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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
When famed opera singer Tony meets an alluring dancer at a costume gala, he hatches a scheme to eliminate his wife Maria and pursue a new life with his paramour. However, Maria seems one step ahead, hinting at her own devious plan. As the stage is set for a perilous seaside rendezvous, neither player knows if they are predator or prey in this dangerous game of cat and mouse.
Will the devilishly clever Maria gain the upper hand, or will Tony's ambition and arrogance prove unstoppable? A suspenseful tale unfolds, revealing dark secrets and lethal stakes beneath the tranquil French Riviera.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP BLUE SEA, by Elizabeth Elwood
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2023 by Elizabeth Elwood.
Original publication by Wildside Press, LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP BLUE SEA,by Elizabeth Elwood
Success—it’s the very Devil. Let’s face it, all singers dream of the one smash hit that will take them to the top, but do they ever realize how much that longed-for victory will change their lives? It was my Metropolitan Opera debut as Mephistopheles that altered my destiny, for after that, the role dominated my career. Oh, yes, I squeezed in the occasional Barber or Toreador, but most of my time was spent interminably making the rounds in productions of Faust. Now, Mephistopheles is a fabulous role. Don’t think I’m complaining. However, when one’s most famous role is the Devil, the downside is that you spend the rest of your life listening to everyone’s annoying witticisms on the subject.
Singers, unsurprisingly, like to gripe that the Devil has all the best tunes; critics quip about giving the Devil his due, and my agent refers to himself as Devil’s Advocate and trots out phrases like “There’s the Devil to pay”or, if I want a holiday, “The Devil makes work for idle hands.” Still, when friends say I’ve had the luck of the Devil, they are right. At the age when most singers are struggling to get scholarships to pay for tuition, I married the only daughter of a Florida grocery-chain king who, being descended from Italian immigrants, loved opera with a passion and was happy to promote my career with the same enthusiasm he promoted his store’s signature orange juice. Maria dutifully produced five children over the next six years, which kept the aptly named Papa Angelo happy and didn’t inconvenience me at all, since Mamma Angelo loved to help with the bambinos. The Italian Angelo relatives got me my first engagement in Europe, which led to contracts that kept me working there for the next seven years. Papa Angelo paid for a villa on the French Riviera so that Maria would have a comfortable home on both sides of the Atlantic. All was serene.
Then the prestigious Met debut arrived. I was only thirty-five, but the YouTube video shortly thereafter doomed me to celebrity status tied to that one role. Overnight, I became The Devil Incarnate and the repeat engagements started rolling in. On the upside, The Devil wore Prada, drove a Ferrari and always got the best table at restaurants. The downside was playing Mephistopheles repeatedly until I felt like a human jukebox.
Is it any wonder that I became restless? And fond as I was of Maria, after five children, she had ballooned to the proportions of the largest of the divas who shared the operatic stage with me, so could I be blamed if the occasional soubrette caught my eye. Maria, being an affable sort, would turn a blind eye when this occurred, so we generally retained harmony in the home. There was a bit of trouble over a first violinist in Paris, but after a sufficient show of contrition, I was forgiven. Maria, I discovered, would overlook my occasional lapses, as long as they were frivolous and of short duration.
With that unspoken accord, we continued comfortably into our fifties, by which time, our sons and daughters were grown and flown. My Mephistopheles was still making the rounds of the opera houses, but, happily, there was less pressure to work. A lazy summer at our French villa beckoned—a summer in paradise, where, beyond the stone balustrade of the terrace, lay the cobalt blue Mediterranean, dotted with white sails and gleaming yachts. Heat bounced off stucco walls; shuttered windows poked through lush wisteria; bright yellow awnings provided pools of shade, and the scent of mimosa hung in the air. A garden rich with jasmine and lavender awaited only a flight of steps away. One more flight led to a nature walk with herbs and wildflowers lining a path that wound its way to a rocky cove where the sea gently lapped the shore. Everything we could want awaited us there—along with an unexpected bonus: another devil, and one who was eager to make use of my idle hands.
She came in the form of Lisette Duval, and a more adorable devil, I could never have imagined. At Maria’s insistence, we were attending a masquerade ball, a ritzy affair raising money for some worthy cause or other, and filled with the usual quota of overblown Marie Antoinettes, portly Maharajahs, saccharine Columbines and ersatz rock stars.
I saw my devil the moment we stepped into the room. She was talking with an effete Dracula—if that was her escort, there’d be no contest at all—but her attention was clearly wavering as if watching for more interesting prospects to appear. Her black velvet leotard was cut low, and swirls of red sequins curled like flames from her thighs, making her slender figure look deliciously streamlined. Fishnet tights enclosed the longest, most lyrical legs I had ever seen. A vibrant red wig, complete with devil’s horns, concealed her hair, and a glittering black mask covered her face. However, the look, the stance, the musical voice when she spoke, the shadowy eyes that were full of promise, all were irresistible. I finally understood what that ninny Faust felt like when I flashed those images of Marguerite at him. I was enthralled.
An irritating voice shattered my blissful trance.
