Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens

by Patrice Greenwood

“No.”

  “You want this egg?”

  “No.”

  I ate the egg and watched him pace a little more, less agitated this time. He ran a hand through his hair, then returned to the visitor’s chair at my desk.

  “Not a word of this to anyone else,” he said. “Not your aunt, not even your best friend.”

  “OK.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What do you know about the director?”

  “The director of Tosca?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing. I could look up his name—”

  “Nothing at all? You’ve never met him, or seen him?”

  “No.”

  “What about his wife?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about him, really.”

  “They had an argument during the performance.”

  Argument. A faint bell rang in my head.

  “Was she the arguing woman?”

  Tony’s brows twitched together. “The what?”

  “Remember when we went up to the gift shop, and there was a couple in front of us who stopped walking? I thought they’d been arguing.”

  Tony raised his chin. “Go on.”

  “Well, I was out in the courtyard with Mr. Ingraham a little later, and I saw the man from that couple talking with another man, and lighting a cigar. I asked Mr. Ingraham who he was, and he thought he might have been the director of Tosca. He said the other man was the General Director.”

  “OK.”

  “Then later I saw the arguing woman again. Remember? In the second intermission, we almost ran into her. She was wearing a fur coat, and heading for the south side of the theatre.”

  “Did you see where she went?”

  “No…”

  “Damn.”

  “I saw her go out the south gate and assumed she was heading for the bar,” I added. “I guess she could have gone through the stage door, but that would have attracted a lot of attention, wouldn’t it? It’s not the sort of thing you do—going backstage during a performance—even if you’re the director’s wife.”

  “She didn’t go through the stage door.”

  I took a sip of tea. “She could have gone around, outside,” I said, thinking back to the last time I took the backstage tour. “That wouldn’t have been as conspicuous. I think there’s a breezeway to the south that leads to the back of the stage. It’s a long walk, though. She would have had to pass the costume shop and the props room to get to the dressing rooms. A lot of people would have seen her.”

  A slow smile crept on to Tony’s face. “You’re good.”

  “Did she go backstage?”

  “She did. She was overhead giving Sandra Usher a piece of her mind right before Act Three.”

  Sandra Usher was the soprano who had played Tosca. I didn’t need the program for that one.

  “So she wasn’t mad at Mr. Solano?” I asked.

  “Apparently not.”

  “So that’s a dead end. Do you have a suspect?”

  Tony got up and started pacing again.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” I said.

  “If I’m going to use you as a sounding-board…” He slowed to a stop and turned to look at me. “Hell, I’ve already told you more than I should.”

  “I won’t say anything. Scout’s honor.”

  He laughed. “Were you a girl scout?”

  “Yes, until high school. Then I got more into band and let scouts drop. Were you a scout?”

  His smile vanished. “No.”

  Because his family couldn’t afford the cost? Fees, uniforms … things I had taken for granted….

  Tony came back to his chair, but didn’t sit. He leaned his hands on the back and stared at me, his hair almost brushing the ceiling.

  “Other than Carter and Harrison, we don’t have a suspect. Mrs. Passaggio is on the maybe list, just because she had opportunity and was … agitated.”

  I thought back to the cigar-man. I supposed he might look Italian. His wife didn’t.

  “Why was she angry with Sandra Usher?” I asked.

  “According to the person who overheard her, she was accusing her of sleeping with Mr. Passaggio.”

  “Oh, good lord! Right before she had to go onstage?!”

  Tony shrugged. “People lose control. That’s when bad things happen.”

  “She wasn’t the only one who lost control!”

  “No.”

  Our gazes held. I felt as if Tony wanted something from me; wanted me to guess something that would solve the case. Unfortunately, I was pretty brain-fried.

  “What a mess,” I said. “I’m so sorry you have to deal with this, Tony.”

  His eyes softened. “It isn’t your fault.”

  “But if you hadn’t been there with me, someone else might have gotten the call. I guess the police department knew where you were?”

  “I had told a couple of people, yes. That’s how they knew I was at the scene.”

  “So…”

  He sat down, pulling the chair closer to my desk so he could lean his elbows on it. “It’s good that I was there. I was able to secure the crime scene pretty fast, and get the house security people to take contact information.”

  “And now you just have to interview a few hundred people.”

  He grinned. “That’s what beat cops are for.”

  I picked up my teacup, but it was empty. I put it back down. “I just feel bad. Like I caused you a bunch of extra work.”

  “Don’t.” He picked up a cucumber sandwich, inspecting it. “I would probably have been assigned to the case even if I hadn’t been there. As it is … I think it’s helped that I was there to see the opera.”

  “Helped?”

  He nodded and swallowed a bite of sandwich. “Nobody else in the department knows much about opera. Because I was there with you, I’m kind of the local expert now.”

  “Oh!”

  “And that’s why I came to talk to you tonight. You know way more about this stuff than I do. You might make a connection that I can’t. If you don’t mind my bouncing ideas off you…”

  “Not at all. I’m glad to help if I can.”

  “So I’m considering you an unofficial consultant, all right? But I’m serious about not saying anything to anyone. Not even your priest.”

  I smiled. He knew perfectly well I wasn’t Catholic.

  “I promise I won’t.”

  “Good.”

  I picked up the last sandwich. “Want this?”

  He shook his head, then frowned at my plate. “This isn’t your dinner, is it?”

  “Lunch, actually.”

  “Jeez! Let me buy you a steak, for Chrissake!”

  “I’m not hungry enough now. Unless you haven’t eaten?”

  “I had a burger.”

  “Another time, then.” I ate the sandwich and poured out the last of the tea into my cup. “Have you talked to the British man yet?”

  “British?”

  “The one who was talking about snogging? He was up in the members’ bar; he must have been in the audience.”

  Tony stared past me, as if trying to remember. “No, I haven’t talked to him. If he was in the audience, he’s on the list that the beat cops are handling.”

  “Maybe you could ask them to refer any Britons to you?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Do you remember exactly what he said about snogging?”

  I leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, thinking back. “’Practically snogging him right onstage’, I think. I figured he was talking about Tosca and Cavaradossi. And he said something about someone being upset.”

  Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Who? Do you remember?”

  I closed my eyes, trying to recall the moment. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Neil.”

  I opened my eyes to find Tony staring at me intently. “Neil Passaggio.”

  “Is that his name?”

  “Yes. And his wife accused Sand
ra Usher of sleeping with him.”

  “So … if he was upset by Sandra Usher kissing—whatever his name is—Cavaradossi…”

  “His name is David Ebinger.”

  “Ebinger, OK.” I paused, struggling to keep the names straight.

  “If Neil Passaggio was jealous of Usher kissing her costar,” Tony said, “that supports Mrs. Passaggio’s accusation.”

  “Ugh! But that doesn’t explain the murder.”

  “Unless Sandra Usher was also sleeping with Victor Solano.”

  I stared at him. “We’re going to need a program just to keep track of all the backstage affairs!”

  “Fun, huh?”

  “You’re enjoying this?”

  “It’s my job. And yeah, I do enjoy making progress on an investigation.”

  I, however, did not find it all that enjoyable. Turning over all the detritus of people’s private lives, just to see what could be found. I couldn’t help thinking of compost.

  “Have you talked to Sandra Usher?” I asked.

  “Briefly, last night. I’ll be going back. I left her alone today. She was pretty upset.”

  “I imagine everyone was.”

  “Yeah, but different people show it differently. Some of them were doing the stiff upper lip thing.”

  “Like who?”

  “Ebinger, for one.”

  I picked up the last scone, pulled it apart, and offered half to Tony. He took it, his fingers brushing mine and sending a tingle up my arm.

  “OK, you think Passaggio was jealous of Usher and Ebinger,” I said. “And maybe Usher and Mr. Solano.”

  “Right.”

  “If Usher and Ebinger were involved, and she was also involved with Passaggio and Solano … she’d be exhausted.”

  Tony laughed. “OK, maybe it’s a bit of a stretch. I don’t think she’s actually involved with Ebinger.”

  “Because if she was, wouldn’t Ebinger also have a motive to kill Mr. Solano? I mean if she really was involved with all three of them.”

  Tony looked around my office. “You don’t have a white board, do you?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Can you give me some paper, then?”

  I got out a legal pad and a pen and handed them to him. He set the pad on my desk and commenced sketching a diagram of circles with names in them: Usher, Passaggio, Ebinger, Solano. Then he drew lines between the romantic connections, with question marks over some of them.

  “I guess this was a crime of passion,” I mused. “No one in their right mind would plan a murder during a performance.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” Tony said, frowning at his diagram.

  “It would take nerves of steel! Anyone could have walked in. Carter and Harrison should have been in the dressing room.”

  “I wonder if they made a habit of an Act Three quickie?” he said.

  “Or Act Two, for that matter. They’re both just in Act One.”

  “But the chorus isn’t onstage in Act Two. There would have been a lot more people backstage.”

  “Good point. Although if they always took their rendezvous away from backstage, to the rehearsal hall or even out in the woods, it might not matter so much.”

  “Hm.” Tony let out a sigh. “Gonna have to sleep on it. I’m beat.”

  I refrained from making a pun about beat cops. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “Couple hours.”

  He tore the page with his drawing from the pad, folded it, and slid it into a pocket of his motorcycle jacket, then pushed the pad and pen back toward me. I could see the indentation of his circles and arrows in the paper.

  “So is Neil Passaggio a suspect?” I asked.

  “Not sure. Need to ask a few more questions, but I think he goes on the list.”

  “Who overheard Mrs. Passaggio telling off Sandra Usher?” I asked.

  He leaned back and stared at his knees.

  “If you don’t mind telling me,” I added.

  He raised his head and met my gaze. “It was Vi.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “She was pretty ripped up about the whole thing.”

  “Mr. Solano was her mentor. Of course she was upset! Oh, damn—I was going to call her today.”

  “It’s not that late.”

  “She’s probably onstage. They didn’t cancel tonight, did they?”

  “Nope. The Magic Flute must go on.”

  “Then she’s definitely on—she has a role in that one.” I took out a pad of sticky notes and wrote myself a reminder to call Vi the next day.

  “So she was close to Solano?” Tony asked. His voice was gentle, but I could smell the cop attitude hanging on the words.

  “Tony Aragón, Vi did not kill Victor Solano!”

  He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Didn’t say she did. I have to consider all possibilities.”

  “She was devastated! She was on the verge of tears last night when she told me he was dead!”

  “Hey. I like Vi.”

  His quiet tone deflated my indignation. I rubbed my forehead.

  “Sorry. I’m really tired.”

  “Me, too. I should leave you alone, let you get some rest.”

  He stood and headed for the hall. I followed.

  Dusk had fallen while we were talking. I turned on the hall light.

  “You get some sleep, too,” I said.

  “Yeah. Got a couple of things to deal with first.”

  We went downstairs. The light in the dining parlor was on. Tony looked in, frowning. I flipped the switch, turning it off.

  As I unlocked the back door, Tony turned to me. “I never got the chance to thank you for last night. Believe it or not, I enjoyed the evening.”

  “That’s nice of you. It turned out to be rather a trial by fire,” I said, and then thought of The Magic Flute.

  “Well, at least Thomas has a Tosca story he can dine out on,” Tony said.

  I laughed, though it caught in my throat. Dark humor, masking a tragedy. How cop-like.

  Tony’s fingers brushed my cheek, and I looked up to find him gazing softly at me.

  “Let’s get that steak soon,” he said.

  I nodded. “I’d like that.”

  My chest felt tight, making my breathing shallow. For a second I thought he was going to kiss me, but he just smiled and stepped away.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “Any time.”

  I watched him get on his bike and cruise away. Weariness wrapped around me like a quilt, muffling my thoughts and making it hard to move. I locked the door and went upstairs to my suite, where a hot shower and bed were calling to me.

  ~

  I slept in. Luckily I had left my phone in my office, and didn’t hear it ringing. When I carried my second cup of tea in there, three texts and two messages were waiting on my personal phone. I didn’t dare check the tearoom voicemail.

  The texts were from Gina, Rosa (saying her brother might be available to help in the kitchen during the coming week), and an old school friend who had heard about the murder and wanted to know if I knew anything about it. The messages were from Mr. Ingraham, with whom I was now officially playing phone tag, and Vi.

  I checked the time. Vi’s call had come in about twenty minutes earlier, so she must be awake. I called her back.

  “Hi, Ellen.” Her voice was a bit wobbly.

  “Hi. I’m sorry I didn’t call yesterday. We were crazy busy here.”

  “It’s OK. I was pretty worthless yesterday anyway.”

  “Have you had breakfast? Want to come over?”

  “I had some granola.”

  “Well, how about some tea?”

  I could hear her thinking, and wondered if maybe she wasn’t up to it yet.

  “Actually,” she said with a sigh, “that sounds really nice.”

  “Come on over, then. Ring the back bell.”

  “OK. Thanks.”

  “See you in a few.”

  I scurried d
ownstairs to pop some scones in the oven, then returned to change out of my nightshirt into some casual clothes. Back down to put the kettle on, and out into the garden to look for violets. I cut a double handful and put them in a tall shot glass. Later I’d candy them for the Aria Cakes, but just now they were for Vi.

  I carried them to Marigold, the most private of the sitting areas in the tearoom, and one of the coziest. A window to the south overlooked the rose garden. I cracked it open for a breeze, then went to the butler’s pantry to start a pot of tea and to fetch china and silver and napkins.

  By that time the scones were done. I put them on a plate and dished up some lemon curd and clotted cream. Thought about adding some Aria Cakes, then decided they might be a sad reminder so I left them in the fridge. Instead I nabbed the last of the lavender shortbread cookies that Julio had made on Friday.

  I put everything on a tray, added a small candle, and took it to Marigold to lay the table. I had just returned to take the infuser out of the teapot when the doorbell rang.

  Vi looked small, as impossible as that seemed for someone of her stature. Her shoulders were hunched, and her eyes were a bit red. In a purple tee-shirt and jeans, with her hair pulled into a ponytail, she seemed young and rather forlorn.

  I drew her into a hug, whispering condolences. She let out one shuddering sigh before we parted.

  “Thanks, Ellen. It’s good to see you.”

  “Come on in. Tea’s ready.”

  She followed me into the pantry and gazed around at the canisters of tea leaves and shelves of china while I found a cozy for the teapot. “Wow, I miss this place.”

  “Well, we miss you, too. No, I’ll carry it. You’re a guest today.”

  We walked up to the front and slipped through the silent gift shop, around the corner to Marigold, tucked behind the shop on the far side of the chimney wall. Too warm for a fire, alas, but the candle added a spark of comforting light. Vi settled into one of the rust-colored velvet wing chairs with a sigh and helped herself to a scone while I poured.

  “It’s so nice to have some quiet,” she said. “I haven’t had much chance to just rest.”

  I watched her spread curd on half a scone and take a bite. “Well, you can stay as long as you like. I could use some rest, too.”

  “You said it was busy yesterday.”

  “Yes, we were open late. Looks like this whole week will be busy.”

  I didn’t want to mention why; didn’t want to bring up Mr. Solano or the opera until Vi was ready to talk about them. Which maybe she wouldn’t be, today.