Then Tony showed up and halted the opera in mid-aria. Solano was angry and started arguing with him, and Tony put him in handcuffs to march him away, but he wrestled free, ran up to the top platform where I was standing, threw me a look that said “This is all your fault,” and jumped off the back of the stage.
I sat up with a gasp.
In my bed. Safe. Dark. Oh, crap.
I turned on my bedside lamp. My limbs were tingling with adrenaline-spiked fear. The room felt stuffy and warm.
The clock said three-thirty.
Knowing I wouldn’t get back to sleep right away, I put on a light robe and slippers, opened the window a crack to let some fresh air in, and shuffled to the bathroom. The image of Solano falling away from me kept returning, his mournful expression burned into my brain.
Hot milk. Cure for all ills.
I put some milk in a pan on the stove and wandered over to the window. All quiet outside; no rain, no wind. The streetlight on the corner cast shadows across the neighboring business and my garden.
What a wretched dream. It had all kinds of hits to my self-esteem: performance anxiety, rejection (in favor of a homosexual relationship, no less), guilt…
Wait a second.
Practically snogging him onstage.
Holy crap!
Scarpio and Cavaradossi. Their scene together had been almost caressing, in creepy juxtaposition to the torture. It had bothered me when I saw it.
Solano and Ebinger. Could they have been having an affair?
I wondered if Tony still had his chart.
A warning hiss sent me back to the stove just in time to rescue the milk from boiling over. I poured it into a mug, sprinkled a dash of nutmeg on top, and curled up with it in my favorite chair.
I tried to recall my brief conversation with Ebinger that afternoon. He had plainly been upset by Solano’s death, but I hadn’t thought that unusual. They were colleagues, working closely together. Now, as I thought back, it seemed obvious to me that Ebinger had been grieving. I’d even given him Mr. Jackson’s card, so I’d known it, on some level.
And Solano had apparently made a pass at Julio. So he might be gay or bisexual.
Who was it who had objected to the onstage snogging? I frowned, thinking back.
Neil. Neil Passaggio.
But why? Wasn’t he supposed to be sleeping with Sandra Usher?
My brain hurt.
I was also out of milk. I cleaned up the kitchenette and went back to bed, still trying to puzzle out the connection between Passaggio and Solano and/or Ebinger.
I woke to the thump of a car door closing outside. Turned my head to look at the clock: 6:30. Had to be Julio.
I groaned and rolled over, but I was awake and the snogging dream came back to pester me. I got up and found a notepad, scribbled down the details before I could forget them, then got dressed. Black broomstick skirt and lavender blouse. I wasn’t feeling creative.
I had time to make some tea before heading to La Fonda to meet Tony. I drank it at my desk, sorting through messages and making notes on things I wanted to talk to Tony about: Lydia something, Ebinger, snogging. When the tea was gone, I tucked all my notes into my purse and headed downstairs.
Julio and Ramon were both there. They must be carpooling, I decided. Julio looked moody but all right. He even offered me some of his coffee.
“No, thanks. I’m on my way to breakfast. I’ll be back by ten.”
“’Kay.”
I walked to the Plaza and across it to La Fonda. Despite the early hour there were plenty of tourists wandering around. It was peak tourist season, and coming up on the Spanish and Indian Markets. I had a hazy idea that one of them was the next weekend; I’d have to check my calendar.
La Fonda was full of even more tourists than the Plaza, many of them waiting for tables at the restaurant. I bit my lip, thinking we’d probably end up in the French Pastry Shop, which I hoped Tony wouldn’t mind. I couldn’t spend all morning waiting for a table.
As I approached La Plazuela, Tony rose from an armchair to meet me. He’d made an effort: black dress shirt tucked into his jeans, nice belt with a silver buckle.
“Hi,” I said. “I should have remembered it would be crowded.”
He picked up his motorcycle helmet from the floor beside his chair. “I made us a reservation.”
“You’re a genius!”
We were seated immediately and waited on promptly. Tony ordered huevos rancheros and I chose a spinach and mushroom omelet. When we had our coffee, he took out his pocket notepad.
“Remember your oath of secrecy,” he said, looking up at me under dark eyebrows.
I crossed my heart and held two fingers in the air.
“We found the Brit,” Tony said. “Name’s Richard Whitby. The people he was talking about were—”
“Solano and Ebinger.”
He gave me a grouchy look. “You knew?”
“I figured it out last night. Go on—what else did he say?”
Tony grimaced. “A lot of stuff that wasn’t to the point. This guy was flaming.”
“Oh.”
“But what was to the point was that he implied—didn’t say, mind you, but implied—that Neil Passaggio was pissed off because of jealousy.”
“Jealousy of Solano and Ebinger.”
“Yeah.”
“Because…?”
“He wouldn’t say. Claimed he didn’t know, but I think he was scared of retaliation. My guess is that Passaggio was porking one of them. Sorry.”
He gave me a swift glance. I waved it away, but frowned.
“Everything I found about Passaggio online was about him and women,” I said.
“Yeah. That’s his public face.”
“And his wife was jealous of him and Usher.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So if he was—involved—with Ebinger or Solano, why wasn’t there any gossip about it?”
“Because he didn’t want it public.”
I sipped my coffee. “Why? What harm could it do? He’s in the performing arts. Not exactly a conservative industry.”
“His wife comes from a conservative family.”
“Oh? Pardon me, but from what little I’ve seen and heard, I don’t think he would care much about what his wife thinks.”
“Oh, yes he does. She pays the bills.”
I put down my cup. “The trophy wife?”
Tony grinned. “She’s from big oil money. Went to Yale. It’s more like he’s a trophy husband.”
“They don’t seem very happy together.”
Tony tore open a packet of sugar and dumped it in his coffee. “Well, no surprise, if he’s been sleeping around.”
“And she thought it was with Sandra Usher, and even yelled at her backstage! Jeez!”
“He’s been sleeping with Usher, too.”
“What?!”
Our breakfasts arrived. We were silent until the waiter had arranged everything on the table, asked if we needed anything else, and departed.
“Are you serious?” I said softly.
He already had a mouthful of huevos. “Mm-hm.”
“Did someone tell you that, or is it just rumor?”
He washed down his food with a swig of coffee. “Usher told me.”
“Let me guess. You charmed it out of her.”
“Hell, no. She’s a bitch on wheels. She couldn’t wait to brag about it.”
I poked at my omelet, though I’d pretty much lost my appetite. This description of my most extravagant customer made me uncomfortable. I was still wondering whether I should defend Usher when Tony went on.
“She’d been sleeping with Solano, too.”
I put down my fork. “Do you still have that chart you made?”
“It’s up on the whiteboard at the station. You should see it now. It’s like a diagram of the solar system on crack.”
I took a swallow of coffee. “Did you ever talk to the singer Vi took over for? Lydia…”
“Taylo
r. Yeah, I talked to her. She called in sick because Passaggio had made a pass at her the day before at a rehearsal. She was still upset.”
“Jeez, who does he think he is? Casanova?”
Tony made no comment.
I thought back to my conversation with David Ebinger. I was reluctant to discuss his grief with Tony, but felt I should at least inquire where he stood.
“What about Ebinger?” I said, stirring my coffee. “Did you talk to him?”
“Guy’s an oyster. He’s not giving anything up. But he was onstage during Act Three except at the very beginning, so he’s got an alibi.”
“So he’s not a suspect?”
Tony’s eyes narrowed as he chewed another bite of food. He swallowed and stabbed a papita.
“I’m pretty sure Passaggio’s our guy. Trouble is, his wife is providing him with an alibi. I think she’s lying, but I can’t prove anything. We still don’t have the murder weapon.”
I sipped my coffee. “What about Vi? Do you think he….”
“Yeah. I think she knew something, or found out something, that made her a threat. So he killed her.”
I closed my eyes. I ought to ask about the autopsy results, but I was becoming overwhelmed by sadness.
“She was dead before she went in the pit,” Tony said.
I looked at him, swallowing the tightness in my throat.
“Sorry if that’s too abrupt. I just wanted you to know she didn’t suffer. She was killed by a fall from a height. We suspect from the top of the stage, after which she was placed in the pit. Should I stop?”
I shook my head and sipped more coffee. I had to hold the cup with both hands.
“The evidence team found some of her DNA on top of the lift platform. We think the lift was down when she fell, then someone raised it enough to push her into the pit, then lowered it again.”
I winced.
“I’ll stop.”
I traded the coffee for my water glass. “Who knew how to raise and lower the B-lift?”
“It’s not rocket science. There are two buttons, ‘up’ and ‘down’.”
“No safety lock or anything? No key?”
“Nope.”
I frowned. Something was niggling at the back of my mind.
“I want to see it,” I said.
“What, the B-lift?”
“Yes. I … want to look at it from the stage. Can you get me in?”
“They won’t be happy. Every time I go back there I get sour looks.”
“You can do it, though, right?”
He tilted his head. “There’s nothing to see. There wasn’t much even when the techs were processing it, and it’s been cleaned up since then.”
“I’m not looking for evidence. That’s your job.”
“What, then?”
“I’m not sure.”
I couldn’t put my feeling into words, or at least not words that would make sense to Tony. If I told him about my dream he’d dismiss it. But I had the feeling there was something to see, as strongly as I’d had when I’d signed up for the tour to check the water in the pool.
Bad example, Rosings. You didn’t find anything then.
But as a result of that hunch, I’d been present when Vi’s body was found.
A cold shiver went through me.
Tony glanced up from mopping up chile sauce with a tortilla. I realized he’d been silent for a couple of minutes. Letting me think things through.
“Vi told me she was distracted by something she saw from the upstage platform,” I said. “She got in trouble for missing a cue.”
Tony’s brows drew together. “When?”
“It would have been … Monday afternoon, during rehearsal. Probably late afternoon.”
“And she died Tuesday night.”
“It might not be related…”
“At this point I don’t care. The Solano murder’s already getting cold. If we can solve Vi’s murder we might kill two birds with one stone.”
“I don’t know if this will solve her murder.”
“It’s worth a shot, right? You want to go now, or wait until afternoon?”
I put down my glass. The conditions under which Vi was distracted wouldn’t occur until afternoon, but it would be harder to get onto the stage then. They’d be preparing for the evening’s performance.
Also, it would be harder for me to get away from the tearoom then.
“Let’s go now.”
“You’re not finished.”
“Not hungry.” I swallowed the last of my coffee and looked around for the waiter.
Tony paid the bill, forestalling my argument by saying there wasn’t time. “Did you drive?”
“No, I walked.”
“We’ll go on my bike, then.”
“I’m in a skirt!”
“It’s full, right?”
“It could get caught in your wheels!”
“Not if you wrap it around your butt.” He grinned as he stood and picked up his helmet. “I’ll help.”
He led me out of the hotel to a side street where he’d parked his bike. I thought about suggesting that we go to my place and get my car, but that would just take extra time, which neither of us could afford. Plus, he would think I was chicken.
Which maybe I was.
I don’t much like motorcycles. I don’t like the noise and the vibration, even when I’m not on one.
I was at a loss for how to mount a motorcycle gracefully in a skirt. Miss Manners had not covered that, so far as I knew.
Tony got on his bike and sat grinning at me. I pulled the skirt to my left while I swung my right leg over. The skirt hiked up above my right knee.
“Good,” Tony said. “Now wrap the extra fabric across your lap and sit on it.”
I did so. Now both my legs were on display.
“Is it going to stay?” he asked.
I tugged at the skirt. “I think so.”
“Put this on.” He handed me the helmet. I strapped it on, then wrapped my arms around his waist.
“Hold tight,” he said, and started the engine.
He glided away from the curb and into traffic. Maybe he was humoring me, but it seemed gentler than the last time I’d ridden with him. I dreaded getting on the highway, though.
He turned onto Paseo de Peralta heading north. I caught myself holding my breath and deliberately inhaled. To my surprise, Tony took a left turn and drove to the tearoom, pulling up beside my car in the back.
“Change your mind?” I said, my voice muffled by the helmet.
“Safer.”
Unspeakably relieved, I got off the bike and gave him back his helmet, shook my skirt down around my legs, then took out my keys and unlocked my car. Tony went around to the passenger side and deposited the helmet on the back seat. I drove out of town and got on the highway to the Opera.
“You just wanted me to show you my knees,” I said, when I was sufficiently composed.
He grinned. “I wanted to see if you’d do it.”
“You know I dislike motorcycles.”
“Uh-huh.”
I shot him a dirty look and devoted my attention to driving.
Despite the early hour, there was already an attendant in the Opera’s parking lot. He waved us toward a specific space in the lot that was empty except for three other cars. I humored him and parked where he indicated. We walked down to the entrance, where a flash of Tony’s badge and a few words of explanation got us past the gate.
My heart was thumping. Maybe it was leftover reaction from the bike ride. I felt nervous and unsteady, and was tempted to slide my hand through Tony’s elbow. It would cramp his cop style, though, so I didn’t.
We walked around the south side of the house. I hadn’t been back since the backstage tour, of course. Memories of that awful morning increased my anxiety.
The stage was set with a collection of gray, geometric platforms of varying heights, connected here and there by small sets of stairs. Looked like an uncomfortable set. A
t the back of the top platform was a railing that appeared to have been made out of metal pipe. I wondered if it was part of the set or if it was a safety precaution.
This must be the set for Cesar Chavez; the premiere had been the previous night. They’d be switching to Tosca soon, unless there was a rehearsal for something else in the afternoon.
A stage hand came out onto the platforms and knelt down at a corner where two of them joined. A couple of thumps, and he moved to another spot.
Tony led me to the stage door. I glanced at the unhelpful reflecting pool while he knocked. It took a few tries before someone answered.
“We could go around,” I said, just as the door was opened by a skinny, shaggy-bearded guy in baggy jeans and a long-sleeved tee-shirt.
Tony showed his badge. “Detective Aragón. We need to look around the stage.”
“We’re changing scenery.”
“We’ll keep out of your way.”
Tony moved a half-step forward. It worked; the guy backed up and Tony stepped in. I followed him through the door and past the wings, out onto the stage.
Out of curiosity, I glanced toward the audience. The house seemed smaller from this angle. The pool glinted in a ray of sunlight reflected off of something outside.
The stage hand was working on a platform stage right. Tony led me up the set of steps farthest to the left. Stepping from platform to platform, we worked our way up and back until we were beside the pipe railing. We had to be at least twelve feet above the stage floor.
I looked out the back at the landscape behind the theatre. The roof cut off my view of the mountains; all I could see were the back deck, the hillside beyond it, and the rainwater collection tanks. I searched in vain for a glint of distracting light. Whatever had caught Vi’s eye wasn’t noticeable now.
Disappointed, I looked down. The B-lift was down, its surface level with the back deck. Certainly a dangerous fall. I instinctively stepped back and felt Tony’s arm come up behind me.
“Careful,” he said.
I glanced around and saw that I was close to the front edge of the platform. A much shorter fall, but still not fun. I moved to the center of the platform and slowly turned completely around.
Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens Page 21
