Setting the Stage for Murder

by Robert W. Gregg

  Little did either of them know that this was not to be. Or that solving the murder of an actor playing the part of Gianni Schicchi would turn out to be far more difficult than obtaining the support of Brae Loch College and casting the opera.

  CHAPTER 2

  It was several weeks later, not long after the beginning of the spring term, that Kevin, armed with Sheriff Carol Kelleher’s tentative approval, got around to putting into motion his plan for staging an opera on Crooked Lake. The first order of business was obtaining permission from Brae Loch College to use its facilities. Not once during his summers on Crooked Lake had Kevin even set foot on the campus of the small college. Which meant that he had no idea whether it had an auditorium suitable for putting on an opera. Much less whether the college would embrace his plan if it did have such an auditorium. He would need to be at his diplomatic best to sell the idea to the powers that be at Brae Loch, and he would have to make his pitch in person, not over the phone.

  Thus it was on a chilly day in late February that Kevin boarded a flight to the upstate airport serving the Crooked Lake area. He had called Carol and made arrangements to meet her for dinner. He had briefly considered staying at the cottage, but abandoned the idea because of the time it would require to open it up and the need to be back in the city for an evening class the following day. It meant that he would have to spend the night in an undistinguished Southport motel, which he did not look forward to. But that wouldn’t matter if his visit to the college produced the result he hoped for. The last twenty minutes of the flight took him over familiar snow-covered fields and the dark fingers of the lakes. It was a sight that reinforced his determination to succeed in his mission.

  After a brief stop to check in at the motel, Kevin headed up West Lake Road in the rental car, wondering how receptive to his plan Brae Loch’s provost would be. I’ll know soon enough, he thought, as he first passed his own cottage, made the turn at West Branch, and then drove the last dozen miles to the college.

  Brae Loch. Scottish for hill-lake. And there it was, nestled at the foot of a low wooded hill on the shore of Crooked Lake. A modest cluster of buildings, of which the chapel and what looked like an athletic facility stood out. Sidewalks that crisscrossed the quad were filled with students, bundled up against a brisk winter wind, who were obviously going from one class to another. It looked very much like his own Madison College, except that it was smaller and not hemmed in by city streets. Kevin found a parking place behind a dormitory near the lake, and walked back to where he imagined the administrative heart of the college was located. One of the students directed him to an old but still attractive building with the words Menlo Hall chiseled in the stone façade above the entrance.

  A businesslike woman at the reception desk consulted the provost’s calendar and then called to make sure he was not otherwise occupied. Apparently he wasn’t, so she steered him down a hall and past a row of glass cases containing mementos of Brae Loch’s history to a door bearing a plaque which read Jason Armitage, Provost.

  Now that the critical moment had arrived, Kevin found himself worrying that he had not been more straightforward when he had made the appointment. Concerned that the school’s leaders might not be interested in opera, he had spoken vaguely about a plan to raise money for Brae Loch. And the opera, if reasonably well attended, might actually bring in a few thousand dollars. But it would do nothing for the school’s presumably small endowment. Kevin feared that his meeting with the provost might be very brief.

  The man who greeted him was very tall and very thin. Kevin was reminded of a scarecrow. But the provost’s grip was almost painfully strong.

  “Professor Whitman, so glad to meet you at last.”

  At last? The appointment had been made less than a week earlier. But Jason Armitage went on to explain himself, not waiting for Kevin to say anything.

  “I was intrigued the minute my secretary mentioned you wanted to see me. You’re the man who testified for the prosecution last fall in that case about the dead woman in the ravine. Fascinating case. Not easy to get away from my responsibilities here, but I did get to the courthouse a few times. Indeed I was there when you testified. You’re something of a celebrity around these parts.”

  Whatever Kevin had imagined, it wasn’t this. He now realized that he had secured an appointment with the provost not because he could make some money for Brae Loch, but because the provost was interested in meeting ‘a celebrity.’

  “Hardly a celebrity, I’m afraid,” Kevin said, wishing the provost would release the iron grip he had on his hand.

  “You’re too modest. We haven’t had anything like it since I’ve been here. Sleepy place, Crooked Lake. That’s why I watch that CSI show, that and the Law & Order reruns.”

  It was becoming obvious that the provost was a crime junkie. For the better part of a quarter hour, they discussed crimes, both real and fictional. Or, more accurately, Jason Armitage held forth on the subject and Kevin muttered an occasional word of agreement. It was not until the provost asked if he might like a cup of coffee that Kevin found an opening to raise the question which had brought him to the Brae Loch campus.

  “Ah, that’s good,” Armitage said of the coffee his secretary had delivered.

  “Yes, very good,” Kevin seconded the provost, although it was too strong for his taste. “Let me explain why I’m here.”

  “Money, I think,” the provost said. “We’re just a little school, as I’m sure you know. Small enrollment, small budget. So what is your interest in us?”

  No point in dancing around the issue, Kevin thought, and plunged into his pitch for bringing Puccini to Brae Loch.

  “As I told your secretary when I made the appointment, I teach music at Madison College. My specialty is opera. I would very much like to put on an opera here on Crooked Lake. And it seems to me that the logical place to do it is right here at Brae Loch. So my reason for taking your valuable time this afternoon is to ask if it might be possible.”

  Before Kevin could spell out his plan in any detail, the provost interrupted.

  “An opera, you say. I don’t know much about opera. Saw Carmen many years ago. As I remember it, it was colorful. Some nice tunes. Something about bullfighting, isn’t it?”

  This wasn’t the time for Kevin to explain that Carmen was really about an ill-fated affair between a fickle gypsy girl and a soldier who is infatuated with her. At least Armitage had seen an opera and seemed to have liked it. And he hadn’t asked what opera had to do with making money for Brae Loch.

  “What I’d like to do,” Kevin hurried on, “is to stage an opera called Gianni Schicchi. It’s a comedy and it’s short, just one act. I’m confident I can find plenty of local talent, but we would need a place to rehearse and perform. I’ve been hoping that your college has an auditorium that we could use. We’d be prepared to pay for the privilege, of course, and then recoup the cost by charging a modest price for tickets. I hope I’m not being presumptuous when I say this, but I think it would be a nice feather in your cap—you know, good p.r. for the college.”

  As soon as he’d said it, Kevin regretted that last bit. But if the provost thought his visitor had gone too far, he didn’t say so. To the contrary, he seemed genuinely interested in the idea.

  “An opera, right here at Brae Loch College,” he said. His tone of voice made it clear that the prospect was intriguing. He rubbed his chin, his mind apparently weighing the pros and cons of Kevin’s proposition.

  “When would you propose to do this—this opera, whatever its name is?”

  “This summer, if it wouldn’t interfere with your college’s own programs. I figured it might take two months, maybe ten weeks, to hold tryouts, rehearse, and put on three or four performances.”

  Kevin had no idea how long it would take to get a group of amateurs ready for a production like this. For all he knew, it could take all summer and the result would still be unacceptably ragged. Instead of creating an invitation to join the Brae Loch facult
y for a year, what he thought of as his Puccini gig might be a disaster. He could almost hear the jeers and cat calls. He would no longer be a celebrity. He would forever be associated with ‘Whitman’s folly.’

  “I like it, I like it.” Jason Armitage got out of his chair and came around the desk, putting a large hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “It could give a big boost to Brae Loch’s image. No longer just that little school in upstate New York. No, siree. It’s the school that brings culture to the Finger Lakes. It does opera.”

  Kevin was both pleased to hear such a ringing endorsement of his plan and alarmed that the provost was raising the stakes so dramatically.

  “Let me ask,” he asked, quite tentatively, “if you have an auditorium that would work. We’ll need an orchestra pit as well as a stage—not a big one, but one we could put a big bed on, one that could hold a cast of, say, a dozen people.”

  Kevin was worried that the provost’s enthusiasm might not be matched by the college’s ability to accommodate the opera.

  “We’ve got two spaces that might do. One’s the chapel—it’s bigger, has the most seats. Then there’s a somewhat smaller auditorium where our dramatic club puts on plays. I’ll have one of our people take you around, give you a look at them. As far as I know, and I’m supposed to be the last sign-off on things like this, the theatre will not be in use this summer. Of course, there will be services in the chapel, but I think we could find a way to manage both.”

  It was at that moment that the provost’s brow wrinkled. He removed his hand from Kevin’s shoulder.

  “You’ll be needing a bed, you say? Mind if I ask what for? I don’t think the trustees would much care for an opera with sex. Well, I’m sure it would be simulated, but people up here are pretty straight laced. It isn’t a sexy comedy, is it?”

  “Goodness, no. It’s about a guy who cons a bunch of greedy relatives out of their inheritance. No sex at all.”

  “That’s a relief,” the provost said, and it was apparent that he meant it. “Sorry I even raised the subject.”

  It was half an hour later that he walked Kevin to the door, where he turned him over to the care of a student who would show him the facilities. No contract had been signed, but an understanding had been reached as to expenses and other less urgent details.

  “Read mysteries?” the provost asked as Kevin was sliding into his coat.

  “A few.”

  “Me too, only I have to confess it’s more than a few. Christie’s always been my favorite.”

  Kevin chuckled.

  “My provost at Madison seems only to read the ancient Greek tragedies. In the original Greek, if you can believe that. Christie sounds like more fun than Sophocles.”

  “No contest. I’ve enjoyed our meeting, Professor Whitman, and I’m looking forward to watching your opera. I’ll stay in touch. And you’ll let me know how things are shaping up, right?”

  “With pleasure.”

  Jason Armitage waved good-bye as Kevin walked out into a raw, cold February afternoon, never suspecting that he would not be attending a performance of Gianni Schicchi the following August.

  CHAPTER 3

  Carol was supportive. Not wildly enthusiastic, but definitely in Kevin’s corner. The provost of Brae Loch College was prepared to lend the school’s theatre to Kevin for a good part of the summer, guaranteeing that the opera he was planning would have a home during its gestation. The costs, as far as he could calculate them, would be more modest than he had assumed. Now all that remained was the task of assembling a cast and an orchestra that could handle the demands that Puccini had placed upon them. Kevin winced involuntarily as he thought about it. By far the biggest challenge still lay ahead.

  He had placed announcements, financed by his own limited savings, in upstate newspapers and radio stations. Those announcements varied a bit from one place to another, but the message was always the same. An opera by Giacomo Puccini was to be presented at Brae Loch College on Crooked Lake in August. Tryouts for the cast and the orchestra would be held in early June. Anyone interested should send a c.v., together with a cover letter, to Professor Kevin Whitman at e-mail or snail mail addresses which followed.

  Kevin had blanketed the Finger Lakes area with these announcements, hoping that casting his net widely would generate a musically talented pool of candidates. Of course the prospect of commuting for a considerable distance to rehearse would deter many, but he was counting on the lure of a chance to step out of a humdrum life and appear in a real opera. He had no idea how many would take the bait.

  He need not have worried. Within a week after the first announcement went out, he had received over a hundred messages. It was, to be sure, a mixed bag, but there were enough promising ones to buoy Kevin’s spirits. At the same time, he realized for the first time the magnitude of the task which confronted him. Carol had been right.

  The desk in his study soon contained three piles of messages from would-be members of his fledgling company: those that could be dismissed out of hand, those that definitely merited a tryout, and those that fell somewhere in between. Notifying those that were clearly unacceptable was not particularly time consuming, but he was saddened by the need to dash their misplaced hopes. He dreaded the thought that some of those he had summarily rejected would not quietly accept his decision. He had visions of persistent men and women flooding his in-box with arguments as to why they should be on the Brae Loch stage in August.

  But he was both cheered and surprised by the number of applicants who had what sounded like excellent credentials. There were, as he had anticipated, many with extensive church choir experience. More than a few belonged to choral societies. One had once been a member of the Metropolitan Opera chorus. Of instrumentalists there were enough to form a fairly large orchestra, although the violin section would be thin. Some of these people would, of course, prove to have over-stated their skills, but as winter turned to spring and more and more messages came in, Kevin’s plan looked better and better to him.

  The announcements of the opera circulating around the area said that tryouts would be held in June. But Kevin was anxious to start the process, beginning with the strongest applications. This meant he would have to go up to the cottage, and his school’s spring break gave him a window of opportunity to do so. It also meant that he would get to spend some time with Carol.

  By the time that Kevin pulled into the driveway behind his cottage on the third of April, he had set up appointments with nine of his operatic wannabes. He had also persuaded Carol to move into the cottage with him for the week.

  They had dinner that first night at an old and favorite restaurant, The Cedar Post. She looks absolutely wonderful, he thought, as he watched her studying the menu. He liked her in her uniform, but tonight she was in mufti, and that was even better.

  “So, this is the week you start judging talent,” she said. “You sounded optimistic. Want to tell me about it?”

  “Actually,” Kevin began, “I’ve already judged the talent sitting across the table from me. You’re a perfect ten.”

  “I’ll accept the compliment,” Carol said, reaching out to take Kevin’s hand. “But how about a preview of who’s who on your agenda for the week.”

  “Sure. Nine of them: seven women and two men. That may be my biggest problem. There just aren’t enough men. I’m willing to conduct an all-woman orchestra, but I need a bunch of men for the cast.”

  “Any for the bigger parts?”

  “I’ve got to have a good—and I mean a real good—Schicchi. Plus another man to play his son-in-law to be. They’re all important, but those two are really critical. Maybe I’ll be lucky, though. The two guys I see this week have both made it fairly clear that they want to be Schicchi. One of them was with the Met chorus for more than a decade. He’s my odds on favorite for the title role.”

  “Sight unseen? Or is it unheard? Maybe he’s no longer in the chorus for a reason, like his voice has failed him, or he didn’t show up for rehearsals.”
<
br />   “I know. But he’s coming in on Wednesday. Anyway, the other guy has an Italian-American name, claims he loves Puccini, knows his big arias by heart. What I’m afraid of is that whoever I don’t pick will go off in a mad, refuse to take on another role.”

  “Sounds like you might need to put on your diplomat’s hat,” Carol said. “What about the women?”

  “I think there may be a good Lauretta in the group. She’s the daughter, the one who has that great aria I told you about. But most of the women want to be in the orchestra—a couple of violins, a couple of winds, a cellist. All of them have played in community orchestras.”

  “By the way, it just occurred to me—aren’t you going to need a piano?”

  “I will, and the college has let me use one up there for the vocal tryouts. I probably should have one at the cottage, but Susan didn’t like the idea and I never pushed her about it.”

  Carol didn’t like to be reminded that Kevin had been married to this Susan woman, and not that many years ago. She found herself wondering where the ex-wife was now. And whether Kevin ever saw her. Carol’s decision to spend the week at the cottage, starting that very night, had been a good one.

  When Kevin awoke the next morning, Carol was already up and in the kitchen. His first tryout was not until eleven o’clock, but he wanted to see Carol before she left for the day. And have some of the coffee that smelled so good.

  “Sorry I can’t stay around longer,” she announced, as they tackled her breakfast of eggs and toast. “Some of us have jobs waiting for us, you know, not out-of-work tenors.”

  “Unfortunately there aren’t any tenors on my schedule,” Kevin said, ignoring Carol’s stab at early morning humor. “Not sure why, but they’re a rare breed. I’ll have to make do with baritones this week. Today, though, it’s a violinist, name’s Mercedes Redman. Teaches over in Ithaca. She looks good on paper. I’ve never met anyone named Mercedes.”