Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens

by Patrice Greenwood

  I foresaw that I would eventually yield to the hints and nudges of Kris and of Willow Lane, and start using Captain Dusenberry to advertise the tearoom. With a shudder, I rejected the thought. The Wisteria Tearoom was first and foremost a haven from the stresses of modern life, a place where one could enjoy an hour or two of good food and good company. That a colorful ghost story was attached to it was incidental.

  Two colorful ghost stories, sort-of. There was Mrs. Carruthers, who had also died in the dining parlor. I regularly fielded questions about her, too, and though I never hesitated to assert that there had been no sign of her presence, I couldn’t deny that she added to visitors’ interest in the room.

  A dreadful thought assailed me. Could the piano music be her doing?

  “Sylvia, no!” I murmured.

  Even as I thought it, I rejected the idea. Sylvia was not musical as far as I knew, and had not been a fan of opera. Whereas Captain Dusenberry had been; witness his pleasure in the concerts at La Fonda, and the musical group he had formed with Maria Hidalgo.

  The niggling at the back of my brain took a sudden leap in volume. The phrase that Ms. Usher had identified for me was from Figaro. Had the Captain and Maria Hidalgo seen a performance of it?

  I frowned, recalling Maria’s letters. There had not been a full opera performance; indeed, a town the size of Santa Fe in the 1860s, basically a frontier town, would not have justified the expense of a full opera production. But they had nonetheless heard selections of opera music performed in concert by traveling musicians, such as Miss Lago, who had sung that aria that Maria had quoted…

  I gave a little gasp, and set down the custard cup.

  That aria was from Figaro.

  I jumped up, cast a guilty look toward the stairs, and slipped into my office. The clock on my computer showed that my half-hour wasn’t quite up, but this wasn’t work—exactly—and I couldn’t wait.

  I looked toward Kris’s office through the entryway it shared with mine. I couldn’t see her at her desk from that angle.

  I took out the letters and found the one with the reference to the aria Miss Lago had sung. The letter didn’t give the character’s name, but a quick web search on the lyric provided it. The aria in question was sung by the Countess Almaviva.

  Contessa, perdono.

  I searched on those two words, found the song, a translation, and a video clip of the scene. I put on my headphones to listen. The character asking the countess’s pardon was her husband, the count. That was the Three Blind Mice part.

  In the next two lines, the ones Sandra Usher had sung for me, the countess forgave her husband for his infidelity. The climax of the opera, and a beautiful piece of music.

  Why had Captain Dusenberry fixed on that passage of music? Was he asking Maria Hidalgo’s pardon? Except that he hadn’t been unfaithful to her. As near as I could tell, he’d been just the opposite. If he’d lived, I felt sure he’d have married her.

  If he’d lived.

  Dear heaven. Had he been murdered because of his love for Maria, and hers for him?

  I wished I had some of his letters, instead of only hers. I had to get to the archives and spend a few hours hunting down whatever they had about him. Maybe he’d left a diary or something that had been forgotten over the years.

  I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Hastily, I locked the letters back in the drawer and returned to my abandoned lunch. I was just picking up my half-eaten custard when Nat joined me.

  “Well!” She sank into the other armchair with a sigh. “How do you do this every day?”

  “It’s not usually this busy.” I offered her a bite of the custard, but she waved it away.

  “I had some earlier. That boy Julio’s a genius!”

  “I know. Has it settled down in the gift shop?”

  “No, but Dee came in and sent me off to take a break. I’ve been wanting to talk to you ever since Sandra Usher was here. That was her, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. They were all from the Opera.”

  “She didn’t look terribly upset about her co-star’s death. Did she say anything?”

  “Not about that. She and her guests wanted to know about Captain Dusenberry.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

  I scraped the last of my custard from my cup and held it on my tongue, enjoying the creamy sweetness for as long as I could make it last.

  “You’ll need me all week?” Nat asked.

  “If you don’t mind. I’m going to look into hiring another server or two, so with luck you won’t have to do this for long.”

  “I don’t mind, Ellen. I’m delighted to see you having such success.”

  I gave her a weary smile. “Thanks.”

  The success was complicated, and it was eating what spare time I had, but I was grateful. I had to be grateful. My bank account insisted on it.

  We chatted a little about her wedding plans, then went back downstairs. It was nearly five, so I sent Nat home, insisting that I didn’t want to invoke Manny’s wrath.

  Julio and Ramon were both gone, and Rosa was just leaving. Dee and Mick, my end-of-day team, were putting away clean china. The last of the customers were enjoying their tea. Everything was caught up, so I went back to my office, where I found a small pile of message slips, a note from Kris, and another from Julio with a few more items to be ordered. I made a couple of calls, then looked at my to-do list. A conjunction caught my eye:

  - Take SFO backstage tour

  - Water

  An image came into my mind: the pool of water between the orchestra pit and the audience. A tingle ran down my arms.

  Why was it important, though? It was just a giant trough of water. A pretty architectural detail.

  A place where a knife might be hidden.

  I sucked a deep breath. Maybe it was a dumb idea, but I felt compelled to check it out. I wrote a note to Kris, letting her know I’d be out of the office in the morning, then I pulled up SFO’s website to look up the time of the backstage tour that ran every weekday during the season.

  I didn’t want to tell Tony my idea. If it came to nothing, it would be a waste of his time. I’d slip down to look at the pool during the tour, and if I spotted anything in the water I’d call him immediately.

  I wished I could go at once, but the same reason that made it impossible would also keep anyone else away from the water: the opera would be gearing up for the evening’s performance. People would be in the house constantly; no opportunity to slip in and fish anything out of the pool. I worried that it could happen overnight, but if so it might have happened already. I didn’t think I’d feel this compulsion to look if there was nothing to be found.

  And anyway, I had other reasons for wanting to take the tour. If I was to help Tony, it would be good to refresh my memory of the backstage area. Something else might jog my memory or spark an idea. I had to go.

  So I had to work late, because the tour would eat my whole morning. I took a deep breath and tackled the rest of my messages.

  ~

  I rose early, threw on a sun dress, and hurried down to the kitchen to talk to Julio. He was making scones and had Ramon peeling cucumbers. Music played on his boombox: flamenco, not salsa. I glanced at Ramon, wondering if it was his music, or at least his choice.

  “You’re up early,” Julio said, dumping out his batter onto a floured section of his work table.

  “I have to go out for a couple of hours this morning,” I said. “Is there anything you need me to bring you, or anything I can help with before eight-thirty?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “I’ll check with you before I go, in case you think of something. Oh, and we’re probably going to hire a couple more servers, at least temporarily. So if either of you knows someone who might be interested, ask them to call.”

  Julio nodded, intent on his work. Ramon glanced up with a smile.

  I made a quick tour of the parlors and gift shop. Everything there was ready for opening. Iz and Rosa woul
d set up the outdoor tables when they arrived.

  Back to the office, where I took out the previous day’s receipts and did the bank deposit, hoping to relieve Kris of that burden at least. I would drop off the deposit on my way to the opera. I wrote her a second note explaining this, and warning her that applicants for temporary server positions might be calling.

  At 8:20 I fetched my sun hat from my suite, fixed myself a travel mug of tea, and headed downstairs with the bank bag tucked under my arm. I poked my nose in the kitchen, was shooed away by Julio, and went out to my car.

  The morning was brisk, with bright clouds over the mountains promising a chance of afternoon rain. Cheered by this, I dropped the deposit in the night drop at the bank and then headed north out of town.

  The opera’s parking lot was nearly empty. I found a space in the shade of a tree at the end of a row, and since I was a little early I sat finishing my tea and trying to calm down.

  Being there again brought back all the awful memories of the night Victor Solano had died. I let them flow past, hoping my emotions would settle. Vi’s face, shocked and horrified as she told us what had happened, stuck in my memory. And Tony, clicking into professional mode, heading backstage, looking more cop than opera-goer despite his suit.

  Dragging my thoughts away from Friday night, I got out of the car and headed for the box office, where I was to pick up my ticket for the tour. As I walked toward the theater with its complicated support structure, I realized that the last time I’d done the tour was before the second theater had been demolished. Maybe I’d learn something new.

  A dozen or so people were already gathered outside the box office, waiting for the arrival of the tour guide. I paid for my ticket and joined them, imagining how best to slip away from the group and inspect the pool.

  I’d need a flashlight. I took out my keychain and checked the small flash I had on it, which was working. It wasn’t very powerful, but I hoped it would be enough. A knife blade should catch it.

  Unless the knife was folded. I pressed my lips together, wondering if I should dash back to my car for the flashlight I kept in the glove box, but that one was larger and might be too conspicuous. Also, I thought as the tour guide came up and introduced himself, I didn’t have time.

  The guide was an older gentleman, a volunteer, who had been coming to the opera for decades. I listened impatiently while he talked about the history of the company and passed around some photos of John Crosby, the founder, and the first theatre. I kept thinking of Tony and what he’d be doing if he were there.

  He’d be watching everyone but the tour guide, probably. I looked at my fellow tourists, all seemingly innocent. A couple were opera fanatics, and several were obviously not locals. Two tall women who were together wore grins of absolute delight. Reminded that I was supposed to be enjoying myself, I summoned a smile.

  At last we moved, walking down to the gate and into the courtyard. As always, I glanced toward where the petunia beds had been. The fountain wasn’t running.

  I had to wait through a couple of stops before we got into the house itself. I used the time to practice my Holmesian skills of observation: I looked at the guide and the tourists, trying to notice something about each, then I looked at my surroundings. The grounds were immaculately clean; no trash anywhere, not even any dead leaves. Someone was in the bar on the Stravinsky Terrace, cleaning.

  When we finally entered the house, I listened to the first part of the guide’s speech, then ambled down toward the orchestra pit. The stage was set with terraced steps and a few fanciful adornments at the sides, vaguely Egyptian in style, mostly golden. Magic Flute, I guessed. Probably the previous night’s performance, unless they were already set up for tonight’s.

  But no; Vi had mentioned they were doing final rehearsals during the day for Cesar Chavez, which was to open on Saturday. So they must not have changed the set yet. I doubted they’d rehearse on the set for a different production.

  I reached the pool and noted that the water in it was still. On Friday night, it had been rippling just slightly; there must be a pump somewhere that circulated the water, and was presently turned off.

  I strolled along the pool as if casually admiring it, and surreptitiously aimed my flashlight into the water, which was much shallower than I’d expected, only a few inches deep. I swept the beam along the bottom, looking for any anomalies. There were none. I walked the whole length of it and even leaned over it a little to make sure I’d seen the front edge. Nothing.

  I turned back, intending to double-check, but the tour guide had brought the others down to join me, so I smiled and asked him a question about the pool. He responded with the history that I already knew. The other tourists showed interest. I continued to peer into the water, though I didn’t dare use the flashlight.

  Frustrated, I followed the group to the south patio. As we were leaving the house, a guy in jeans and a tee-shirt—a crew member, I surmised—came onto the stage and prepared to move one of the set pieces.

  The guide led us through the stage door into the backstage area. The walls and floor were painted black, making the space seem even smaller than it was. The guide pointed out the stage manager’s console, which included a video monitor and lots of technical-looking control panels. I half-listened to his talk while I continued to look around.

  More crew members had joined the first guy. They started disassembling the terraced platforms and stacking the pieces at the back of the stage. Getting ready to load it all onto the B-lift and take it down to storage.

  The tour moved into a short hallway. A rack of costumes stood there, making it even more crowded and tempting us to touch the beautiful fabrics, which the guide quickly warned us not to do. He talked about the dressing rooms but didn’t allow us to go in. He stood with his back to the women’s chorus dressing room, which made us face away from the principal men’s dressing room. Behind him, just inside the doorway, a floor-to-ceiling set of cubby shelves filled with shoes drew the eye. Each space was labeled with a character’s name.

  I was sure the guide’s choice of where to stand was deliberate; he wanted to minimize our curiosity about the fact that we were right beside the scene of Friday’s murder. The lights in the principals’ dressing rooms were off, whereas the women’s chorus room was brilliantly lit.

  I stood at the back of the group, placing myself where I could look into the principal men’s dressing room. I didn’t expect to see much of anything, and I didn’t, but I felt I had to acknowledge the place where Victor Solano’s life had ended so violently.

  The dark walls backstage only accentuated the air of drama and mystery. By contrast, the inside walls of the dressing rooms were light, and the mirrors and lights made a striking scene against the gloomy backstage area.

  Theatres all have their histories, colorful and often (if the theatre had been around long at all) including ghost stories. If SFO didn’t already have ghost stories, it soon would. I’d have to ask Mr. Ingraham. He’d probably know.

  The guide ushered us back toward the stage, then down some steps. At a half-landing we entered the props running room and stood just inside the entrance while the guide talked about the creation and storage of the hundreds of props needed for each season. Beside me was a wall rack holding dozens of parasols. I could imagine Tony’s despair upon realizing he had to search everything in the place.

  We went back out to the stairs and on down them. The guide gathered us at the foot of the steps, waiting until we were all down.

  “We’ll look at costume crafts next, and then the back deck,” he said.

  A gentle mechanical whir began, drawing our attention toward the stage at our right. The guide glanced toward it.

  “That’s the B-lift. They’re bringing it up so they can load set pieces on it and take them down to storage. We’ll look at—”

  One of the tall women screamed. The floor of the B-lift had passed us, rising upward on a single, giant piston and revealing the space below.

&
nbsp; A body lay in it—what was left of one. All I saw was a muddied glimpse of purple and black.

  8

  This way, everyone!” The guide began shooing us past. “Straight back, onto the deck. Quickly, please!”

  A wave of a dreadful odor reached me and I cringed, a primal reaction to a smell that said “get away, not safe.” An older woman in the group collapsed. Before I could go to her, two others were there. I took a step backward, my hands shaking as I took out my phone and called Tony.

  Purple and black. I squeezed my eyes shut.

  “This way, everyone! All the way back, please!”

  “Aragón.”

  “Tony,” I said, profoundly grateful to hear his voice.

  “Yeah? Ellen?”

  “You n-need to come to the opera.”

  “I’m kind of tied—”

  “Right now. There’s another … ah…” I was having trouble breathing. People were shouting but I didn’t understand them.

  “Ellen?”

  “Hurry, Tony, please.” I gulped. “Another body.”

  “Shit,” he said, then the phone went dead.

  I still had my eyes shut. I couldn’t make myself open them. They started leaking tears.

  “Ma’am? You need to come this way, please.”

  The tour guide. Shaking, I blinked a few times until I could see past the tears.

  “This way,” he said again, reaching hesitantly toward my arm.

  I moved forward, looking straight ahead, feeling numb horror.

  Purple and black. That’s what Vi had been wearing when I last saw her. She wore those colors a lot.

  Any self-respecting kid would have rebelled and chosen orange for a favorite color. I can’t help it—I’ve always loved violet.

  Oh, God. Vi.

  I stumbled and the tour guide caught my arm.

  “I’m all right,” I said. “I’m all right.”

  I kept repeating it silently, a throwback to when my father had died. A mantra against despair.

  I was not, in fact, all right, but the words kept me going until I was outside, on the broad deck behind the stage, joining the rest of the tour who were huddled together. The woman who had fainted was being supported by a man about her age; husband, probably. The others looked shocked or numb, stared toward the B-lift, whispered speculations.