Bantam of the Opera

by Mary Daheim

  “Where’s Mr. Pacetti?” she asked, noting that he had still not joined the others.

  Amina Pacetti gave a toss of her carefully coiffed head. “He’s resting. Tomorrow he must do the rehearsing. It is always the strain.”

  Noting that Mrs. Pacetti’s English seemed to have improved since her arrival, Judith gave a nod. “I imagine it is. My cousin and I will be there Saturday night.”

  No one seemed particularly interested. Bruno Schutzendorf was guzzling more wine; Amina Pacetti had polished off the cheese; Winston Plunkett had finally deigned to try the pâté; and Tippy de Caro was balancing a black olive on the end of her nose. Just as Judith was wondering if she should try to renew any sort of civil conversation, Mario Pacetti made his entrance. He still wore his smoking jacket and seemed faintly unsteady on his feet.

  “The motion,” he explained, clinging to the balustrade. “So long on the road. I grow dizzy.”

  “Of course,” soothed Amina, who had gone to meet her husband at the foot of the stairs. “I, too, am uncertain in the walking. We are like sailors, again on the shore.” With a wide smile, she led Pacetti to the depleted hors d’oeuvres table. “Now, eat, Mario mio, you must keep up your strength for tomorrow.”

  “Eat what?” cried Pacetti, staring at the almost-empty platter and plates. “Where is the calamari, the olives, the many fine cheeses I was promised?” He waved an anchovy under his wife’s nose. “I could starve to death! Where is the pasta?”

  A faint groan escaped from Judith’s lips. No one at the opera house had suggested piles of pasta as an appetizer. She was about to forage for more food when a knock sounded at the front door. Another pest, she thought, since only guests and solicitors used the front entrance. Friends, neighbors, and family all tended to come in the back way.

  As she hurried across the entry hall, she wondered if the bell was broken. It was unusual for anyone to knock instead of ring.

  Dusk was settling in on Heraldsgate Hill. The evening air held the ripe smell of damp and decay. Over the roof-tops, Judith could make out a narrow stretch of the bay, and the hazy outline of the mountains beyond. But she could not see anyone on the front porch. The cluster of pumpkins and the tall cornstalks that would serve as holiday decor until Thanksgiving stood innocently between the front door and the porch railing. Puzzled, Judith started toward the four stone stairs that led to the walkway. She had taken only a single step when she stubbed her toe. Stifling a curse, she bent down to examine the obstacle in her path. It was a rock, about six inches in diameter. Judith picked it up and turned it over in her hands.

  Musical notes, carefully replicated from what looked like a score, were painted on the rough surface—along with a much more crudely drawn skull and crossbones. Uttering a small gasp, Judith stared at the object, then gazed more intently out into the cul-de-sac. Except for the lights in the Porters’ house across the street, she could see no sign of life. Turning, she gave the bell a quick, experimental poke; it echoed inside the house. Judith frowned. Perhaps whoever had delivered the rock hadn’t knocked, but had merely thrown it against the door. Sure enough, there was a sharp dent in the screen that Joe hadn’t yet replaced for the winter. Still frowning, Judith went back indoors.

  If she had hoped to ditch the rock before her guests saw it, she was disappointed. Tippy de Caro and Winston Plunkett were standing in the entry hall, their eyes fixed on Judith’s hands.

  “The bell sounded…” Plunkett began, then halted abruptly as he caught sight of the skull and crossbones. “Good Lord, what’s that?”

  “Oh—kids, I suppose,” said Judith vaguely. “A practical joke. Maybe they’re rehearsing, too. For Halloween.” She gave Plunkett and Tippy a weak smile.

  But Tippy, surprisingly, wasn’t put off. “That looks nasty to me. Let’s see.” Her enormous earrings jingled and swayed as she bent her head.

  The Pacettis and Schutzendorf had joined the others in the entry hall. Judith surrendered the rock and closed the front door.

  “Ooooh!” cried Tippy, pushing the rock at Plunkett as if it were a hot potato, “this is ugly! It’s like…a threat!”

  “Really, my dear,” murmured Plunkett, “as Mrs. Flynn says, it’s probably just a…”

  “Aaaargh!” The cry was wrenched from Mario Pacetti’s golden throat. He toppled backward, falling against Schutzendorf.

  “Dio mio!” shrieked Amina, clutching at her husband’s flailing arm. “We are lost!”

  Schutzendorf, who was supporting Pacetti, craned his neck for a better look at the offending rock. “Vat? A stone with drawings? So vat?”

  “No!” shouted Pacetti, still limp and allowing Amina to fan him with her handkerchief. “It is much more! See! The music!”

  “A singing skull,” murmured Tippy, now eyeing the rock with a keener gaze than usual, “like on an MTV video. Maybe it’s an ad.”

  Plunkett, looking puzzled, turned the rock in his thin hands. “There are only a few notes,” he said in a baffled voice.

  “But such notes!” Pacetti was finally struggling to right himself. “The three in the treble—they are Alfredo’s notes! The first ones he sings in Traviata! ‘Mar-che-se…’” The stricken tenor sang the word, sotto voce. “He is meeting the guests at Violetta’s party in Act I…I am doomed!”

  Everyone, including Judith, stared at Pacetti. Plunkett made a clucking noise in his throat, Tippy squealed, Schutzendorf rumbled, and Amina had gone quite pale under her makeup.

  “Brandy,” mumbled Judith. “I’ll get brandy.” She started for the kitchen just as the water for her cauliflower boiled over onto the stove. Reaching for the burner with one hand and groping in the liquor cabinet with the other, she could hear the wails of Amina, the groans of Pacetti, the rumbles of Schutzendorf.

  And Joe Flynn, coming through the back door, breezily asking if dinner was ready.

  FOUR

  JOE FLYNN HAD slipped into his role as policeman. He stood in front of the fireplace, carefully eyeing the little group assembled on the matching sofas that flanked the big coffee table. Judith perched on an armless rocker, a relic of Grandma Grover’s youth. She had seen Joe in action before, but the sight never failed to intrigue her.

  “So at least three of you handled this rock,” said Joe with a reproachful glance at his wife. He paused to let Judith, Plunkett, and Tippy nod in acknowledgment. “Then we can kiss the idea of fingerprints good-bye.”

  “Gloves,” said Schutzendorf, who was wedged between Tippy and Plunkett. “This madman probably wore gloves.”

  “Maybe.” Joe set the rock down on the mantel, next to a wedding picture taken of him and Judith outside of Our Lady, Star of the Sea Catholic Church. Tiny pumpkin-shaped lights draped across the stone fireplace struck a deceptively cheerful note. The carved jack-o’-lantern on the coffee table, with its faint leer, seemed more in keeping with the current atmosphere. “I’ll go talk to the neighbors. Maybe the Rankers or the Porters or the Ericsons or the Steins saw something.”

  “The Steins are in Mexico,” said Judith.

  “Lucky Steins,” muttered Joe, heading for the entry hall. “Jesus, I finish a day with gang shootings and crazy dopers and spouse killers and come home to find my…” He was still grumbling when he banged out the front door.

  Flinching, Judith surveyed her guests with considerable uncertainty. “Uh…Could I get more brandy? Crackers? Chips?” A quick glance at the grandfather clock told her it was after seven. “Would you like me to call about your…dinner reservation?”

  Blank stares met her question. “Dinner reservation?” Winston Plunkett looked at Judith curiously.

  “Where’s the pasta?” demanded Mario Pacetti.

  “I’d settle for a burger and fries,” announced Tippy de Caro.

  “The vurst,” rumbled Schutzendorf.

  “More brandy, please,” begged Amina Pacetti.

  “Wait a minute,” said Judith, getting up from the rocker. She asked the dreaded question. “Did you plan to eat here?�
��

  Schutzendorf’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “The table is set, nein?”

  “I smell food,” said Pacetti.

  “I could eat a horse,” announced Tippy.

  “Our last meal was in Oregon.” Winston Plunkett’s thin voice made it sound like a million miles away.

  Frantically, Judith took a mental inventory of her freezer. Chicken breasts. Lots of chicken breasts. She could thaw them in the microwave. Beans. She had cans and cans of beans, from Falstaff’s last special. And pasta—she always had plenty of pasta. Tortellini. Linguini. Fettuccine. She could do it…Judith gave a brisk nod. “Thirty minutes. The brandy bottle is in the dining room. Drink up. Enjoy. You’ve polished off the Riesling.”

  Grimly, Judith marched into the kitchen, giving the swinging door an extra big shove. She would charge them for dinner, of course. Just add it to their final bill. Ten bucks a plate. That was fair. Why the hell hadn’t those idiots at the opera house told this bunch of loonies that she only served breakfast? And hors d’oeuvres? Why the hell had they come in the first place? Why the hell had she let them? Judith was as angry with herself as she was with her guests. She stomped down to the basement to get the chicken breasts out of the freezer.

  It was eight o’clock before she and Joe sat down to their own dinner. The guests were still in the dining room, stuffing themselves with chicken, pasta, and green beans. Joe patted butter on his baked potato and regarded Judith with a wry expression.

  “Nobody—including Arlene—saw anything or anybody. What do you think, Jude-girl—is this some sort of operatic ritual?”

  Judith sighed. “I don’t know—I’m used to ordinary people, tourists, honeymooners, getaway couples. For all I know, Tippy had the right idea and it’s a publicity stunt. Though why Mario Pacetti would need anything like that, I can’t imagine. And to be fair, he seemed genuinely upset.”

  Joe gave Judith his engaging grin. “Hey—he’s a tenor, isn’t he? He probably has a tizzy when he gets junk mail.”

  Judith had to admit that Joe’s argument held some merit. Still, the rock with its ugly symbol and telltale notes disturbed her. Yet even as she tried to drop the subject, Joe recognized his wife’s concern.

  “Look, if you’re worried, I’ll have somebody keep an eye on the house while I’m gone, okay? Any problems, just call Woody,” said Joe, referring to his subordinate, the capable and kindly Woodrow Wilson Price.

  With a grateful smile, Judith tried to shrug off her worries. “Sure, Joe.” She had one ear cocked toward the dining room. The guests should be finishing up. Maybe they would decide to make an early night of it. She said as much to her husband.

  Joe also listened to the sounds emanating from behind the swinging door. Schutzendorf was regaling, Pacetti was bemoaning, Plunkett was debunking, Amina was abjuring, and Tippy was a-tipsy. Judith held her head.

  “They’ll never go to bed,” she complained.

  Joe polished off his rib steak and gazed at Judith with the gold flecks dancing in his green eyes. “So?” He stood up, his captain’s chair scraping on the kitchen floor. “We can.”

  “Joe…” Judith’s black eyes scanned her husband’s round, faintly florid, ever-charming face. “I have to clean up, I have to get the table ready for…”

  Joe leaned down to put his chin on the top of Judith’s head. His hands caressed her arms, her back, her shoulders. “I’ll do it before I go to work,” he said into her hair.

  “But Joe…” Judith protested, albeit feebly.

  “Hmmmmm?” He kissed her high forehead.

  “We can’t leave them…”

  “To their own dreadful devices? Why not?” His lips sought her temple, the bridge of her nose, finally her lips.

  “Screw it,” murmured Judith.

  “You’re almost right,” breathed Joe.

  They went up the back stairs.

  Joe didn’t have time in the morning to clean up or set the table for breakfast, but Judith didn’t mind. At least not a lot. By seven-thirty, she had matters well in hand, with the dishwasher going, breakfast cooking, and the dining room once again ready to serve a meal. When her guests straggled down, virtually in the same order they had arrived for the cocktail hour, she made her announcement. Dinner was not usually included in the price of a stay at Hillside Manor. Lodgers were expected to eat elsewhere. She assumed their day would be full. They might not see their hostess again until evening. Judith held her breath, waiting for outraged cries.

  None were forthcoming. Mario Pacetti announced that he would be rehearsing all day; Bruno Schutzendorf said he was going on a tour of local recording studios; Winston Plunkett and Tippy de Caro were off to meet with the media on their client’s behalf; and Amina Pacetti was going to glue herself to her husband’s side at the opera house. Judith drew a sigh of relief and went upstairs to make the beds.

  She was working in Mrs. Pacetti’s room when Amina returned from the breakfast table. “One question,” she said, with surprising diffidence.

  Judith looked up from replacing the bolster on the bed. “Yes?”

  “If you do not serve the other meals, may we prepare little somethings? My husband, he has the outstanding appetite.”

  Judith hesitated. There had been a few occasions in the past when she had allowed guests with special dietary needs to use the kitchen. She supposed Mario Pacetti fell into the same category. “Okay,” she said slowly. “But make sure the stove is always turned off.”

  “Of course,” responded Amina, crossing the room to stand at the window which overlooked the bay. “We of the opera world do not eat like other mortals. Our lives are all this way and the other way. It is nothing much we require, just what you call…the snacks. Herr Schutzendorf is also fond of his nibbles, to eat with his Sekt.” Noting Judith’s puzzled expression, Amina’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Sekt is the German version of champagne, much too sweet for serious palates. Fret not, he brings his own. It is difficult to find in this country, especially out here in the wilds. Oh, and much tea. My husband requires many cups of strong tea before a performance. We shall ask Signorina de Caro to bring us some items from the market. Where is it?”

  Judith wrote directions to Falstaff’s on one of the guest cards that reposed on the dressing table along with a guidebook, the B&B’s official rules and regulations, and a few postcards. With a long, red fingernail, Amina tapped one of the postcards which showed the mountains in all their winter splendor.

  “Lovely country. The city, too, is nice,” she commented, as if bestowing largesse. “Many hills, much water, and so many beautiful flowers, especially in the spring.”

  “Yes,” agreed Judith. “Some people think that because we live so close to the Canadian border, the English love of gardening has rubbed off on us. We take great pride in our gardens.” She pointed to a Roseville vase which held a small bouquet. “Those dahlias are from my yard. I had just enough to put flowers in each of your rooms. But I got the asters at Falstaff’s.”

  “So pretty,” cooed Amina. “Bright blooms and so much greenery in the city and out in the countryside. That, too, is like England. California is very brown. Like Spain. And Italy, sometimes.”

  Judith picked up the laundry hamper with its pile of dirty linen. She would be very glad to have Phyliss Rackley back on duty come Monday. Running the B&B was always demanding work, but it was much harder when Phyliss was suffering from one of her many so-called spells.

  “Everything’s in order again now,” she told Mrs. Pacetti. “Bedding, towels, and if it gets too chilly, there are extra blankets in the bottom drawer of the bureau.”

  Amina’s dark eyes widened. “You went through the drawers, yes?” She did not look pleased.

  Judith stared at her guest. “No, I put the blankets in there before you arrived. But I forgot to mention it.”

  “Oh.” A wave of relief swept over Amina’s heart-shaped face. “Very good. Thank you.” She gave another nod, this time in dismissal.

  With a shru
g, Judith juggled the laundry hamper and headed down the hall. If Amina Pacetti was hiding contraband or cocaine or contraceptive devices in the bureau, that was her business. Or so Judith told herself. But she couldn’t refrain from being curious. On the other hand, she had work to do. She had two rooms finished, and three to go. Judith hoped her guests would take off soon so she could get her work done without further interruptions.

  As it happened, all five members of the Pacetti party were out of the house within the next half-hour. And, to Judith’s happy surprise, they were as good as their word. None of them showed up until well into the evening, when the first drops of rain began to fall. Winston and Tippy returned in good spirits, having dined at a waterfront restaurant where they’d watched the ferryboats come and go. Herr Schutzendorf, belching loudly, let himself in with the guesthouse key shortly before ten. And the Pacettis arrived a few minutes later, filled with good food and rare wine, dispensed by Maestro and Mrs. Dunkowitz in a spontaneous, if unexpected, gesture of artistic camaraderie.

  “The rehearsal was horrible,” Pacetti asserted with glee. “The worse the rehearsal, the better the performance. Only once did I have to threaten Dunkowitz with the fists, and that was during dessert.”

  “So splendid this Traviata will be,” enthused Amina, brushing a speck of lint from the beaver collar of her husband’s overcoat. “My Mario had only to shout to put Mr. Sydney Haines in his place. And Inez—that screeching owl is silenced when Mario does this.” Amina clenched her hands together, as if wringing a chicken’s neck. Judith gave a thin smile. But she was pleased that the Pacettis felt all boded well.

  “I shouldn’t have worried so,” said Judith as she watched Joe pack for the trip to New Orleans. “They’ll be able to fend for themselves after all. And that silly rock must have been a prank. Some sort of musical in-joke, I’ll bet.”