Murder at the Opera

by Margaret Truman

  Zambrano lowered his voice and twisted a nonexistent handlebar moustache. “And we learn that Scarpia desires the lovely Tosca for himself.”

  There were a few “Ooohs” and “Aaahs,” and a solo giggler.

  Zambrano continued. “Angelotti is still at large when Act II opens, but Cavaradossi is in custody for having aided his friend’s escape. When he refuses to reveal Angelotti’s hiding place, he’s taken to the torture chamber. Tosca arrives. Hearing her lover’s tortured moans, she tells Scarpia where he can find Angelotti. Cavaradossi is brought bloody but defiant from the torture chamber and curses Scarpia and his methods. Cavaradossi is again arrested, led away, and sentenced to die.”

  Zambrano rubbed his surprisingly small hands together and his eyes widened. “Aha,” he said, “now comes the best part. Tosca pleads for Cavaradossi’s life. Scarpia, scoundrel that he is, says he’ll pardon Cavaradossi if Tosca will go to bed with him. She agrees. Scarpia tells his second in command, Spoletta, to stage a mock execution of Cavaradossi, and writes an official note granting Cavaradossi and Tosca safe passage from the country.

  “He finishes writing the note and hands it to Tosca, who slips it into her bosom. Then she stabs him to death, and places a crucifix on his breast and candles at his head and feet. She slips away.”

  Smith’s boss, Wilfred Burns, laughed and said, “Looks like she could have used a good defense lawyer like you, Mac.”

  “And I’d take the case,” Mac said lightheartedly. “I’d put the victim, Scarpia, on trial, and get the jury to view it as justifiable homicide.”

  “Might make a good exercise for your students,” Burns said, “how they’d defend Ms. Tosca.”

  “Madame Tosca,” Zambrano corrected, obviously anxious to continue with his story. “The third act takes place at the Castle of Sant’Angelo. Cavaradossi bribes a jailer to let him write a final note to Tosca—you see, he doesn’t know that the execution will be for show only, and that he will live. Tosca arrives and tells Cavaradossi about having murdered Scarpia, and that it will be a simulated execution. She instructs him how to fall realistically when the shots are fired.

  “She leaves, and Cavaradossi faces the firing squad. He falls! She rushes to his side and is horrified to see that the execution was real after all. He’s dead! She hears shouts in the distance announcing that Baron Scarpia has been murdered. As the police rush in to arrest her, the despairing Tosca, vowing to avenge herself before God, leaps to her death from the parapet.”

  Some of the supers applauded Zambrano’s telling of the tale.

  The director checked his watch. “We’d better get on with the rehearsal,” he said. “Before I do, though, I should mention the famous story of the bouncing Tosca.”

  “I love this story,” a super announced. “I wish I could have seen it.”

  “We all wish that,” Zambrano said. “When Tosca flings herself to her death, it’s supposedly into the Tiber River, although anyone who is familiar with Rome knows that it would be impossible for her to reach the river. In reality, I think she simply flattens herself on the cobblestones below. In any event, Toscas throughout eternity have made that leap onto a mattress positioned just out of sight of the audience and held by stagehands. This one particular Tosca, Rita Hunter, an especially stout woman performing in Cape Town, South Africa, complained that the mattress was too hard. The stage crew, accommodating fellows that they were, substituted a trampoline for the mattress. Our complaining diva landed on the trampoline and then bounced back up for all in the theater to see.”

  There was much laughter.

  “There have been a few Toscas, usually the heavier ones, who have refused to make the leap and simply toddle off the stage, much to the directors’ chagrin.”

  “Ever had that happen to you?” Mac asked.

  “No,” Zambrano said, “but if it did, I would personally and with pleasure fling that Tosca to her death.”

  Zambrano’s anecdote prompted others, including one that took place at a regional opera house outside Rome. An aging tenor, not up to the role he’d wangled for himself, elicited boos and shouts of displeasure and whistles from the Italian audience. In the third act, while singing “Di quella pira,” his voice cracked on a high note. The audience went into a frenzy, standing on their seats and hurling curses at him along with accusations of him being a beast, a criminal, and a murderer. The tenor became so enraged, he stomped downstage, sword in hand, and yelled, “All right, you morons, you come up here and sing the high note.” The curtain was drawn and the rest of the final act was never performed.

  Zambrano indicated he was aware of that episode, thanked them all for being there, clapped his hands, and snapped, “Places, everyone!”

  An hour later, Zambrano called an end to the supers’ walk-through and reminded everyone of the upcoming rehearsal schedule. He’d become agitated when he realized that two supers had failed to show, the pianist Christopher Warren and former detective Raymond Pawkins. His assistant called Genevieve Crier, who said that Warren was ill and that Pawkins had another commitment, which he couldn’t change, but he would try to be there before rehearsal ended.

  Mac was about to leave when Genevieve came bursting through the doors. She was always bursting through doors, never simply walking through them, and Mac wondered if she sometimes went through walls. Her energy reservoir seemed perpetually topped off with high-octane fuel.

  “Ah, Mac,” she said. “How did rehearsal go?”

  “Fine. I learned all about the opera from the director. Fascinating stories behind Tosca.”

  “That’s why it’s always being staged somewhere. Where’s Annabel?”

  Mac looked up at a clock. “Waiting for me at a restaurant and wondering why I’m late. Join us?”

  “I don’t know if I can.” She, too, looked at the clock. “Where are you meeting?”

  “Cafe Milano.”

  “You devils,” she said. “How can I pass up that invitation? I need ten minutes to soothe Anthony at two of my supers not showing and I’ll be on my way. Do you have a reservation?”

  “Annabel does—she made it. She has clout there now that she’s on the Opera board. I understand the owner is on the board, too.”

  “Franco. A charming man. Maestro Domingo has his own private room there. Ah, to be rich and famous. Go, go, don’t keep your Titian-haired beauty waiting. I’ll be there in a flash.”

  Mac had no sooner left the building and was heading for his car when Ray Pawkins called out, “Hey, Mac. Rehearsal over?”

  “Yes. You were missed.”

  “Couldn’t be helped. I was tied up and couldn’t get away. Zambrano’s angry, I’m sure.”

  “I suppose so. Look, Ray, I’m running late myself. Annabel’s waiting for me at Milano.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  Genevieve joined them. “Anthony wouldn’t talk to me, which is just as well. I’m not in the mood to be verbally assaulted. Good evening, Mr. Pawkins. I hope your newfound fame from Washingtonian hasn’t gone to your head.”

  Pawkins laughed. “Of course it has,” he said. “My days as a super are over. It’s strictly leads now.”

  “You’re still here,” she said to Smith. “Annabel is probably on her cell phone to a divorce attorney as we speak.”

  “She doesn’t have to be,” Mac said. “She was a matrimonial lawyer, remember? Coming?”

  “You’re going with them?” Pawkins said to Genevieve.

  “Of course.”

  “Want a fourth?” Pawkins asked.

  “Sure,” Mac said. “Why not? But if we don’t go now, it’ll be the three of us at a Burger King.”

  He walked to his car, followed by Genevieve and Pawkins, who decided to go together in Pawkins’ car. Genevieve had to return to Takoma Park after dinner, and Pawkins said he’d be happy to drive her.

  Cafe Milano, on Prospect Street in Georgetown, had replaced the Jockey Club as Washington’s prime celebrity gathering and gawking spot since opening in 1
992. Its owner, Franco Nuschese, an acknowledged master host, was capable of making everyone feel famous and at home. That skill, plus superb northern Italian food, made it the hottest table in D.C.

  Like all good hosts, Nuschese recognized Mac by name as he came through the door, despite Mac having been there only a few times before. “Ah, Mr. Smith,” he said, “it is good to see you again. The signora is waiting.” He threaded a passage through a knot of people three deep at the bar, to another dining room, away from the bar’s cacophony. Annabel sat alone at a table for four, set for two.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Mac said, kissing her on the cheek and taking his seat. “The rehearsal ran long, and I was waylaid by Genevieve and Ray Pawkins on my way out.”

  “I was getting worried,” she said.

  “Genevieve and Ray are on their way. They’re joining us.”

  “Oh?”

  “Glad you landed a larger table. A prime one, I might add, away from the bar.”

  “I mentioned to Bill Frazier that we wanted to have dinner here and he offered to make a call. Nothing like having the chairman of the Washington National Opera put in a good word.”

  They’d just ordered drinks when Genevieve and Pawkins arrived.

  “If I’d known I’d end up here tonight,” Genevieve said breathlessly, “I would have changed into something dishy. I felt like Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, Beatrix Potter’s matronly washerwoman, walking through that crowd at the bar.”

  Pawkins chuckled. “I’d say you look like anything but a washerwoman.”

  “Isn’t he sweet?” Genevieve said.

  “Sweet’s my middle name,” Pawkins said.

  “I love the Domingo Room,” Genevieve said, pointing in its direction. She referred to one of Cafe Milano’s private dining rooms, named after WNO’s general director. One night in 1996, shortly after Plácido Domingo had arrived in Washington, he stopped in to eat and suggested to the owner that a door be put on the entrance to a private room to cut down on noise from the bar. When he returned the next night, the door was up and the room renamed the Domingo Room. A few years later, Nuschese commissioned a Russian artist to create a ten-foot painting on the room’s ceiling of Domingo in costume as Verdi’s Otello. The maestro has looked down on all who dine there ever since.

  Over a large platter of beef and spiny lobster carpaccio with baby arugula and apple citronette sauce, accompanied by a bottle of Chianti Classico Riserva, Podere Tereno, talk eventually came around to the Charise Lee murder. Naturally, most questions were directed at Pawkins.

  “Is there any progress?” Annabel asked.

  “Nothing yet,” he replied. Had he still been with MPD, discussing an ongoing case would have been off-limits—officially. But like most cops he knew, that rule was frequently ignored. Besides, those sharing the table with him this evening were, after all, his clients. “I’m in touch with a contact at MPD. They’re looking closely at her roommate, a pianist from Toronto named Christopher Warren. They’re also questioning every student in the Young Artist Program, and a couple of agents from Toronto who represented the victim and Warren.”

  “Christopher called in sick today,” Genevieve said. “He said he couldn’t make tonight’s rehearsal.”

  “Maybe you’d better get a sub for him,” Annabel offered.

  “That’s a good idea,” Genevieve said.

  “No it’s not,” Pawkins said. “Let’s keep him close. I might learn something from him.”

  “It couldn’t have been him,” Genevieve said, wrapping her arms about her as though the AC had suddenly been turned up. “He’s a lovely boy.”

  “That may be,” Pawkins said, “but MPD has a different take on him.”

  It was over cappuccino and a platter of small cookies and fruit that Annabel brought up the Musinski murder of six years earlier. “I was fascinated to read that you were the lead on that case, Ray,” she said.

  “All part of my illustrious past,” he said lightly.

  “They never found those scores, did they?” Mac said.

  “No” was Pawkins’ reply.

  “Or arrest anyone,” Annabel said.

  “They had a prime suspect,” Pawkins said casually, “a grad student at the university. We all knew he did it, but we could never come up with enough evidence to convince the prosecutors to charge him.”

  “This grad student knew the deceased, Professor Musinski?” Mac asked.

  “Oh, yeah, he sure did,” Pawkins said. “He worked closely with him as an assistant. We grilled him pretty hard, but he never broke.”

  “Where is he now?” Annabel asked.

  “Still at the university,” Pawkins said. “My MPD source says they might reopen the case based on new forensic evidence.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Mac said. “Do you think this grad student killed the professor to get his hands on the musical scores? What were they—Mozart?”

  “Musinski was a Mozart expert, wrote books about him and his music,” Pawkins said. “But his primary interest was some string quartets supposedly written with Joseph Haydn.”

  “Supposedly?” Genevieve asked.

  “No one’s ever seen them,” Pawkins said, leaning back in his seat and dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “They only exist because Musinski’s niece claims her uncle said he’d brought them back from overseas a couple of days before he was murdered. Know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think those musical scores ever existed in the first place.”

  “Then why was Musinski killed?” Annabel asked. “The scores would provide the motive.”

  Pawkins laughed. “Maybe the kid got a bad grade from the prof and decided to even the score. This was great, but I have to get going.” He reached for his wallet.

  “On me,” Smith said, waving him away.

  “Not on your life. My turn.”

  “Yes, but this is Cafe Milano,” Mac said.

  “That makes it more special for me to treat,” Pawkins said, pulling a credit card from his wallet and motioning for the waiter.

  “What an unexpected surprise,” Genevieve said as they parted outside the restaurant. “Thank you so much.”

  “Thank Mr. Pawkins here,” Mac said.

  “Yes, thank you, Raymond,” Genevieve said.

  “Come on,” Pawkins said to her, “I’ll drive you back to Takoma Park.”

  At home in their Watergate apartment, Annabel said, “Mr. Pawkins does quite nicely on a retired detective’s salary.”

  “I didn’t want him to pay,” Mac said, “but he seemed determined. Bad form to argue over it.”

  “Did you notice what he was wearing?” Annabel asked as they dressed for bed.

  “He carries clothes well,” Mac said.

  “That suit came straight from Savile Row,” she said, “and those shoes were custom-made, too.”

  “Maybe he won a lottery we don’t know about,” Mac suggested, “or had an unmarried rich uncle who died and left his fortune to his only nephew.”

  “Maybe,” Annabel said. “I think Genevieve is smitten with him.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. I can sense it.”

  “Not a bad match-up,” Mac said. “She’s attractive and a culture-vulture, and he’s not without his own brand of erudition. They both love opera. By the way, Zambrano told us the story of Tosca. He had this wonderful tale of when a soprano playing Tosca jumped to her death, landed on a trampoline, and bounced back up for the audience to see.”

  “I’ve heard it,” Annabel said with a laugh. “That’s a staple. Opera is full of such stories, real or imagined. I think that’s why everyone thinks operas, and the people who perform them, are crazy.”

  “Well,” he said, “I like the soprano bouncing off the trampoline. Should go over well with my students, a few of whom I’d like to bounce off a trampoline—or a brick wall.”

  “Good night,” she said, kissing him sweetly on the lips.

  “It’s early,” he s
aid.

  “Not for me,” she said. “Meetings exhaust me.”

  The strains of Tosca drifted into the bedroom from the den where Mac had put on the CD. Annabel turned over, fluffed up her pillow, and fell asleep, a contented smile on her face.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “But you can at least try to eat healthier, Willie.”

  Portelain and Sylvia Johnson had decided at the end of the day to have dinner together. He’d suggested a steak house; he was in the mood for a porterhouse and a baked potato with plenty of sour cream. Sylvia, while always enjoying a good steak, was aware of what the doctors had told Willie about the need to change his eating habits, and convinced him to try Bistro Med, a small, popular restaurant on M Street that featured “Mediterranean” food, much of it low calorie.

  “You don’t need a beer, Willie,” she said. “Have a glass of red wine. It’s good for you. The French live a long time.”

  “I’m not the wine type,” he protested, holding up a hand with his pinky extended.

  “There is no such thing as a wine type, Willie,” she said, and ordered a bottle of inexpensive Cabernet from the waitress.

  “Nice spot,” he said, looking around the small, functionally furnished and decorated room.

  “It’s good food,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Feel good—only, this body of mine is telling me it needs nourishment.”

  “The food here is nourishing,” she said.

  “Filling, too?”

  “If you eat enough of it.”

  “So,” he said after the wine had been poured and he’d clinked his glass against hers, “what’s your take on those two clowns this afternoon?”

  It had taken them most of the day to catch up with Melincamp and Baltsa.