Murder at the Opera

by Margaret Truman

  “About Professor Grimes,” Sylvia said, having stolen a peek at her watch.

  “He and Dr. Musinski got along as well as anyone. What I mean is, working closely with Aaron could be frustrating, at best. He wasn’t a tolerant man. He tended to berate his staff on occasion for what he felt was a lack of academic commitment. Finding those lost Mozart-Haydn musical manuscripts represented another feather in his cap. How tragic that not only did he lose his life in such a brutal way, but the thing he’d pursued for years was gone with him.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Has new evidence surfaced implicating Ed Grimes again?”

  “We’re not at liberty to say,” said Sylvia. “Let me ask you this question, Dean Eder. In the months and years following Dr. Musinski’s murder, did Professor Grimes show any difference in his lifestyle?”

  “In what way?”

  “Did he seem to live a little more lavishly than before?”

  “Ed? Gracious, no. He’s a very modest man. Have you met his family?”

  “We intend to.”

  “A nice family. I just pray he wasn’t involved in the murder. It would be devastating to his wife and children, and to the university.”

  “You said he and Musinski got it on sometimes,” Willie said.

  “Got it on? Oh, you mean had their differences. As I said, Dr. Musinski could be difficult to get along with. I do remember one time when Musinski berated Grimes something fierce. I was appalled at the vehemence of his attack and spoke to Aaron about it. He was aware of his volatility and tried to curb it. I admired him for that.”

  “When was that?” Sylvia asked.

  “I can’t recall specifically. Maybe six years ago.”

  “Around the time of the murder,” Willie said.

  “I suppose,” Eder said.

  “Let me ask you another question,” Willie said.

  “Yes?”

  “If Musinski was so tough to get along with, how come you kept him around?”

  “As I said, Detective, any college or university prides itself on the professional credentials of its faculty. Musinski was a giant in his field. His computer program, through which the compositional techniques of the masters from generations ago could be compared to newly discovered works, was groundbreaking. And it should go without saying that men of his stature invite considerable donations to an institution of higher learning.”

  “Yeah, I imagine,” Willie said.

  “We’d like to see Professor Grimes’ office,” Sylvia said. “Has anyone been in there since he left with us?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  She said to Willie, “Let’s get some help over here and clean out his office.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Willie said.

  A call to MPD resulted in two uniformed cops and an evidence tech arriving in a panel truck and removing files, papers, and Grimes’ computer. Sylvia and Willie helped, but another look at her watch told Sylvia she was running late.

  “I have to go,” she whispered to Willie. “I’ll drop off the car. You can get a ride with them. Will you stay here until they’re done?”

  “Where you going?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have a date.”

  “Oh, ho,” he said. “Cheatin’ on Willie, huh?”

  She looked at the officers unloading things from the office to see whether they’d overheard the exchange. “See you in the morning,” she said.

  “You have trouble with this dude, you call me,” Willie yelled after her, to her chagrin.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Mac Smith walked through the stage door to the Kennedy Center’s Opera House and signed in as “talent”—he had to admit he was getting a kick out of doing that—and was met by Genevieve Crier.

  “Mac, darling,” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek—everyone in opera seemed to kiss one another on the cheek. “There’s been a change in the rehearsal schedule. Anthony is so pleased with the way the supers and chorus have been performing that he’s decided to use tonight for a Sitzprobe.”

  “Is that like a sitz bath?” Mac asked, mirth in his voice.

  “No, silly, it’s a special sort of rehearsal. La prova all’italiana in Italian. A sitting rehearsal. The singers will go through their music with the full orchestra, rather than with just piano accompaniment.”

  “A dress rehearsal,” he said.

  “Hardly,” she said. “No costumes, no props, no stage business. The singers simply sit in chairs, or stand, and sing with the orchestra. It’s my favorite type of rehearsal. It was supposed to be night after tomorrow, but Anthony pushed it up to tonight. You’ll love it!”

  “I have some things I can be doing at home,” Mac said.

  “Not on your life,” she said, grabbing his arm and propelling him down the corridor and into the theater. “We’ll sit here. Is Annabel coming?”

  “Yes, but we can’t stay for the entire rehearsal. We’re meeting someone for dinner.”

  “Ah, the life of a favored couple in a city of favored couples. Anyone I know?”

  “I don’t think so. That reminds me. I have to call him. Back in a minute.”

  He went to the lobby, called the Watergate Hotel, and asked for the guest room of Marc Josephson, who answered on the first ring.

  “Mac Smith here.”

  “I’ve been waiting for your call. Is dinner still on the agenda?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m here at the rehearsal I mentioned to you. My wife will be joining me shortly. We can be free by eight-thirty.”

  “That sounds fine. Where shall I meet you?”

  “Enjoy fish?”

  “Very much.”

  “Good. I’ll make a reservation at Kinkead’s. It’s on Pennsylvania Avenue, a fairly good walk. Take a taxi. Every driver knows where it is. See you at eight thirty.”

  When he returned to his seat after calling the restaurant and securing a table on the quieter second level, he saw that Ray Pawkins had joined Genevieve.

  “We’re in luck,” the retired detective said as he and Mac shook hands. “You’ll finally get to hear the voices you’ll be enjoying every night when the show goes on.”

  “Looking forward to it,” Mac said, turning to see whether Annabel had arrived.

  “Where’s your lovely wife?” Pawkins asked.

  “Helping protect the president,” Mac replied.

  “How exciting,” said Pawkins. “She packing heat these days?”

  Mac thought of a double entendre, but stifled the urge. “She’s conferring with the Secret Service about the president’s visit to the Opera Ball.”

  “I am impressed,” Pawkins said. “The fate of the free world rides on your wife’s beautiful shoulders.”

  Genevieve bounded away to take care of something backstage.

  “Hopefully, they won’t just be marking,” Pawkins said, his eyes on where a row of chairs was being set up. The musicians in the pit went through their ablutions, the tuning of the myriad instruments creating a cacophonous, atonal wash of sound, but not unpleasant.

  “Marking what?” Mac asked, feeling he had to.

  “Not giving it their all vocally. Going through the motions. I understand the soprano, our Madame Tosca, is fighting a cold, although I’m told she always claims to be on the verge of a terminal head cold. Never misses a performance, though. Likes the attention, I suppose.”

  “Anything new on the Lee murder?” Mac asked.

  “No, but I’m on the case. It looks more and more like Chris Warren is taking center stage.”

  “And the Musinski murder? You said new evidence has shed light on it.”

  “For me, Grimes, the guy who was a grad assistant to Musinski, is the culprit.” He laughed. “I sound more and more like a private eye, don’t I, ‘packing heat’ and ‘culprits’? Next I’ll be talking about gats, gams, and molls.”

  Genevieve returned with some of the other supers in tow, including Mac’s boss at GW, Wilfred Burns, who said he was taking advantage of the cha
nge in schedule to catch up on things back at his office.

  “Where’s the young pianist, Warren?” Mac whispered to Genevieve.

  “I told him earlier of the new schedule and he’s opted to stay away,” she replied in her own low voice. “Is he—?”

  Mac finished her thought. “A suspect?” he said. “Everyone is, Genevieve.”

  As Burns was about to leave, he leaned close to Mac and asked, “Is there anything new?”

  “No,” Mac said, uncomfortable at having ended up the conduit for such information. He looked to where Pawkins was chatting with another super, the navy commander. He’d been tempted since seeing Pawkins to mention the call from Josephson and to relay the final line of their most recent phone conversation: “The scores are no longer missing.” Certainly, Pawkins would be interested in this development, and by extension so would the detectives working the Musinski case. But Mac had determined that until he knew more, there was nothing to be gained by passing along Josephson’s offhand comment. Maybe it wasn’t true. All Smith had to go on was what a man he hadn’t seen in two years had said to conclude a telephone conversation. Yes, if the Mozart-Haydn string quartets had surfaced, they might help point a finger in the direction of whomever had killed Musinski. If Mac decided there was credence to what Josephson had to say, he wouldn’t hesitate to share it with Pawkins. So for now, and until after his dinner with Josephson, he’d keep it to himself. It wasn’t easy.

  Annabel arrived shortly after the Sitzprobe had started, and the singers, including the soprano and tenor leads and lesser characters, had begun running through the music with the orchestra. During a break, when the conductor stopped the aria being sung to adjust something in the orchestra’s score, Annabel said quietly to Mac, “What’s this dinner tonight all about?”

  He started to respond, but the rehearsal resumed, and they fell silent. The music was lovely, the power and richness of the voices sending chills up Mac’s back at times. He was torn; he wanted to be there to enjoy the music, but at the same time he wanted to be where he could fill in Annabel about Josephson before meeting with him.

  A natural pause occurred a few minutes past eight when the soprano announced she wasn’t feeling well and would not be able to continue the rehearsal. Her “cover,” a younger soprano, who’d been sitting quietly onstage along with the others, said she was ready to pick up where the diva had left off.

  “Maybe they gave her Coke instead of Pepsi,” Mac said.

  Genevieve gently punched his arm.

  Mac said, “Annabel and I have to run. That dinner I mentioned.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” she said.

  As they headed up the aisle, Pawkins fell into step with them.

  “You’ll miss the best part,” he said cheerily. “The cover has real pastoso. She sings ‘Vissi d’arte’ better than the lead.”

  “‘Pastoso’ is an Italian term for singers with a warm, mellow voice,” Genevieve translated for Mac and Annabel’s sake.

  “Thanks,” Mac said. “Sounded like lunch.”

  They reached the exit and stepped out into a night illuminated by a full moon. A lone taxi stood waiting at the curb across the street.

  “I enjoyed that,” Annabel said. “I hope the soprano feels better.”

  “She will,” Pawkins said. “But if she doesn’t, her cover will do just fine. I’ve heard her before. She’s wonderful.”

  The cab did a U-turn and pulled up to them. Mac opened the back door and Annabel climbed in. As he started to join her, he asked Pawkins, “Will you be around tomorrow?”

  “Plan to be. Why?”

  “I may want to catch up with you.”

  “Oh? What’s the occasion?”

  “Nothing specific. I’ll call.”

  As the cab pulled away and Mac gave the driver the name of the restaurant, Annabel said, “Okay, we’re alone. Tell me what this is all about.”

  Mac gave her a thumbnail sketch of Josephson’s call. “The last thing he said to me was, ‘The scores are no longer missing.’”

  “Wow!”

  “I’m not sure what he means by it—whether he actually has them in his possession, or knows where they are. At any rate, I couldn’t resist taking him up on his suggestion to have dinner.”

  “Of course not. Did you mention it to Ray?”

  “I almost did a few times, but thought better of it. Let’s see what’s really going on before we do.”

  The lower floor of Kinkead’s was bustling, elbow-to-elbow patrons at the bar, their conversations livened up by jazzy tunes from a spirited pianist. The restaurant had consistently been considered among Washington’s finest, a seafood mecca that always ranked high on reader polls. Josephson, who sat on a chair by the entrance, saw them, and got to his feet.

  “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” he said, extending his hand. “How wonderful to see you again.”

  Josephson was a slight man with a deeply lined, chiseled face, his sparse, unruly hair tinted a rusty red. He wore a tan, black, and pale green plaid sport jacket, a white shirt, and a small, Kelly-green, clip-on bow tie. He carried a large, bulging manila envelope with myriad scribbles on it.

  “It’s our pleasure,” Mac said. “We have a table reserved upstairs. It’s less noisy there.”

  Bob Kinkead, the owner and an old friend of Mac’s, greeted them at the top of the stairs and led them to a prime table. Once seated, and the initial exchange of pleasantries completed, Mac said, “I have to admit, Marc, your call came as quite a surprise.”

  “I didn’t mean to call like that at the final minute before boarding my flight, but I’d been trying to summon the courage for some time now.”

  Annabel laughed. “Summon courage to call Mac? He’s the most accessible person I know.”

  “Oh, I can see that,” said Josephson. “I knew it the time we met at my shop in London. But this is—Well, how shall I say it? My reason for calling is a bit unusual. I’m here to ask a rather large favor.”

  Mac thought for a moment, glanced at Annabel, and said, “A favor concerning the Mozart-Haydn musical scores?”

  Josephson nodded, his eyes fixed on the table. He looked up, smiled at Annabel, and asked Mac, “You’ve told Annabel about it?”

  “The little I know,” Mac said. “You said that—”

  A waiter took their drink orders and left menus in front of them.

  “Mac said that you told him the scores are no longer missing,” Annabel said.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Josephson’s response disappointed Mac. For some reason, he almost expected that Josephson would have the scores with him. What was in that full envelope he’d placed on the empty fourth chair?

  “I’m not sure where to begin,” Josephson said.

  “Why don’t we order,” Annabel suggested. “Let’s get that out of the way first.”

  They shared a platter of fried clams—“The best Washington has to offer,” Mac said—and pepita-crusted salmon over a ragoût of crab, shrimp, corn, and chilies for the three of them. The drinks and the succulent food cast their comforting spell, and conversation touched upon everything except the missing scores. Finally, after coffee and crème brûlée, Annabel brought the topic back to the reason they were there in the first place. She was aware that Josephson was edgy. Although he willingly participated in the small talk during dinner, he fidgeted a great deal, and a tic on the left side of his face, not evident earlier, was now constant.

  Josephson glanced about the room. Confident that he could speak without being overheard by others, he began to explain, a clearing of his throat preceding his lengthier comments.

  “You see, when Aaron—he was a close friend and a colleague, of sorts—when he first told me of string quartets that had been written by Mozart in collaboration with his idol, Franz Joseph Haydn, I was naturally excited. I’d not heard of them before but had no reason to question Aaron’s belief that they existed. He was, after all, an acknowledged expert on Mozart and his works.”r />
  “How had he learned of their existence?” Annabel asked.

  “Through sources. He had many around the globe. Of course, there was also his disciplined academic research.”

  “Why had he decided to work with you?” Mac asked. “Surely he could have sought the scores himself using his sources.”

  Josephson smiled self-effacingly. “I have my sources, too,” he said, “in the world of rare manuscripts. Aaron felt that between us we stood a better chance of successfully finding the scores.” He looked at Mac, his eyes narrowed. “Are you questioning my expertise in this area?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” Mac said. “I just want to fully understand.”

  “Well,” Josephson, said, “Aaron could be a generous man when it came to friends.”

  Not from what I’ve heard, Mac thought.

  “I read,” Mac said, “that you and Dr. Musinski found the manuscripts quite by accident, at a tag sale.”

  “Where did you read that?” Josephson asked.

  “An interview you gave to a British publication,” Mac replied, smiling. “The joys of the Internet.”

  Josephson cleared his throat. “Yes, that’s precisely the way it happened. Life is funny. You work for months, years, seeking something, and there it is, right under your nose, in an unlikely place. Sheer good fortune.”

  Annabel indicated she wasn’t aware of the story, and Josephson recounted it for her.

  “Remarkable,” she said when he’d finished.

  “It certainly was remarkable,” Josephson said. “I couldn’t contain my glee when Aaron and I left that yard sale and returned to my shop with the scores in hand. Aaron was—well, Aaron was more stoic than I. He was anxious to get back to Washington and start the authentication process in his laboratory at the university. That’s the last I saw of the scores, or of Aaron. Dreadful what happened to him. Such a cruel way to die. They’ve never found the murderer, have they?”

  “No, but they might be getting close.”

  Mac’s comment caused Josephson to straighten in his chair. A puzzled expression crossed his face. “Do you know who killed Aaron?” he asked.

  “No,” Mac said, “but there might be new evidence that will help the police solve the case. But wait, we’ve come up to the point where Dr. Musinski returned to Washington with the scores and was killed. You told me on the phone that you’ve found the scores. We’re listening.”