by Mary Daheim
Renie was right, however, about getting close to the action. After fighting their way through the main lobby, the cousins discovered that ushers were guarding not only the stage, but the side entrances that led to the Green Room and the backstage area. Judith’s request to speak with Melissa Bargroom was met with a clamped-jaw refusal by a female usher.
But Judith wasn’t giving up. To Renie’s chagrin, Judith found a policeman in the atrium foyer. Identifying herself as Mrs. Joe Flynn, she tried to coax the patrolman into letting her go backstage. He, too, refused, but his rejection was phrased politely.
“Rats,” groaned Judith as the cousins began to wend their way through the dwindling crowd toward the parking garage across the street. “You’re right—we’ll have to wait.” She stopped at the curb where the stoplight had turned amber. “Hold it, coz—there’s an ambulance at the rear of the opera house. And a fire truck, and more policemen. Let’s go.”
But even as she spoke, the red lights on the ambulance began to flash through the rain, the siren shrilled over the sound of traffic, and the screech of tires resounded as the vehicle pulled out into the thoroughfare. Two squad cars followed, also with lights ablaze and sirens screaming. Only the fire truck remained.
Reluctantly, Judith followed Renie and the rest of the herd as the corner light changed to Walk. During the long wait for the cars to move down the ramps in the big parking garage, Judith was uncharacteristically subdued. As they started up the steep Counterbalance that led from the crest of Heraldsgate Hill almost to sea level on the out-skirts of downtown, Renie made an effort to cheer her cousin.
“Build me a drink and I’ll stick around until you hear something, okay?”
“Sure,” said Judith with a flicker of enthusiasm. “It’s only eight-thirty. We, too, can sing a drinking song.”
Entering as usual through the back door, Judith made straight for the front. But again, there was no sign of anything untoward on the porch. Judith slipped out of her tiger-print jacket and checked her answering machine. There were three calls, two for reservations in mid-November, and one from Phyliss Rackley, announcing that her lumbago was better, but her neuralgia was acting up something fierce. Still, she’d try to come in on Monday, God willing.
“Poor God,” murmured Judith, going to the liquor cabinet. “He gets blamed for more things than I do.”
Renie accepted a bourbon and water. Judith carried her scotch into the living room where the cousins sat down opposite each other on the matching sofas.
“It’s cool enough to build a fire,” Judith noted, but made no move to do so. “I’ve got to get my bulbs in before we have a frost.”
“We may not get one this year,” said Renie, removing her shoes and tucking her feet under her bottom. “What’s the point? The squirrels and the raccoons eat the damned things anyway. Next year, I’m going to stick to perennials. Say, did you have any extra lily-of-the-valley pips? I could use some of those.”
“I was saving them for Mrs. Dooley, but I could dig up a few more for you. You can’t put them in until almost Christmas.”
Renie gave a nod of assent. “I’ll probably forget. It’s such a hectic time of year around then. Hey, when’s your carpenter coming?”
Judith started to reply but the phone rang. She got up to answer the extension on the little table next to the window seat. Winston Plunkett’s thin voice sounded very wobbly.
“Mrs. Flynn? I have some terrible news. Mr. Pacetti has…passed away.” Plunkett’s voice broke on the last syllable.
With a gasp that made Renie jump, Judith clutched at the phone. “You mean…he died?” she said, aware that her remark was idiotic.
“Yes.” Plunkett apparently had regained control of himself. “In the ambulance, on the way to the hospital.”
“Oh, dear.” Judith had her back to Renie and couldn’t see her cousin’s frantic gestures. “What was it—heart?”
“It would seem so,” said Plunkett. “I wanted to let you know in case some of the rest of us don’t return tonight. Mrs. Pacetti has been sedated. Mr. Schutzendorf is being examined for a possible stroke. And Ms. de Caro is hysterical. Naturally, we have our keys. Please don’t wait up for us.” He rang off.
Judith replaced the receiver and turned to Renie in a daze. Renie was on her feet, holding her drink with both hands. Her brown eyes were very wide. “Toes up?”
Judith nodded.
“Heart, I gather?”
Judith nodded again.
“Damn!” Renie sat back down, spilling bourbon on her red wool cape. “He wasn’t that old,” she remarked, her face puckered with dismay under the fringe of chestnut hair. “Mid-forties, I think. But look at Caruso, he died at about the same age.”
Slowly, Judith made her way back to the sofa. “Right.” She sat down and took a sip of her scotch, aware that her hands were shaking. After a long pause, she met Renie’s gaze head-on. “Coz, I’m a terrible woman.”
Renie’s expression changed from dismay to puzzlement. “Why?”
“That poor man with his wonderful voice and talent for giving so much joy to people is dead, and all I can do is thank God that he didn’t die here. I don’t think I’ll ever get over having all those emergency vehicles show up on the doorstep after the fortune-teller was killed in my very own dining room.” She saw Renie start to interrupt and made a shushing gesture. “I know, I know, the notoriety may actually have helped, not hindered, my business. But even so, if it had happened more than once, I would have felt that this place was hexed.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Renie. “With all the people you have coming through the doors, something awful is bound to happen. Illness, accidents, even something fatal like a heart attack or an aneurism.” She got to her feet again, reaching for Judith’s half-empty glass. “Here, let’s freshen our drinks. I don’t want to drive home stewed, but it won’t hurt to have another shot.”
Judith didn’t argue. “Maybe you’re right,” she said as Renie headed for the kitchen. “Still, I don’t want to get the reputation of being a high-risk bed-and-breakfast. The next thing I know, guests will be bungee-jumping out the windows.”
“What?” called Renie from the kitchen. She’d missed most of what Judith was saying. “Hold on.”
“I said,” Judith yelled, “that I don’t want to…”
“Yipes!” exclaimed Renie, passing through the dining room and glancing out through the entry hall to the street. She stopped, getting a firm grip on the glasses.
“What’s wrong?” Judith swiveled on the sofa.
Renie skittered into the living room, hastily depositing their drinks on the coffee table. “It’s not an ambulance,” she said in a rapid delivery. “It’s not the fire department or an aid car. But,” she went on with an air of apology, “it is the police.”
Judith groaned.
SIX
IN THE BRIEF time it took Judith to open the door, she hoped to see Woody Price, Joe’s second in command. Or even Officers Perez and Doyle, whom she had at least met that afternoon. Instead, she was confronted with a very small woman and a very tall man she had never seen before in her life.
Officer Nancy Prentice was possibly in her late twenties—or maybe her early forties. Her expressionless face made it hard to tell. No makeup, mousy hair pulled back in a ponytail, pale blue eyes cool as the autumn air, Prentice had a no-nonsense manner and a voice to match.
“Mrs. Joseph Flynn?” At Judith’s affirmative response, Officer Prentice asked to enter. Judith stepped aside.
The policewoman surveyed the entry hall with its big bouquet of dahlias, Victorian hat rack, ebony umbrella stand, guest registration table, and the door that led to the downstairs bathroom under the main staircase. On the newel-post at the end of the carved balustrade reposed Judith’s tiger-print jacket. Officer Prentice looked as if she did not approve, either of the jacket itself or the careless manner in which it had been tossed.
“Would you come into the living room?” asked Judith, gathe
ring her aplomb along with her hostess skills. “My cousin and I were just having a drink.”
“Uuum.” The comment, if it could be defined as such, came from Officer Prentice’s partner. Stanley Cernak was upwards of six-four and probably weighed no more than a hundred and seventy pounds. His straw-blond hair grew in a cowlick and his gray eyes seemed to be constantly narrowed, as if he expected to find something suspicious in even the most ordinary items of daily life. Judith guessed him to be about thirty, but again, it was difficult to be sure.
Judith introduced Renie to the police officers, whose dark blue uniforms were spattered with rain. Renie raised her glass; Prentice gave an abrupt nod; Cernak grunted.
Disdaining Judith’s offer to sit down, Nancy Prentice stood at ramrod attention and delivered the goods. “Mario Pacetti, internationally known opera singer, who has been residing at Hillside Manor for the past three days, has died of an apparent heart attack. To determine whether or not an autopsy will be performed, we must ask you a few routine questions. We will be brief and we expect your full cooperation.” She gave a little jerk of her small body. Judith expected her to salute.
“We heard,” Judith said quietly. “Mr. Pacetti’s business manager, Mr. Plunkett, called us a few minutes ago. We were at the performance. Naturally, we were shaken.” She tapped her glass, as if she needed an excuse for being caught drinking an alcoholic beverage in the privacy of her own home on a Saturday night.
“Uuum,” said Officer Cernak.
“According to Sergeant Woodrow Price, we understand that certain threatening messages were sent to this address in the past two days,” Officer Prentice said as if Judith hadn’t spoken. “Officer Cernak and I have not seen them. What was the nature of these threats?”
Judith explained, first about the rock, then about the sheet of paper. “I asked the two patrolpersons who came by this afternoon to have a music expert decipher the notes. Since Mr. Pacetti said that the ones on the rock were…”
“What made you think these alleged threats were intended for Mr. Pacetti? Were they addressed to him?” Prentice’s interruption crushed Judith’s words like a steamroller.
“No, they weren’t.” Judith fingered her upper lip. It had never occurred to her that the threats, if such they were, had been intended for anyone other than Mario Pacetti. But of course it was possible.
“You are certain that you have no idea where these items came from or who might have sent them?” Prentice was still standing at full attention. Judith noted that Stanley Cernak had a tendency to loll, his tall, thin frame looking a bit like a bendable straw.
“None.” Judith was getting a bit impatient with Nancy Prentice’s rat-a-tat delivery. “Look, Mr. Pacetti never saw the second delivery. My husband—Lieutenant Joseph Flynn of your homicide division—had me turn the items over to Officers Perez and Doyle this afternoon. That’s really all I can tell…”
Again, Prentice broke in on Judith. “Did Mr. Pacetti at any time or in any way behave as if he thought his life was being threatened?”
Judith glanced at Renie who was looking annoyed. “Mario Pacetti was a very high-strung performing artist. Mrs. Pacetti is also quite excitable. Both acted as if they thought the rock’s message was aimed at Mr. Pacetti. Maybe it was. But what I’m trying to say is that just because the Pacettis got worked up, doesn’t necessarily mean…”
“Why didn’t they call the police?” To Judith and Renie’s amazement, it was Cernak who asked the question.
Judith frowned at both officers. “I told you, my husband is the police. He handled the matter.”
“Did Lieutenant Flynn file a report?” Prentice looked as if she didn’t approve of Joe, either.
“I don’t know,” Judith replied honestly. Joe hadn’t mentioned it, but she really had no idea. So much of her husband’s time was spent on paperwork that he very well might have gone through the official motions.
“Thank you.” This time Prentice actually did raise her hand to her head, as if in salute. The police officers started for the front door.
“Wait a minute,” called Judith, getting up. “You mentioned an autopsy. Is there some reason to suspect that Pacetti didn’t die of natural causes?”
Prentice, despite an eight-inch disadvantage in height, somehow managed to make Judith feel insignificant. “We can’t discuss that. Good night.” The officers left, Prentice marching down the front steps, Cernak loping at her side.
Judith went straight to the phone. “I’m calling Woody,” she said. “He won’t act like such a jackass.”
But Woodrow Price was not in. In fact, he was not assigned to the case. There was no assignment, a crisp male voice told Judith, because there was no case. Yet. Judith hung up with fine lines etched on her brow.
“Relax,” said Renie. “Pacetti had a heart attack. Maybe he’s been dieting too strenuously. Certainly he led a demanding life. It happens. Sad, but true.”
Judith gave a little shrug. “Maybe they’re talking about an autopsy just so that the family will know for sure what happened. Do the Pacettis have kids?”
“I don’t know,” answered Renie. “Wait. Yes, they do, all more or less grown. The reason I remember is because they were boy, girl, boy, like our Tom, Anne, and Tony, and just about the same ages. I read it in a magazine a couple of years ago. The Pacettis must have married very young.”
Judith’s commiserating remarks were cut short by the doorbell. She gave Renie a puzzled look. “Stiff and Stick are back? What did they forget, to arrest us for using incomplete sentences?”
“Maybe it’s some of your guests,” Renie said as Judith headed once again for the front entrance.
“They all have keys.” Judith peered through the curtained oval glass in the old oak door. A man and woman stood on the porch, but they didn’t look much like the recently departed police officers. A bit hesitantly, Judith opened the door. “Yes?”
The young man of about thirty was not as tall as Stanley Cernak, but he was an inch or two over six feet. Under the tan suede jacket and casual slacks, Judith could tell that his physique was broad through the shoulders and chest, fairly narrow at the waist and hip. He was handsome, with chiseled features and wavy, dark brown hair. Over one arm, he carried an enormous bouquet. Judging from the tropical blooms, it had come from a florist. His companion was almost Judith’s height, a carefully preserved forty-plus, with raven black hair pulled back from sharp features. Fleetingly, Judith guessed her to be quite attractive when she was in full makeup, but at the moment, she looked pale, pinched, and rather plain. She also struck Judith as somewhat familiar.
Despite the fact that the woman clung to his right arm, the handsome young man held out his hand. “I’m Justin Kerr,” he said in mellifluous voice. “This is Madame Inez Garcia-Green.”
Still clutching at her escort, Inez inclined her head, as if she were a queen acknowledging a lowly subject. Judith ushered them inside. Recognizing the famous soprano at once, Renie bolted from the sofa.
“Señora Garcia! This is a pleasure!” She stared more closely at Justin Kerr. “And Mr. Kerr, I think?”
Justin appeared to be in pain. “These aren’t pleasurable circumstances, I’m afraid, Mrs.…ah…”
“Jones,” said Renie, looking faintly shamefaced, but still managing to pump the tenor’s hand. “Sorry, I was so surprised to see you here. We were at the opera house tonight.” She made an agitated motion with her hands. “Naturally, we’re still stunned about Mario Pacetti.”
“We, too.” Inez Garcia-Green hung her head, though the brief smoldering glance she darted at Justin Kerr conveyed something other than sorrow. Diamond studs sparkled at her ears. She had changed from her white ball gown into a black woolen dress with a matching coat trimmed in fox. The dark aspect of her costume accentuated her pallor. When Judith offered the sofas, Inez seemed reluctant to relinquish her grasp on Justin, but grateful to collapse.
Justin Kerr, however, remained standing. “We brought these,” he said, indic
ating the armful of ginger, lobster claw heliconia, bird of paradise, and protea. “Is Mrs. Pacetti here?”
“No,” said Judith, thinking that the flowers were not only wildly exotic, but somehow familiar. “We heard from Mr. Plunkett and it appears Mrs. Pacetti may be staying at the hospital for the night. Possibly Mr. Schutzendorf, too. And Ms. de Caro, maybe.” Judith winced. It sounded as if, with the exception of Winston Plunkett, her entire guest list had fallen apart. But then, she realized, they had every right to do so. Pacetti’s sudden death must have come as a tremendous shock. Certainly the two newcomers before her also seemed distraught.
Justin Kerr gave Judith a sympathetic look. “It’s a terrible tragedy. A real loss to the world of opera. Pacetti had at least ten more years of giving his talent to his fans.”
“Five, anyway,” put in Inez Garcia-Green, though her expression remained mournful. “He—and I—revived Verdi. True Verdi voices have been much lacking in recent years, you know.”
“Interesting,” remarked Renie, who felt she should have known as much, but didn’t.
Justin Kerr rustled the flowers against his broad chest. “If you don’t mind—may I put these in Mrs. Pacetti’s room?”
“Oh,” said Judith easily, “I’ll take care of them. Let me get a vase from the kitchen.” She hurried out through the dining room.
Renie, smarting a bit from her ignorance over the state of Verdian affairs in the music world, made an attempt to save face. “Actually,” she began, trying to phrase her remarks as tactfully as possible, “despite the paucity of outstanding Verdi singers, you and Pacetti haven’t sung much together in recent years, isn’t that so?” The question was put to Garcia-Green.
The soprano gave a toss of her raven black hair. “It is a question of individual commitments. Our paths have not crossed for several years, that is true. Now, of course, we shall never sing together again. What sadness this brings me!” Her limpid black eyes seemed to fill with emotion.