by A. J. Carton
Emma found her seat at the table, locating her name on a hand painted place card created by a local artist in keeping with the fundraiser’s Trovatore theme. She glanced at the name printed on the card to her left. To her extreme annoyance she saw that it was Andy Bodreau, her ex husband! What on earth was he doing there, she wondered? At a $500 a plate fundraiser? She, at least, had donated services for her ticket. What could Andy do? Besides, she asked herself, wasn’t he under house arrest?
At that moment Emma saw Julie running towards her across the lawn.
“Mom,” Julie whispered grabbing the back of Emma’s chair to catch her breath. “I forgot to tell you something. There was too much going on with the Russians wanting more vodka, and the microphone not working, and the florist arriving late. It’s been a madhouse. So, please forgive me. I just plain forgot. It’s Dad. He’s coming. I had to put him at your table. There was nowhere else I could squeeze him in. Please, please don’t be upset.”
Upset? Emma thought. Why should she be upset? Andy Bodreau was only the man who left her with a small child named Julie to run off with one of the secretaries at his law firm. Emma later learned he’d been bonking every secretary in sight before quitting the firm and going solo so he conveniently had no money to pay alimony. Most recently, he’d been disbarred and then convicted of misappropriating hundreds of thousands of dollars in connection with a joint real estate venture with one of his clients. Emma wasn’t surprised. Andy had never been well organized.
Andy, of course, claimed that he was framed. By the client. So, according to Andy, everyone should feel sorry for him. That was her ex-husband, Andy Bodreau. So why on earth should she be upset about sitting next to him at a dinner party?
Julie caught the look on her mother’s face. “You’re the one who married him, Mom.”
Emma sighed. Julie’s was right. It wasn’t her daughter’s fault that Andy Bodreau was her father.
“He was cute, smart and fun in bed,” she replied. “I was twenty. How was I to know that wasn’t enough for a lifetime?”
Julie covered her ears with her hands. “TMI, Mom. Way TMI.”
“Besides, how can he come?” Emma added. “I thought he was under house arrest.”
“That’s just it,” Julie pleaded. “He is under house arrest, but he has one of those ankle thingies, like in The Wolf of Wall Street, and he can go out for a few hours now and then. So he said he’d heard about the party from Piers and he wanted to come. It’s like his way to celebrate getting out of the house. And he adores Natasha Vasiliev. He claims that listening to her CDs saves his life when he’s cooped up in his apartment.”
Emma rolled her eyes. This was the man she introduced to opera. It was embarrassing. With a father like that, no wonder Julie turned out to be little-miss-perfect-with-an-iron-rod-jammed-up-her-back. At least for her sake, thanks to The Wolf of Wall Street, ankle thingies were now trendy.
“Mom, you know how Dad guilt trips me.”
Emma nodded. “I know. And I know how you always cave. Don’t worry. I’ll be nice. No scenes.”
“And nothing about the money he owes you. Not tonight.”
“Not tonight, honey,” Emma replied. “By the way, how is he paying for his ticket?”
“He offered to help you with the dinner you donated. The heavy lifting. All the stuff you complained you were too old to do. I thought you’d be happy.”
Just then, Emma felt a hand on her shoulder and a dry kiss on her cheek. “Well, hello there,” Andy greeted her in his jaunty voice, taking his seat next to hers. “My, don’t you look pretty tonight, Emma. And the cookbook. I saw it on the auction table. I remember when your Mom used to make Nonnie’s delicious recipes. The veal with prosciutto. The roast pork. I haven’t tasted that stuff in years. When do I get my autographed copy of the book?”
“You can order one on line,” Emma answered.
Then she saw the look on Julie’s face and quickly revised her reply. “Just kidding. I’ll send you one. You’re looking good yourself,” she added on a friendlier note.
Indeed, Emma thought, he looked remarkably good for someone under house arrest. He was tan. He’d lost weight. He had a great haircut and he wore a suit that fit. Had she just been convicted of a federal crime, she’d look like a cadaver. Having stabbed herself in the heart like Madam Butterfly.
“Thank you,” he grinned, for a second recapturing the young Paul Newman good looks that she had once found so attractive. “And look at our daughter. My! Isn’t she beautiful?”
Just then, the waiter served the first course, plates of steaming fresh tagliatelle covered in Emma’s sauce.
Andy put a forkful in his mouth. “Oh my gosh. It’s Nonnie’s famous salsa di pomodoro. I haven’t tasted this in years.”
“Excuse me,” a voice to Emma’s left interrupted. “Are you the cookbook lady – Emma Corsi?”
Emma turned to look at the man who had taken the other seat next to hers. With his full head of graying hair, prominent Roman nose, dark eyes and swarthy complexion, he reminded her of someone out of Goodfellas.
“Yes,” Emma replied.
Suddenly Andy reached his hand across Emma’s plate to shake Mr. Goodfella’s hand. “Hi. I’m Andy.”
“Jack Russo,” the man introduced himself. “Nice to meet you.”
Emma froze. It was the man who’d just paid $5000 for her dinner.
“I’ve heard of you,” Andy replied. “You’re a VC, right? JJR Cap. Your company was involved in getting Groboticks off the ground. Complicated stuff.”
Jack shrugged. “Yeah.” His voice was deep and gruff. “I like complicated.” Then he turned back to Emma. “Forgive me. I saw a copy of your cookbook over on the auction table. The recipes all looked so good, I bid on that dinner you donated.”
“And won,” Emma winced, wracking her brain to define VC. All she could think of was Viet Cong, but she knew that wasn’t right.
Jack nodded. “We’ll need to talk about that.” His eyes shifted from Emma to Andy, “Tell me something. From the book flap, I assumed you were single, but from the way you two are,” he feinted left and right like a boxer, “I figure you two must be married, right? Partners?” He grinned. “Or else he’s your brother.”
“He’s not my brother, he’s my former husband,” Emma replied; but before either of them could say more, Barry Buchanon picked up the microphone to announce the evening’s entertainment.
The first person he introduced was Natasha Vasiliev, the world renowned Russian soprano who would sing the famous first act aria from the City Opera season opener, Verdi’s Il Trovatore. Emma couldn’t help noticing the predatory once-over Barry gave the star when he handed her the mic. Like a lion appraising an antelope grazing too far from the pack.
Natasha took the mic and walked to the center of the stage. Emma perceived a sudden stillness as hundreds of males stopped breathing. On the dais, Emma noticed the young diva looked two, three times her actual size. Then she began to sing, and the voice of an angel erupted from the goddess’ form.
Emma, along with most of the audience, didn’t understand a word of the aria. But she knew it was about love and longing. There was a moment of silence when the young women stopped singing. Then men everywhere jumped to their feet in an explosion of applause.
“What a voice,” Jack whispered.
“What a chest,” Andy said.
Natasha exited the stage to a warm embrace by Barry Buchanon. But the exquisite performance had clearly exhausted the artist. By the time her feet touched ground, Emma noticed she looked flushed and pale.
Barry next introduced Chiara Bruno.
“Chiara Bruno,” Jack leaned over to murmur in Emma’s ear. “Light Dark. That’s a funny name.”
“You speak Italian?” Emma asked. “I tried to learn a little to research my cookbook.”
“Trying to learn. I hired a tutor,” Jack replied. “He’s terrific. I’ll give you his number…”
The music started, inter
rupting him.
Chiara, too, looked bigger on stage. Though the change was not as dramatic as it was with Natasha. She sang O Mio Babbino Caro by Puccini, a perennial crowd pleaser in which an ingénue daughter pleads with her father to let her marry a disfavored suitor. It was a charming vehicle to show off Ms. Bruno’s considerable acting skills as she pouted her full red lips and batted her eyes to the delight of every father in the audience.
The only jarring moment in the flawless performance was when a beeper went off, seemingly from somewhere right under Emma’s feet, causing Chiara, momentarily, to break character in consternation.
Forty pairs of accusing eyes turned on Emma from nearby tables. Then Andy abruptly stood up to leave.
“It’s this infernal beeper,” he whispered to the table. “I can’t turn it off. There must be something wrong with the timer. I was sure I had another twenty minutes.”
Emma rolled her eyes. As if it were the ankle thingie’s fault!
Andy checked his watch. “Nope. I was wrong. I gotta scoot.” But he took the time to wave jauntily at Julie as he wormed his way between the tables.
By then, the aria was over. There was another big round of applause.
“So, your ex is what? A doctor? On call or something?” Jack asked above the noise of the crowd.
“He was a lawyer,” Emma answered. “And yes, he’s on call.” Then so as to avoid further conversation on that topic, she added. “So, are you really an opera lover, Jack?”
“What?” he squinted his eyes at her mistrustfully. “I don’t look like an opera lover? Too what? Too blue collar for the Opera House?”
“No,” Emma protested, embarrassed by her faux pas. Though, in fact, she thought he did look a little too rough around the edges for an opera lover. “Not at all. I take it from your name that you are of Italian descent. Opera takes you back to your roots, I guess,” Emma replied.
“Sicilian,” Jack made the distinction. “No opera in my roots. But my daughter took me to one of those Opera in the Ballpark benefits in San Francisco, and ya know what? I loved it!”
Before Emma could respond, Barry introduced the final singer.
Jack put his finger to his lips and winked.
“Our final number tonight,” Barry announced, “is the devil’s song from Gounod’s Faust, sung by the devil himself, Alexis Kuragin.”
Something in Barry’s joke made Emma think there was no love lost between the two men. In a way, Emma could see why. Alexis Kuragin was a good twenty years younger than Barry. His full mane of blond hair provided a striking contrast to Barry’s thinning white tonsure. According to Julie, Kuragin was a lady killer.
Well, at least he sang like one. And from the looks on the ladies’ faces in the audience, most of them were ready to follow him all the way to hell. To Emma’s surprise, despite the vodka, he sang flawlessly, tripping only slightly as he stepped down from the dais to a big round of applause.
By then the tagliatelle alla salsa di pomodoro had been cleared. Emma watched Kuragin take his seat beside Natasha at the Russian table in front of a plate of Sergio’s signature saltimbocca (veal scallops literally translated as jumping in your mouth). But Kuragin, who had grabbed a glass of vodka as he left the stage, didn’t look pleased. He scowled at the veal before whispering something in Natasha’s ear.
“Bad boy, Sacha,” Emma heard Natasha reply.
“More vodka,” Kuragin called to a passing waiter. “More vodka if you want me to eat this Italian slop and sing this French drivel.”
Emma saw Natasha press her hand to her forehead and cast a pleading eye at a young Russian seated across the table. He picked up on her distress. “No more vodka. No more vodka for Sacha,” he shouted to the waiter.
The next thing Emma knew, Sacha threw his empty glass at the shouting Russian. It shattered against his wooden chair. The shouter tossed his plate of veal across the table at Kuragin like a Frisbee.
Before anyone could stop them, the Russians were hurtling glasses, bread sticks and little veal rollups, shouting, “No more Italian slop! Where’s the caviar?”
That’s when Sacha turned to Natasha and forced a sloppy stage kiss on her lips. Then, with a dramatic cackle worthy of the devil, he rolled an olive down the mostly missing front of the soprano’s dress and chased it with his tongue.
Well, apparently that was too much for Barry Buchanon. Emma watched him storm out of his seat below the dais and make his way to the Russian table. When he got to Sacha, he grabbed a big clump of his blond hair and yanked his face off Natasha’s chest. “Get off of her, you pig,” he shouted.
Emma saw Natasha grab the bass singer’s arm before he could throw a punch. Then a dozen men from nearby tables intervened obscuring her view.
At that point many of the guests started to leave their seats and head for the parking lot, even though it was barely 9:00 and the waiters hadn’t served dessert.
Emma wasn’t sure what happened next, but a few minutes later when she looked at the Russian table again, Barry was gone, Natasha’s seat was empty and Vera, her sister, sat next to Sacha trying, in Russian, to talk him down.
“Which opera was that scene from?” Jack leaned over to ask.
“One I’ve never seen,” Emma replied, too preoccupied with the embarrassment this fiasco would cause her daughter to think of a witty reply.
Jack stood up. “I’m outta here. Do you need a ride somewhere?”
Emma shook her head. “It’s OK. I have my car.”
“You want me to walk you to the parking lot? It’s kinda dark out there,” he added.
Emma shrugged. “No. I should stay here in case my daughter needs moral support. She’s the PR person for this mess.”
Jack nodded. He started to walk away from the table, then stopped and turned back. “About that dinner I bid on…,” he hesitated. “Should I call you to discuss it? I think your number’s on my receipt.”
“Sure,” Emma answered, only half listening. “Whenever,” she added over her shoulder as he turned around and headed for the parking lot. She was too preoccupied now with all the damage to Julie’s perfect party, to worry about her dinner donation.
On their way to their cars, a few people stopped to complement Emma on her sauce; but under the circumstances, she wasn’t sure the publicity that night would do her any good. The fundraiser was a shambles. She sat at her empty table, watched the wait staff clear the tables of broken dishes, splintered glass and untouched desserts, and wondered how the press would deal with the disaster.
She’d fretted for almost an hour about how to help Julie with damage control when Vera Vasiliev unexpectedly grabbed the mic and made her way to the stage.
“Natasha!” she called. “Has anybody seen my sister, Natasha? I think she’s missing.”
At the sound of her voice, the few remaining guests and cleanup crew stopped what they were doing and looked around.
“Natasha? Are you out there?” Vera shouted into the darkness surrounding the dimly lit meadow.
Nobody answered.
“Has anyone seen my sister, Natasha?” Vera repeated. Now her voice sounded worried.
It was Barry Buchanon who organized a party to look for the missing soprano. It was Barry who led the search. It was also Barry who found the body. And Barry whose screams everyone heard pierce the darkness that fateful night.
“Oh my god! Oh my god! Natasha. My darling Natasha!” Each cry was punctuated by a heart-wrenching sob. It was Barry who carried the body back to the meadow and laid it on the stage where it now looked small and lifeless as a doll. It was Barry who uttered the words that Emma would never forget.
“It’s over. She’s dead. My darling songbird is dead!”
Chapter 3: Friday Late Night - Questions
The police and an ambulance arrived twenty minutes later, their sirens shattering the midnight silence surrounding the vineyard. Two lieutenants led the investigation, Lieutenant O’Hara and Lieutenant Bates. O’Hara’s first order was that n
o one leave the meadow until everyone had been questioned and the police had IDed them and obtained their contact information.
After an hour of questioning, it appeared that the last person to see Natasha alive was a waiter who had gone out to the vineyard to look at the moon. His English was poor, but it sounded like he saw someone he thought might have been the singer stumbling through the vineyard about an hour before Vera raised the alarm. He thought she was drunk. She entered the vineyard from the direction of the women’s port-a-potty. Later, when he went out for a smoke, he saw someone wearing a long dark skirt leave the garden where the auction was held. He didn’t get a good enough look at that person to identify her.
Prior to that, a female guest said she thought she saw Natasha leaving the port-a-potties; but she only saw the woman from behind, and in the dark could not be absolutely sure.
Emma observed the officer’s questioning carefully in the hope of gleaning something helpful for Julie. It was Barry Buchanon’s story that caught her attention. She was grateful her hearing was still good. The officers had cleared a space around the witnesses. Apparently they didn’t realize the faceless senior, seated at a table on the perimeter of the meadow staring into the darkness, could hear everything that was said.
“Where was the body when you found it, Mr. Buchanon?” Lieutenant O’Hara asked.
Emma noted that, unlike the Mexican waiter, Barry Buchanon was handled by the police with kid gloves.
“At the north edge of the vineyard, under an olive…,” was all Barry could get out before breaking down in sobs.
“What was the position of the body, Mr. Buchanon?” Lieutenant Bates added.
“Face down. That beautiful face in the dirt. Her arms splayed out on either side.” Barry broke down again.
