Murder at the Opera

by Margaret Truman

  “Evidently a Ms. Charise Lee,” Pawkins said.

  Genevieve gasped, clamped her hands over her face, and sobbed. Annabel put her arm over her shoulder and whispered comforting words.

  “I knew it,” Genevieve managed. “I just knew it.”

  “How was she killed?” Mac asked.

  “Stabbed,” Pawkins said, “but that’s unofficial. Happened a while ago, perhaps last night. Certainly not this afternoon or tonight.”

  Zambrano appeared from backstage and came to the stage apron. “What is taking so long?” he asked loudly.

  Mac stood. “There’s been an unfortunate incident somewhere upstairs. The police will want to talk to everyone who was here.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Zambrano said, and stormed back into the wings.

  The laconic Pawkins chuckled softly. “I was a super here at the Kennedy Center, Don Giovanni directed by him a few years back,” he said. “He’s volatile, but he has a wonderful creative sense. I was looking forward to being in another one of his productions.”

  “Do you think what’s happened tonight will cause Tosca to be postponed?” Annabel asked.

  “I’m sure not,” Pawkins said. “They put on a production right after September eleven, which was the right thing to do. Baseball and football teams played, and life went on, as it should.”

  “Much of life,” Mac corrected softly.

  It was an hour before Detective Berry and his partner came downstairs. The group were told they were free to go, but their names and contact information were collected: “We’ll want to be in touch with you in the next few days,” Berry announced.

  Genevieve pulled herself together before all the supers departed. “This changes nothing,” she told them. “Rehearsals will go on as scheduled. Sorry about tonight, but the show must, and will, go on.”

  The Smiths and Pawkins had started up the aisle toward the doors when Mac suddenly stopped and grabbed Pawkins’ arm. “There’s something the police should see,” he said. “Back in a minute, Annie.”

  He led the former detective back onto the stage—he doubted if he’d ever call it a deck—and pointed to the stain on the floor.

  “Blood,” Pawkins said.

  “I wonder…,” Smith started to say.

  Pawkins finished his thought. “Wondering if she was killed here and moved upstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “A good possibility,” Pawkins said.

  Mac’s eyes followed a route from the stain to the nearest exit into the wings. “No blood aside from the stain,” he said, “no trail.”

  “I might have an answer for that,” Pawkins said. He waved over a uniformed officer, pointed out the stain to him, and suggested he inform Detective Berry of it.

  “Drink?” Mac asked Pawkins as they rejoined Annabel and left the Kennedy Center’s air-conditioned coolness. It was an oppressively humid night.

  “Love it,” the retired detective replied, “as long as food accompanies it. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  “I’ve lost any appetite I might have had,” Annabel said as they agreed to meet in fifteen minutes at the bar on the lobby level of the Watergate Hotel, decidedly more quiet and conducive to serious conversation than the 600 Restaurant.

  Pawkins’ laugh was rueful. “The only thing that sets my stomach on edge is a bad performance of a favorite opera. I’ve seen and, worse, heard a few of those, and the thought of food is anathema then. A nice, clean homicide? As effective an aperitif as there ever was.”

  SIX

  The sedate Watergate lobby bar and lounge were sparsely populated when Mac and Annabel arrived. They’d said nothing to each other during the short ride from the Kennedy Center, each immersed in thought. But once seated at a secluded table, they gave voice to those thoughts.

  “What a shock,” Annabel said.

  “At best,” Mac said. “We should have asked your friend Genevieve to join us. She looked like she needed a drink. Maybe a number of them.”

  “Too late now. Oh, there’s Mr. Pawkins.”

  Pawkins slid into a chair. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” he said, indicating the lack of glasses on the table. That was immediately rectified when a waitress approached and took their order, a snifter of Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon for Mac, club soda with lime for Annabel, and a Dubonnet cocktail for Pawkins, along with a request for the bar menu.

  Their drinks served, Pawkins pushed back his chair, folded one long leg over the other, and sipped. “Nice,” he said. He raised his glass. “Good to see you again, Mac, and to meet you, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Please, it’s Annabel,” she said, returning the toast halfheartedly.

  “Did you know the young lady?” Pawkins asked, his eyes focused on the menu he’d been handed.

  “Ms. Lee?” Annabel replied. “Not really. Sorry, that isn’t much of an answer. I’ve been to events sponsored by the opera at which members of the Young Artist Program performed.” Her eyes misted. “I saw her a few months ago at a recital at the Renwick Gallery. She sang Michaela from Carmen, the young country girl. It was—it was lovely.”

  “Never had the pleasure,” said Pawkins. “Obviously, I never will.”

  Annabel managed a smile. “I remember being impressed at her size. That such a big, magnificent voice could come from such a tiny package was remarkable.”

  Pawkins’ smile was expansive. “They say that whenever you have a tenor who is heavier than the soprano, the opera will succeed. Yes, Ms. Lee seems—seemed—quite small-boned for an opera singer. Then again, more and more directors are trying these days to match the visual with the role.” He chuckled. “It wasn’t long ago that Deborah Voight—she’s probably the preeminent Ariadne in the world—had her contract to perform in Ariadne Auf Naxos at Covent Garden canceled because the director wanted her dressed in a skimpy black cocktail dress. Well, Deborah, being a large lady, was hardly the black cocktail dress type. She refused. The cancellation created a worldwide scandal in the opera world. I suppose it worked out for her, though. She went on a diet, lost about a hundred-and-fifty pounds, and is singing better than ever. Ms. Lee’s small stature would have been to her benefit—provided, of course, that the voice matched her physical beauty.”

  “No question that she was murdered?” Mac asked.

  “Oh, no. Stabbed in the chest. I imagine the blade went directly into her heart.”

  Pawkins ordered onion soup and a shrimp cocktail, to be served in that order. Sirens could be heard from outside.

  “Ironic,” Mac said to Pawkins, “that you happened to be there tonight.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? Interesting that you found what appears to be a bloodstain on the deck. We call it a deck in opera because—”

  “Stagehands used to be sailors,” Mac said.

  Pawkins smiled.

  “That’s the extent of my knowledge, thanks to you,” Mac said. “Oh, I do know that we’re supers, not extras.”

  “Exactly,” the lanky man said, refolding his long legs. “About the stain. You wondered why there wasn’t a trail of blood from that spot to where the body was found, assuming, of course, that she was, in fact, murdered on the deck.”

  Mac and Annabel waited for the explanation.

  “Whoever killed Ms. Lee was very proficient.”

  “A proficient killer,” Annabel said. “Professional?”

  Pawkins shrugged as his soup was set before him. “That’s impossible to say at this juncture. What’s certain is that the murderer acted swiftly. Ms. Lee was obviously stabbed by something, a knife, scissors, any sharp instrument.” He paused. “Maybe a spear. There are always plenty of those backstage at an opera. At any rate, her assailant evidently—and I hasten to say that this is based purely on a cursory look I had at the wound—plunged the weapon into her chest, immediately withdrew it, and in an instant shoved some sort of material into the wound, which stemmed the flow of blood, at least long enough to move the body elsewhere without dripping a trail beh
ind.”

  “Grotesque,” Annabel commented.

  “It sounds as though it was well planned,” Mac said. “Premeditated.”

  “A reasonable assumption,” said Pawkins, taking a spoonful of soup between thoughts.

  Annabel’s cell phone rang. She quickly answered, glancing about to see whether it had disturbed anyone. The adjacent tables were empty.

  “Hello?” she said. “No, I’m here at the Watergate bar with my husband. Now? A half hour? Of course. I’ll be there.”

  She clicked the phone closed and returned it to her purse.

  “What’s up?” Mac asked.

  “That was Camile Worthington.” To Pawkins: “She’s chairman of the Opera board’s executive committee.”

  “I’ve met her.”

  “They’re holding an emergency meeting in a half hour.”

  “They work fast,” Mac said.

  “I hate to run, but I have to,” she said, standing and extending her hand. “It was good meeting you. Mac often talks about how good a detective you were.”

  Pawkins stood and accepted her hand. “Knowing I might be cross-examined by your husband kept me on my toes. Good night.”

  Pawkins’ second course arrived and he offered Mac a shrimp.

  “Thanks,” Mac said, dipping it into the sauce. “So, tell me, Raymond, what you’ve been up to since retirement. I assume being a super in an occasional opera doesn’t take up all your time.”

  “I wish it could,” he said. “I love it. When I’m not in costume, which is most of the time, I keep quite busy. I’ve been collecting recordings of great opera performances for years now. I must have five hundred or so, all neatly cataloged. I’ve been doing some writing about opera for minor magazines. I still have my four feline friends, although I don’t think one of them has much longer to go. And I haven’t given up working completely. I have my PI license for D.C. and catch an occasional case, usually involving something musical—stolen instruments or valuable scores—or art. Amazing how hot the stolen art market is, Mac, and how stupid those who steal it can be.” He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and sat back. “You now have my life story,” he said. “What’s yours since we last met?”

  “Two major changes,” Mac said. “Marrying Annabel was the big event. Scrapping my criminal law practice and becoming a law professor was another.”

  “I was sorry about your first wife and your son,” Pawkins said. “The drunk driver got off easy, as I recall.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You must have wanted to kill.”

  “I got over it.”

  Mac motioned for the check. “I’m glad we had a chance to catch up,” he said, “although it would have been nice if the rehearsal hadn’t ended the way it did.”

  Pawkins reached for his wallet, but Mac waved him off. “We’ll do this again, your treat.”

  They paused beneath the circular canopy that covered the hotel’s entrance. The humidity was now visible, enshrouding them in a low-hanging mist. Pawkins handed Mac his business card. “In case you ever need an opera-loving PI.”

  “You never know,” Mac said. “See you at the next rehearsal—if there is one.”

  “Oh, there will be. Nothing will keep Tosca from singing her ‘Vissi d’arte’ in Act II before she stabs the wicked Scarpia to death. Nothing. Not even a real murder. Sorry your wife had to run. She’s beautiful.”

  “In every way,” Mac said, and they parted.

  Annabel arrived home at eleven. Mac had already changed for bed and was listening to a recording of Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana while reading a description of what was happening in the opera, which had been included with the CD. The music was familiar to him. Portions had been used as the musical backdrop for The Godfather, Part III. He turned down the volume when she entered.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, kissing him and heading straight for the bedroom. She emerged fifteen minutes later in her pajamas and robe.

  “So,” he said, “tell me about the meeting.”

  “Well,” she said, “you can imagine the turmoil. A murder at the Washington National Opera, not onstage but behind the scenes, with a real victim and killer. It’s never happened before. Naturally, there’s great concern for what this will do to the season.”

  Mac winced. “More important,” he said, “what it did to that poor girl.”

  “Don’t misunderstand,” she said, settling on the couch next to him. “Naturally, everyone is devastated and feels terrible for her family. They’re from Toronto. Evidently, she had a tremendous future. Of all the young people in the program, she was considered to have the best chance at stardom.”

  “Somebody made sure that would never happen.”

  “The meeting went all over the lot, one subject to another. But what occurred toward the end should interest you.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Bill Frazier, the board chairman, suggested that while the police will be investigating the murder, he thought we, the Opera board, should take matters into our own hands and try to solve it ourselves.”

  “Why? The last thing you want to do is interfere with the police investigation.”

  “Image. We take on a tremendous responsibility bringing these talented young people here to Washington to study and prepare for their careers. Having one of them killed under our very noses doesn’t do much for our image. Bill says that everyone involved with the company will be prime suspects. He wants to prove that she was killed by an outsider.”

  Mac laughed. “What if it wasn’t an outsider?”

  “I brought that up, of course. No one’s looking to whitewash the company and its people. If she was killed by someone in the company, so be it. But he feels—and I agree with him—that by at least demonstrating that we care enough to examine ourselves and WNO, we’ll be viewed in a more positive light.”

  “I suppose,” Mac said.

  “Bill asked me to talk to you about it.”

  “Me? Why? I’m not involved with the company.”

  “But you were a top criminal attorney. Besides, meeting your old friend Mr. Pawkins might prove to be serendipitous. Genevieve was at the meeting and mentioned him, the fact that he’d been a homicide detective and loves opera. Do you think he’d—?”

  “Take this on? I have no idea.” He went to the bedroom, returning with Pawkins’ card, which he handed to Annabel.

  “He’s a private investigator,” she said, confirming the obvious. “Between you and him, we could—”

  “Whoa,” Mac said. “If you want me to call Ray and run it past him, I’ll be happy to do that. But that’s the extent of my involvement.”

  “Fine. You’ll call him?”

  “Sure. Mind if I turn up the volume? I particularly like this section.”

  Annabel placed her fingers against her lips to mask her tiny smile. Her husband, who’d never indicated an interest in opera, lately enjoyed basking in the recorded lush, dramatic music, and remarkable voices. That was good. Unfortunately, the brutal murder of Charise Lee now promised to involve him beyond music appreciation and being a super in Tosca.

  His posture at that moment was only to call Raymond Pawkins and see if he would be willing to investigate the murder on behalf of WNO’s board. But Annabel knew him only too well. He’d never be content with simply making that call. Like it or not, Mackensie Smith was about to learn more about opera than he’d ever envisioned.

  SEVEN

  Pawkins drove directly home from the Watergate in his 1986 Mercedes sedan. Like himself, he kept the vehicle in pristine working condition. The slightest blemish on its silver exterior was immediately buffed out, and he treated the black seats with a leather conditioner monthly. The engine was barely audible when idling. Particular attention was paid to the windows. Pawkins admitted to being a windshield fanatic, Windexing them at least once a week, often more frequently. People who saw him with the vehicle assumed he was a car fanatic, a man who attended rallies of vintage automobi
les and derived great pleasure from owning such a splendid specimen. That wasn’t the case. Cars meant little to him, and he found those who doted on their well-preserved four-wheel beauties to be boring. For Pawkins, it was a matter of practicality and of pride in keeping what you owned in good condition. Like himself.

  He’d crossed the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge and proceeded north on the G.W. Memorial Parkway until reaching the village of Great Falls, a wealthy D.C. suburb with palatial, colonial-style homes strung along the Potomac River, the waterway that is as much of a Washington landmark as any of its man-made monuments. Few of the houses had particular historic value, but they were impressive in their size and sweeping views of the river’s swirling headwaters. Another hundred years would do it.

  He ended up on a narrow dirt road lined with poplar and cedar trees. He followed its winding course until arriving at his home, formerly the gatehouse to a sizable estate with river frontage. He’d rented the small carriage house until its owner, a wealthy real estate developer, decided to sell it and a surrounding two acres. As the tenant of longstanding, Pawkins had first dibs, and he purchased the house and land. It had been a bargain. The owner had always liked having a D.C. detective on the premises and readily accepted Pawkins’ lower bid.

  He parked the Mercedes in a detached one-car garage thirty feet from the stone-and-clapboard house and crossed a gravel patch to the front door. The outside lights, and a few inside, were on, thanks to state-of-the-art programmable timers he’d had installed. Rather than setting times for the lights to go on and off, he’d programmed in the latitude and longitude of Great Falls, using a chart provided by the manufacturer, and the day of the month. From that point forward, the timers adjusted to changes in the time of sunset and sunrise, the lights coming on a minute or so later each day as summer approached, and earlier later in the year. They even adjusted automatically for Daylight Saving Time.

  The alarm system was up-to-date, too, including special motion detectors that would not be set off by the movements of his four cats.

  He entered the foyer, turned off the system, and went straight to the kitchen at the rear of the house, where he put up a kettle for tea. Using the time for the water to boil, he went upstairs to his bedroom and changed into blue running shorts, a white Washington National Opera T-shirt, and sandals, stopping briefly in the bathroom to check his hair. Time for a touch-up, he decided; gray roots were showing beneath the subtle, artificial brown coloring.