She reached for the other half of the scone. “I’ve missed these, too. Oh—how pretty!”
She’d seen the violets. She picked up the glass and raised them to her face, closing her eyes to inhale.
“My mother never could get these to grow at our house.”
“They need a shady spot,” I said. “I have them under the lilac bushes.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“How is she? I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“She’s fine. Keeping me fed. There’s no way I could cook with my schedule.”
“Mm.” I nodded, then picked up a piece of shortbread.
“Ellen…”
I glanced up at the soft misery in her voice. Grief had seeped through her company face; she looked at me like a broken-hearted child.
I put down my teacup and took her hand. “Yes,” I said.
Yes, I’m listening, yes, it’s horrible, yes, say whatever you want. Or nothing.
“I woke up this morning thinking it was a bad dream,” she whispered.
“I wish that were true.”
“Everyone’s out of their mind, getting angry at each other over nothing, falling to pieces.”
“You didn’t.”
“Not right then.” She laughed softly. “I was a wreck when I went home.”
“You were entitled.”
A tear slid down her cheek. She ignored it.
“I keep wondering … who would want to kill him? He was so kind!”
Another tear followed the first. Vi took a tissue from the box I’d set on the table between us with the candle and the violets.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but Tony will figure it out.”
“Detective Aragón? Oh, he was so wonderful! He came in like Superman, taking charge of everything. I was so glad, because it was chaos until he showed up. I was surprised to see him, though.”
“Had I not mentioned he would be in our party?”
She shook her head. “Good thing he was. He marched right up to the dressing room, chased everyone away, and closed the door. Then he stood in front of it like a bulldog.”
I couldn’t help smiling at the image. Pit bull is what came to mind, more precisely.
“It must have been obvious that it wasn’t an accident or a heart attack,” I said, thinking aloud.
“Oh, yeah. It was obvious. I thought you knew.”
I waited, watching her.
“That’s the worst part,” she said. “So vicious. They not only wanted Victor dead, they destroyed his voice.”
“Destroyed?”
“They slashed his throat.”
4
A vision of Tosca and her knife rose up in my mind. The ultimate irony: slain in the same way he’d just been “killed” onstage.
“It was so horrible.” Vi mopped her face and took another tissue.
“You saw?”
She nodded.
I had no words of comfort. My mind painted the scene for me: Solano seated at his dressing table, mirror surrounded with lights, reflecting the slumped figure and the blood—stage blood, mingling with real blood…
I gave myself a small shake. Time to redirect my thoughts, and Vi’s, too.
“His cover will take over the role, I assume? They wouldn’t cancel…”
“Oh, no.” Vi gave a short, bitter laugh. “The rest of the performances are all sold out now. The last tickets went yesterday.”
Sometimes people were despicable, I thought.
Aloud, I said, “You’ll get through it.”
“Yes. I was glad we had a performance yesterday. It was a good distraction. When I’m not doing something I start to feel so helpless…”
“When is the next one?”
“Of Tosca? A week from tomorrow. Lucky—it gives Matthew a whole week to rehearse. They’re running him through the blocking today.”
“Matthew Carter?” I asked.
“Yes, he’s Victor’s cover for Scarpia.”
The Sacristan. A new motive for murder suddenly occurred to me. Could he have done it for the lead role?
Terrible, terrible thought. I pushed it aside; time enough to examine it later. Vi was my priority at the moment.
“When’s your next performance?” I asked.
“Tuesday. Magic Flute.”
“And you’re off until then?”
“No, in the afternoons we have final rehearsals for Cesar Chavez. It opens Saturday.”
“That’s the premiere, right? Is it good?”
“I think so. Not very pretty, perhaps, but it’s powerful.”
“What’s your favorite part of it?”
I encouraged her to talk more about the other operas in the season, figuring it would do her good. I mentioned the apprentice showcases, then mentally kicked myself because it brought the sadness back into Vi’s face.
“Victor helped me so much, and now he’ll never see the result.”
“Maybe he will.”
She gave me a wistful smile. “Maybe.”
“I’d like to hear you. Which night should I come?”
“Oh, well—the second one will probably have fewer mistakes. We’ll all be nervous the first night.”
“Maybe that’s when I should come, then. I’ll send you calming vibes from the audience.”
She chuckled. “You and Mom. My fan club.”
“Well, I am your fan. You sang the shepherd wonderfully, by the way. We were delighted to see you.”
A shadow of grief draped her face, then she mastered it. “Thank you. I was so excited.”
“Was the regular performer unwell?”
A nod. “She called in sick that afternoon. Just before call, so I didn’t have time to rehearse, but I knew the part.”
She looked troubled. I picked up the teapot to freshen our cups.
“Do you know her well?”
“Lydia? Not well, no. She … well, she was trying to get Victor’s attention, I think.”
“A lot of people were, I imagine.”
“Yes.” Vi sipped her tea, frowning into the dark fireplace.
I wondered if Vi had become emotionally involved with Victor Solano, beyond friendship. It seemed unlike my impression of him to meddle with someone as vulnerable as she—young, an apprentice, looking up to him—but I heard Tony’s voice whisper that all possibilities had to be considered. Could Vi’s grief reflect a deeper involvement with Solano than I had thought?
“He told me—oh, I’m sorry.” She dug her phone out of her pocket and glanced at the screen, then put it away again. “Sorry, Ellen. I forgot to turn it off.”
“It’s the weekend. Work-time rules don’t apply. And you’re a guest, remember?”
She gave me a weary smile. “This is so nice. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“I’ve been feeling like I’m onstage all the time … like I have to pretend … but it isn’t like that here. I can talk to you.”
“Yes, of course.”
“That helps a lot. You don’t know how much.”
I thought back to my initial, stunned grief over my father’s death more than a year before. “I think I can guess.”
She took my hand and squeezed it. We sat silently for a minute.
“I’m really lucky,” she said eventually. “Lucky that I knew Victor. He was so supportive.”
“He seemed like a wonderful person, the time I met him.”
“Yes. Oh, I wish you’d had the chance to know him better. He was so good.”
Was he? Then why would anyone want to kill him?
“You know my first day with the company, he came up to me and said, ‘A Carmen in the making!’”
“Did he?”
“Before he’d even heard me sing! I said, ‘How do you know I’m not a coloratura?’ and he said, ‘I can spot a mezzo-soprano a mile away.’”
“Sounds like he was flirting.”
“Oh, he flirts with everybody. But he was just trying to help me relax, you
know?”
I smiled, but this didn’t reassure me. Maybe I should talk to Vi’s mother. She’d probably have a better idea of what Vi’s relationship with Mr. Solano had been.
Or maybe I should just leave it alone.
But the puzzle itched at me. Why had Victor Solano died? Who had hated him enough to destroy his voice—if only as a symbolic gesture—while taking his life?
The sheers stirred at the window, making me look out at the garden. Sunshine wakened the fragrance of the roses, and a breeze carried it in to us. Clouds had begun to bloom, gathering in white puffs, teasing with the possibility of afternoon rain.
“He treated me like an equal,” Vi mused. “Not all of them are like that. He made me talk to the principals—made sure I met them all and that they acknowledged me. Like I was one of them, not just chorus.”
“Well, you are more than chorus. The apprentice program is a big deal.”
She nodded. “I know. But Victor said I should pretend I had already finished it, and was moving on to a career. He said if I acted like an equal, they would treat me like one.”
“And is that true?”
“Mostly. Sandra—Miss Usher—has been nice. She even invited me to come to tea here this week. She’s bringing a bunch of people.”
“Is she? I haven’t had time to look at the reservations.”
“Yes, on Tuesday. I can’t come; I have a rehearsal. But it was nice of her to invite me.”
“Were she and Mr. Solano close?”
Vi met my gaze with an inquiring look.
“Apparently he spoke well of the tearoom,” I said. “We’re getting a lot of reservations from the opera crowd this week. I wondered who might be spreading the word.”
“Oh. Well, it could be Sandra. I don’t know. She was friends with Victor, but she’s seeing someone else.”
Hm. I wondered if it was the tenor, David Ebinger. I didn’t want to press Vi for gossip.
“Do you like her?” I asked instead.
She sipped her tea. “Yes. It helps that I’m a mezzo. That sounds petty, but it really is true that people are competitive. There’s so much money involved. It makes people act crazy.”
“I have no idea what opera singers are paid. Is it a good living?”
“Well, it depends on a lot of things. The company’s budget, whether you’re a principal, past reviews, all that. I won’t be making much until I have some solo roles under my belt, but the top performers are paid pretty well.”
“While they’re on top.”
She smiled, laughter crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Yes, exactly. It’s like dancers, or even sports stars. Their time at the top is limited, so they have to make the most of it.”
“What do you think you’ll do next?”
“Apply for my second season, if they’ll have me. Apprentices are allowed to return once.”
“And after that?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “See who else will hire me.”
“Are there any companies you’d especially like to get into?”
“Well, the Met, of course, but they won’t take me yet. I’ll probably have to go to Europe for a couple of years.”
“That sounds exciting.”
“As long as I can afford it. I don’t want to be a burden on my mom.”
“Maybe we could do some fund-raising for you. Would you like to sing here again? You could have the profits after I cover my costs.”
“Ellen! That’s so sweet of you!”
“Well, I want to support you. I’m your second-biggest fan, right?”
She put down her teacup and reached over to hug me. She smelled freshly-scrubbed, soap with a hint of verbena.
“You’re so good to me,” she said.
I gave her shoulders a squeeze, then let her go. “We’ll talk about it after the season.”
“Yes.”
It occurred to me that her return to the tearoom, if it happened at all, would be temporary. Eventually she’d fly—off to Europe or somewhere, wherever she found a company that would give her a chance. I’d be sorry to lose her, but happy to see her realize her dreams.
“When you’re at the Met, I’ll come to New York to see you.”
She laughed. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to. I can stay with my brother.” I picked up the pot, which felt suspiciously light. Lifting the lid, I saw that there was less than a cupful of tea left. “I can make some more.”
“No, I’d better be going. But thank you so much, Ellen.”
“Let’s do this again. Next week? Or the week after?”
“Starting next Monday we go to the full performance schedule. I’ll only have a couple of days off in August.”
“Let’s touch base later this week, and if you’re not too exhausted we’ll get together on Sunday.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I walked with her to the back door, waved goodbye from the portal, and watched her drive away. Returning to Marigold to tidy up, I thought back over what she’d told me.
It sounded like there were some tensions—social, and maybe political—going on behind the scenes at the Opera. That didn’t surprise me. I’d done some amateur theatre in high school, and there was more drama backstage than onstage, or so it had seemed.
I carried my tray to the kitchen, unloaded the china into the dishwashing station, and turned the oven on low to get ready for candying the violets. I emptied the ones I had cut into a colander, then decided I might as well do them all at once, and went out to the garden with scissors and a small basket. Another fifty flowers were snipped, leaving the violet bed severely depleted.
I eyed the bowls of pansies I had on the portal. Not yet, I decided, but if the violets I’d ordered didn’t arrive, I’d have to raid the pansies.
I carried my booty back to the kitchen, added it to the violets in the colander, gently washed them all and left them to dry while I went upstairs to attend to my various unanswered messages.
Mr. Ingraham wanted to invite me to dinner on Friday. “Just a small, at-home gathering,” he said. “Bring Tony.”
“I’ll have to see. It’s going to be a busy week, and I might be working late on Friday.”
“Well, call me in a couple of days, when you have a better idea.”
“I will, thanks.”
I called Willow, and was guiltily grateful when it went to voicemail. Probably she was running a tour. I left a brief message, then dialed Gina. Voicemail again; she might be showing properties.
I checked for texts, sent Rosa a thank-you and yes, please ask your brother to come in, and emailed the tearoom staff warning that it would be a busy week and asking anyone who was willing to work overtime to let me know.
A sense of doom had been growing on me. I gave in and brought up our reservations calendar.
The whole week was booked solid through Saturday, including the outdoor tables, and there were half a dozen names on the waiting list. Kris had booked seatings up through 6:00 p.m. every day, which meant we’d be open until 7:00 or later.
My heart gave a small lurch of dismay, and I started making notes for Monday’s grocery order. We’d need extra eggs, butter, and cream, probably more lemons, and sliced almonds, just for starters. I’d check with Julio before placing the orders.
Curiosity made me look for Sandra Usher’s reservation. I didn’t find her name, but a party under the name of Kowalski had booked the dining parlor for Tuesday afternoon.
The dining parlor was usually the last room to be scheduled, because it was large and not as cozy as the flower seating areas. It had a full, formal dining table rather than the comfy chairs and low tables that filled the rest of the tearoom. Larger groups, like showers and birthday parties, landed in the dining parlor, but it mostly stood empty.
It wouldn’t, this week. Except when large parties had the room, Kris had two smaller parties booked to share the dining table, something we’d talked about but never had to do. I would have to put all the leaves in the
table. Maybe do a big floral centerpiece, to give the two parties a little separation.
It was going to be a tough week. I was grateful for the business, but couldn’t help wishing the timing had been different.
I went down to the kitchen, got out an egg, and cracked the white into a small bowl, putting away the yolk for later. I tossed the violets in the colander, emptied them onto a paper towel and spread them out to dry a little more while I washed the china from Vi’s visit. Then I moved the violets to a parchment-lined cookie sheet, painted them with egg white, sprinkled sugar over them, and stuck them in the oven, turning it off.
I took perverse satisfaction in writing a note to stick on the oven door: CANDIED VIOLETS, DON’T TOUCH.
Julio was always leaving notes like that.
Deciding I needed to de-stress, I fixed myself a glass of ice water and carried it out front. Sun shone through the wisteria vines to dapple the front portal. The breeze was kicking up stronger.
I stepped down and strolled through the garden, enjoying the roses’ fragrance and the bright eyes of anemones, zinnias, and daisies in the beds by the house. The camellia and the two peonies I had planted a year ago were starting to thrive. I pondered whether I could make dahlias happy, maybe against the south wall.
Over the mountains, the clouds were a mashed-potato heap. I wondered if Manny’s grilling would get rained out, then decided he wouldn’t let it happen. He’d be out there with an umbrella if necessary. I could see him hunched against the rain, with the grill moved into the most sheltered corner of Nat’s patio, shielding his precious meats with his body.
My stomach grumbled. The last time I’d eaten something besides tea food was yesterday morning. I didn’t want to have lunch before Manny’s feast, but I needed something to tide me over, so I went up to my suite and had an apple and a slice of cheese.
With a few hours of leisure before I was expected at Nat’s, I decided to try to find out a little more about Victor Solano. I walked across the hall to my office, pushed the tearoom paperwork aside, and started web-surfing.
I found a number of Victor Solanos besides the singer. No website, but he was listed on several opera company websites, mostly from past seasons, and on SFO’s for the current season. I’d already read his bio, so I skimmed the company listings and looked for articles that mentioned him.
Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens Page 8
