Setting the Stage for Murder

by Robert W. Gregg

  Oh, well, he said to himself as he turned his attention to lunch, if that’s the only problem we have, we’ll make it. Unfortunately, Janet Myers’ dislike of Harley Gerlach was not to be the only problem to plague the production of Puccini’s Gianni Schicchi.

  CHAPTER 5

  It was the 30th of May when Kevin first met with the entire cast and orchestra of the Brae Loch production of Gianni Schicchi. Actually, it was not the entire cast. Two members of the orchestra, a clarinetist and a trumpet player, were absent, the former after a long and somewhat rambling apology to Kevin, the latter without explanation. But every cast member, from Harley Gerlach’s Gianni Schicchi to a meek little man who had the opera’s smallest part, was present. After a brief welcome and a few words about his expectations, Kevin handed out a rehearsal schedule and then turned to the task of introducing everybody.

  It went quite well for awhile, with each member of the company telling the others his or her name, something of his background, and why he wanted to participate in the opera. Kevin tried not to pay attention to Paolo Rosetti, who stood in the back of the room, glowering throughout the introductions. He hoped Paolo would not spoil the day by saying something unpleasant about the man whom Kevin had selected to sing the title role. But it wasn’t Rosetti who first offered an unpleasant word. It was Arthur Conklin, a cellist, who had been one of the first people Kevin had recruited. That had been back in April, and his recollection of the man was limited to the impression that he made beautiful music with his cello.

  “It looks like what we’re doing is introducing ourselves, so you can call me Arthur. I’m Arthur Conklin, and I run a chain of nurseries in the area. But that’s irrelevant. I’m here because I play cello in my spare time, part of a string quartet. Our violist is here, too—Sandy Temple over there.”

  Conklin pointed to Temple, who waved at the assembled company.

  “I’m grateful to Mr. Whitman for organizing our little treat for the Finger Lakes community. It should be a lot of fun—hard work, but fun. I don’t know most of you, but I can tell you that we may have a problem. Forgive the expression, but there’s a nigger in the woodpile, right here in this room.”

  There was a collective gasp from most members of the troupe, followed by a deathly silence. Kevin was in shock. He had to say something, but wasn’t quite sure what. Conklin beat him to it.

  “I suppose I owe you all an apology. I should never have said that. I’m not that kind of person, as you’ll see.”

  Kevin half expected him to say something about some of his best friends being black, but he didn’t. It had probably just been an off-the-cuff remark, the casual use of an old expression that was both dated and offensive. But it also had been meant to convey the message that Conklin detested some member of the company, and that was almost as troubling as the racial slur. Was this little company going to be riven by interpersonal quarrels? First Janet Myers, now Arthur Conklin. Myers had apparently had a very bad relationship with Harley Gerlach. Now Conklin. Who was it that he disliked? Even hated? Who would have guessed that a company of only thirty members, recruited from a four-county area, would turn out to include people who harbored deep-seated grudges against each other.

  “I think we all accept your apology, Mr. Conklin,” Kevin said, not being sure that everyone present would agree. “Perhaps we can go on now.”

  He turned first to Mercedes Redman, who was sitting next to Conklin. Happily, neither Redman nor anyone else added to the unpleasantness. Even Mr. Rosetti chose not to use the meeting to pursue his complaint against Kevin’s choice of Gerlach to play Gianni Schicchi. But he touched on his grievance indirectly by emphasizing that this was not just any opera, but an Italian opera, and that Italian artists like himself would have a feel for it in their bones. The implication was that those without an Italian background would have no such feeling.

  There followed a discussion that touched on everything from scheduling conflicts to Kevin’s decision to do the opera in English. Rosetti, not surprisingly, was the most vocal of the advocates for presenting it in the original Italian. But Kevin was adamant that it should be sung in English. Moreover, he had already acquired copies of the score using the English translation. It was the fact that they were hungry rather than that they had settled all issues to everyone’s satisfaction that brought the discussion to a close at 1:45.

  Kevin watched as they collected their music and their schedules and drifted out of Wayne Hall singly and in small groups. He would need to get a better feel for the animosities that obviously existed in his company, and then work to make sure that they did not affect the production. But except for the fact that Rosetti and Myers were studiously avoiding Gerlach as they left, he learned nothing more that day about bad blood between members of his cast and orchestra. He did notice his Rinuccio, Sean Carpenter, hurrying to catch up with Heather Merriman, and doubted that it had anything to do with practicing their duet. Only Mercedes Redman remained.

  “How do you think it went?” he asked her.

  “All in all, not bad, except for that awful cellist. But they think it’s going to be easy. And it isn’t. We’ve got to arrange more rehearsals. I have no idea how good my orchestra is. You say they’re pretty good. I hope so, but they’ve never played together. It’s one thing to read music and produce nice sounds in your living room, but putting all the parts together is another story.”

  Kevin looked at the woman he had decided would be his assistant. She had just told him that she needed more rehearsals for her orchestra. Her orchestra?

  “Let me tell you what I think we should do,” Redman continued. “Why don’t you concentrate on the singers and let me handle the orchestra? You know, at first, before we try to put it all together. There’s a lot to do between now and August, and we’ll make better progress if we divide up the labor. If you give me a roster of the players with their cells and home phone numbers, I’ll get started.”

  What have I gotten myself in for, Kevin was thinking, as he listened to his assistant maneuvering to make him her assistant. He remembered that she had had a masterful tryout, and her resumé was excellent. But should he entrust her with whipping this amateur orchestra into shape?

  “Well, I suppose—” Kevin started, only to be interrupted by Redman.

  “Good. I’ll be adding some rehearsal time. Don’t worry, I’ll tell the provost, whatever his name is, to pencil in some additional hours for the auditorium.”

  _____

  Dinner over, Kevin and Carol moved to the living room with their coffee. And their tales of the day’s highlights and lowlights.

  “You don’t want to hear any more about my day,” Carol announced. “Not one to make you feel good about your fellow man. But that’s old news. I want to hear about the opera. You up and running at last?”

  Kevin considered the question.

  “Not sure whether we’re running yet. But I guess we’re underway. Funny thing, though. I figured the toughest part of this would be recruiting a bunch of reasonably talented people who would love the idea of doing an opera without pay. Doing it because they love to make music. Turns out that was no problem at all. But I’ve learned that you can love music and dislike the musician.”

  Kevin mentioned a few of what looked to be prickly personal relationships within the company, and then brought up the case of Mercedes Redman.

  “Sounds to me like she staged a coup d’état,” Carol said. “What’s she like, aside from being hard to say ‘no’ to?”

  “She’s really a good violinist,” he said.

  “That’s not what I mean. Young, old, attractive, plain? How about a three dimensional portrait?”

  It dawned on Kevin that Carol might be sizing up what she imagined to be the competition.

  “Oh, that. Well, she didn’t list it on her resumé, but I’d guess that she’s somewhere around 50. Maybe a few years older than that. Good looking in a way, but nothing flashy. Husky voice, sort of like Lauren Bacall used to have. Now that I think
of it, she reminds me a bit of Bacall.”

  Could Carol really be worried about Mercedes Redman? He hadn’t seen her as other than a good musician who was more than a bit pushy.

  “Is she married?”

  “Good grief, Carol, why all of the questions? I don’t know whether she’s married. Or has kids. For all I know she’s a lesbian. What matters is that she’s a music teacher who thinks she can help make Gianni Schicchi work. My guess is that she can. She’s eager to try, and I think I’ll let her.”

  “I’d be careful, if I were you,” Carol said. “This is one of those cases where I’m not sure two heads are better than one.”

  “Well, if there’s to be a second head, I’d rather it be yours. But I can’t think of anything you can do that needs doing. Of course, if you could play the violin I’d put you in the orchestra in a second.”

  “But I can play the violin,” Carol said. “You haven’t been paying attention.”

  “You can? That’s terrific. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “But I did. Last summer when you’d sort of taken over the search for Sandra Rackley’s killer. Remember? I reminded you that I was the sheriff, and that I wasn’t sure I was happy playing second fiddle in my own investigation.”

  Kevin almost spilled his coffee.

  “That’s awful, Carol, really, really bad. You had me thinking you really are a violinist.”

  “You need to work on your sense of humor,” she said, feeling just a bit smug and very happy to be sharing Kevin’s couch with him. And his bed.

  CHAPTER 6

  Three weeks into June, and rehearsals for Gianni Schicchi were well underway. Unfortunately, Kevin had been seeing less of Carol than he had expected to or wanted to. Part of the problem was that there had been some kind of powwow of state sheriffs that took Carol away for the better part of one week. The principal thief of his time, however, was the rehearsal schedule, now heavier, thanks to Mercedes Redman. It kept him busy four nights out of the week, plus parts of either Saturday or Sunday. Night rehearsals were necessary because most members of the company had job responsibilities. It had quickly become apparent to Kevin that on those nights he could not count on being home before ten or even eleven and, to Carol, that there wasn’t much point in staying over at the cottage when Kevin would be so late.

  The result was that it was on a Friday evening in late June that the impresario and the sheriff had their first real opportunity since rehearsals had begun to sit down and talk about things.

  “Are you as tired as you look?” Carol asked. She sounded genuinely worried.

  Kevin smiled, but did not choose to pretend that he wasn’t tired.

  “Didn’t know it was that obvious,” he said. “I had no idea it was going to be this demanding. You know, the opera.”

  “If I were one of those people who like to say I told you so, I’d say I told you so. But somehow I don’t think you’re going to chuck the whole thing. You aren’t, are you?”

  “No way. If anything, I’m more psyched now than I was back when I first thought about it. But I’m going to have to lean on some of the others a bit more. Like Mercedes. She can handle the orchestra. Maybe my Schicchi, that guy who sang at the Met—maybe he can do some tutoring of the cast. That way I wouldn’t have to be up at Brae Loch every night.”

  “I wouldn’t complain,” Carol said, moving closer to him on the couch.

  “Me either. You know, it’s kinda funny. Doing the opera was supposed to get me a visiting appointment at Brae Loch so I could see more of you. And look what’s happened—I’ve seen you all of three times in the last ten days.”

  Carol leaned over and kissed him.

  “That’s partly my fault,” she said. “Anyway, it sounds as if you’ve got a plan to lighten the load. Are the Mercedes woman and that other guy up to it?”

  “Oh, she’s up to it all right. She’s a helluva lot better than I am, to be honest about it. I think she’ll be relieved if I stop pretending that I’m needed at orchestra rehearsals. I’m not so sure about Gerlach—that’s his name, Harley Gerlach. He’s certainly capable of helping some of the others. But I worry about the idea of turning the vocal rehearsals over to him.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’d have to meet him, watch him. And I mean watch him interacting with other people. Or just watch the faces of other people when he’s around. He’s got an ego problem. Thinks he’s God’s gift to the music world. And he makes sure everyone knows it.”

  “Are you regretting you gave him the juiciest role in the opera?”

  “No, it’s not that. He’s good, really good. In fact, I can’t understand why he’s no longer with the Met chorus. My guess is that something happened, something he has no intention of telling me about. What he did tell me was that what had been fun was now simply boring. Could be, but I have my doubts. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, just so long as he stays on the wagon and doesn’t alienate the rest of the cast.”

  “Stay on the wagon? You mean he’s got a drinking problem?”

  Kevin sighed.

  “You up to hearing about my troubles with Harley Gerlach?” he asked. “If you are, why don’t I freshen your drink. It’ll help.”

  He disappeared into the kitchen, remembering all too well several moments of unpleasantness that had marred rehearsals.

  _____

  The first of those moments had occurred the very first night that Kevin had worked with the cast. They were supposed to have gotten underway at seven, but Gerlach didn’t arrive until nearly a half an hour later. Kevin was discussing with the greedy relatives in the cast how he wanted them to approach the search for the will when Gerlach came down the aisle from the back of the auditorium.

  “I don’t hear any singing,” he said in a loud voice.

  “We were waiting for you. And you’re late.” It was Paolo Rosetti who had said what was on all of their minds.

  “Late?” Gerlach then repeated himself. “Late? I don’t make my first entrance until you’ve all been onstage for a good fifteen minutes or more. You should know that.”

  As he heaved himself up onto the stage he stumbled, and one of the cast members stepped forward to give him a hand.

  “Leave me alone. I’m all right.” It wasn’t that he had rejected the offer of assistance which shocked the others, it was the decidedly unpleasant tone in which he had done it.

  He brushed off what was presumably stage-floor dust and turned to Kevin.

  “I’m here, so we can begin. You going to block out our positions? We can’t be just anywhere on the stage, you know.”

  The words were slurred, and it was immediately apparent that Harley Gerlach had been drinking. Drinking heavily.

  “We’ll get to that in due course,” Kevin said, pretending not to notice that the man who was to sing the title role was very probably drunk.

  Rosetti wasn’t so diplomatic.

  “What’s going on here? We drink after the show. Not before. You need to show Professor Whitman some respect. Professor Whitman and Puccini.”

  “Just who do you think you are to judge me?” Gerlach leaned forward to get a better look at the man who had criticized him.

  “I’m Paolo Rosetti, that’s who I am.”

  Kevin waved his score and moved to cut off this unpleasantness between cast members. It wasn’t easy. Rosetti was still nursing a grudge that he hadn’t been given the lead; Gerlach was simply being an in-your-face drunk.

  The entire cast had become aware of the tension between the two men well before that evening’s little confrontation. Rosetti had made clear in conversations with his fellow cast members his belief that he should be the opera’s Gianni Schicchi. And Gerlach had made it clear that he thought Rosetti was a fool and that he did not suffer fools gladly.

  _____

  Gerlach’s drinking problem had only made already difficult matters worse, Kevin told Carol, recalling one particular episode.

  It had occurred the previous Tuesday, when Kev
in had been working with the opera’s young lovers. Heather Merriman, who had the opera’s best-known number, sang it in her naturally beautiful voice. But she was somewhat tentative, not surprising in view of the fact that she was by far the youngest and least experienced member of the cast.

  Kevin had complimented her and then started to make a suggestion when Gerlach, who had been watching and listening from the front row of the auditorium, interrupted.

  “My dear Lauretta,” he said, referring to Merriman by her character’s name, “what you’re singing isn’t just a pretty tune. It’s an appeal to me, your father, Schicchi. But if you think your aria impressed me, it didn’t. What it made me want to do is walk off the stage and get myself another scotch.”

  “I think you’ve already had enough scotch, Gerlach, so why don’t you shut up and leave her alone.”

  It was Sean Carpenter, the opera’s Rinuccio, who had come to the young woman’s defense.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Sir Lancelot to the rescue,” Gerlach said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “You’re damned right. If anyone is going to offer advice to Heather, it’s the professor.”

  Gerlach got up from his seat in the auditorium and came up onto the stage, elbowing a couple of other cast members aside. Kevin tried to intercept him, to no avail.

  “You don’t know beans about this opera,” he said in a boozy voice, his face only inches away from Carpenter’s. “You’ve just got a thing for the kid. How gallant.”

  Every member of the company knew by this time that Carpenter was more than professionally interested in the woman, aware that he might like to turn his onstage relationship with her into an offstage affair. One or two had been overheard expressing their disapproval of what looked like Carpenter’s interest in a woman no more than half his age.