, but in a spread, they unlock hidden truths. Sometimes it takes time to interpret their mysterious messages; other times, they come across loud and clear. Trust them. They can connect you to your Inner Guide."

I wrote down the diva’s words in my notebook and wondered if she wasn’t sending me some sort of a code about a mysterious message in the box. Teresita kept looking at Carmen and me.

Someone knocked. "I have more flowers for you," said a man's voice from the other side of the door.

"Come in, Felix," Carmen replied.

Felix Vasilakis, the assistant conductor, strode in with a plant wrapped in white paper. He was a tall, thin man with wisps of black hair brushed across the top of his head. He wore a black turtleneck and dark slacks.

Carmen stiffened her back and angrily looked at Felix. "About this opera…"

"What about it?"

"Too many leave before the second act. You know how I hate that! Chicago’s opera crowd is so damned conservative."

"It happens when an opera is modernized," Teresita said to me. "They don't like progressive stage sets or singers wearing contemporary costumes. They prefer Shakespeare’s Renaissance."

Felix turned to me, smiling. "They are fools, conditioned to think one way."

"Then give them what they want," shouted Carmen, obviously enjoying what looked like a well-worn argument. "Next, you’ll be tinkering with Verdi!"

Felix put up both hands, saying, "It's pointless to argue over our final performance. Besides, modern costumes and settings speak to today's audience."

"Nonsense. It speaks to cheap designers!"

They both doubled over in laughter. I felt like an audience member watching two actors rehearsing their parts. They had obviously talked at length about modern opera before, and always ended up on opposite sides of the argument. They looked like good friends.

"We really don’t have much more time," Felix said.

"I know," Carmen sighed. "I can’t believe it’s the last one. Tell me who sent the flowers."

Felix turned to the potted plant and unwrapped it. "Oh my, this is belladonna! It's poisonous!"

"What? My God! What will happen next? Who sent it?" Who would send a poisonous plant to the diva during her last performance? The assistant conductor looked around for a card.

"I don't know, there's no card. No, wait…here it is. That's strange. It looks like a card from a deck. It's the Fool's card from the Tarot deck. It says, ‘April Fool!’ That's ten days away. This must be a sick joke. Oh, this cursed play!"

Carmen swayed and looked like she was about to faint. "Was this somebody's idea of a prank? Did anybody else know I was going to be interviewed on Tarot cards?"

"My editor and other staff members at Gypsy Magazine," I said.

Felix rushed over to calm her. "Now, now, don't give this another thought. We'll get to the bottom of it right after this afternoon's performance, and I promise you this, whoever sent this plant or that card will never work in Chicago operatic circles again."

Someone else knocked on the door. It was the messenger who had arrived to pick up the box. He strolled in pushing a dolly and hoisted the box onto the cart, promising to have it to my address the next morning.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he said to Carmen. "Someone sent you a bottle of champagne."

He pulled out the bottle from a canvas bag slung on his shoulder. Because no one leapt forward to take it from him, he set it on the piano.

After the messenger left, Carmen sighed with relief.

"Who’s the champagne from?" Teresita asked.

Carmen was applying make-up at the mirror, so I stood up to find out. It was next to her Tarot cards, and I wanted to ask her about the Fool and the Hanged Man, but first had to read the note. The bottle had a gold string wrapped about its neck, with a small note attached that stated, "To help the poison go down easier, darling. Love, Dad."

When I read it aloud to Carmen, she laughed shrilly as if she were holding onto her last nerve. "That’s my father."

Teresita rolled her eyes and said, "He would do that."

"I don’t understand," I said. "How could he send his daughter a note that tells her this champagne will help the poison go down easier?" I was almost beside myself at the strange humor and worried over the project I had accepted from Carmen. What kind of a relationship did they have? Nothing was making much sense.

"You will," said Carmen.

Carmen’s understudy, Donacella Dimitriano, stepped in with a black and white kitten in her arms. The messenger had left the door open, allowing the understudy to arrive unannounced.

"I know it's your last performance and I wanted to give you a parting gift. We all know how you love your Tarot cards and I thought you must love cats too."

Carmen looked at Donacella and the kitten with such loathing, I wondered what elicited her hatred.

"You've been waiting for just this opportunity!" Carmen sneezed as she hysterically attacked Donacella.

I was confused and didn't understand why she was reacting this way.

"Ah-choo! Get out, get out, and take that nasty beast with you!" She flashed her brown eyes, chiseled in her face like a Greek sculpture.

Standing still and doing her best to maintain her cool, Donacella stroked the piebald kitten, although she seemed shaken by Carmen's harsh reaction. "You know, Carmen, I just wanted to give you a gift on your last performance. Of course, I had no idea you were allergic."

"Like hell you didn't!" screamed the diva. "Did you think I'd help you launch your career by letting you sing my last role? You did this to ruin my voice." She looked around the room. "Will somebody get me a tissue?"

Felix moved swiftly as Teresita handed him the box to pass to Carmen. I looked at both of them for a hint of what was really going on, but they each bore a stoic expression.

Donacella's face, in the meantime, crumpled and her eyes watered. As she stepped back to leave the room, the kitten bounded out of her arms and ran toward Carmen, hissing. The diva grimaced and kicked at the kitten, but the creature bolted. Fortunately, Carmen missed. Had her aim been better, the kitten would have flown through the air like a wobbly football.

"Ha!" huffed Carmen, as she regained her balance.

"How dare you!" cried Donacella, who scooped up her kitten and nuzzled it against her cheek. "There, there," she purred to her pet, looking back at Carmen with disgust.

Then she spat, "Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!" and darted out.

Felix, Teresita, and I gasped. What Donacella had done was nearly unthinkable.

The diva screamed after her, "I will remember this!" Then she became quieter and covered her face. “My God. It is the end. I can’t take much more.”

A voice outside the door yelled, "First bell! Places everyone!"

Carmen’s face had gone ashen, and her right hand went to her heart as she shook her head. "Let's just get through this last performance, shall we?"

"You'll be stellar, as usual, Carmen," Felix said in a reassuring tone. "You always are." He picked up the plant on his way out.

"Second bell! Places everyone!" someone shouted on the other side of the door. "Miss Diva, now!"

I took that as my cue to exit.