As it turned out, Mercedes Redman was as good as she had looked to be on paper. Indeed, she was little short of brilliant, and Kevin wondered why she was spending her time teaching kids to play the violin when she might well be performing with some symphony orchestra. Before he bade her good-bye, Kevin had not only told her he wanted her for Gianni Schicchi, but he also had asked her if she would be willing to serve as his assistant, essentially his alter ego. It had taken no more than five minutes, during which he had laid out a rough timeline for production, for her to accept the assignment. There would be times over the weeks ahead when he would regret the impulse which gave Ms. Redman rather more control over things than he was comfortable with.
If Mercedes Redman was to become a problem for Kevin, there was no hint of it at their first meeting. The foreshadowing of future trouble was rather more obvious, however, in the case of the two baritones. The first to appear for a tryout was a middle-aged man who lived on the east arm of the lake, not more than seventeen miles from Kevin’s cottage. He was the man with an Italian-American name, Paolo Rosetti. He arrived at the room that had been commandeered for tryouts precisely at the agreed upon hour, sweeping into the room and greeting Kevin with an elaborate bow and a European-style kiss on both cheeks.
“Ah, Professor Whitman. How do you do. I am Paolo Rosetti, your Gianni Schicchi. This is a wonderful thing you are doing, bringing Puccini to Crooked Lake. All we ever get in these parts is that Andrew Lloyd Webber, or maybe, if we are lucky, a Sondheim show. But real opera? No, never. God bless you.”
Kevin stepped back, the better to get a good look at this man who was so effusively showering him with praise. The most striking thing about him was that he was wearing a huge green and gold scarf which appeared to be wrapped several times around his neck. His face was ruddy, whether naturally or from the weather outside was not clear, and was dominated by a pair of the thickest black eyebrows Kevin had ever seen.
“I’m so very pleased to meet you,” Kevin said. “And glad you’re interested in our plan to do this opera.”
Mr. Rosetti rubbed his hands together, as if to warm them, and then proceeded to unwrap the scarf from around his neck. It looked to be more than six feet long.
“Yes, the Gianni Schicchi. A wonderful choice. It should be performed more often. What a wonderful rascal, that Schicchi. One of my favorite characters. My voice is just right for him, too. You will see.”
Kevin was beginning to feel uneasy. Rosetti was not only trying out; he seemed to be assuming that the role of the eponymous hero was to be his. Well, Kevin thought, we shall have to see about that.
The voluble Rosetti told Kevin he would need to warm his voice up a bit. The cold weather outside, you know. So while Kevin watched and listened, he did a few scales. It was immediately apparent that the man had a big voice. It may not have been a particularly beautiful voice, but it was obvious that he knew how to sing. His resumé had said nothing about voice training, so Kevin asked who his teacher had been.
“Me? Need a teacher? No, no.” He threw his arms out wide as if to say ‘just me.’ “I do it myself, since I was a boy. Always singing.”
Eventually Rosetti said he was ready to show off his voice. Kevin hoped the man’s choice of an aria would be one he knew, although he was sure Rosetti would say he could do it unaccompanied. Not surprisingly, the choice was from another Puccini opera, La Boheme, and for a few anxious moments Kevin feared that someone would interrupt, asking that the volume be turned down. When Rosetti finished, he bowed in Kevin’s direction and flashed a broad smile.
“Pretty good, no?”
Kevin wasn’t quite sure how to respond. It had not been bad. But it had been invariably loud and occasionally flat. He had no doubt that Rosetti could sing the role of Schicchi, but he feared that it would be a one-dimensional performance. And very probably drown out everyone else onstage.
“You have a very big voice, Mr. Rosetti,” he said, hoping it didn’t sound like damning with faint praise. He needn’t have worried.
“Big, yes,” he said, smiling. “This music needs to be heard, even in the very last row. So I do Schicchi, right?”
Yes, Kevin thought, we’ll find a place for you in our cast. But Gianni Schicchi? Perhaps. He’d first have to hear the other baritone with an impressive c.v., the one who had sung in the Met chorus. So he assured Mr. Rosetti that he would be in the production without ever quite saying that he would be playing the title role.
They parted company after exchanging a few more words about opera, Rosetti making use of his favorite word, wonderful, several more times. The room seemed unusually empty after his departure.
It was the following afternoon that Rosetti’s competition arrived for his tryout. Harley Gerlach had what was easily the most impressive resumé of the many that Kevin had received. He had apparently been a member of the Metropolitan Opera chorus for nearly eleven years, and had on two or three occasions been tapped for small comprimario roles. There was none of Rosetti’s bravado about him, yet he gave off an unmistakable air of self-confidence.
“Mr. Whitman, I presume,” he said as he entered the room. No doubt he knew very well that this was the way Stanley was alleged to have greeted Livingston. He removed a wool cap, revealing a large mane of white hair, and casually tossed cap and coat onto the piano bench.
“So, it is to be Gianni Schicchi,” he said. “Good opera. Not Puccini’s best, but good. I did the notary role in it once on short notice. This time it will be Schicchi himself, that conniving bastard.”
Gerlach laughed. Kevin didn’t. It looked as if he had two Schicchis on his hands.
“Delighted you are interested in becoming part of our little company,” he said. “You’ve had a lot of experience in opera, I see. All those years with the Met. Why did you decide to quit?”
“Nothing in particular. I suppose it became boring, same old routine, year after year. All those rehearsals. Besides, the audience doesn’t appreciate the chorus. All they ever cared about was the big names—you know, was Pavarotti singing that night? No? Think I’ll stay home then.”
“That’s too bad. But I’m glad you’re willing to give it another shot.”
“Of course. I’m retired, time on my hands. Anyway, it’s different, singing the lead. Never did it back in the day when I was at the Met. Now it’s my turn.”
Kevin tried to pretend he had not heard this. But he could feel a headache coming on.
“Well, this isn’t the Met, I’m afraid. I’m doing it because I love opera, want to give the local community a chance to hear one. Cheap tickets, minimal sets, small orchestra—it’s really opera on a shoestring.”
Gerlach shrugged.
“I know. Figured I might be the only professional in your cast.” He paused, as if to give Kevin a chance to feel grateful that he had at least one professional among a bunch of amateurs.
“Let me show you,” he said as he moved his coat and cap off the piano bench and took a seat there. “I assume you have a score handy. I’ll do one of Schicchi’s numbers.”
Kevin had, of course, acquired copies of the score. He retrieved one and watched as Gerlach leafed through it and found the part he wanted to sing. He clearly intended to be his own accompanist.
What followed solved Kevin’s casting problem. Schicchi’s music was not beautiful, nor was it supposed to be. But Gerlach sang it with feeling, his voice under control from the opening bar. Kevin could almost see the man onstage, setting those greedy relatives up for their disinheritance. Paolo Rosetti would have to take on another role. Gerlach was going to be Kevin’s Gianni Schicchi.
They spent half an hour chatting about opera, Gerlach holding forth on his favorite moments onstage and backstage at the Met, Kevin asking the questions which would give the ex-chorister a chance to show off his knowledge. When he finally left, Gerlach had been told that he would indeed be the title character in Crooked Lake’s production of Gianni Schicchi. He had also left Kevin with two worries. One was ho
w he would break the news to Rosetti. The other was how to cope with Gerlach’s sense that he was a giant among pygmies. Both problems would require a great deal of tact and diplomacy. Kevin hoped he would be up to the task.
CHAPTER 4
“C’mon, time to get up!”
The peremptory voice came from somewhere off to Kevin’s right. He rolled over and half opened his eyes. It was Carol, bending over the bed, a smile on her face.
“You said something about meeting somebody up at the college,” she said. “You won’t make it if you don’t get started.”
“What time is it?” he asked in a sleepy voice.
“Almost eight.”
Kevin groaned and sank back under the covers.
“It’ll be your funeral, not mine,” Carol said over her shoulder, as she went back to the kitchen.
Reluctantly he got up, groping under the bed for his slippers. It was the morning of his second day back at the lake cottage for the summer. May 24th, if he had his dates straight. Why on earth had he agreed to meet this man from Rochester at nine a.m.? Ten or even eleven would have done just as well. But it was too late for that now. If he wanted to meet the man who might be the opera’s love interest, he’d have to get moving.
Kevin had spent much of the previous evening discussing with Carol the progress he had been making in assembling a cast and orchestra for the Brae Loch production of Puccini’s opera. He was pleased to report that he had a small but quite decent group of musicians lined up to play the opera’s challenging score. Nineteen in all. One more violinist would be nice, but it could have been much worse. And every role had been cast except for Rinuccio, the young man who wants to marry Schicchi’s daughter, and one of those hard to find tenors.
It had been his original intention to hold tryouts in June, but it had soon become apparent that he would have to move faster. So he had squeezed in dozens of sessions with area hopefuls on weekends when he could get away from the city. The result was that everything was now in order except for that one elusive tenor. And the man from Rochester looked promising. He had only heard about the opera a few days earlier, but he had hastened to contact Kevin and present his resumé orally over the phone. Today they would meet.
“Are you sure you’re awake enough so I can leave and not worry that you’ll miss your appointment?” Carol asked as she set a cup of coffee and a bagel in front of him.
“I’m awake,” he answered. “Tired but awake.”
“Good. I’m not sure I like this role of ‘she who must be obeyed.’ But I don’t want it said that the Crooked Lake opera didn’t get off the ground because the sheriff didn’t get the maestro out of bed.”
Kevin leaned across the breakfast table and gave her a kiss. He was looking forward to playing house with Carol. This summer for sure. All of next year if his plan came to fruition.
The sheriff left shortly for her office in Cumberland. Kevin pulled out of the drive at 8:45, which meant he would have to drive faster than the posted speed limit if he was to make his appointment on time. He hoped that one of Carol’s officers would not be cruising the nearby roads, ready to pull him over and enjoy the irony of ticketing the boss’s lover.
He made it to campus late by about eight minutes. Sean Carpenter was waiting for him on the steps of Wayne Hall, where they had agreed to meet.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Kevin said as they shook hands.
“No problem. I’m just enjoying the morning, watching the kids. Must be final exam week—they mostly look tired and worried.”
“I wouldn’t know. Semester’s over at my school, thank goodness. Let’s go on in and have a talk about Puccini.”
They did talk, and Carpenter did sing, a very impressive rendition of Rodolfo’s signature aria from La Boheme.
“The role’s yours if you can manage the commute from Rochester,” Kevin said when the tenor had finished.
“No problem. Like I said, I’ve always wanted to do something like this. I used to joke that in another incarnation I’d be a world-famous tenor. And what did I become in this life? An accountant. That’s right, an accountant, for God’s sake. No, I’d come down from Rochester every night if I had to. It’s not a bad drive. I just hope I’ll have an attractive Lauretta. Do you know who’s singing her part?”
“I do. She’s a college student, getting her degree in music. Her name is Heather. Heather Merriman. Bright young woman. And, yes, she’s attractive. She lives on the lake, usually spends her summers waiting tables at an area restaurant. Tells me she’s been liberated, that her days as a waitress are over. I think you’ll like her.”
“Do me a favor, will you? Don’t tell her I’m old enough to be her father. She’ll find out soon enough.”
This last remark stuck in Kevin’s mind long after Sean Carpenter had left to go back to Rochester. The possibility that members of his little company might strike up relationships hadn’t occurred to him. A summer romance? He considered his impressions of the people with whom he would be working. It was a decidedly varied group in every sense of the word. Some were young, and some were well on their way to senior citizen status. Some were extroverted, while several were almost painfully quiet. There were gifted musicians, and then there were those of lesser talent whose accomplishments were the result of dogged determination. Four of the troupe lived on the lake, and one hailed from Southport. But others would travel farther to make rehearsals, in some cases much farther.
As Kevin headed back to his car, he spotted Jason Armitage, coming toward him.
“Well, well, it’s our impresario,” the provost called out. Kevin hadn’t liked the word when Carol had used it. He liked it even less coming from the man who was making all of this possible.
“Hello, Mr. Armitage.”
“How’s everything going? Gathering speed, I should think. Are my people being helpful?”
The provost was simply being friendly, but Kevin decided it was time to confront the man with the facts of life in putting on an opera.
“I don’t have it with me, sir, but I need to speak with you about our schedule. We’re just about ready to begin, and that will mean orchestra rehearsals—quite a few of them. And I’m going to have to spend a lot of time with the cast, especially when we have ensemble scenes. There are a lot of those, and they can be tricky. Would it be possible for me to come by, say this afternoon, with a list of the times when we’re going to need the use of the auditorium and the stage?”
“Of course, you know I’m at your disposal. Why don’t you speak to my secretary. She’ll know what I’ve got on this afternoon. If we can’t do it today, we’ll do it soon. Okay? And do keep me posted on how it’s shaping up. Can’t wait to see it.”
The provost went on his way, leaving Kevin to ponder the large gulf that lay between his needs and the appreciation of those needs by Brae Loch’s leader.
By the time he reached his cottage, Kevin was feeling good about the way in which things were shaping up. His little company was considerably more talented than he had expected. There was every reason to think that come August they would be able to mount a respectable production of Puccini’s comedy. Kevin was whistling Lauretta’s aria as he climbed out of the car.
He stopped in mid phrase when he heard the phone ringing. Carol? He was anticipating the pleasure of sharing the good news with her about the morning’s tryout when another woman’s voice greeted him.
“Mr. Whitman?”
“Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?”
“What you can do for me is get rid of that Harley Gerlach.”
For a moment Kevin was almost literally speechless. He started to ask the caller to repeat what she had said, but there was really no need to do that. Her message had come through, loud and clear.
“I’m sorry, but who is this?”
“Janet Myers. I’m one of the people in your opera. I sing the old woman, remember?”
He remembered. A woman of middle age who appeared to have had a recent face-lif
t. Good voice, strong personality. And that strong personality was on display as she explained the reason for her call.
“I had no idea you were giving Harley a part in the opera. I just heard it last evening from a friend. I tried you earlier, but you must have been out. Anyway, he’s got to go. I won’t be on the same stage with the man. It’s him or me.”
The Myers woman sounded as if she meant it. An ultimatum from a prima donna.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Kevin began. And he didn’t understand. Why on earth would this woman be demanding that he sack his Gianni Schicchi? Before the troupe had even assembled, been introduced to each other, had a rehearsal.
“You don’t need to know. It’s just that I won’t go anywhere near that man. He’s a monster. If you don’t get rid of him, you’ll see. He’ll ruin your opera. He ruins everything he touches.”
“Ms. Myers, I’m sorry that there’s some kind of a problem between you and Mr. Gerlach. But try to understand. It’s taken me weeks to select a cast, and it seems to me that all of you are just right for your parts. You’ll make a wonderful Zita. And Mr. Gerlach is a good choice for Schicchi. He’s had a lot of experience, sang in the Met chorus, already seems to know his part. I don’t see how I can suddenly yank him out of the key role in the opera. What could I possibly tell him?”
“No, you don’t understand. How could you? But it’s different with me. I was married to that man. For six long and terrible years. Impossible years. You want to know about bitter divorces? Ours belongs in The Guinness Book of Records. The man is a monster.”
The situation was now much clearer. Myers had twice referred to Gerlach as a monster. But it sounded like many another divorce to Kevin: two incompatible people who would forever pick scabs on old wounds. Must he question all members of his company about their private lives to avoid unpleasantness on the set? Damn. His bad luck that two members out of a small company of thirty would know each other—and hate each other.
For the next fifteen minutes, Kevin reasoned with Myers, then pleaded with her. In the end, she reluctantly agreed to stay in the company, even if he had to stick with Gerlach. But when he hung up the phone, he was far from certain that she would stay the course. He doubted that he had heard the last of the Gerlach-Myers troubles.
Setting the Stage for Murder Page 3